“I need to know something about Mr. Stout’s gun collection,” I said.
“Shoot,” she said, and then she laughed, realizing the pun.
“Did he have a Lux-Tiger?”
“A what?”
“It’s an English pistol,” I said. “A thirty-eight. Holds eight cartridges and has a handle looks like a rubber squeeze pump.”
“Oh yeah,” Alice said. “You know, Jay, you could fuck me right here on this couch and Harry wouldn’t even hear it.”
“What if he came downstairs to go to the toilet?”
“He don’t go nowhere without me helpin’ him.”
“I see. Well, maybe in a little while. You see, I need to know about that pistol first.”
“What for?”
“It showed up at a friend’s house and I was wondering if it was stolen.”
“It sure was,” Alice declared. She had a wide mouth and healthy teeth except for the missing one. That made me think that someone had socked her, at least once.
“What happened to it?”
“That girl took it. That whore.” She winked at me even though her words were angry.
“Who was that?”
“Doreen Fitz. Little whore drove Harry out of his mind. She had a boyfriend come up here and beat the shit outta Harry. That’s partly why he’s laid up now. They took all kinds of stuff from him. Rings and money and that old pistol. Harry loved that gun. He liked that it was so fat but hardly had no kick.”
“Are you Harry’s wife?” I asked.
“No. Just his cousin from Arkansas. Just his cousin come to make her fortune by pickin’ his bones. You could share some of it with me if you want.”
“You’re stealing from him?”
“Have you ever seen a sharecropper’s farm, Jay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
I thought about all of the poor black and white people I’d seen straining over hard dirt, going deeper into debt with each passing season. I saw all that pain in her callused hands.
“You wanna go up and see Harry?” she asked.
IT WAS A BRIGHT BEDROOM with a picture window that allowed strong sun to beat down upon the occupant. He was a tall man but slender as a child. Even though he was under the sheet you could see the outline of his skeleton. His eyes were intelligent and the only part of him that moved. When he saw me a worried look crossed those eyes.
“Hey, Harry,” Alice said. “I brought a nigger up to look at ya. I fucked him on your couch. He nearly broke me in two.”
“Mr. Stout, my name is Jay Auburn. I’m looking for the people who stole your Lux-Tiger. Alice is just joking with you. She has some sense of humor.”
Stout was looking deeply into my eyes, pleading with me.
“Did Doreen Fitz take your pistol?”
With a supreme effort Harry Stout nodded.
“She had a boyfriend named Dean?”
Again he made his head move.
“Do you think that they might still be around?”
He didn’t nod that time but it might have been because he was exhausted.
Alice took a drag on her cigarette and coughed.
I went to the window and pulled the drapes closed.
“Hey,” Alice complained. “He needs a little color.”
“Keep the drapes closed and take care of him like you’re supposed to,” I said. “Do that or your free ride’ll be over.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“I’m a cop,” I said. “Looking into a murder right now but I’m calling social services the minute I get back to the precinct.”
“You can’t come in here without telling me you’re a cop. That’s against the law.”
“Sue me,” I said. “Tomorrow morning a social services agent, Saul Lynx, will be here. You better either be taking care of this man or be on your way.”
THERE WAS ONLY ONE D. Fitz in the phone book. The number had been disconnected. But I went over to the house anyway. The address was on South Robertson, the left half of a two-family home composed of salmon stucco.
There was a concave entranceway with the doors to both apartments facing each other. I knocked on the D.