asking. He threw the note in the toilet, pissed on it.

o        o          o

  He drove to Gardena, checked into the Victory: a room with clean sheets, a hot plate, no bloodstains on the walls. Fuck sleep-he fixed coffee, worked.

  Everything he knew on Spade Cooley--half a longhand page.

  Cooley was an Okie fiddler/singer, a skinny guy, maybe late forties. He had a couple of hit records, his TV show was big for a while. His bass player, Burt Arthur Perkins, a.k.a. 'Deuce,' did time on a chain gang for sodomy on dogs and was rumored to have a shitload of mob K.A.'s.

  On the investigation:

  Lamar Hinton said Spade smoked opium; Spade played the Lariat Room in Frisco--across from Chrissie Renfro's place of death. Chrissie died with '0' in her system; Spade was currently playing the El Rancho Kiub in L.A., close by Lynette Ellen Kendrick's apartment. Lamar Hinton said Dwight Gilette--Kathy Janeway's old pimp- supplied whores for Cooley's parties.

  Circumstantial--but tight.

  A phone wired to the wall--Bud grabbed it, called the County Coroner's Office.

  'Medical Examinations, Jensen.'

  'Sergeant White for Dr. Harris. I know he's busy, but tell him it's just one thing.'

  'Hold, please,' click, click, click. 'Sergeant, what is it this time?'

  'One thing off your autopsy report.'

  'You're not even a county officer.'

  'Stomach and bloodstream contents on Lynette Kendrick. Come on, huh?'

  'That's easy, because Kendrick won our best stomach award last week. Are you ready? Frankfurters with sauerkraut, french fries, Coca-Cola, opium, sperm. Jesus, what a last supper.'

  Bud hung up. Ellis Loew said stay out of it. Kathy Janeway said GO.

o        o          o

  He drove to the Strip, put the M.O. together.

  First the El Rancho Klub, closed, 'Spade Cooley and His Cowboy Rhythm Band Appearing Nitely.' A publicity still by the door: Spade, Deuce Perkins, three other cracker types. No heavily ringed fingers; a lead rubber-stamped at the bottom: 'Represented by Nat Penzler Associates, 653 North La Cienega, Los Angeles.'

  Across the street: the Hot Dog Hut, kraut dogs and fries on the menu. Down the Strip by Crescent Heights: a well-known prostie stroll. A mile south at Melrose and Sweetzer: Lynette Ellen Kendrick's apartment.

  Easy:

  Spade picked her up late, no witnesses. He had the food and the dope, suggested a cozy all-nighter, took Lynette home. They got high, chowed down--Spade beat her to death, raped her three times postmortem.

  Bud hooked south to La Cienega. 653: a redwood A-frame, 'Nat Penzler Assoc.' by the mailbox. The door propped open; a girl inside making coffee.

  Bud walked in. The girl said, 'Yes, can I help you?'

  'The boss around?'

  'Mr. Penzler's on the telephone. Can I help you?'

  One connecting door--'N.P.' brass-stamped. Bud pushed it open; an old man yelled, 'Hey! I'm on a call! What are you, a bill collector? Hey, Gail! Give this clown a magazine!'

  Bud flashed his badge. The man hung up the phone, pushed back from his desk. Bud said, 'You're Nat Penzler?'

  'Call me Natsky. Are you looking for representation? I could get you work playing thugs. You have that Neanderthal look currently in vogue.'

  Let it go. 'You're Spade Cooley's agent, right?'

  'Right. You want to join Spade's band? Spade's a moneymaker, but my shvartze cleaning lady sings better than him, so maybe I can get you a spot, a bouncer gig at the El Rancho at least. Lots of trim there, boychik. A moose like you could get reamed, steamed and dry-cleaned.'

  'You through, pops?'

  Penzler flushed. 'Mr. Natsky to you, caveman.'

  Bud shut the door. 'I need to see Cooley's booking records going back to '51. You want to do this nice or not?'

  Penzler got up, blocked his filing cabinets. 'Showtime's over, Godzilla. I never divulge client information, even under threat of a subpoena. So amscray and come back for lunch sometime, say on the twelfth of never.'

  Bud tore the phone cord from the wall; Penzler slid the top drawer open. 'No rough stuff, please, caveman! I do my best work with my face!'

  Bud thumbed folders, hit 'Cooley, Donnell Clyde,' dumped it on the desk. A picture hit the blotter: Spade, four rings on ten fingers. Pink sheets, white sheets, then blue sheets--booking records clipped by year.

  Penzler stood by muttering. Bud matched dates.

  Jane Mildred Hamsher, 3/8/51, San Diego-Spade there at the El Cortez Sky Room. April '53, Kathy Janeway, the Cowboy Rhythm Band at Bido Lito's--South L.A. Sharon, Sally, Chrissie Virginia, Maria up to Lynette: Bakersfield, Needles, Arizona, Frisco, Seattle, back to L.A., shifting personnel listed on pay cards: Deuce Perkins playing bass most of the time, drum and sax guys coming and going, Spade Cooley always headlining, in those cities on those DODs.

  Blue sheets dripping wet--his own sweat. 'Where's the band staying?'

  Penzler: 'The Biltmore, and you didn't get it from Natsky.'

  'That's good, 'cause this is Murder One and I wasn't here.'

  'I am like the Sphinx, I swear to you. My God, Spade and his lowlife crew. My God, do you know what he grossed last year?'

o        o          o

  He called the lead in to Ellis Loew; Loew hit the roof: 'I told you to stay out! I've got three _civilized_ men on it, and I'll tell them what you've got, but you stay out and get back to the Nite Owl, _do you understand me? _'

  He understood: Kathy Janeway kept saying GO.

  The Biltmore.

  He forced himself to drive there slow, park by the back entrance, politely ask the clerk where to find Mr. Cooley's party. The clerk said, 'The El Presidente Suite, floor nine'; he said 'Thank you' so calm that everything went into slow motion and he thought for a second he was swimming.

  The stairs were like swimming upstream--Little Kathy kept saying KILL HIM. The suite: double doors, gold- filigreed-- eagles, American flags. He jiggled the knob, the doors opened.

  High swank gone white trash--three crackers passed out on the floor. Booze empties, dumped ashtrays, no Spade.

  Connecting doors--the one on the right featured noise. Bud kicked it in.

  Deuce Perkins in bed watching cartoons. Bud pulled his gun. 'Where's Cooley?'

  Perkins popped in a toothpick. 'On a drunk, which is where I'm goin'. You want to see him, come to the El Rancho tonight. Chances are he'll show up.'

  'The fuck, he's the headliner.'

  'Most times. But Spade's been erratic lately, so I been film' in. I sing good as him and I'm better lookin', so nobody seems to mind. Now, you want to get out of here and leave me alone with my entertainment?'

  'Where's he drinking?'

  'Put that gun away, junior. The worse you got him for's nonpayment of child support, and Spade always pays sooner or later.'

  'Nix, this is Murder One, and I heard he likes opium.'

  Perkins coughed out his toothpick. 'What'd you say?'

  'Hookers. Spade like young girls?'

  'He don't like to kill them, just play hide the tubesteak like you and me.'

  '_Where is he?_'

  'Man, I'm not no snitch.'

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