Open the door, slam it. Junior nodded—half lurch.

I sat down. “What do they call you—Vince? Vinnie?”

Lo Bruto picked his nose. “The ladies call me Mr. Big Dick.”

“That’s what they call my partner here.”

“Yeah? The nervous, silent type. He must get a lot.”

“He does, but we’re not here to discuss his sex life.”

“Too bad, ‘cause I got time. The old lady and the kids are in Tacoma, so I coulda done the whole seventy-two hours, but I figured, why spoil it for the other guys? Look, I fucked her, so why beat around the bush, no pun intended.”

I slid him cigarettes. “I like you, Vinnie.”

“Yeah, then call me Vincent. And save your money, ‘cause I quit on March 4, 1952.”

Junior stripped the pack. Shot nerves: three swipes at a match.

I leaned back. “How many times did you go with that girl?”

“Once.”

“Why just once?”

“Once qualifies as strange. More than once you might as well pop your old lady for all the surprises you get with whoo-ers.”

“You’re a smart guy, Vincent.”

“Yeah, then why am I a security guard for a buck twenty an hour?”

Junior smoking—huge drags. I said, “You tell me.”

“I don’t know—I get to choke my mule on the Mighty Man Agency’s time. It’s a living.”

Hot—I took off my jacket. “So you solicited that girl just once, right?”

“Right.”

“Had you seen her around before?”

“No.”

“Have you seen her since?”

“There hasn’t been no since. Jesus Christ, I get paid, I go cruising for some strange and some punk kid cop strongarms me. Jesus fucking—”

“Vincent, what attracted you to that girl?”

“She was white. I got no taste for nigger stuff. I’m not prejudiced, I just don’t dig it. Some of my best friends are nig—I mean Negroes, but I don’t go for dark cooze.”

Junior smoking—hot—he kept his coat on.

Lo Bruto: “Your partner don’t talk much.”

“He’s tired. He’s been working undercover up in Hollywood.”

“Yeah? Wow, now I know why he’s such a pussy bandit. Man-ohManischewitz, they say the snatch grows fine up there.”

I laughed. “It does, but he’s been working fruits. Say, partner, remember how you popped those queers in Fern Dell? Remember—you helped out that Academy pal of yours?”

“Sure”—dry-mouthed, scratchy.

“Jesus, partner, it must have made you sick. Did you stop for some poon on the way home, just to get rid of the TASTE?”

Sweaty knuckle pops—his sleeves dropped. WRIST TRACKS—he tugged his cuff links to hide them.

Lo Bruto: “Hey, I thought this was my show.”

“It is. Sergeant Stemmons, any questions for Vincent?”

“No”—dry, fretting those cuff links.

I smiled. “Let’s get back to the girl.”

Lo Bruto: “Yeah, let’s do that.”

“Was she good?”

“Strange is strange. She was better than the wife, but not as good as the amateur stuff handsome here probably gets.”

“He likes them blond and gorgeous.”

“We all do, but I’m lucky to get it plain old Caucasian.”

Junior stroked his gun, spastic-handed.

“So how was she better than your wife?”

“She moved around more, and she liked to talk dirty.”

“What did she call herself?”

“She didn’t tell me no name.”

Lucille’s window striptease—use it. “Describe the girl naked.”

Fast: “Chubby, low-slung tits. Big brown nipples, like she maybe had some paisan blood.”

Tilt—he knew. “What was she wearing when you picked her up?”

“Hip huggers—you know, pedal pushers.”

“Where did you screw her?”

“In the snatch, where else?”

“The location, Vincent.”

“Oh. I… uh…I think it was a dive called the Red Arrow Inn.”

I tapped the tape rig. “Listen close, Vincent. There’s a man on this, but I don’t think it’s you. Just tell me if the girl talked up any similar stuff.”

Lo Bruto nodded; I punched Play. Static hiss, “Now I’ll be the daughter and you’ll be the daddy, and if you’re reeeeal sweet we can go again no extra.”

