Coates chained a smoke butt to tip. “I was at my crib. Asleep.”
“Were you on hop? Tyrone and Leroy must have been, they were passed out while those officers arrested you. Some crime partners. Tyrone calls you a fairy, then him and Leroy sleep through you getting beat up by some cracker shitbird. I thought you colored guys stuck together. Were you hopped up, Ray? You couldn’t take what you did, so you got yourself some dope and–”
“Take what! What you mean! Tyrone and Leroy fuck with them goofballs, not me!”
Ed hit the 2 and 3 switches. “Ray, you protected Tyrone and Leroy up at Casitas, didn’t you?”
Coates coughed out a big rush of smoke. “You ain’t woofin’ I did. Tyrone give his boodie and Leroy so scared he almos’ throw hisself off the roof and drink hisself blind on pruno. Stupid down home niggers got no more sense than a fuckin’ dog.”
Switches back up. “Ray, I heard you like to shoot dogs.”
A shrug. “Dogs got no reason to live.”
“Oh? You feel that way about people, too?”
“Man, what you sayin’?”
Switches down. “Well, you must feel that way about Leroy and Tyrone.”
“Shit, Leroy and Tyrone almos’ too stupid to live.”
Switches up. “Ray, where’s the shotguns you were shooting in Griffith Park?”
“They–I . . . I don’t own no shotguns.”
“Where’s your 1949 Mercury coupe?”
“I let . . . it just be safe.”
“Come on, Ray. A cherry rig like that? Where is it? I’d keep a nice sled like that under lock and key.”
“I said it safe!”
Ed slapped the table–two palms flat down. “Did you sell it? Ditch it? It’s a felony transport car. Ray, don’t you think–”
“I didn’t do no felony!”
“The hell you say! Where’s the car?”
“I ain’t sayin’!”
“Where’s the shotguns?”
“I ain’t–I don’t know!”
“Where’s the car?”
“I ain’t sayin’!”
Ed drummed the table. “Why, Ray? You got shotguns and rubber gloves in the trunk? You got wallets and purses and blood all over the seats? Listen to me, you dumb son of a bitch, I’m trying to save you a gas chamber bounce like your buddies– they’re underage and you’re not, and somebody has to fry for this–”
“I don’t know what you talkin’ ’bout!”
Ed sighed. “Ray, let’s change the subject.”
Coates lit another cigarette. “I don’ like your subjects.”
“Ray, why were you burning clothes at 7:00 this morning?”
Coates trembled. “Say what?”
“Say this. You, Leroy and Tyrone were arrested this morning. None of you had last night’s clothes with you. You were seen burning a big pile of clothes at 7:00. Add that to the fact that you hid the car that you, Tyrone and Leroy were cruising around in last night. Ray, it doesn’t look good, but if you give me something good to give the D.A., it’ll make me look good and I’ll say, ‘Sugar Ray wasn’t a punk like his sissy partners.’ Ray, just give me something.”
“Such as what, since I innocent of all this rebop you shuckin’ me with.”
Ed flipped 2 and 3. “Well, you’ve said bad things about Leroy and Tyrone, you’ve implied that they’re hopheads. Let’s try this: where do they get their stuff?”
Coates stared at the floor. Ed said, “The D.A. hates hop pushers. And you met Jack Vincennes, the Big V.”
“Crazy fuckin’ fool.”
Ed laughed. “Yeah, Jack is a little on the crazy side. Personally, I think anyone who wants to ruin their life with narcotics should have the right, it’s a free country. But Jack’s good buddies with the new D.A., and they’ve both got hard-ons for hop pushers. Ray, give me one to give the D.A. Just a little one.”
Coates hooked a finger; Ed let the switches up and leaned in. Sugar Ray, a whisper. “Roland Navarette, lives on Bunker Hill. Runs a hole-up for parole ‘sconders and sells red devils, and that ain’t for the fuckin’ D.A., that’s ’cause Tyrone shoot off his fat fuckin’ mouth.”
Switches down. “All right, Ray. You’ve told me that Roland Navarette sells barbiturates to Leroy and Tyrone, so now we’re making some progress. And you’re scared shitless, you know this is gas chamber stuff and you haven’t even asked me what it’s all about. Ray, you have a big guilty sign around your neck.”