The Emerald Cat Killer by Richard A. Lupoff Page A

was so beautiful, the metal was so nice, it felt so good in her hand. The barrel was like a man’s organ, but little, like a little boy, and the cylinder was like a scrotum. She would sit on the edge of the bed holding the gun in her lap, leaning over it so she enveloped it completely with her body, as if it was her very own baby, and she would rock back and forth and sing to it, sing to her darling baby.
    Which would it be today?
    Bobby took the knife out of the drawer, strapped its sheath to his belt, and closed the drawer again.
    He said, “Time to hit the street, bitch. You better go out and make a few dollars for us. That food wasn’t too great. See if you can get something else together. Take out the garbage—you understand me?”
    She nodded.
    â€œTake out the garbage, see if you can find a couple of johns and make a few dollars. Tonight we’re going out to score big-time.”
    Red gave him the biggest, brightest smile she could put together and took out the garbage.
    *   *   *
    The Bishop Berkeley Music Shoppe-with-a-pee-pee-ee must have been named in a whimsical moment because it didn’t have any of the cutesiness or cottage-in-the-glen décor that Lindsey feared he’d encounter. Instead, the shop occupied the ground floor of an aging shingled house just off Ashby Avenue. The atmosphere was a mix of sixties-funkiness and serious dedication to music. The place was filled with gorgeous guitars, basses, mandolins, violins, a couple of drum kits, an assortment of horns. There was even a marvelous antique harpsichord. It must be heaven for a musician.
    A young woman was standing behind the counter, wearing a dark blue Cal T-shirt, baseball cap, and jeans. That seemed to be the uniform of the day, at least in this town: T-shirt and baseball cap and jeans. She was holding a brass trumpet, playing scales. There was sheet music spread in front of her. Lindsey wondered why anyone would need sheet music to practice scales, but there it was. And this girl was good. No Harry James, this one. Maybe more like Ziggy Elman. She should try her lip on “And the Angels Sing.” Lindsey’s mental Rolodex rolled into action. Ziggy Elman, real name Harry Finkelman. Worked for Benny Goodman. Great trumpeter. Died young. And broke.
    A real, talented youngster.
    The youngster in the Cal T-shirt spotted Lindsey and lowered the instrument. “Can I help you, sir?”
    Lindsey said, “I hope so. Are you Jade Montoya?”
    â€œI plead guilty. Are you here to arrest me?”
    Lindsey recoiled. “No, no, I—nothing like that. I just … I—”
    The young woman’s demeanor changed. “I was just kidding. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
    Lindsey ran his hand across his forehead. “I’m—” He reached for a business card and laid it on the counter, on top of the young woman’s—on top of Jade Montoya’s—sheet music.
    Montoya picked up the card and studied it. Then she said, “I guess you’re not here to buy a guitar. Or are you? We have some beauties. Custom-built Montalvos.”
    â€œNo, I’m working on an insurance matter. Can you spare me a few minutes, Miss, ah,—”
    â€œJust call me Jade.” She gave her name its English pronunciation. “Would you like to sit down, sir?”
    Getting old, getting old, Lindsey thought. When young women offer you a seat, you’re definitely getting old. He suppressed a sigh, or tried to do so. He wasn’t sure whether it had escaped or not, but Jade Montoya didn’t react to it. She had olive skin and glossy black hair. Her eyes were green, maybe more like emerald than jade, but still, he decided, she was well named. He suppressed another sigh.
    â€œIt’s about a laptop computer. One that you got from your cousin Carlos.”
    â€œOh, no.” She put her head in her hands. Was the gesture one of real