Urge To Kill by John Lutz Page B

o’clock. She was hungry enough to eat a pizza, so somebody else would soon crave an early lunch and pick up the phone to order takeout. Then one of the two teenage boys lounging near the bike rack across the street would place a cardboard box in a warmer on the wide basket on one of the ratty bicycles and leave to make a delivery. Pearl hoped it would be the shorter, heavier of the two, leaving her to talk privately with the tall one, who must be Jorge Valento. Knowing she was a movie buff like himself, Quinn had told Pearl to look for Sal Mineo. From this distance, the tall one filled the bill.
    Pearl settled in, leaving the car’s engine idling and the air conditioner on high. Even with the windows up she could smell the spicy scent of pizza being baked. It was making her hungry.
    The two boys by the bike rack didn’t seem to notice her. Jorge leaned with his back against the brick wall, his hands in the pockets of his baggy, torn jeans. Now and then he casually spat off to his left, away from the bikes. The shorter kid was doing all the talking, all the time jumping around a lot like a junkie needing a fix.
    After about fifteen minutes, the jumpy one was suddenly still, and Jorge raised his head with a sideways tilt. Apparently a buzzer or some other kind of signal had sounded.
    Pearl was in luck. It was the short boy who scurried into Pizza Rio and emerged almost immediately with a large, padded black pizza warmer. He used bungee cords to strap it to the wire basket behind a bicycle seat, then mounted the bike and rode off, standing on the pedals and leaning out over the handlebars as he gained speed.
    Good at his job, Pearl thought, which meant she might not have much time. She switched off the ignition and climbed out of the car.
     
    Not moving from where he leaned against the wall, Jorge observed the woman from the car approaching in the corner of his vision. When she was within about ten feet, he pushed himself away from the wall and turned toward her.
    Nice-looking piece, he thought. Compact, trim, good legs, great rack. Nice face on her, too. Long dark hair that’d be fun to yank on. Dark eyes. Maybe she was Hispanic, as he was. A sister. He might play that angle.
    No, now that she was closer she looked Jewish. That was okay, too. It just required different moves.
    He knew he had a beautiful smile. He aimed it at her.
    “You’re a cop,” he said.
    She didn’t change expression. Not much would surprise this one.
    She flashed her shield. “I’m Detective Kasner.”
    “And I’m not.” Play wise ass with her, see how she reacts.
    She seemed about to yawn. “You’re Jorge Valento.”
    It kind of bothered him that the bitch knew his name. “How’d you know?”
    “I came to talk to you about Joseph Galin, the man whose body was found here in a parked car night before last.”
    He made it a point to meet her direct stare, and then blatantly looked her up and down, lewdly appraising her.
    She looked only mildly irritated.
    “I don’t know much about that,” he said.
    “Sure you do.”
    “I told everything I know to another cop, yesterday.”
    “Not everything.”
    “Who says?”
    “Homicide Detective Frank Quinn.”
    “That the cop I talked to yesterday? Old icicle eyes?”
    “Uh-hm. Those eyes are the windows to his soul.”
    “So why should I tell you anything I didn’t tell him?”
    “It’d be a lot easier to tell me. You see, in Quinn’s mind, me asking you is just like him asking you. When people lie or refuse to talk to me, which is to say him, he gets impatient.”
    Jorge remembered the big cop, Quinn, the large hands with their knobby, scarred knuckles. Not a young guy, but you just knew he could still be mean, and that it was his way sometimes. Jorge felt nervous. It had to show. He mentally put his mask back on, rearranging his facial muscles so he looked bored.
    “You look like Sal Mineo,” the titty little cop said.
    “That’s what my mother says.” My mother, who died ten