“Meeks, that’s not something you do to somebody you’re sleeping with.”

“You’re sleepin’ with Mickey, ain’t you?”

“Yes, but what does—”

Buzz slid past Audrey, into a bargain basement front room. “Savin’ money on furnishings to bankroll your shopping center?”

“Yes. Since you ask, I am.”

“Sweetie, you know what Mickey did to the ginzo killed Hooky Rothman?”

Audrey slammed the door and wrapped her arms around herself. “He beat the man senseless and had Fritzie what’s his name drive him over the state line and warn him never to come back. Meeks, what is this? I can’t stand you this way.”

Buzz shoved her against the door, pinned her there and put his hands on her face, holding her still, his hands going gentle when he saw she wasn’t going to fight him. “You’re skimmin’ off Mickey ‘cause you think he won’t find out and he wouldn’t hurt you if he did and now I’m the one that has to fuckin’ protect you because you are so fuckin’ dumb about the fuckin’ guys you fuck and I’m in way over my fuckin’ head with you so you get fuckin’ smart because if Mickey hurts you I’ll fuckin’ kill him and all his fuckin’ kike guinea pigshut—”

He stopped when Audrey started bawling and trying to get out words. He stroked her hair, bending down to listen better, turning to jelly when he heard, “I love you, too.”

They made love on the bargain basement living room floor and in the bedroom and in the shower, Buzz pulling the curtain loose, Audrey admitting she cheapskated on the bathroom fixtures, too. He told her he’d check with an ex-Dragna paper man he knew and show her how to redoctor Mickey’s books—or fix an angle to lay the onus off on some nonexistent welcher; she said she’d quit skimming, straighten up, fly right, and play the stock market like a squarejohn woman who didn’t screw gangsters or Red Squad bagmen. He said, “I love you” fifty times to make up for her saying it first; he got her sizes so he could blow all his kickback take on clothes for her; they went down on each other to seal a pact: nobody was supposed to mention Mickey unless absolutely necessary, nobody was to talk about their future or lack of it, two dates a week was their limit, Howard’s fuck pads rotated, her place or his place as a treat once in a while, their cars stashed where the bad guys wouldn’t see them. No outside dates, no trips together, no telling friends what they had going. Buzz asked Audrey to do the tassel trick for him; she did; she went on to model her stripper outfits, then all the clothes in her wardrobe. Buzz figured that if he spent his gambling output on threads he wanted to see her in, he’d never be bored staying inside with her: he could take the clothes off, make love to her, watch her dress again. He thought that if they stayed inside forever, he’d tell her everything about himself, all the shitty stuff included, but he’d lay it out slowly, so she’d get to know him, not get scared and run. He talked a blue streak; she talked a blue streak; he let slip about the Doberman pinscher he killed when he burglarized a lumberyard in Tulsa in 1921, and she didn’t care. Toward dawn, Audrey started falling asleep and he started thinking about Mickey and got scared. He thought about moving his car, but didn’t want to upset the perfect way his lioness had her head tucked against his collarbone. The scare got worse, so he reached to the floor, grabbed his .38 and stuck it under the pillow.

The nut bin waiting room featured tables and plasticene couches in soothing colors: mint green, ice blue, pale yellow. Artwork by the nuts was tacked to the walls: finger paintings and draw-by-the-numbers jobs depicting Jesus Christ, Joe DiMaggio and Franklin D. Roosevelt. Danny sat waiting for Cyril “Cy” Vandrich, dressed in Ted Krugman garb: dungarees, skivvy shirt, steel-toed motorcycle boots and a bombardier’s leather jacket. He’d been up most of the night studying Mal Considine’s scenario; he’d spent yesterday doing his own background checks on Duane Lindenaur and George Wiltsie, prowling their Valley hangouts and getting nothing but a queasy sense of the two as homo slime. Slipping into the Ted role had been a relief, and when he drove up to the Camarillo gate the guard had double-taked his get-up and New York plates and openly challenged him as a cop, checking his ID and badge, calling West Hollywood Station to get the okay. So far, Upshaw into Krugman was a success—the acid test this afternoon at the picket line.

An orderly ushered a thirtyish man in khakis into the room—a shortish guy, skinny with broad hips, deep-set gray eyes and a hepcat haircut—one greasy brown lock perfectly covering his forehead. The orderly said, “Him,” and exited; Vandrich sighed, “This is a humbug. I’ve got connections on the switchboard, the girl said this is about murders, and I’m not a murderer. Jazz musicians are Joe Lunchmeat to you clowns. You’ve been trying to crucify Bird for years, now you want me.”

Danny let it go, sizing up Vandrich sizing him up. “Wrong. This is about Felix Gordean, Duane Lindenaur and George Wiltsie. I know you’re not a killer.”

Vandrich slumped into a chair. “Felix is a piece of work, Duane what’s his face I don’t know from Adam and George Wiltsie padded his stuff so he’d look big to impress all the rich queens at Felix’s parties. And why are you dressed up like rough trade? Think you’ll get me to talk that way? That image is from hunger, and I outgrew it a long time ago.”

Danny thought: smart, hep, probably wise to the game. The rough trade crack washed over him; he fondled his jacket sleeves, loving the feel of the leather. “You’ve got them all buffaloed, Cy. They don’t know if you’re crazy or not.”

Vandrich smiled; he shifted in his chair and cocked a hip toward Danny. “You think I’m a malingerer?”

“I know you are, and I know that Misdemeanor Court judges get tired of giving the same old faces ninety days here when they could file on them for Petty Theft Habitual and get them some felony time. Quentin time. Up there they don’t ask you for it, they take it.”

“And I’m sure you know a lot about that, with your tough leather goods and all.”

Danny laced his hands behind his head, the jacket’s soft fur collar brushing him. “I need to know what you know about George Wiltsie and Felix Gordean, and maybe what Gordean does or doesn’t know about some things. Cooperate, you’ll always pull ninetys. Dick me around, the judge gets a letter saying you withheld evidence in a triple homicide case.”

Vandrich giggled. “Felix got murdered?”

“No. Wiltsie, Lindenaur and a trombone man named Marty Goines, who used to call himself the ‘Horn of Plenty.’ Have you heard of him?”

“No, but I’m a trumpeter and I used to be known as the ‘Lips of Ecstasy.’ That’s a double entendre, in case you haven’t guessed.”

Danny laughed off the vamp. “Five seconds or I walk and nudge the judge.”

Vandrich smiled. “I’ll play, Mr. Policeman. And I’ll even give you a free introductory observation. But first I’ve got a question. Did Felix tell you about me?”

“Yes.”

Vandrich did a little number, crossing his legs, making mincy hand motions. Danny saw it as the fuck going nance in order to knuckle to authority; he felt himself start to sweat, his lefty threads too hot, too much. “Look, just tell me.”

Vandrich quieted down. “I knew Felix during the war, when I was putting on a crazy act to get out of the service. I played that act everywhere. I was living off an inheritance then, living it up. I went to Felix’s parties and I trucked with Georgie once, and Felix thought I was non compos mentis, so if he sent you to see me he was probably playing a game. There. That’s my free introductory observation.”