Clandestine

the essence of golf. After a while the mental part became unnecessary, my swing became me, and I turned my mind elsewhere.

Granted: I had passed myself off as a detective twice, using my own name, which might cost me a suspension if it were discovered. Granted: I was going strictly on hunches, and my observations of Maggie Cadwallader were based on her behavior during one evening. But. But. But, somehow I knew. It was more than intuition or deductive logic or character assessment. This was my own small piece of wonder to unravel, and the fact that the victim had given me her body, tenuously, in her search for something more, gave it weight and meaning.

I whistled for Night Train, who trotted up. We walked back to the apartment and I thought, Wacky was right. The key to the wonder is in death. I had killed, twice, and it had changed me. But the key wasn't in the killing, it was in the discovery of whatever led to it.

I felt strangely magnanimous and loving, like a writer about to dedicate a book. This one's for you, Wacky, I said to myself; this one's for you.

8

It was strange to be sitting in a bar looking for a killer rather than a woman.

The following night, free of the obsession that usually brought me to such places, I sat drinking watered- down Scotch and watched people get drunk, get angry, get maudlin and pour out their life stories to perfect strangers in alcoholic effusiveness. I was loking for men on the prowl, like myself, but the Silver Star on that first night held nothing but middle-aged desperation played to the tunes of the old prewar standards on the jukebox.

I closed the place, walking out at 1:00 A.M., asking the bartender if the place ever picked up.

'Weekends,' he said. 'This joint really hops on weekends. Tomorrow night. You'll see.'

The barman was right. I got to the Silver Star at seven-forty-five Saturday evening and watched as the joint started to hop. Young couples, servicemen on leave—easily recognizable by their short haircuts and plain-toed black shoes—elderly juiceheads, and single men and women casting lonely, expectant glances all competed for bar and floor space.

The music was livelier this evening, and tailored for a younger clientele; upbeat arrangements of show tunes, even a little jazz. A good-looking woman of about thirty asked me to dance. Regretfully I turned her down, offering a bad leg as an excuse. She turned to the guy sitting next to me at the bar, who accepted.

I was looking for 'operators,' 'lover-boy' types, 'wolves'—men who could gain a woman's confidence as well as access to her bed with surpassing ease. Men like myself. I spent three hours, sitting, changing seats from bar- side to table-side, sipping ginger ale, always looking. I began to realize that this might be a long, grueling surveillance. For all my eyeball activity, I didn't see much.

I was starting to get depressed and even a little angry when I noticed two definite lowlife types approach the bar and lean over to speak in undertones to the bartender, whose face seemed to light up. He pointed to a door at the rear of the place, next to a bank of phone booths and cigarette machines. Then all three walked off in that direction, the barman leaving the bar untended.

I watched as they closed the door behind them, then waited two minutes. I went over to the door and knelt down, sniffing at the crack where it met the floor. Reefer smoke. I smiled, then transferred my gun from its holster to the pocket of my sports coat, flipped open my badge's leather holder and very casually but forcefully threw my right shoulder into the doorjamb, splintering the wood and throwing the door wide open.

The noise was very sharp and abrupt, like an explosion. The three grasshoppers were standing against the back wall next to a ceiling-high collection of whiskey crates, and they jumped back and threw up their hands reflexively when they heard the noise and saw my badge and gun.

I looked back into the bar. No one seemed to have noticed what had happened. I closed the door behind me, softly. 'Police officer,' I said very quietly. 'Move over to the left-hand wall and place your hands on it, above your heads. Do it now.'

They did. The smell of the marijuana was rank and sensual. I patted the three men down for weapons and dope, but came up with nothing except three fat reefers. All the guys were shaking and the bartender started to blubber about his wife and kids.

'Shut up!' I snapped at him. I pulled the other two guys back by their shirt collars, then shoved them in the direction of the door. 'Get the hell out of here, you goddamn lowlife,' I hissed, 'and don't ever let me see you in here again.'

They stumbled out the door, casting worried glances at the barman.

I secured the door by placing a crate of gin bottles against it. The bartender cowered against the wall as I walked toward him. He fumbled in his pockets for cigarettes, looking at me imploringly for permission.

'Go ahead, smoke,' I said. He lit up. 'What's your name?' I asked.

'Red Julian,' he said, eyeing the door.

I eased his fears. 'This won't take long, Red. I'm not going to bust you, I just need a little help.'

'I don't know no sellers, honest, Officer. I just light up once in a while. Fifty cents a throw, you know.'

I smiled sardonically. 'I don't care, Red. I'm not with narcotics. How long have you worked here?'

'Three years.'

'Then you know what goes in this place—all the regulars, the con artists . . .'

'This is a good clean room, Officer, I don't let no—'

'Shut up. Listen to me. I'm interested in pickup artists—pussy-hounds, guys who score regular here. You help me out and I'll let you slide. You don't and I'll bust you. I'll call for a patrol car and tell the bulls you tried to sell me these three reefers. That's two to ten at Quentin. What's it gonna be?'

Red lit another cigarette with the butt of his old one. His hands were shaking. 'We get hotshots, they come and go,' he said. 'We got one guy who comes and goes, but comes regular when he's in town. A good-lookin' guy named Eddie. That's the only handle I got on him, honest. He picks up here all the time.' Red backed away from me again.

'Is he here tonight?' I asked.

'Naw, he comes in when it's quieter. A real smoothie. Flashy dresser. He's not here tonight, honest.'

'Okay. Listen to me. You've got a new regular here. Me. What nights are you off?'

'Never. The boss won't let me. I work six to midnight, seven days a week.'

'Good. Has Eddie been coming in lately? Scoring?'

'Yeah. A real smoothie.'

'Good. I'll be coming back, every night. As soon as Eddie comes in, you let me know. If you try to tip him off, you know what'll happen.' I smiled and held the three reefers under his nose.

'Yeah, I know.'

'Good. Now get out of here—I think your customers are getting thirsty.'

I closed the bar again that night. No Eddie.

First thing Sunday morning I went to a drugstore in Santa Monica that did one-day photo processing. I left four newspaper photographs of Maggie Cadwallader, telling the man, who shook his head dubiously, that I wanted his best reproduction blown up to snapshot size, six copies by six o'clock that evening. When I waved a twenty- dollar bill under his nose, then stuck it in his shirt pocket, he wasn't so dubious. The photos I picked up that afternoon were more than adequate to show to potential witnesses.

Red was nervously polishing a glass when I took a seat at the bar early Sunday night. It was sweltering hot outside, but the Silver Star was air-conditioned to a polar temperature.

'Hello, Red,' I said.

'Hello, mister . . .'

'Call me Fred,' I said magnanimously, sliding the blowup of Maggie Cadwallader across the bar to him. 'Have you ever seen this woman?'

Red nodded. 'A few times, yeah, but not lately.'