We stood there, the dog’s front paws resting on my shoulders like we were doing the Lindy Hop. A big tongue lapped at me, and the woman yelped, “Be nice, Hacksaw! Be nice!”
I grabbed the dog’s legs and lowered him to the floor; he promptly turned his attention to my crotch. Lee was talking to the slattern, showing her a mug shot strip. She was shaking her head no, hands on hips, the picture of an irate citizen. With Hacksaw at my heels, I joined them.
Lee said, “Mrs. Albanese, this man’s the senior officer. Would you tell him what you just told me?”
The slattern shook her fists; Hacksaw explored Lee’s crotch. I said, “Where’s your husband, lady? We don’t have all day.”
“I told him and I’ll tell you! Bruno’s paid his debt to society! He doesn’t fraternize with criminals and I don’t know any Coleman what’s his name! He’s a businessman! His parole officer made him quit hanging out at that Mexican place two weeks ago, and I don’t know where he is! Hacksaw, be nice!”
I looked at the real senior officer, now stagger-dancing with a two-hundred-pound dog. “Lady, your husband’s a known fence with outstanding traffic warrants. I’ve got a hot merchandise list in the car, and if you don’t tell me where he is, I’ll turn your house upside down until I find something dirty. Then I’ll arrest you for receiving stolen goods. What’s it gonna be?”
The slattern beat her fists into her legs; Lee wrestled Hacksaw down to all fours and said, “Some people don’t respond to civility. Mrs. Albanese, do you know what Russian roulette is?”
The woman pouted, “I’m not dumb and Bruno’s paid his debt to society!” Lee pulled a .38 snubnose out of his back waistband, checked the cylinder and snapped it shut. “There’s one bullet in this gun. You feeling lucky, Hacksaw?”
Hacksaw said, “Woof”; the woman said, “You wouldn’t dare.” Lee put the .38 to the dog’s temple and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber; the woman gasped and started turning pale; Lee said, “Five to go. Prepare for doggie heaven, Hacksaw.”
Lee squeezed the trigger a second time; I held in belly laughs when the hammer clicked again and Hacksaw licked his balls, bored over the whole thing. Mrs. Albanese was praying fervently with her eyes shut. Lee said, “Time to meet your maker, doggy”; the woman blurted, “No no no no no! Bruno’s tending bar in Silverlake! The Buena Vista on Vendome! Please leave my baby alone!”
Lee showed me the .38’s empty cylinder, and we walked back to the car with Hacksaw’s happy barks echoing behind us. I laughed all the way to Silverlake.
o o o
The Buena Vista was a bar and grill shaped like a Spanish rancho–whitewashed adobe walls and turrets festooned with Christmas lights six weeks before the holiday. The interior was cool, all dark wood. There was a long oak bar just off the entrance foyer, with a man behind it polishing glasses. Lee flashed his shield at him and said, “Bruno Albanese?” The man pointed to the back of the restaurant, lowering his eyes.
The rear of the grill was narrow, with Leatherette booths and dim lighting. Wolfish eating noises led us to the last booth–the only one occupied. A thin, swarthy man was hunched over a plate piled high with beans, chili and huevos rancheros, shoveling the slop in like it was his last meal on earth.
Lee rapped on the table. “Police officers. Are you Bruno Albanese?”
The man looked up and said, “Who, me?”
Lee slid into the booth and pointed to the religious tapestry on the wall. “No, the kid in the manger. Let’s make this fast, so I don’t have to watch you eat. You’ve got outstanding warrants, but me and my partner like your dog, so we’re not taking you in. Ain’t that nice of us?”
Bruno Albanese belched, then said, “You mean you want some skinny?”
Lee said, “Whiz kid,” and smoothed the Maynard mug shot strip on the table. “He cornholes little boys. We know he sells to you, and we don’t care. Where is he?”