Calypso Read Online Free PDF Page A

any sidemen. Not recently anyway. He used to have a band one time, but he's been operating as a single for the past six years."
        "What was the name of the band?"
        "Don't know. That was before my time. I only started managing George when he went out on his own."
        "Would you know who was in the band?"
        "His brother was in it, but if you're thinkin of lookin him up, he's long since gone."
        "What do you mean?"
        "Split seven years ago."
        "Where'd he go?"
        "Don't know. Maybe back to Trinidad."
        "Is that where they're from originally?"
        "George and his brother were born here, but their father came from Trinidad. Maybe Santo went back lookin for his roots. His father split, too, you see. Longer ago than Santo did."
        "Santo? Is that the brother's name?"
        "Yeah. That's Spanish. Their mother was from Venezuela."
        "She still alive?"
        "She died six years ago. George used to say she died of a broken heart. Santo splittin and all."
        "Was this a younger brother, an older brother?"
        "Younger, but I don't know his exact age. You'll have to ask- Oh, Jesus. Chloe don't know yet, does she? Oh, Jesus."
        "Chloe?"
        "George's wife. Oh, Jesus, who's gonna tell Chloe?"
        

3
        
        Chloe Chadderton responded to their insistent knocking in a voice still unraveling sleep. When they identified themselves as police officers, she opened the door a crack, and asked that they show her their shields. Only when she was satisfied that these were truly policemen standing there in the hallway, did she take off the night chain and open the door.
        She was a tall slender woman in her late twenties, her complexion a flawless beige, her sloe eyes dark and luminous in the narrow oval of her face. Standing in the doorway wearing a long pink robe over a pink nightgown, she looked only sleepy and a trifle annoyed. No anticipation in those eyes or on that face, no expectation of bad news, no sense of alarm. In this neighborhood, visits from the police were commonplace. They were always knocking on doors, investigating this or that burglary or mugging, usually in the daytime, but sometimes at night if the crime was more serious.
        "Mrs. Chadderton?" Carella asked, and the first faint suspicion flickered on her face. He had called her by name, this was not a routine door-to-door inquiry, they had come here specifically to talk to her, to talk to Mrs. Chadderton; the time was two in the morning, and her husband wasn't yet home.
        "What is it?" she said at once.
        "Are you Chloe Chadderton?"
        "Yes, what is it?"
        "Mrs. Chadderton, I'm sorry to tell you this," Carella said, "but your husband…"
        "What is it?" she said. "Has he been hurt?"
        "He's dead," Carella said.
        The woman flinched at his words. She backed away from him, shaking her head as she moved out of the doorway, back into the kitchen, against the refrigerator, shaking her head, staring at him.
        "I'm sorry," Carella said. "May we come in?"
        "George?" she said. "Is it George Chadderton? Are you sure you have the right…?"
        "Ma'm, I'm sorry," Carella said.
        She screamed then. She screamed and immediately brought her hand to her mouth, and bit down hard on the knuckle of her bent index finger. She turned her back to them. She stood by the refrigerator, the scream trailing into a choking sob that swelled into a torrent of tears. Carella and Meyer stood just outside the open door. Meyer was looking down at his shoes.
        "Mrs. Chadderton?" Carella said.
        Weeping, she shook her head, and-still with her back to them-gestured with one hand widespread behind her, the fingers patting the air, silently asking them to wait. They waited. She fumbled in the pocket of the robe for a handkerchief, found none, went to the sink where a roll of paper towels hung