Jones slipped into a reverie-Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Father Divine. Ed hit the #2 cubicle.

Rank: sweat, cigarette smoke. Leroy Fontaine-big, dark, processed hair, his feet up on the table. Ed said, "Be smarter than your friends. Even if you killed her, it's not as bad as killing six people."

Fontaine tweaked his nose-bandaged, spread over half his face. "This newspaper shit ain't shit."

Ed closed the door, scared. "Leroy, you'd better hope she was with you at the coroner's estimated time of death."

No answer.

"Was she a hooker?"

No answer.

"Did you kill her?"

No answer.

"You wanted Tyrone to lose his cherry, but things got out of hand. Isn't that right?"

No answer.

"Leroy, if she's dead and she was colored you can cop a plea. If she was white you might have a chance. Remember, we can make you for the Nite Owl, and we can make it stick. Unless you convince me you were somewhere else doing something bad, we'll nail you for what's in that newspaper."

No answer-Fontaine cleaned his nails with a matchbook.

A big lie. "If you kidnapped her and she's still alive, that's not a Little Lindbergh violation. It's not a capital charge."

No answer.

"Leroy, where are the guns and the car?"

No answer.

"Leroy, is she still alive?"

Fontaine smiled-Ed felt ice on his spine. "If she's still alive, she's your alibi. I won't kid you, it could get bad: kidnap, rape, assault. But if you eliminate yourself on the Nite Owl now, you'll save us time and the D.A. will like you for it. Kick loose, Leroy. Do yourself a favor."

No answer.

"Leroy, look how it can go both ways. I think you kidnapped a girl at gunpoint. You made her bleed up the car, so you hid the car. She bled on your clothes, so you burned the clothes. You got her perfume all over yourselves. If you didn't do the Nite Owl, I don't know why you hid the shotguns, maybe you thought she could identify them. Son, if that girl is alive she is the only chance you've got."

Fontaine said, "I thinks she alive."

Ed sat down. "«You think?»"

"Yeah, I thinks."

"Who is she? «Where is she?»"

No answer.

"Is she colored?"

"She Mex."

"What's her name?"

"I don' know. College-type bitch."

"Where did you pick her up?"

"I don' know. Eastside someplace."

"Where did you assault her?"

"I don' know… old building on Dunkirk somewheres."

"Where's the car and the shotguns?"

"I don' know. Sugar, he took care of them."

"If you didn't kill her, why did Coates hide the shotguns?"

No answer.

"Why, Leroy?"

No answer.

"Why, son? Tell me."

No answer.

Ed hit the table. "Tell me, goddammit!"

Fontaine hit the table-harder. "Sugar, he poked her with them guns! He 'fraid it be evidence!"

Ed closed his eyes. "Where is she now?"

No answer.

"Did you leave her at the building?"

No answer.

Eyes open. "Did you leave her someplace else?"

No answer.

Leaps: none of the three had cash on them, call their money evidence-stashed when Sugar burned the clothes. "Leroy, did you sell her out? Bring some buddies by that place on Dunkirk?"

"We… we drove her 'roun'."

"Where? Your friends' pads?"

"Tha's right."

"Up in Hollywood?"

"We didn' shoot them people!"

"Prove it, Leroy. Where were you guys at 3:00 A.M.?"

"Man, I cain't tell you!"

Ed slapped the table. "Then you'll burn for the Nite Owl!"

"We didn't do it!"

"Who did you sell the girl to?"

No answer.

"Where is she now?"

No answer.

"Are you afraid of reprisals? You left the girl somewhere, right? «Leroy, where did you leave her, who did you leave her with, she is your only chance to stay out of the fucking gas chamber?»"

"Man, I can't tell you, Sugar, he like to kill me!"

"Leroy, where is she?"

No answer.

"Leroy, you turn state's you'll get out years before Sugar and Tyrone."

No response.

"Leroy, I'll get you a one-man cell where nobody can hurt you."

No response.

"Son, you have to tell me. I'm the only friend you've got."

No response.

"Leroy, are you afraid of the man you left the girl with?"

No answer.

"Son, he can't be as bad as the gas chamber. «Tell me where the girl is»."

The door banged open. Bud White stepped in, threw Fontaine against the wall.

Ed froze.

White pulled out his.38, broke the cylinder, dropped shells on the floor. Fontaine shook head to toe; Ed kept freezing. White snapped the cylinder shut, stuck the gun in Fontaine's mouth. "One in six. Where's the girl?"

Fontaine chewed steel; White squeezed the trigger twice: clicks, empty chambers. Fontaine slid down the wall; White pulled the gun back, held him up by his hair. "«Where's the girl?»"

Ed kept freezing. White pulled the trigger-another little click. Fontaine, bug-eyed. "S-ss-sylvester F-fitch, one-o-nine and Avalon, gray corner house please don' hurt me no-"

White ran out.

Fontaine passed out.

Riot sounds in the corridor-Ed tried to stand up, couldn't get his legs.

A four-car cordon: two black-and-whites, two unmarkeds. Sirens to a half mile out; a coast up to the gray corner house.

Dudley Smith drove the lead prowler; Bud rode shotgun reloading his piece. A four-car flank: black-and-whites in the alley, Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle parked streetside-rifles on the gray house door. Bud said, "Boss, he's mine."

Dudley winked. "Grand, lad."

Bud went in the back way-through the alley, a fence vault. On the rear porch: a screen door, inside hook and eye. He slipped the catch with his penknife, walked in on tiptoes.

Darkness, dim shapes: a washing machine, a blind-covered door-strips of light through the cracks.

Bud tried the door-unlocked--cased it open. A hallway: light bouncing from two side rooms. A rug to walk on; music to give him more cover. He tiptoed up to the first room, wheeled in.

A nude woman spread-eagled on a mattress-bound with neckties, a necktie in her mouth. Bud hit the next room loud.

A fat mulatto at a table-naked, wolfmg Kellogg's Rice Krispies. He put down his spoon, raised his hands. "Nossir, don't want no trouble."

Bud shot him in the face, pulled a spare piece-bang bang from the coon's line of fire. The man hit the floor dead spread-a prime entry wound oozing blood. Bud put the spare in his hand; the front door crashed in. He dumped Rice Krispies on the stiff, called an ambulance.

Jack watched Karen sleep, putting their fight behind him.

Newspaper pix caused it: the Big V and Cal Denton rousting three colored punks-suspects in L.A. 's "Crime of the Century." Denton dragged Fontaine by his conk; Big V had neck holds on the other two. Karen said they reminded her of the Scottsboro Boys; Jack told her he saved their goddamned lives, but now that he knew they gang-raped a Mexican girl he wished he'd let Denton kill them outright. The argument deteriorated from there.

Karen slept curled away from him-covered tight like she thought he might hit her. Jack watched her while he dressed; his last two days hit him.

He was off the Nite Owl, back to Ad Vice. Ed Exley's interrogations tentatively cleared the spooks-pending questioning of the woman they'd been abusing. Bud White played some Russian roulette-the three clammed up. So far, there was no way to know if they had time to leave the woman, drive to the Nite Owl, return to Darktown and gang-rape. Maybe Coates or Fontaine left Jones in charge of the girl and pulled the snuffs with other partners. No luck finding the shotguns; Coates' purple Merc was still missing. No restaurant loot found at their hotel; the debris in the incinerator too far gone for blood-on-fabric analysis. The perfume on the jigs' hands skunked a late paraffin test. Huge pressure at the Bureau: solve the fucking case fast.