“Yeah. Why’d you quit fighting and join the Department? And don’t tell me it was because your kid sister disappeared and catching criminals gives you a sense of order. I’ve heard that one twice, and I don’t buy it.”

Lee kept his eyes on traffic. “You got any sisters? Kid relatives you really care about?”

I shook my head. “My family’s dead.”

“So’s Laurie. I figured it out when I was fifteen. Mom and Dad kept spending money on handbills and detectives, but I knew she was a snuff job. I kept picturing her growing up. Prom queen, straight A’s, her own family. It used to hurt like a bastard, so I pictured her growing up wrong. You know, like a floozy. It was actually comforting, but it felt like I was shitting on her.”

I said, “Look, I’m sorry.”

Lee gave me a gentle elbow. “Don’t be, because you’re right. I quit fighting and joined the cops because Benny Siegel was putting the heat on me. He bought out my contract and scared off my manager, and he promised me a shot at Joe Louis if I took two dives for him. I said no and joined the Department because the Jew syndicate boys have got a rule against killing cops. I was scared shitless that he’d kill me anyway, so when I heard that the Boulevard-Citizens heisters took some of Benny’s money along with the bank’s, I shook down stoolies until I got Bobby De Witt on a platter. I gave Benny first crack at him. His number two man talked him out of a snuff, so I took the dope to Hollywood dicks. Benny’s my pal now. Gives me tips on the ponies all the time. Next question?”

I decided not to push for information on Kay. Checking out the street, I saw that downtown had given way to blocks of small, unkempt houses. The Bugsy Siegel story stayed with me; I was running with it when Lee slowed the car and pulled to the curb.

I blurted, “What the hell”; Lee said, “This one’s for my own personal satisfaction. You remember the baby raper on the felony sheet?”

“Sure.”

“Tierney said there’s four sodomy unsolveds in Highland Park, right?”

“Right.”

“And he mentioned that there was a memo on the rape-o’s KAs?”

“Sure. What—”

“Bucky, I read that memo and recognized the name of a fence—Bruno Albanese. He works out of a Mex restaurant in Highland Park. I called Highland Park dicks and got the addresses on the assaults, and two of them were within a half mile of the joint where the fence hangs out. This is his house, and R&I says he’s got a shitload of unpaid traffic tickets, bench warrants issued. You want a diagram of the rest of it?”

I got out of the car and walked across a weedy front yard strewn with dog turds. Lee caught up with me at the porch and rang the bell; furious barks issued from inside the house.

The door opened, held to the frame by a chain. The barks grew to a crescendo; through the crack I glimpsed a slatternly woman. I shouted, “Police officers!” Lee wedged his foot into the space between the doorjamb and runner; I reached inside and twisted the chain off. Lee pushed the door open, and the woman ran out onto the porch. I stepped inside the house, wondering about the dog. I was eyeballing a seedy living room when a big brown mastiff leaped at me, his jaws wide open. I fumbled for my piece—and the beast started licking my face.

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.

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?”

Albanese looked at the strip and burped. “I never seen this guy before. Somebody steered you wrong.”

Lee looked at me and sighed. He said, “Some people don’t respond to civility,” then grabbed Bruno Albanese by the scruff of the neck and smashed his head face first into the plate of goo. Bruno sucked in grease through his mouth, nose and eyeballs, flapping his arms and banging his legs under the table. Lee held him there, intoning, “Bruno Albanese was a good man. He was a good husband and a good father to his son Hacksaw. He wasn’t very cooperative with the police, but who expects perfection? Partner, can you give me a reason to spare this shitbird’s life?”