Hinton stuttered. Bud threw backhands–eyes on the wall so he wouldn’t have to see. Left/right/left/right/left/right–Dot flashed the cut-off sign.
Cease fire. Dudley: “A little admonishing to show you what Sergeant White is capable of. Now, from here on in I will accommodate your stammer. Do you recall the question? Why did you abscond your parole in April 1953?”
Stut-stut-stutter: Hinton with his eyes squeezed shut.
“Lad, we’re waiting.”
Hinton: “H-h-had b-b-blow t-town.”
“Ah, grand. And what precipitated your need to leave?”
“J-just w-woman t-t-trouble.”
“Lad, I don’t believe you.”
“Th-th-the t-truth.”
Dudley nodded. Bud threw backhands–pulled, fake full force. Dot said, “This boy could take a lot of grief. Come on, sugar, make it easy on yourself. April ’53. Why’d you blow town?”
Bud heard Breuning and Carlisle next door. It hit him: 4/53–the Nite Owl.
“Lad, I overestimated the power of your memory, so let me help it along. Pierce Patchett. You were acquainted with him back then, weren’t you?”
Bud, chills: evidence suppression, he shouldn’t know Patchett existed–
Hinton jerked, thrashed.
“Ah, grand, I think we touched a nerve.”
Dot sighed. “God, such muscles. I should have such muscles.”
Dudley howled.
Kill the chills: he’s on the reopening–maybe Hinton works in. _If he knew about my evidence dance I wouldn’t be here_.
Dot sapped Hinton: the arms, the knees. Muscles took it stoic: no yelps, no whimpers.
Dudley laughed. “Lad, you have a high threshold for discomfort. Comment on the following, please: Pierce Patchett, Duke Cathcart and pornography. Be concise or Sergeant White will test that threshold.”
Hinton, no stutter. “Fuck you, Irish cocksucker.”
Ho, ho, ho. “Lad, you’re a regular Jack Benny. Wendell, show our organized crime associate your opinion of unsolicited comedy acts.”
Bud grabbed Dot’s sap. “What are you looking for, boss?”
“Full and docile cooperation.”
“Is this the Nite Owl? You said Duke Cathcart.”
“I want full and docile cooperation on all topics. Have you objections to that?”
Dot said, “White, just do it. God, I should have such muscles.” Bud got close. “Let me play him solo. Just a couple minutes.” “A return to your old methods, lad? It’s been a while since you evinced enthusiasm for this kind of work.”
Bud whispered. “I’m gonna let him think he can take me, then shiv him. You and Dot wait outside, okay?”
Dudley nodded, walked Dot out. Bud turned the radio on: a commercial, used-car values at Yeakel Olds.
Hinton rattled his chains. “Fuck you, fuck that Irish guy and fuck that fucking diesel dyke.”
Bud pulled up a chair. “I don’t like this stuff, so you be good and give me some answers on the side and I’ll tell the man to cut you loose. You got that? No parole roust.”
“Fuck you.”
“Hinton, I think you know Pierce Patchett, and maybe you knew Duke Cathcart. You can tell me some side stuff and I’ll–”
“Fuck your mother.”
Bud threw Hinton and his chair across the room. The hot seat landed sideways–slats popped off. Shelves collapsed–the radio broke, spewing static.
Bud uprighted the chair one-handed. Hinton pissed his pants. Bud heard himself talking, a weird voice like a brogue. “Give me some pimp stuff, lad. Cathcart, a coon named Dwight Gilette– they both ran this girl Kathy Janeway. She got snuffed and I don’t like that. You got information on them, _lad?_”
Eyeball to eyeball–Hinton’s wide wide. No stutter, don’t rile the fucking animal. “Sir, I just had this driver job for Mr. Patchett, me and this guy Chester Yorkin. All we did was deliver these . . . these illegal things . . . and Cathcart, him I don’t know from Adam. I heard Gilette was a swish, all I know’s he used to get hooers for Spade Cooley’s parties. You want skinny on Spade? I know he blows opium, he’s a righteous degenerate dope fiend. He’s playing the El Rancho now, you roust him. But I don’t know no hooer killers and I don’t know no girl Kathy Janeway.”
Bud shook the chair–Hinton kept snitching. “Sir, Mr. Patchett, he ran call girls. Gorgeous tail, all fixed up like movie stars. His favorite was this gorgeous cunt Lynn, looked just like–”
Bud went straight for his face. The face went red, big men pressed in–arms around him–lifting him. The ceiling zooming down, cracked stucco swirls going black.