When the elevator arrived, he rode down with me, telling the operator not to stop at other floors. The operator did not take kindly to this, complaining all the way down; his panel was lit up like a whisky display.
Winebrenner led me out the side door and I slumped down on the steps, praising the lord for the great outdoors, with its wholesome carbon monoxide and fresh smog.
CHAPTER IV
I REFUSED the cigarette Winebrenner offered, then I changed my mind and lit one. It tasted rotten, like I expected, and I threw it away. I sat there for about five minutes and then I stood up. I felt wobbly, but I wanted to get the job done.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Winebrenner asked as I hobbled down the steps.
“Didn’t you say Felix is at Clapper’s?”
“Yeah.” He made a pitying clucking sound with his tongue. “You’re in no shape to go over there. You’ll get the heebie jeebies again.”
“I’ll only stay a minute,” I said.
“Why in the blazes are you so interested? What’s in it for you?”
“Filipinos,” I replied.
“Hmmmm,” he said. “Kreena?”
“Maybe.”
He shook his head. “It’s an awful long shot.”
“I’ve got patience.”
“You’ll need it,” he said.
He knew I might also need more propping up, so he volunteered to accompany me on the block-long walk along Third Street to Clapper’s, the mortuary which got a good share of the cop-shop business.
Arriving at Clapper’s, we went in through a side door and down to the basement. At the preparation room entrance, I wedged one of the two swinging doors open with a triangle of wood the attendants use when rolling corpses in and out on wheeled stretchers. I felt all right while we were in the main room, with that open door behind me. When we passed into the icebox section, with its heavy closed door, I could feel things cramping me again.
An attendant led us to the table where they were tieing an identification tag on Felix’s big toe. He lay there on his back. He was a small, brownish man in his mid-thirties. I saw that the Virgil Partch-like sketch the Johns had made on the jail floor was pretty accurate. Felix had a too-large head on a too-small body and his legs and arms were short and stubby.
I wondered again why a doll like Ti-lo would become engaged to such a man.
“Show 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