“Linda, honey, I can’t think of that just now. Right now I’ve got you on my mind.”
Small talk was over–eclipsed by Gail’s ardor, Linda’s phony moans, I hitched Basko to his leash, drove us to a motel safe house and slept the sleep of the righteously pissed.
* * *
In the morning I did some brainwork. My conclusions: Gail Curtiz wanted to sink my gravy train and relegate Basko to a real dog’s life. Paternity suit intrigue was at the root of the Bendish house trashing and the “searching” of Gail’s place. The car that tried to broadside me was driven by a white man–a strange anomaly. Linda, in my eyes a non-dyke, seemed to be stringing the lust-blinded Gail along–could she also be a paternity suit kid out for Basko’s swag? Sleazy Miller Waxman was Sol Bendish’s lawyer and a scam artist bent from the crib–how did he fit in? Were the shvoogies who tried to break into Gail’s crib the ones who later searched it–and trashed my place? Were they in the employ of one of the paternity kids? _What was going on?_
I rented a suite at the Bel-Air Hotel and ensconced Basko there, leaving a grand deposit and detailed instructions on his care and feeding. Next I hit the Beverly Hills Library and re-read Sol Bendish’s clippings. I glommed the names of his paternity suit complainants, called Liz Trent and had her give me DMV addresses. Two of Sol’s playmates were dead; one was address unknown, two–Marguerita Montgomery and Jane Hawkshaw– were alive and living in Los Angeles. The Montgomery woman was out as a lead: a clipping I’d scanned two weeks ago quoted her on the occasion of Sol Bendish’s death–she mentioned that the son he fathered had died in Vietnam. I already knew that Gail Curtiz’s mother had died–and since none of the complainants bore the name Curtiz, I knew Gail was using it as an alias. That left Jane Hawkshaw: last known address 8902 Saticoy Street in Van Nuys.
* * *
I knocked on her door an hour later. An old woman holding a stack of _Watchtowers_ opened up. She had the look of religious crackpots everywhere: bad skin, spaced-out eyes. She might have been hot stuff once–around the time man discovered the wheel. I said, “I’m Brother Klein. I’ve been dispatched by the Church to ease your conscience in the Sol Bendish matter.”
The old girl pointed me inside and started babbling repentance. My eyes hit a framed photograph above the fireplace– two familiar faces smiling out. I walked over and squinted.
Ultra-paydirt: Richie “Sicko” Sicora and another familiar-looking dude. I’d seen pics of Sicora before–but in this photo he looked like someone _else_ familiar. The resemblance seemed very vague–but niggling. The other man was easy–he’d tried to broadside me in darktown last night.
The old girl said, “My son Richard is a fugitive. He doesn’t look like that now. He had his face changed when he went on the run. Sol was going to leave Richie money when he turned twenty-five, but Richie and Chuck got in trouble and Sol gave it out in bail money instead. I’ve got no complaint against Sol and I repent my unmarried fornication.”
I superimposed the other man’s bone structure against photos I’d seen of Chick Ottens and got a close match. I tried, tried, tried, to place Sicora’s pre-surgery resemblance, but failed. Sicora pre-plastic, Ottens already sliced–a wicked brew that validated non-dyke Linda’s theory straight down the line….
I gave the old woman a buck, grabbed a Watchtower and boogied southside. The radio blared hype on the Watts homicides: the monster dog and his human accomplice. Fortunately for Basko and myself, eyewitnesses’ accounts were dismissed and the deaths were attributed to dope intrigue. I cruised the bad boogaloo streets until I spotted the car that tried to ram me–parked behind a cinderbiock dump circled by barbed wire.
I pulled up and jacked a shell into my piece. I heard yips emanating from the back yard, tiptoed around and scoped out the scene.
Pit Bull City: scores of them in pens. A picnic table and Chick Ottens noshing bar-b-q’d chicken with his snazzy new face. I came up behind him; the dogs noticed me and sent out a cacophony of barks. Ottens stood up and wheeled around going for his waistband. I shot off his kneecaps–canine howls covered my gun blasts. Ottens flew backwards and hit the dirt screaming; I poured bar-b-q sauce on his kneeholes and dragged him over to the cage of the baddest looking pit hound of the bunch. The dog snapped at the blood and soul sauce; his teeth tore the pen. I spoke slowly, like I had all the time in the world. “I know you and Sicora got plastic jobs, I know Sol Bendish was Sicora’s daddy and bailed you and Sicko out on the 7–11 job. You had your goons break into Gail Curtiz’s place and the Bendish pad and all this shit relates to you trying to mess with my dog and screw me out of my gravy train. Now I’m beginning to think Wax Waxman set me up. I think you and Sicora have some plan going to get at Bendish’s money, and Wax ties in. You got word that Curtiz was snouting around, so you checked out her crib. I’m a dupe, right? Wax’s patsy? Wrap this up for me or I feed your kneecaps to Godzilla.”