opposite me. "Well, maybe not quite that good. But since the Lobo homicide. . ."
"You like Sader?"
"Could be. He's stepping on Breed's toes, it looks like. You can't be sure, but he's a funny one."
"I like him, too," I said. "I like him better than you. I think the bastard had me shot at"
He frowned. "Look here, Shell. You got anything for us, give. You're getting one hell of a lot of co-operation here. I saw that report on you this morning, and you told Russo you didn't have any idea who let fly at you."
"I didn't." I deliberated about spilling the whole deal so far, but what could I tell him? That a girl had sung a song in my ear? I didn't have any reason to doubt the story Iris had told me, but I wondered what Detective Lieutenant Rawlins of the L. A. Homicide Division would think of it. Of course, there was Ozzie's dope, too, but damn it, I'd made a deal with the punk. He'd given fair trade for it, but I sort of wished I hadn't got tied up in it now. Sure, now that I had the dope I wanted.
Rawlins was looking at me. I said, "Fact. I didn't know it was Sader. Possibly it wasn't. Look, Rawlins, you know how I work. I blunder around and get knocked on the head and make faces. Right now I've got a headful of ideas, but nothing you'd call proof. I'll get back in here later some time, tonight probably, and give you all I canâif I've got anything."
"Yeah."
We glared at each other for a while, then I dug into the photographs. Right on top of the "Breed" stack was the pale, flat face and button eyes of the guy I'd sapped before getting out of the Pit.
"This one," I said. "I'm especially interested in him."
"Arthur Botten. Monicker's Flick. He's got a dozen aliasesâex-con from ten years back or soâbut he's always stuck to Flick."
"Yeah. Funny the way they do that."
"Not so funny, Shell. Some of them have a hundred or more aliases and change their names so much they've gotta have one permanent handle their pals know them by. This Flick, he drifted out here from New York a couple of months back. Tied up with Breed about six weeks ago. He's Breed's newest boy, and he's a bad one."
"How bad?"
"Armed robbery. Sent up for that. Suspicion of murder twice, but no conviction."
That was enough for Flick. We went through the rest of the stack in half an hour. Sader's two boys were one Pete Derrick and another called Lunger. I settled them in my mind, identified the driver of Breed's car as Ray Clock, then paid most of my attention to the four boys who left the elevator before I hammered Flick's headâthose four boys with four guns. They were little "Joe-Joe" Klein, a big ape named Harry Fisher, "Shenandoah" Hamlet, who was the mildest and least bloodthirsty of a bloodthirsty bunch, and finally a big ugly guy named "Lonely" Wagner with a beat-up face that explained why he was lonely.
I stared at the boys till I knew them, thanked Rawlins, and took off. I kind of hated to leave, though. I'd sure felt safe there in the City Hall.
I'd found Kitty Green's address in the phone book, along with the number Ozzie had given me, and four blocks from her house I parked, found a phone booth, and dialed Hollywood 3227.
While I waited for whatever I was going to get, I clucked my tongue at Marty Sader. This must be the "chippying around" his wife had mumbled about. Naughty boy, but remembering old horseface, I could see what had sent him straying.
And knowing what Sader was married to, I expected the grating voice of a blowzy Ma Barker to rattle my ear right after I heard the phone go up at the other end of the line.
Did I get a surprise.
Chapter Nine
YOU KNOW mint in a frosted julep? You know the cool freshness of pine needles under mountain trees? That's what came out of the receiver and whispered up against my ear. A soft, fresh voice that didn't sound like Ma Barker, but did sound like your kid sister or your steady when you still had a lot of illusions.
It surprised me so much that I didn't answer right at
"You like Sader?"
"Could be. He's stepping on Breed's toes, it looks like. You can't be sure, but he's a funny one."
"I like him, too," I said. "I like him better than you. I think the bastard had me shot at"
He frowned. "Look here, Shell. You got anything for us, give. You're getting one hell of a lot of co-operation here. I saw that report on you this morning, and you told Russo you didn't have any idea who let fly at you."
"I didn't." I deliberated about spilling the whole deal so far, but what could I tell him? That a girl had sung a song in my ear? I didn't have any reason to doubt the story Iris had told me, but I wondered what Detective Lieutenant Rawlins of the L. A. Homicide Division would think of it. Of course, there was Ozzie's dope, too, but damn it, I'd made a deal with the punk. He'd given fair trade for it, but I sort of wished I hadn't got tied up in it now. Sure, now that I had the dope I wanted.
Rawlins was looking at me. I said, "Fact. I didn't know it was Sader. Possibly it wasn't. Look, Rawlins, you know how I work. I blunder around and get knocked on the head and make faces. Right now I've got a headful of ideas, but nothing you'd call proof. I'll get back in here later some time, tonight probably, and give you all I canâif I've got anything."
"Yeah."
We glared at each other for a while, then I dug into the photographs. Right on top of the "Breed" stack was the pale, flat face and button eyes of the guy I'd sapped before getting out of the Pit.
"This one," I said. "I'm especially interested in him."
"Arthur Botten. Monicker's Flick. He's got a dozen aliasesâex-con from ten years back or soâbut he's always stuck to Flick."
"Yeah. Funny the way they do that."
"Not so funny, Shell. Some of them have a hundred or more aliases and change their names so much they've gotta have one permanent handle their pals know them by. This Flick, he drifted out here from New York a couple of months back. Tied up with Breed about six weeks ago. He's Breed's newest boy, and he's a bad one."
"How bad?"
"Armed robbery. Sent up for that. Suspicion of murder twice, but no conviction."
That was enough for Flick. We went through the rest of the stack in half an hour. Sader's two boys were one Pete Derrick and another called Lunger. I settled them in my mind, identified the driver of Breed's car as Ray Clock, then paid most of my attention to the four boys who left the elevator before I hammered Flick's headâthose four boys with four guns. They were little "Joe-Joe" Klein, a big ape named Harry Fisher, "Shenandoah" Hamlet, who was the mildest and least bloodthirsty of a bloodthirsty bunch, and finally a big ugly guy named "Lonely" Wagner with a beat-up face that explained why he was lonely.
I stared at the boys till I knew them, thanked Rawlins, and took off. I kind of hated to leave, though. I'd sure felt safe there in the City Hall.
I'd found Kitty Green's address in the phone book, along with the number Ozzie had given me, and four blocks from her house I parked, found a phone booth, and dialed Hollywood 3227.
While I waited for whatever I was going to get, I clucked my tongue at Marty Sader. This must be the "chippying around" his wife had mumbled about. Naughty boy, but remembering old horseface, I could see what had sent him straying.
And knowing what Sader was married to, I expected the grating voice of a blowzy Ma Barker to rattle my ear right after I heard the phone go up at the other end of the line.
Did I get a surprise.
Chapter Nine
YOU KNOW mint in a frosted julep? You know the cool freshness of pine needles under mountain trees? That's what came out of the receiver and whispered up against my ear. A soft, fresh voice that didn't sound like Ma Barker, but did sound like your kid sister or your steady when you still had a lot of illusions.
It surprised me so much that I didn't answer right at
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