port wine about him. 'Do for you?' He didn't seem to recognize Mendoza at all.
'Never mind,' said Mendoza, and turned and went out. For God's sake! he thought. Every little lead they had turning out to be useless. Telfer a wino, and the odds were that was why he couldn't tell them anything about the man who'd taken that room. Probably so high he didn't remember a single damn thing about him. Of all the Goddamned bad luck…
But, damn it, was he going senile, not to have tried that? Like Art walking off and leaving that office wide open-sometimes you caught yourself forgetting the most elementary things.
Where was the Slasher sleeping? He hadn't signed into any other hotel in this area. He could be staying in a different flophouse every night, the fifty-cents-a-night, men-only places on the Row. Nobody asked for signatures in those places. But he could also have taken a room in some cheap rooming house. What was he living on, too? Did he have a job-or an unlimited supply of those silver dollars? Well, cover the rooming houses, anyway; ask about recent arrivals.
And the ordinary citizen might think that one like the Slasher would be easy to spot, that he'd behave so queerly or look so different that anybody could spot him at a glance. Unfortunately not so. As Higgins said, you ran into some funny ones down here, and a lot of them looked odd.
At eleven-thirty he wandered back to the bar on Main and found Higgins where Palliser had been sitting. Higgins had probably, of necessity, drunk four or five highballs this evening, and he looked and acted as sober as the proverbial judge. Mendoza, who had ordered five drinks and contrived to empty three of them inconspicuously on the floor, ordered a sixth and said, 'You can drink it for me.'
'I don't like rye,' said Higgins.
'But I've already had two,' said Mendoza. 'You know what it does to me. We're on a job, damn it.'
Higgins looked at him benevolently and said he'd look after him if he started picking a fight with the bouncer. The bartender came back with the rye and jerked an ungracious shoulder.
'You want Rosie, she just come in. There by the juke box.'
Higgins got up. 'I'll bring her,' he said.
Thirty seconds later he ushered her into his side of the booth and slid in after her. 'You said you'd buy me a drink, honey,” said Rosie.
'Sure.” She wasn't very high yet; she could probably take a good deal more. 'You like rye? You can have this.'
He reached and set Mendoza's glass in front of her. 'Cigarette?'
'Thanks lots,' she said. She put the rye down in one swallow and leaned to Higgins' lighter. 'You just buy drinks for Rosie 'n' Rosie'll be nice to you. Both of you,' she added, discovering Mendoza across the table. She beamed at them muzzily. 'You're cute,' she said to Mendoza.
'We'd just like to talk to you awhile, Rosie,' said Higgins. He looked at Mendoza and they exchanged a silent opinion. They'd both seen about all there was to see, down here and elsewhere, of the bottom of things; but nobody ever quite got used to it.
She might have been pretty once, a shallow-eyed little blonde with the pert figure, out for the fun times and the romance. There were a thousand reasons for it, for the Rosies; this was a long time later.
She giggled up at Higgins a little foolishly. 'Order me another drink, honey.' Mendoza signaled the bartender, who shrugged and began to build a highball.
She might be no more than in her forties, but she looked sixty. That was a long time of too much careless make-up and too little washing. She was too thin, shoulder bones standing out sharply, her wrists and ankles like a child's. She hadn't much on under the old, mended, cheap black rayon evening dress, and the thin breasts pushed relentlessly out by the padded bra, the too thin body, were hardly provocative: only a little pathetic. Her hair, bleached too often and washed too seldom, was diy and uncurled, hanging untidily to her shoulders. She smelled of old sweat and cheap cologne and whiskey, and the coy painted smile was somehow a little obscene, as if a death's head had winked at them.
'We just want to talk to you,' said Mendoza. The bartender came up and slapped a highball in front of her.
'Sure. That's what they all say,' said Rosie, and giggled again. She drank thirstily.
'About silver dollars,' said Higgins. 'You've been spending a few lately. Don't often see silver dollars any more.'
Rosie didn't say anything. She looked at him, setting her glass down, and small fright was in her eyes.
'Where'd you get them?' asked Higgins casually.
'H-how d'you know I had any silver dollars?' Suddenly she read them; Rosie would have had this and that to do with cops in the course of her misspent life; and she gasped and shoved violently against Higgins. 'You're fuzz- you leave me be, I haven't done nothing-let me go!' She made no impression whatever on Higgins' solid bulk; but her voice rose, and the bartender came over in a hurry.
'I said no disturbance in here, bloodhounds! Listen-'
'We don't want you, Rosie,' said Higgins. 'Quiet down, you stupid little- We just want you to answer some questions, damn it. We've got nothing on you, see? Take it easy-here, drink your drink.'
She shrank into the corner of the booth. 'I haven't done nothing,” she said sullenly.
'You've spent a few silver dollars, Rosie,' said Mendoza. 'That's all we want to know about. Where'd you get them?'
'Why's it matter to you, anyways?' She reached for her glass.
'It matters. Where?'
'From a friend o' mine,' she said.
They could translate that. A customer. 'What's his name, where'd you meet him?' asked Mendoza.
'I don't have to-it's no damn business of yours-'
'We'll go on sitting here,' said Mendoza, 'until you tell us, Rosie.' Sharp savage irritation rose in him: obstructed every small step of the way! And Art- Don't think about Art. 'All we want to know is what he looks like.'
'None o' your business. I didn't mean nobody gave 'em to me, I-l got this friend o' mine to change 'em for bills, see-' She was still busy defending herself on the obvious vice count.
'I don't care how you came by them,' said Mendoza.
'Who did you get them from? Do you know his name?'
'What the hell are you insin-sinuating about me?' she flared up. 'I know lotsa people, no reason I shouldn't- I'm a model, see, I got a good job all lined up, you guys can't-”
'Sure, honey,' said Higgins, 'we can see you're a real high-class girl. We just want to know which friend gave you the silver dollars.' He sounded patient.
Mendoza wasn't. He leaned across the stained, scarred old table. 'Listen to me, you stupid female! I don't give a single damn who you go to bed with, how often or for what price. There's the hell of a good chance that the man you got those silver dollars from is this killer, the Slasher. You can tell us what he looks like, and that's all I want from you, if you can get that much through your-'
It didn't penetrate at once, and then when it did she half screamed, 'The- Oh, my Christ! No-I never saw him, I don't know whoLet me outta here for God's sake! Jesus, you don't-'
'I told you what I mean,' said Mendoza coldly. 'We think that man's the Slasher. Now will you tell me all about him or shall we take a little ride to headquarters?'
She made one sudden, convulsive effort to squeeze past Higgins again; she looked almost witless with fright. Then she said faintly, 'O.K., O.K., you take me in and I tell you. Please take me in, mister-on account of if he knew I told--'
'Whichever way you want,' said Mendoza. He dropped a couple of bills on the table and slid out of the booth. Higgins took her by the arm and followed.
They went single file down the narrow aisle to the door, the woman between and Higgins' hand on her arm. They came out to clean fresh night air, and Mendoza said, 'Where's your car?'
'Up the block to your right- God damn!' said Higgins. Rosie was out of his grip like an eel, leaving a torn edge of her tawdry dress behind; she fled up the block wildly, dodged around the corner there, and was gone. They ran after her, swearing, and turned into the darker side street. They heard the clatter of her high heels, sharp on the
