Bud parked beside her. Cindy saw him, dumped her tray, rolled up her window. Wham–the De Soto in reverse. Bud sprinted, popped the hood, yanked the distributor–the car stalled dead.
Cindy rolled down her window. “You stole my money! You ruined my lunch!”
Bud dropped a five on her lap. “Lunch is on me.”
“Mister big shot! Mister big spender!”
“Kathy Janeway got raped and beaten to death. Give on the guy who used to pimp her, give on her tricks.”
Cindy put her head on the wheel. The horn beeped; she came back up pale, no tears. “Dwight Gilette. He’s some kind of colored guy passing. I don’t know nothing about her old tricks.”
“Gilette drive a red car?”
“I don’t know.”
“You got an address?”
“I heard he lives in this tract in Eagle Rock. It’s white only, so he plays it that way. But I know he didn’t kill her.”
“How do you figure?”
“He’s a swish. He’s careful about his hands, and he’d never put it in a girl.”
“Anything else?”
“He carried a knife. His girls call him ‘Blue Blade’ ’cause his name’s Gilette.”
“You don’t seem surprised Kathy got it that way.”
Cindy touched her eyes–bone dry. “She was born for it. Dukey softened her up, so she quit hating men. A few more years and she would’ve learned. Shit, I should have treated her better.”
“Yeah, me too.”
o o o
Eagle Rock, an R&I check: Dwight Gilette, a.k.a. “Blade,” a.k.a. “Blue Blade,” 3245 Hibiscus, Eagle’s Aerie Housing Development. Six suborning arrests, no convictions, listed as a male Caucasian–if he was a shine he was passing with style. Bud found the tract, the street: cozy stucco cubes, Hibiscus a prime spot: a smoggy L.A. view.
3245: peach paint job, steel flamingos on the lawn, a blue sedan in the driveway. Bud walked up, pushed the buzzer–jingly chimes sounded.
A high-yellow guy opened up. Thirtyish, short, plump, slacks and a silk shirt with a Mr. B. collar. “I heard on the radio, so I thought you fellows might be coming by. The radio said midnight, and I have an alibi. He lives a block away and I can have him here toot-sweet. Kathy was a sweet kid and I don’t know who’d do a thing like that. And don’t you fellows usually come in pairs?”
“You finished?”
“No. My alibi is my lawyer, he still lives a block away and he’s very well placed in the American Civil Liberties Union.”
Bud shouldered him into the house, whistled.
Fruit heaven: deep pile rugs, Greek god statues. Male nudes on the wall–paint on velvet flocking. Bud said, “Cute.”
Gilette pointed to the phone. “Two seconds or I call my attorney.”
Quick throw. “Duke Cathcart. You sold Kathy to him, right?”
“Kathy was headstrong, Duke made me an offer. Duke’s dead in that awful Nite Owl thing, so don’t tell me you suspect me of that.”
No hink. “I heard Duke was pushing smut. You hear that?”
“Smut is déclassé and the answer is no.”
More no hink. “Give me some trade talk on Duke. What’ve you heard?”
Gilette stood one hip jutting. “I heard a guy was asking around about Duke, coming on like Duke, maybe thinking about crashing his stable, not that he had much of a stable left, I’ve heard. Now will you please leave me alone before I call my friend?”
The phone rang–Gilette walked to the kitchen, grabbed an extension. Bud walked in slow. Nice stuff: Frigidaire, coil burner stove on full blast: eggs, boiling water, stew.
Gilette made kissy sounds, hung up. “Are _you_ still here?”
“Nice pad, Dwight. Business must be good.”
“Business is excellent, thank you very much.”
“Good. I need skinny on Kathy’s old tricks, so cough up your whore book.”
Gilette hit a switch above the sink. A motor growled; he shoved scrapings down a garbage hole. Bud flipped the switch up. “Your whore book.”
“No, _nein, nyet_ and never.”
Bud hooked him to the gut. Gilette rolled with it, grabbed a knife, swung. Bud sidestepped, kicked at his balls. Gilette doubled up; Bud hit the garbage switch. The motor _scree’d_; Bud jammed the queer’s knife hand down the chute.