“No, that was out of my own pocket. Did Ellis Loew visit you?”
“Yes, and I told him no. I told him that the three _negrito putos_ drove me around, took money from other _putos_ and left me with the _negrito puto_ that Officer White killed. I told him that I can’t remember or won’t remember or don’t want to remember any more details, he can take his pick and that is _absolutamente_ all there is to it.”
Ed said, “Miss Soto, I just came to say hello.”
She laughed in his face. “You want the rest of the story? An hour later my brother Juan calls and tells me I can’t go home, that I disgraced the family. Then _puto_ Mr. Loew calls and says he can put me up in a hotel if I cooperate, then the gift shop girl brings me those _puto_ animals and says they’re gifts from the nice policeman with the glasses. I’ve been to college, _pendejo_. Don’t you think I can follow the chain of events?”
Ed pointed to Scooter Squirrel. “You didn’t throw him away.”
“He’s special.”
“Do you like Dieterling characters?”
“So what if I do!”
“Just asking. And where do you put Bud White in your chain of events?”
Inez fluffed her pillows. “He killed a man for me.”
“He killed him for himself.”
“And that _puto_ animal is dead just the same. Officer White just comes by to say hello. He warns me about you and Mr. Loew. He tells me I should cooperate, but he doesn’t press the subject. He hates you, subtle man. I can tell.”
“You’re a smart girl, Inez.”
“You want to say ‘for a Mexican,’ I know that.”
“No, you’re wrong. You’re just plain smart. And you’re lonely, or you would have asked me to leave.”
Inez threw her magazine down. “So what if I am!”
Ed picked it up. Dog-eared pages: a piece on Dream-aDreamland. “I’m going to recommend that we give you some time to get well and recommend that when this mess goes to court you be allowed to testify by written deposition. If we get enough Nite Owl corroboration from other sources, you might not have to testify at all. And I won’t come back if you don’t want me to.”
She stared at him. “I’ve still got no place to go.”
“Did you read that article on the Dream-a-Dreamland opening?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see the name ‘Preston Exley’?”
“Yes.”
“He’s my father.”
“So what? I know you’re a rich kid, blowing your money on stuffed animals. So what? Where will I go?”
Ed held the bed rail. “I’ve got a cabin at Lake Arrowhead. You can stay there. I won’t touch you, and I’ll take you to the Dream-a-Dreamland opening.”
Inez touched her head. “What about my hair?”
“I’ll get you a nice bonnet.”
Inez sobbed, hugged Scooter Squirrel.
o o o
Ed met the sappers at dawn, groggy from dreams: Inez, other women. Ray Pinker brought flashlights, spades, metal detectors; he’d had Communications Division issue a public appeal: witnesses to the Griffith Park shotgun blastings were asked to come forth to ID the blasters. The occurrence report locations were marked out into grids–all steep, scrub-covered hillsides. The men dug, uprooted, scanned with gizmos going tick, tick, tick–they found coins, tin cans, a .32 revolver. Hours came, went; the sun beat down. Ed worked hard–breathing dirt, risking sunstroke. His dreams returned, circles leading back to Inez.
Anne from the Marlborough School Cotillion–they did it in a ’38 Dodge, his legs banged the doors. Penny from his UCLA biology class: rum punch at his frat house, a quick backyard coupling. A string of patriotic roundheels on his bond tour, a one-night stand with an older woman–a Central Division dispatcher. Their faces were hard to remember; he tried and kept seeing Inez–Inez without bruises, no hospital smock. It was dizzying, the heat was dizzying, he was filthy, exhausted–it all felt good. More hours went–he couldn’t think of women or anything else. More time down, yells in the distance, a hand on his shoulder.
Ray Pinker holding out two spent shotgun shells and a photo of a shotgun shell strike surface. A perfect match: identical firing pin marks straight across.