Hard Case Crime: Baby Moll by John Farris Page A

anugly way. “This Gilmer is tough. He don’t goof his jobs.”
    “He goofed one, or I wouldn’t be talking to you now.”
    I got as far as the door this time. Then I swung around and his eyes were on me. They were the only bright spots in the dingy room.
    “I hope you kill him,” he said. “But only because it’ll save some cop the trouble.”
    “You’re all heart,” I said.
    He showed me his teeth. “I’m just a big, wonderful sucker,” he said. “I could have made lieutenant. The only trouble was, I beat the hell out of my superior. Now why would I do that?”
    “I wouldn’t know,” I said.
    He looked down into the glass. “He was only making love to my wife,” he said with a little sob. “Big hairy slob making love to my wife. No reason for me to smash his face for him, just over a little bit of tail that never was any good anyway.” He began to laugh, rocking a little on the bed. “I could of been a lieutenant.”
    “Don’t feel so bad,” I told him. “Maybe somebody else will make you an angel.” I shut the door as I went out. Rose sat with the puppy on the kitchen floor. I thanked her politely as I opened the door and started my descent down the back steps.
    The sun was beginning to drop like a flat stone in deep water. I figured Gilmer could wait another hour. I wanted a shower and something to eat. It would give me an excuse to use the room I had bought for the mention of Macy’s name. I wondered what else his name was buying these days. Not much, probably.

    On my way to the hotel I stopped off long enough to buy a gun and some shoulder leather from a pawnshop owner who specialized in supplying iron to those who couldn’t show a license. I knew all sorts of useless people like that. At the Coral Gardens I parked in the restricted zone under the eyes of a cop. He wasn’t interested. I went on in and upstairs.
    I was dressing after my shower when the phone rang.
    “Yeah?”
    “It’s Macy, Pete. I thought you might be at the hotel. What’s new?”
    “I lucked out of a bomb try this morning, The boy who set the trap might be an ex-Cleveland hood named Winkie Gilmer. Apparently somebody’s nervous about me looking around for the one survivor of the fire. Her name is Carla Kennedy. She’d be about thirty now.
    “You’ve got a lead on her?”
    “Yes. I won’t know where she is until tomorrow night, though.”
    “How did you come up with this Gilmer?”
    “Mostly luck. An ex-cop told me about him.”
    “What’s Gilmer like?”
    “I haven’t met him yet. He’s supposed to be tough. I’ve been warned off him. Strictly a hired gun. I’m interested in who hired him. He can’t be very bright to wear a hat like that on a job. He might as well have had on a neon necktie.”
    “It sounds like a good break. Play it cool, Pete. You’ve been away a long time. Listen, stop by Stan’s Restaurant and see if Diane is there.”
    “She hasn’t showed up yet?”
    “No. She sent the kid home with Taggart this afternoon. Aimee’s cranky from those shots she got this morning. Tell Diane to pick up a car at the hotel and come on home. I don’t like her wandering around after dark, anyway.”

Chapter Fourteen
    Stan’s Restaurant was a low modern building with a curved roof and a front of thin orange bricks, fluted aluminum, chrome and glass blocks. His name blazed in the dusk in three-foot-high script letters. The restaurant was located on the flashy Rosamorada Strip eleven miles north of downtown and four blocks from Sunlan Park Race Track.
    Inside, the restaurant was separated into dining room and bar by an angle of wall padded with leather-like material on the bar side. I looked into the dining room first. There was an overflow crowd, including a lot of small dark men in good suits and some who weren’t so small, and beautiful women. The place was crawling with beautiful women, lean and fragile as expensive models. Yellow-jacketed waiters with placid expressions slipped between the