“Why?”

“Now.”

Just then, the fox coat dropped to the floor at the feet of the long-legged woman and a 12-gauge shotgun appeared in her delicate hands, which slammed out two cartridges into the plaster ceiling, killing the music and cuing the screams.

The girl brushed back the hair from her face again. The face was lovely, heart-shaped, with full red lips and silver eyes that jumped out at you from all that white skin and hair.

Sam found himself smiling with admiration at the girl with the gun.

“Nobody better shimmy a goddamn inch,” yelled the girl. “I’m a federal agent and this is a raid.”

“Did SHE REALLY shoot into the ceiling?” Frank Dominguez asked.

“She did,” Sam said.

“And was she a real beaut?”

“She had a hell of a shape. I don’t know if I’d call her a beauty. When the houselights turned on, you could see maybe her nose had been busted at one time. But she had a quality about her. Sleepy bedroom eyes. You know the type.”

“And they just let you go?”

Sam nodded and stifled a cough with a handkerchief and his fist.

“And the girl?”

“She went with Reagan and Kennedy.”

“You know ’em?”

“I know Reagan. I know Kennedy by reputation.”

“And you don’t like him?”

“I heard stories.”

The two men sat in the center of the Palace Hotel’s Garden Court. It was early and a negro woman worked an electric vacuum machine on the carpet. The first light showed through the glass-paneled ceiling that domed the Garden Court, filled with potted palms and fresh-cut flowers, chandeliers that winked with prisms of color. A bird was caught in the ceiling and flew from side to side, slamming and fluttering against the glass.

“You’re not going to eat?”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s on me,” Dominguez said.

“Nice place.”

“The man who built it killed himself. Jumped into the bay right before his bank went bust.”

Sam ordered ham and eggs with hash, but the waiter said they didn’t serve hash at the Palace and so Sam ordered toast. It wasn’t quite six a.m.

“Coffee?” the waiter asked.

“Sure.”

Sam lit a cigarette and settled in. “I talked to the Blake girl. She said she didn’t hear anything but Virginia Rappe saying she was going to die. Before she got pinched, Zey Prevon told me she’d heard Virginia saying the same thing.”

“And we have Maude Delmont saying Virginia accused Mr. Arbuckle before she died.”

“Can you use that?”

“Conversations with someone killed in a crime are completely admissible.”

“Did the cops turn over the autopsy records to you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m just wondering how she died. I know the papers say she was crushed. But how? Were her bones broken?”

“Ruptured bladder.”

Sam nodded.

“During the rape?”

“There was no rape.”

Sam nodded.

“It’s a medical impossibility.”

“She was hurt in another way?”

“This is a very delicate matter, Mr. Hammett.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said. “But I do work for you.”

Dominguez nodded and crossed his legs, showing off a pair of bedroom slippers that didn’t quite match his pin-striped suit. He tried lighting a cigarette with a lighter out of juice. Sam passed him a pack of matches.

“This goes no further.”

“Of course.”

Dominguez let out smoke from the side of his mouth and shrugged, leaning into the table. “Mr. Arbuckle’s pencil isn’t as sharp as it used to be.”

Sam sat still.

“In fact, it hasn’t written for some time.”

“I’d like to see the coroner’s report.”

“I’d like that, too,” Dominguez said. “This whole thing stinks. I just learned last night that the autopsy was conducted immediately after the girl died on Friday at the hospital.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“The county coroner wasn’t present and wasn’t notified. Somebody called the coroner’s office Saturday about the dead girl and rang off. After that the coroner called the police and it was the police who talked to Maude Delmont. The autopsy was completely illegal.”

“YOU GODDAMN SON OF A BITCH,” Maude Delmont said. “Where’d you go?”

“If I got pinched, all our work woulda been out the window.”

On the staticky telephone line down to Los Angeles, Al Semnacher’s voice sounded as squeaky and annoying as ever.

“Do you know the flaming pile of shit you left me with?” Maude said.

“How was I supposed to know he was gonna kill her? That wasn’t exactly the plan.”

“But you sure as hell waltzed off with her slip and bloomers. What were you going to do with those, Al?”

“That’s why I’m calling.”

“Well, fuck you. You can take your apology and shove it up your ass.”

“They have them.”

“Who?”

“The cops. They came down to L.A. yesterday and they knew all about the slip and the bloomers and they took them from me.”

“How’d they know?”

“Those two girls Lowell Sherman brought. They told the cops they’d seen me take the torn clothes.”

“Are you in jail?”

“No.”

“Are you trying to frame me? Because if you are, I’ll tell them about every goddamn con we worked together. I’ll sing Hallelujah, you fucking rat bastard, as the stern slips beneath the waves.”

“Poetic.”

“They know.”

“I told the cops I’d taken Virginia’s clothes because they looked like nice rags to wash my machine.”

“And they bought that crock?”

“Come again? Bad connection.”

“They bought it?”

“I think so,” Al said. “But I have to come to Frisco and testify to the grand jury.”

“Me, too.”

“We should talk. You know, before.”

“What the hell are we doing now?”

“I’ll call when my train arrives.”

“Al?”

“Yeah?”

“If you fuck me, I won’t think twice about bringing us both down.”

“Don’t worry, sweetie. If I fuck you, I’ll kiss you first.”

“You call me sweetie again and I’ll bust your head wide-open.”

Maude rang off and put the earpiece back on the hook. She walked to the basin and placed a washcloth in some cool water, running the cloth over the back of her neck and her brow and looking at herself in a little mirror. She smiled, admiring her full fanny. She snatched a wide-brimmed black hat off the bed and adjusted it on her head to convey the proper tilt for mourning and took the washcloth to wipe off the paint from her eyes and mouth and bare breasts. A black dress that ran straight to her ankles hung on a hook on the door.

She practiced a few mournful looks until she heard a knock at the door. Staring out the peephole, she saw that gigantic policewoman, Katherine Eisenhart, standing in the hall with a bouquet of flowers.

“Thought you could use a pick-me-up.”

Maude nodded and opened the door, taking the dress from the hook, only wearing her bloomers and stockings. “You’re too kind,” she said so softly.

“Have you even eaten?”

“I’ve tried, but no.”

Katherine walked to the windows, cracking open the frame to let in some cool air. “We have an hour till you’re to appear. My God, it’s so warm in here.”

“I’m so nervous.”

“Don’t be nervous.”

“I’ve never spoken before such a group.”

“Just tell the truth, Mrs. Delmont.”

Maude watched big Kate fanning her face with her hand, a healthy flush in the big woman’s cheeks. Maude cocked her head and loosely fingered herself across her chest and belly, taking off the hat and pulling the sweaty black hair off the nape of her neck. She used her hands to brace herself against the window frame, letting the cool air come off the bay, nipples growing erect.

“You are such a great friend, Miss Eisenhart.”

“You can call me Kate, ma’am. Most everyone does.”

“Just how does someone so sweet become a policewoman?”

“Mrs. Delmont, the assistant manager, Mr. Boyle, has been asking me questions about your bill here. He said that you’ve said the San Francisco Police Department has put you up. I told him that he was surely mistaken, but he said that you had hung up in his face. I know he must be exaggerating his point, but I must let you know.”