melted together into one huge playlist shuffling randomly through his brain. He has no idea where the songs are coming from or which one's about to cycle into his consciousness.
“You ever see him at the Tilt-A-Whirl?”
“What? Having sex with factory girls?”
“Or doing anything.”
“Sure. He sets up shop there some nights. His own little drug store. I only go see him when I'm desperate, because lately the dude's been extremely cranky-ever since they canned his ass at the car wash on account of his thieving ways. He stole loose change from ashtrays. Groceries out of back seats. Shit, he even stole this little girl's stuffed dog from her car seat and then told everybody it was me who copped it.”
“Why'd he steal so much,” Ceepak asks, “if he had the drug income like you say?”
“Why does the devil keep on keepin’ on? Evil is writ large upon his soul. Squeegee is Beelzebub in disguise, telling dirty lies….”
I have no idea whose lyrics Red's ripping off this time.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“A week ago. I needed some shit, and he was already lit up and talking about righteous retribution. How the last were going to be first and the first would be last. You know-that Jesus shit. Said judgment day was nigh and all slumlords would soon be summoned forth to pay.”
“Is that what he called Hart? A slumlord?”
“No. Squeegee never called Hart a slumlord. Him he called a ‘
Ceepak pulls out a ten-dollar bill.
“Get yourself two.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“What's your 10–38?” Ceepak asks the chief.
“I'm at HQ. Ready to roll to Chesterfield's.”
Ceepak tilts the radio microphone to check his Casio G-Shock. It's 10:32.
“I thought the breakfast meet was set for 0-10 hundred?” Ceepak says, releasing the mike button to hear the chief's reply.
“Roger that,” the chief growls back. “But I had to go home and put on a goddamn tie. They want me on TV in an hour. I have to give a statement. Stand up in front of all those goddamn cameras and give a progress report. We got any?”
“Yes, sir. I think so.”
“What?”
“A witness.”
“To the murder?”
“No, sir. An acquaintance of Squeegee's who links him to Mendez. We need to go to Chesterfield's and Mendez needs to be there.”
“He is,” the chief says, sounding excited. “I have Malloy and Santucci stationed out front. They saw him go in. Ms. Stone is registered upstairs. Neither one has come out.”
“Excellent,” Ceepak says. “We'll meet there.”
“Ceepak? The mayor is crawling up my butt. People are packing suitcases and leaving town. You see the beaches this morning? They're goddamn empty. We need to wrap this up quick. Now!”
“Roger that. Just don't let Mendez leave the restaurant.”
“10-4.”
“Our ETA is five.”
“Good. Move it!”
Ceepak clicks off the radio and does one of those Hollywood “Cavalry, Ho!” hand gestures.
I stomp on the gas.
We proceed to haul some ass.
We arrive three minutes later.
Malloy is sitting out front in a cruiser with Tony Santucci. Santucci's behind the wheel, chomping more gum and looking like a total hardass. He wears those mirrored sunglasses like redneck sheriffs do in movies and rolls his short sleeves up so you can see more of his muscles.
Chesterfield's is a big Victorian bed amp; breakfast with gables and peaks and gewgaws. It's the kind of place my mom would love and my dad would only enter with a gun pointed at his head.
Or on Mother's Day.
I double-park the Explorer near the cruiser.
“You puke your breakfast again this morning?” Santucci asks, cracking his Dentyne.
I'd say something witty in reply but Ceepak is bounding up the front steps and I'm right behind him.
Two seconds later, I hear the Chief's big Expedition screech to a stop in the street.
“Inside, Malloy. Santucci? Off your ass! Move it! Move it! Go, go, go!”
The coach is sending in the whole team. Behind me, I hear the sound of heavy men thundering up the porch steps, jangling all the tinkley wind chimes hanging off the ceiling.
Chesterfield's front foyer is stuffed with antique furniture. Doilies and little glass candy dishes sit on top of everything.
Room number two features wingback chairs on oriental rugs in front of green-striped wallpaper and oil paintings of hounds and horses. Cozy.
Ceepak looks completely out of place, making his way to the main dining room, his pistol hanging by his hip in his hand.
He reaches the hostess at the double doors. Do we have a reservation? She studies her big burgundy binder while Ceepak looks over her head, trying to locate Mendez.
“May I help you, sir?”
She's wearing some kind of costume with a frilly shower cap, like she just came inside from churning butter.
“Yes, ma'am,” Ceepak says firmly, yet politely. “Please vacate these premises immediately.”
“I'm sorry?”
“Danny?”
“Out here, ma'am,” I say.
“Ceepak?” The chief is lumbering up the hall behind us. Malloy and Santucci are with him. They all have their weapons in their hands.
“Mendez and Stone are the only diners,” Ceepak says. “I'm going in. Cover me.”
“Roger that,” the chief whispers.
Ceepak makes a swing move into the dining room.
We swarm in after him like we're on military maneuvers. A waiter sees us and drops his tray. Muffins go tumbling everywhere.
“Upstairs,” Ceepak yells to the waiter. “Now. Go!”
The guy thinks about picking up his muffins for a second and then hightails it out of the room.
Cynthia Stone and her companion are sitting at a corner table under a brass wall sconce with a flickering glass globe that's lit kind of low to set a more romantic mood. They were both sipping mimosas before we so rudely interrupted.
“Mr. Virgilio Mendez?” says Ceepak.
“Yeah?”
“Keep your hands on the table, where I can see them.”
“Yo. Why you actin’ like G.I. Joe all of a sudden? Take it easy, son.”
“Officer?” Ms. Stone swivels around to face Ceepak. She sees the small army assembled behind him. “I
