Danny left Karen Hiltscher a memo: “Sweetheart - will you do this for me? 1 - Call Yellow, Beacon and the indy cab cos. Ask about pickups of single males on Sunset between Doheny and La Cienega and side sts. between 3:00 to 4:00 a.m. last nite. Ditto pickups of a drunk man, Central and Slauson to 1200 block S. St. Andrews, 12:30 - 1:30 a.m. Get all log entries for pick-ups those times and locations. 2 - Stay friendly, ok? I’m sorry about that lunch date I cancelled. I had to cram for a test. Thanks — D.U.”

The lie made Danny angry at the girl, the LASD and himself for kowtowing to teenaged passion. He thought of calling the 77th Street Station desk to tell them he was going to be operating in City territory, then kiboshed the idea—it was too much like bowing to the LAPD and their pout over the Sheriff’s harboring Mickey Cohen. He held the thought, the contempt. A killer-hoodlum who longed to be a nightclub comic and got weepy over lost dogs and crippled kids brought a big-city police department to its knees with a wire recording: Vice cops taking bribes and chauffeuring prostitutes; the Hollywood Division nightwatch screwing Brenda Allen’s whores on mattresses in the Hollywood Station felony tank. Mickey C. putting out his entire smear arsenal because the City high brass upped his loan shark and bookmaking kickbacks 10 percent. Ugly. Stupid. Greedy. Wrong.

Danny let the litany simmer on his way down to darktown— Sunset east to Figueroa, Figueroa to Slauson, Slauson east to Central—a hypothetical route for the car thief/killer. Dusk started coming on, rain clouds eclipsing late sunshine trying to light up Negro slums: ramshackle houses encircled by chicken wire, pool halls, liquor stores and storefront churches on every street—until jazzland took over. Then loony swank amidst squalor, one long block of it.

Bido Lito’s was shaped like a miniature Taj Mahal, only purple; Malloy’s Nest was a bamboo hut fronted by phony Hawaiian palms strung with Christmas-tree lights. Zebra stripes comprised the paint job on Tommy Tucker’s Playroom—an obvious converted warehouse with plaster saxophones, trumpets and music clefs alternating across the edge of the roof. The Zamboanga, Royal Flush and Katydid Klub were bright pink, more purple and puke green, a hangar-like building subdivided, the respective doorways outlined in neon. And Club Zombie was a Moorish mosque featuring a three-story-tall sleepwalker growing out of the facade: a gigantic darky with glowing red eyes high-stepping into the night.

Jumbo parking lots linked the clubs; big Negro bouncers stood beside doorways and signs announcing “Early Bird” chicken dinners. A scant number of cars was stationed in the lots; Danny left his Chevy on a side street and started bracing the muscle.

The doormen at the Zamboanga and Katydid recalled seeing Martin Mitchell Goines “around”; a man setting up a menu board outside the Royal Flush took the ID a step further: Goines was a second-rate utility trombone, usually hired for fill-in duty. Since “Christmas or so” he’d been playing with the house band at Bido Lito’s. Danny read every suspicious black face he spoke to for signs of holding back; all he got was a sense that these guys thought Marty Goines was a lily-white fool.

Danny hit Bido Lito’s. A sign in front proclaimed DICKY McCOVER AND HIS JAZZ SULTANS—SHOWS AT 7:30, 9:30 AND 11:30 NITELY—ENJOY OUR DELUXE CHICKEN BASKET. Walking in, he thought he was entering a hallucination.

The walls were pastel satin bathed by colored baby spotlights that hued the fabric garish beyond garish; the bandstand backing was a re-creation of the Pyramids, done in sparkly cardboard. The tables had fluorescent borders, the high-yellow hostesses carrying drinks and food wore low-cut tiger costumes, the whole place smelled of deep-fried meat. Danny felt his stomach growl, realized he hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours and approached the bar. Even in the hallucinatory lighting, he saw the barman make him for a cop.

He held out the mugshot strip. “Do you know this man?”

The bartender took the strip, examined it under the cash register light and handed it back. “That’s Marty. Plays ‘bone with the Sultans. Comes in before the first set to eat, if you wants to talk to him.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Las’ night.”

“For the band’s last set?”

The barman’s mouth curled into a tight smile; Danny sensed that “band” was square nomenclature. “I asked you a question.”

The man wiped the bartop with a rag. “I don’ think so. Midnight set I remember seem’ him. Sultans played two late ones las’ night, on account of New Year’s.”

Danny noticed a shelf of whiskey bottles without labels. “Go get the manager.”

The bartender pressed a button by the register; Danny took a stool and swiveled to face the bandstand. A group of Negro men was opening instrument cases, pulling out sax, trumpet and drum cymbals. A fat mulatto in a double-breasted suit walked over to the bar, wearing a suck-up-to-authority smile. He said, “Thought I knew all the boys on the Squad.”

Danny said, “I’m with the Sheriff’s.”

The mulatto’s smile evaporated. “I usually deal with the Seven-Seven, Mr. Sheriff.”

“This is County business.”

“This ain’t County territory.”

Danny hooked a thumb in back of him, then nodded toward the baby spots. “You’ve got illegal booze, those lights are a fire hazard and the County runs Beverage Control and Health and Safety Code. I’ve got a summons book in the car. Want me to get it?”

The smile returned. “I surely don’t. How can I be of service, sir?”

“Tell me about Marty Goines.”

“What about him?”

“Try everything.”

The manager took his time lighting a cigarette; Danny knew his fuse was being tested. Finally the man exhaled and said, “Not much to tell. The local sent him down when the Sultans’ regular trombone fell off the wagon. I’d have preferred colored, but Marty’s got a rep for getting along with non-Caucasians, so I said okay. Except for ditching out on the guys last night, Marty never did me no dirt, just did his job copacetic. Not the world’s best slideman, not the worst neither.”

Danny pointed to the musicians on the bandstand. “Those guys are the Sultans, right?”

“Right.”

“Goines played a set with them that ended just after midnight?”

The mulatto smiled. “Dicky McCover’s up-tempo ‘Old Lang Syne.’ Even Bird envies that—”

“When was the set finished?”

“Set broke up maybe 12:20. Fifteen-minute break I give my guys. Like I said, Marty ditched out on that and the 2:00 closer. Only time he did me dirt.”

Danny went in for the Sultans’ alibi. “Were the other three men on stage for the final two sets?”

The manager nodded. “Uh-huh. Played for a private party I had going after that. What’d Marty do?”

“He got murdered.”

The mulatto choked on the smoke he was inhaling. He coughed the drag out, dropped his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it, rasping, “Who you think did it?”

Danny said, “Not you, not the Sultans. Let’s try this one: was Goines feeding a habit?”

“Say what?”

“Don’t play dumb. Junk, H, horse, a fucking heroin habit.” The manager took a step backward. “I don’t hire no goddamned hopheads.”

“Sure you don’t, just like you don’t serve hijack booze. Let’s try this: Marty and women.”

“Never heard nothing one way or the other.”

“How about enemies? Guys with a hard-on for him?”

“Nothing.”

“What about friends, known associates, men coming around asking for him?”

“No, no and no. Marty didn’t even have no family.”

Danny shifted gears with a smile—an interrogation technique he practiced in front of his bedroom mirror. “Look, I’m sorry I came on so strong.”

“No, you ain’t.”

Danny flushed, hoping the crazy lighting didn’t pick it up. “Have you got a man watching the parking lot?”