His pitch–canned. “I heard how the Englekling brothers visited you up at McNeil, how they talked up Duke Cathcart’s deal. I was thinking that you or Davey Goldman might have talked it up on the yard and word got out that way.”
Mickey said, “Nix. Not possible, ’cause I never told Davey. True, I am well known for my cell business confabs, but not a soul on this earth did I tell. I told that guy Exley that when we sbmoozed on the topic years ago. And here’s a bonus insight from the Mickster. It is my considered opinion that dirty books are a high-profit item worth killing innocent bystanders over only if an established high-profit market already exists. Give the fucking Nite Owl up, those shvartzes the hero kid bumped took the ticket and probably did the job anyway.”
Bud said, “I don’t think Duke Cathcart was killed at the Nite Owl. I think it was a guy impersonating him. I think the guy killed Cathcart, took over his identity and wound up at the Nite Owl. I was thinking the whole thing got started up at McNeil.”
Cohen rolled his eyes. “Not with me it didn’t, boychik, ’cause I told nobody, and I can’t feature Pete and Bar stopping to spread the word out on the yard. Where’d this clown Cathcart live?”
“Silverlake.”
“Then dig up the Silverlake Hills. Maybe you’ll find a nice vintage stiff.”
A flash–San Berdoo, Sue Lefferts’ mother at her pad–eyes darting to a built-on room. “Thanks, Mr. Cohen.”
Cohen said, “Forget the fershtunkener Nite Owl.”
Cohen Junior took a bead on Bud’s crotch.
o o o
San Bernardino, Hilda Leffertr. Last time she shoved him out pronto; this time he’d hit on the boyfriend: Susan Nancy was seen with a guy matching Duke Cathcart’s description–press, intimidate.
A two-hour run. The San Berdoo Freeway would be working soon–cut the trip in half. Exley Senior to Junior: the coward knew about him and Inez, his look the other day spelled it plain. They were both biding their time. But if things fell his way he’d hit harder–Exley would _never_ tag him for the brains to hit smart.
Hilda Lefferts lived in a dump: a shingle shack with a cinder block add-on. Bud walked up, checked out the mailbox. Good intimidation stuff: Lockheed pension check, Social Security check, County Relief check. He pushed the buzzer.
The door opened a crack. Hilda Lefferts looked over the chain. “Told you before, now I’ll say it again. I’m not buying what you’re selling, so let my poor daughter rest in peace.”
Bud fanned out the checks. “County Relief told me to hold these back until you cooperate. No tickee, no washee.”
Hilda squealed; Bud popped the chain, walked in. Hilda backed away. “Please. I need that money.”
Susan Nancy smiled down from four walls: vamp poses on a nightclub floor. Bud said, “Come on, be nice, huh? You remember what I tried to ask you last time? Susan had a boyfriend here in San Berdoo right before she moved to L.A. You looked scared when I told you before, you look scared now. _Come on_. Five minutes on that and I’m gone. And nobody’s gonna know.”
Hilda, eyeball circuits: the checks, the add-on room. “Nobody?”
Bud forked over Lockheed. “Nobody. Come on. I’ll give you the other two after you tell me.”
Hilda spoke straight to her daughter–the picture by the door. “Susie, you told me you met the man at a cocktail lounge and I told you I didn’t approve. You said he was a nice man who’d paid his debt to society, but you wouldn’t tell me his name. I saw you with him one day, and you called him Don or Dean or Dick or Dee, and he said, ‘No, Duke. Get used to it.’ Then I was out one day and old Mrs. Jensen next door saw you with the man here at the house and thought she heard a ruckus . . .”
Match it: “debt to society” equals “ex-con.” “Did you ever learn the man’s name?”
“No, I didn’t. I . . .”
“Did Susan know two brothers named Englekling? They lived here in San Bernardino.”