I hit Stop. Junior—no reaction. Lo Bruto: “Boy, that sick kitten is just full of surprises.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she didn’t make me wear a safe.”

“Maybe she uses a diaphragm.”

“Nyet. Trust Mr. Big Dick, these girls always go the rubber route.”

“And she didn’t?”

“What can I tell you, she let this jockey ride bareback. And let me tell you, paisan, my big sausage works. Witness the goddamn offspring that got me slaving to feed them.”

A guess: scrape jobs made Lucille sterile. “What about that tape?”

“What about it?”

“Did the girl talk up any of that daddy-daughter stuff with you?”

“No.”

“But you said she talked dirty.”

Tee-hee. “She said I was the biggest. I said they don’t call me Mr. Big Dick for nothing. She said she’s liked them big since way back when, and I said, ‘Way back when to a kid like you means last week.’ She said something like ‘You’d be surprised.’”

Junior tugged his cuff links. Tweak him: “This Lucille sounds like a Fern Dell Park faggot, partner. Big dicks, that’s a queer fixation. You’ve worked fruits more than me, wouldn’t you say so?”

Hot seat—Junior squirmed.

“Wouldn’t you say so, Sergeant?”

“Y-yeah, s-sure”—hoarse.

Back to Big Dick. “So the girl wore pedal pushers, right?”

“Right.”

“Did she mention a guy perved on her, maybe peeping her trick assignations?”

“No.”

“And she wore pedal pushers?”

“Yeah, I told you that already.”

“What else did she wear?”

“I don’t know. A blouse, I think.”

“What about a fur coat?”

Hophead nerves—Junior twitched a cuff link clean off.

“No, no fur coat. I mean, Christ, she’s a Western Avenue whoo-er.”

Change-up: “So you said the girl talked dirty to you.”

“Yeah. She said Mr. Big Dick sure deserved his nickname.”

“Forget about your dick. Did she talk dirty besides that?”

“She said she was screwing some guy named Tommy.”

Tingles/goosebumps. “Tommy who?”

“I don’t know, she didn’t say no last name.”

“Did she say he was her brother?”

“Come on, that’s crazy.”

“‘Come on’? You remember that tape that I just played you?”

“So that was a game. Daddy and daughter don’t mean brother, and white people don’t do that kind of stuff. It’s a sin, it’s an infamia, it’s—”

Hit the table. “Did she say he was her brother?”

“No.”

“Did she say his last name?”

“No”—soft—scared now.

“Did she say he was perved on her?”

“No.”

“Did she say he was a musician?”

“No.”

“Did she say he sold narcotics?”

“No.”

“Did she say he paid her for it?”

“No.”

“Did she say he was a burglar?”

“No.”

“A peeper, a voyeur?”

“No.”

“Did she say what he did?”

“No.”

“Did she talk about her family?”

“No.”

“Did she describe this guy?”

“No.”

“Did she say he chased colored girls?”

“No. Officer, look—”

I slapped the table—Big Dick crossed himself.

“Did she mention a man named Tommy Kafesjian?”

“No.”

“Fur coats?”

“No.”

“Fur-coat robberies?”

Junior squirming, scratching his hands.

“Officer, she just said she was banging this guy Tommy. She said he wasn’t that good, but he turned her out, and you always pack a torch for the guy who took your cherry.”

I froze.

Junior jumped bolt upright—that cuff link rolled under the door.

Itchy scratchy nerves—he jerked the door open. Standing outside: Dan Wilhite. Hall speaker blinks—he’d heard.

“Klein, come here.”

I stepped forward. Wilhite jabbed my chest—I bent his hand back. “This is my case. You don’t like it, take it up with Exley.”

Narco goons right there—I let him go. Junior tried to waltz—I pulled him back.

Wilhite—pale, popping spit bubbles.

His boys flushed—wicked pissed, spoiling to trash me.