him the hole,” Winebrenner said to one of the attendants.
They tilted Felix to one side and I was able to see the small dot on his back, directly behind his heart. They had washed the blood off and all that remained was the neat bullet hole, its edges a charred black.
“The slug’s still in him?” I asked.
“Small caliber,” the attendant said. “We’ll find it okay.”
The walls started undulating and closing toward me once more, but it wasn’t as bad as in the jail, because here I could walk out when I chose.
“Okay,” I told Winebrenner. “I’ve seen it.”
We returned to the cop shop. I thanked him for his help and assured him that I was all right. He went back to his desk.
I stayed outside for awhile. When my nerves had calmed sufficiently, I went up the steps to Detectives on the second floor. I asked the desk man to tell Inspector Lowney I wanted to see him.
I had to wait over thirty minutes. The detectives make up the elite of the cop-shop caste system. These boys love their position, savoring their “ascendancy” over the lower forms of life. It’s probably not necessary for me to mention that they place bail bondsmen lowest on their list, a step below such assorted creeps as private investigators, newspapermen and stoolies.
The waiting room was okay, it opened directly onto a staircase. When I entered Inspector Lowney’s den, however, matters were much too cozy. The office was about eight-by-eight and fogged over with thick, blue cigarette smoke.
I left the door open behind me, but Inspector Lowney promptly slammed it shut. He then sat behind his desk and gazed at me as if I were something which had floated up from the sewer. He wore a well-tailored, black Dacron suit and his dark hair was parted with infuriating accuracy. His face was all points—pointed chin, nose and ears! A cigarette was held tightly between his lips and he toyed with an unlighted one, rolling it around between his fingers.
“Make it quick,” he snapped. “We’re interrogating.”
“Pia was a client of mine,” I said. “I’d like to see his personal effects.”
“Oh, you would, would you?” Lowney sucked so hard on the cigarette the ash grew a half-inch.
“I’d also like a look at the four guys who were in the cell where the gun was fired.”
“Oh, you would, would you?” He geysered blue smoke at me. “And what will you trade for such a look?”
“Information,” I said.
He shrugged. “I’m listening.”
“His fiancée’s in my office,” I said. “Her name’s Ti-lo Sullivan. While we were talking, some jokers in a heliotrope-colored Buick roared by and tossed a firecracker practically in the door.”
“So?” he said.
“It happened just about the time Felix Pia was shot. I don’t think it was a coincidence.”
Lowney tilted his head and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. While he made a few notes on a pad, I eased the door open about a foot and immediately the office’s walls went back into their true perspective.
“It isn’t much,” Lowney said, “but we’ll look into it. There can’t be too many heliotrope-colored Buicks in town.”
He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door at the opposite side of his office.
“Take a peek,” he said. “Keep it short.”
He stood beside me while I glanced into the interrogation room. There were six men present—two detectives and the four suspects from the jail cell. I quickly brushed my eyes over three of the suspects. They were run-of-the-jail toughs, with boozy faces, long sideburns and they needed shaves. The fourth man was far more interesting.
He was a Filipino.
He was about thirty-one or thirty-two, with long sleek hair and brown eyes shiny as hard candy. His nose was exceedingly flat, possibly a gift of Mother Nature but more probably the result of constant hammering in a boxing ring. He wore a white shirt, open at the throat, and his yellow necktie was stuffed into the breast pocket of his avocado green suit.
“That’s enough for now,” Lowney said, closing and locking the door.
“What’s his name?” I said. “The Filipino.”
Lowney looked at his note pad. “Harold Pablo. Still uses the name King Harold, the name he fought under as a featherweight. Now works as a cook.”
“Is he your prime suspect?”
Lowney stubbed out his cigarette, lit the one he’d been toying with and got out a third one which he rolled around in his fingers.
“Maybe,” he said, “I haven’t got time to talk. So if you’ll kindly—”
He glanced at the door.
I didn’t take the hint.
“What are the charges?” I said. “What are you holding those four on?”
“An open charge,” he snapped. “If the tests prove out, it’ll be suspicion of murder. Now beat it and let me get some work done.”
“Not yet,” I said. “You’ve forgotten the other half of our deal. I want to see Pia’s personal effects.”
“We had no deal. Beat it.”
“Don’t get nasty,” I said, “or I’ll drop over to the squad room and tell the boys how Inspector Lowney tried to ravish a redhead at the 222 Club.”
His face turned the color of a tomato can label. He was too drunk that night to remember what happened, but actually his conduct had been quite innocent. He had stumbled while rising from his table and his hand struck the back of the scantily-clad girl seated at the next table. She was one of the club strippers and it certainly wasn’t his fault that she had a trick fastener at the back of her strapless bra. The bra popped off like a flapping dove, revealing her in all her rosy-tipped glory. And Inspector Lowney had promptly passed out.
“Damn you,” he said.
He stormed out of the office, slammed the door and locked it.
He didn’t have to do it, but it was his way of getting back at me.
A minute passed. Another.
Then another minute passed. I jumped up and tried both doors. Both were locked. I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t think.
I stumbled to the window and tried to open it, but it was stuck.
I picked up the chair, swung it twice and smashed out the upper and lower panes.
I sat down on the chair in front of the window and let the breeze blow on me.
Both doors flew open
