“Are you Leonard Timothy Bidwell?”
“That’s right.”
“And that’s your car in the driveway?”
“That’s right. And if you a po-lice doin’ repos on the side you barkin’ up the wrong tree, ’cause my baby is paid for outright with my purse from my losin’ effort ‘gainst Johnny Saxton.”
Jack pointed to the dog. “Put him back inside and close the door, walk out and put your hands on the wall.”
Bidwell did it extra slow; Jack frisked him, turned him around. Denton walked over. “Boy, you like 12-gauge pumps?”
Bidwell shook his head. “Say what?”; Jack threw a change-up. “Where were you last night at 3:00 A.M.?”
“Right here at my crib.”
“By yourself? If you got laid you got lucky. Tell me you got lucky, before my buddy gets pissed.”
“I gots custody of my kids fo’ the week. They was with me.”
“Are they here?”
“They asleep.”
Denton prodded him–a gun poke to the ribs. “Boy, you know what happened last night? Bad juju, and I ain’t woofin’. You own a shotgun, boy?”
“Man, I don’t need no fuckin’ shotgun.”
Denton poked harder. “Boy, don’t you use curse words with me. Now, before we get your pickaninnies out here, you gonna tell me who you lent your automobile to last night?”
“Man, I don’ lend my sled to nobody!”
“Then who’d you lend your 12-gauge pump shotguns to? Boy, you spill on that.”
“Man, I tol’ you I don’t own no shotgun!”
Jack stepped in. “Tell me about the Purple Pagans. Are they a bunch of guys who like purple cars?”
“Man, that is just a name for our club. I gots a purple car, some other cats in the club gots them too. Man, what is this all about?” Jack took out his DMV sheet–the Merc owners all typed up. “Leonard, did you read the papers this morning?”
“No. Man, what is–”
“Sssh. You listen to the radio or watch television?”
“I ain’t got either of them. What’s that–”
“Sssh. Leonard, we’re looking for three colored guys who like to pop off shotguns and a Merc like yours, a ’48, a ’49, or a ’50. I know you wouldn’t hurt anybody, I saw you fight Gavilan and I like your style. We’re looking for some _bad_ guys. Guys with a car like yours, guys who might belong to your club.”
Bidwell shrugged. “Why should I help you?”
“Because I’ll cut my partner loose on you if you don’t.”
“Yeah, and you get me a fuckin’ snitch jacket, too.”
“No jacket, and you don’t have to say anything. Just look at this list and point. Here, read it over.”
Bidwell shook his head. “They’s bad, so I jus’ tell you. Sugar Ray Coates, drives a ’49 coupe, a beautiful ride. He gots two buddies, Leroy and Tyrone. Sugar loves to party with a shotgun, I heard he gets his thrills shootin’ dogs. He tried to get in my club, but we turned him down ’cause he is righteous trash.”
Jack checked his list–bingo on “Coates, Raymond NMI, 9611 South Central, Room 114.” Denton had his own sheet out. “Two minutes from here. We haul, we might get there first.”
Hero headlines. “Let’s do it.”
o o o
The Tevere Hotel: an L-shaped walk-up above a washateria. Denton coasted into the lot; Jack saw stairs going up-just one floor of rooms, a wide-open doorway.
Up and in–a short corridor, flimsy-looking doors. Jack drew his piece; Denton pulled two guns: a .38, an ankle rig automatic. They counted room numbers; 114 came up. Denton reared back; Jack reared back; they kicked the same instant. The door flew off its hinges for a pure clean shot: a colored kid jumping out of bed.
The kid put up his hands. Denton smiled, aimed. Jack blocked him–two reflex pulls tore the ceiling. Jack ran in; the kid tried to run; Jack nailed him: gun-butt shots to the head. No more resistance–Denton cuffed his hands behind his back. Jack slipped on brass knucks and made fists. “Leroy, Tyrone. _Where?_”
The kid dribbled teeth–“One-two-one” came out bloody. Denton yanked him up by his hair; Jack said, “Don’t you fucking kill him.”
Denton spat in his face; shouts boomed down the hall. Jack ran out, around the “L,” a skid to a stop in front of 121–