DiCenzo was nodding along with me. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Underhill,” I said.
“You a college man, Underhill?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Well, I’d say that nothing you learned in college is gonna help us with this here homicide. Unless that print is complete and belongs to the killer. That’s college stuff–scientific. It looks to me like a botched-up burglary. When we find out what the lab report says, which ain’t gonna mean much, we’re gonna get stuck with hauling in every known burglar, dope addict, and degenerate in Los Angeles. What I’m hoping is that the dame was raped–rapeo-burglar is a rare MO. Not too many of those bastards around. Is this your first murder victim?”
“Yes.”
“Is it getting to you?”
“No.”
“Good. You and your partner go back to the station and write your reports.”
“Right, Sergeant.”
DiCenzo winked at me. “It’s a shame, ain’t it, Underhill? That tomato had it all, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know.”
I found Wacky in the bedroom. Flashbulbs were popping and he was writing in his notebook, shielding his eyes from the glare, casting occasional glances at the late Leona Jensen. He was getting angry looks from the lab men, so I pulled him into the hallway.
“Let’s go. We’ve got to get back to the station and write our reports.”
Wacky continued scribbling in his notebook. “There,” he said. “I’m finished. I wrote a poem about the stiff. It’s a masterpiece. It’s dedicated to John Milton. It’s called ‘Piece of Ass Lost.'”
“Forget it, Wacky. Let’s just get out of here.”
We drove north on Hoover in silence.
“You think they’ll find the guy who croaked her?” Wacky finally asked.
“DiCenzo thinks there’s a chance.”
“Frankly, I’m pessimistic.”
“Why?”
“Because death is going to be the new fad. I can feel it. It’s going to replace sports. I’m writing an epic poem about it. All fortyeight states are going to have the atom bomb and drop them on each other. L.A. is going to drop the A-bomb on ‘Frisco for stealing tourists. The Brooklyn Dodgers are going to A-bomb the New York Giants. I can feel it.”
“You’re crazy, Wack.”
“No, I’m a genius. Freddy, you gotta call Big Sid. I loved Hillcrest. I want to play it. It’s a shot-maker’s course. I could shoot sixty-eight there.”
I laughed. “That’s a riot. You just want to throw the salami to Siddell again. Tell me, Wack, did you ever get to finish with her?”
“Yeah, but I’ve been calling her to try to fix up another date, and every time I call some maid answers and says, ‘Miz Siddell ain’t at home, officer.’ I think she’s giving me the bum’s rush.”
“Maybe, but don’t worry. There’s lots of other fat girls around.”
“Yeah, but not like Siddell; she’s class. Listen, partner, I need a favor. Will you talk to Siddell? Sound her out on how she feels about me? You’re in tight with Big Sid, you can do it.”
I hesitated, then felt my wheels start to turn. “Sure, Wack, I’ll drop by Big Sid’s place sometime next weekend. He gave me carte blanche for visits. I’m his new gravy train.”
Wacky punched me in the arm. “Thanks, pard. When I’m dodging flaming arrows down in Nigger Gulch and you’re king of Wilshire Vice I’ll remember this moment.”
We pulled into the parking lot of the station. I started to offer a snappy rejoinder as token resistance, but couldn’t. Instead, I walked upstairs to the detectives’ squad room and typed up my report.
I drove to Beverly Hills early Saturday evening, getting honest with myself en route: I could invent all the pretexts I wanted, but I knew I was going to Big Sid’s home for only one reason: to search out Lorna Weinberg and attempt, somehow, to satisfy my curiosity about her. The house was on Canon Drive, just south of Sunset. I was expecting some outrageous pretensions to class and was surprised: the large white Colonial edifice with the well-tended front lawn was understated, almost somber.
I knocked on the door and a Negro maid answered, informing me that “Mr. Big Sid ain’t at home, Miz Siddell be up in her room takin’ a nap.”