“When Bobby Valdez comes across an uncooperative woman,” Tony explained to Otto, “he pistol-whips her a little to make her more eager to please. Five days ago, he went after victim number ten, and she resisted, and he hit her on the head so hard and so often that she died in the hospital twelve hours later. Which brought the homicide squad into it.”
“What I don’t understand,” the blonde said, “is why any guy would take it by force when there’s girls willing to give it away.” She winked at Tony, but he didn’t wink back.
“Before the woman died,” Frank said, “she gave us a description that fit Bobby like a custom-made glove. So if you know anything about the slimy little bastard, we’ve got to hear it.”
Otto hadn’t spent all his time watching spy movies. He had seen his share of police shows, too. He said, “So now you want him for murder-one.”
“Murder-one,” Tony said. “Precisely.”
“How’d you know to ask me about him?”
“He accosted seven of those ten women in singles’ bar parking lots–”
“None of them in our lot,” Otto interrupted defensively. “Our lot is very well lighted.”
“That’s true,” Tony said. “But we’ve been going to singles’ bars all over the city, talking to bartenders and regular customers, showing them those mug shots, trying to get a line on Bobby Valdez. A couple of people at a place in Century City told us they thought they’d seen him here, but they couldn’t be sure.”
“He was here all right,” Otto said.
Now that Otto’s feathers had been smoothed, Frank took over the questioning again. “So he caused a commotion, and you did your beer glass trick, and he showed you his ID.”
“Yeah.”
“So what was the name on the ID?”
Otto frowned. “I’m not sure.”
“Was it Robert Valdez?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Try to remember.”
“It was a Chicano name.”
“Valdez is a Chicano name.”
“This was more Chicano than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… longer… with a couple Zs in it.”
“Zs?”
“And Qs. You know the kind of name I mean. Something like Velazquez.”
“Was it Velazquez?”
“Nah. But like that.”
“Began with a V?”
“I couldn’t say for sure. I’m just talking about the sound of it.”
“What about the first name?”
“I think I remember that.”
“And?”
“Jaun.”
“J-U-A-N?”
“Yeah. Very Chicano.”
“You notice an address on his ID?”
“I wasn’t looking for that.”
“He mention where he lived?”
“We weren’t exactly chummy.”
“He say anything at all about himself?”
“He just drank quietly and left.”
“And never came back?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re positive?”
“He’s never been back on my shift, anyway.”
“You got a good memory.”
“Only for the troublemakers and the pretty ones.”
“We’d like to show those mug shots to some of your customers,” Frank said.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
The blonde sitting next to Tony Clemenza said, “Can I get a closer look at them? Maybe I was in here when he was. Maybe I even talked to him.”
Tony picked up the photographs and swiveled on his barstool.
She swung toward him as he swung toward her, and she pressed her pretty knees against his. When she took the pictures from him, her fingers lingered for a moment on his. She was a great believer in eye contact. She seemed to be trying to stare right through his brain and out the back of his skull.
“I’m Judy. What’s your name?”
“Tony Clemenza.”
“I knew you were Italian. I could tell by your dark soulful eyes.”
“They give me away every time.”
“And that thick black hair. So curly.”
“And the spaghetti sauce stains on my shirt?”
She looked at his shirt.
“There aren’t really any stains,” he said.
She frowned.
“Just kidding. A little joke,” he said.
“Oh.”
“Do you recognize Bobby Valdez?”
She finally looked at the mug shot. “Nope. I must not have been here the night he came in. But he’s not all that bad, is he? Kind of cute.”
“Baby face.”
“It would be like going to bed with my kid brother,” she said. “Kinky.” She grinned.
He took the pictures from her.
“That’s a very nice suit you’re wearing,” she said.