“How about I go up to Schwab’s and get you some Alka-Seltzer?”
“Yes.”
I finished my bagels and went out and got her the Alka-Seltzer. Then I poured another cup of coffee and sat on her couch with my feet on the coffee table. She drank her Alka-Seltzer. I read the L.A. Times. She sat still in the armchair with her eyes closed for maybe an hour, then got up and took two more Alka-Seltzer. “Two every four hours,” I said.
“Shut up.” She drank her second glass and went back to her chair.
I finished the coffee and the paper and stood up. She was still quiet in the chair with her eyes closed.
“Now,” I said, “about those house privileges.”
Without opening her eyes or moving anything but her mouth, she said, “Get away from me.”
I grinned. “Okay, do we have any other plans for today?”
“Just give me a little time,” she said.
“I’ll call Samuelson and see if there’s anything developed,” I said.
She said, “Mmm.”
Samuelson answered his own phone on the first ring. I told him who I was and said, “Do you mind if I call you Mark like John Frederics does?”
Samuelson said, “Who?”
I said, “John Frederics.”
He said, “Who’s John Frederics?”
I said, “News director? KNBS? Calls you Mark.”
“TV newspeople are mostly turkeys,” Samuelson said. “I don’t know one from another. What do you want?”
I said, “Well, Mark-”
He said, “Don’t call me Mark.”
“Any sign of Franco Montenegro, Lieutenant?”
“No. And he should be easy, a stiff like him. He’s gone. Nobody on the street knows where.”
“Would people talk about him?” I asked.
“I get the impression he’d be vengeful.”
“Vengeful? Christ, you snobby eastern dudes do speak funny. Yeah, he’s vengeful, but there’s people on the street would tell on Dracula for a couple bucks, or a light sentence, or maybe I look the other way while they’re scoring some dope. You know the street, don’t you? They got a street in Boston?”
“Boston’s where they send,” I said, “when the job’s too tough for local talent.”
“Sure,” Samuelson said. “Anyway, us local talent don’t have a clue where Franco is.”
“You think it’s just him, Lieutenant?”
“More and more,” he said.
“Then how come he scragged Felton?”
“Yeah,” Samuelson said, “that bothers me too, but everything else is right. The more I ask around, the more I look at all the angles, the more it looks like a small-time shakedown that went sour.”
“You got a theory on why he scragged Felton?”
“No. Maybe I never will have. I’m a simple copper, you know. I don’t think everything always fits. I take the best answer I can get. Guys like Franco do funny things. They aren’t logical people.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But it still bothers me.”
“Bothers me too,” Samuelson said, “but I do what I can. You hear anything, let me know. And try and keep the goddamn broad out of the way, will you?”
“She’s been taken off assignment,” I said. “This afternoon we’re going out to cover a pet show at the Santa Monica Auditorium.”
“Good,” Samuelson said. “Try not to get bit.” He hung up.
I looked at Candy. “Nothing on Franco,” I said. “Samuelson doesn’t like him killing Felton either.”
The phone rang and I picked it up. “Sloan House,” I said.
The voice of an elegant woman said, “Miss Sloan, please. Mr. Peter Brewster calling.”
I said, in my Allan Pinkerton voice, “One moment, please.”
I put my hand over the mouthpiece and said to Candy, “Peter Brewster?”
She stared at me a minute as if I’d wakened her. Then she said softly, “God,” and then got up and walked over firmly and took the phone.
“Yes?… Yes… Hello, Mr. Brewster… It’s okay, Mr. Brewster…” The color began to come back into Candy’s face as she talked. “No, it’s okay. I understand. Lots of people have that reaction… Yes. I told him that.” She looked
