"What kind of fish?" Georgie asked. "I have no idea." "Where'd he get this fish?"

"Well, I would guess at the fish market, wouldn't you?"

"What fish market?" Priscilla asked.

"Where Svetlana went for the cat every morning."

"And where's that?" Priscilla asked, and held her breath.

"Let's try a timetable on this thing, okay?" Byrnes said. He was getting exasperated. He didn't like little

old ladies in faded mink coats smelling of fish shot with a gun stolen from a limo that had transfered: a fighting rooster uptown. He didn't like period. Turtles, canaries, dogs, cats, fish, cockroaches, whatever.

"Where do you want us to start, Pete?" Carella asked.

"The gun."

"Belongs to a man named Rodney Pratt. He Keeps it in the glove compartment of his limo. breaks down Thursday night, he takes it to the garage off the Majesta Bridge. Place called

Texaco. Forgets the gun in the glove box." "Okay, next."

"How do you know he's not the murderer?" Byrnes asked.

"We know," Hawes said, dismissing the very

"Gee, excuse me for fucking breathing!" Parker said.

"Next," Carella said, "they work on the car all Friday. One of the mechanics, guy named Santiago, borrows the car, quote unquote, to drive prize rooster uptown that night to a cockfight at Riverhead."

"Excuse me while I puke," Parker said. "Puke," Kling suggested.

"A fuckin bird in the backseat of a limo?" "So puke," Kling suggested again. "Santiago's bird loses. He finds the gun in the box, decides to shoot the winning bird, changes mind when the Four-Eight raids the place. He goes nearby after-hours joint called The Juice Bar..."

"I know that place," Brown said."... where this tall blond son of a bitch we're trying to find is meeting with a bookie named Bernie Himmel who tells him he's gonna be swimming with the fishes unless he pays him by Sunday morning the twenty grand he lost on the Cowboys-Steelers game."

"Swimming with the fishes," Hawes corrected. "What?"

"He stressed the word 'swimming." "

"I don't know what you mean."

"He told Schiavinato he'd be swimming with the fishes."

"As opposed to what?" Meyer said. "Dancing with them?"

"I'm only telling you what I heard."

"Let me hear the rest of the timetable," Byrnes said. "Okay. Saturday night, a quarter to twelve, we get a DOA at 1217 Lincoln Street, old lady named Svetlana Helder, turns out to be Svetlana Dyalovich, the famous concert pianist."

"I never heard of her," Parker said. "Two to the heart," Hawes said.

"I saw that picture," Kling said. "Was that the name?" "I'm pretty sure."

"Next morning, around seven, we get a dead hooker in an alley on St.

Sab's." "Any connection?" "None."

"Then why bring her up?"

"A policeman,s lot," Carella said, and shrugged.

"He also called them the blond guy's fish," said.

"I'm lost," Parker said.

"So am I," Byrnes said.

"Himmel. The bookie. Bernie the Banker. He then didn't have much to talk about after he mentioned

Schiavinato swimming with his little fishies."

"I'm still lost," Parker said.

"Yes, can you please tell us what the hell you are driving at?" Byrnes asked.

"His little fishies. Not the little fishies, but his fishies.

Schiavinato's little fishies."

Everybody was looking at him.

Only Carella knew what he was saying.

"The cat," Carella said.

"Not the goddamn cat again," Byrnes said.

"She went out every morning to buy fresh fish for the cat."

"Where'd you say her apartment was?"

asked, suddenly catching on.

"1217 Lincoln."

"Simple," Parker said. "The Lincoln Street Market."

"Selling fish," Meyer said, nodding. "As opl swimming with them."

At eight-fifteen that morning, the Lincoln Street Fish Market was not quite as bustling as it had been between four and six A.M. when fish retailers from all over the city arrived in droves. As Priscilla and the boys pulled up in a taxi, only housewives and restaurant owners were examining the various catches of the day, all displayed enticingly on ice well, enticingly if you liked fish.