Rank: sweat, cigarette smoke. Leroy Fontaine–big, dark, processed hair, his feet up on the table. Ed said, “Be smarter than your friends. Even if you killed her, it’s not as bad as killing six people.”
Fontaine tweaked his nose–bandaged, spread over half his face. “This newspaper shit ain’t shit.”
Ed closed the door, scared. “Leroy, you’d better hope she was with you at the coroner’s estimated time of death.”
No answer.
“Was she a hooker?”
No answer.
“Did you kill her?”
No answer.
“You wanted Tyrone to lose his cherry, but things got out of hand. Isn’t that right?”
No answer.
“Leroy, if she’s dead and she was colored you can cop a plea. If she was white you might have a chance. Remember, we can make you for the Nite Owl, and we can make it stick. Unless you convince me you were somewhere else doing something bad, we’ll nail you for what’s in that newspaper.”
No answer–Fontaine cleaned his nails with a matchbook.
A big lie. “If you kidnapped her and she’s still alive, that’s not a Little Lindbergh violation. It’s not a capital charge.”
No answer.
“Leroy, where are the guns and the car?”
No answer.
“Leroy, is she still alive?”
Fontaine smiled–Ed felt ice on his spine. “If she’s still alive, she’s your alibi. I won’t kid you, it could get bad: kidnap, rape, assault. But if you eliminate yourself on the Nite Owl now, you’ll save us time and the D.A. will like you for it. Kick loose, Leroy. Do yourself a favor.”
No answer.
“Leroy, look how it can go both ways. I think you kidnapped a girl at gunpoint. You made her bleed up the car, so you hid the car. She bled on your clothes, so you burned the clothes. You got her perfume all over yourselves. If you didn’t do the Nite Owl, I don’t know why you hid the shotguns, maybe you thought she could identify them. Son, if that girl is alive she is the only chance you’ve got.”
Fontaine said, “I thinks she alive.”
Ed sat down. “_You think?_”
“Yeah, I thinks.”
“Who is she? _Where is she?_”
No answer.
“Is she colored?”
“She Mex.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’ know. College-type bitch.”
“Where did you pick her up?”
“I don’ know. Eastside someplace.”
“Where did you assault her?”
“I don’ know . . . old building on Dunkirk somewheres.”
“Where’s the car and the shotguns?”
“I don’ know. Sugar, he took care of them.”
“If you didn’t kill her, why did Coates hide the shotguns?”
No answer.
“Why, Leroy?”
No answer.
“Why, son? Tell me.”
No answer.
Ed hit the table. “Tell me, goddammit!”
Fontaine hit the table–harder. “Sugar, he poked her with them guns! He ‘fraid it be evidence!”
Ed closed his eyes. “Where is she now?”
No answer.
“Did you leave her at the building?”
No answer.
Eyes open. “Did you leave her someplace else?”
No answer.
Leaps: none of the three had cash on them, call their money evidence–stashed when Sugar burned the clothes. “Leroy, did you sell her out? Bring some buddies by that place on Dunkirk?”
“We . . . we drove her ‘roun’.”
“Where? Your friends’ pads?”
“Tha’s right.”
“Up in Hollywood?”
“We didn’ shoot them people!”
“Prove it, Leroy. Where were you guys at 3:00 A.M.?”
“Man, I cain’t tell you!”
Ed slapped the table. “Then you’ll burn for the Nite Owl!”
“We didn’t do it!”
“Who did you sell the girl to?”
No answer.
“Where is she now?”
No answer.
“Are you afraid of reprisals? You left the girl somewhere, right? _Leroy, where did you leave her, who did you leave her with, she is your only chance to stay out of the fucking gas chamber?_”
“Man, I can’t tell you, Sugar, he like to kill me!”
“Leroy, where is she?”
No answer.
“Leroy, you turn state’s you’ll get out years before Sugar and Tyrone.”
No response.
“Leroy, I’ll get you a one-man cell where nobody can hurt you.”
No response.
“Son, you have to tell me. I’m the only friend you’ve got.”
No response.
“Leroy, are you afraid of the man you left the girl with?”
No answer.
“Son, he can’t be as bad as the gas chamber. _Tell me where the girl is_.”