the Treasury Manual of Operations requires notification to other agencies in an internal investigation. The Chief would probably notify Bailey's pal Cleaver, and the cat would still be out of the bag.'
'We could make up another reason why we want to follow Bones. We could say it's because he's associated with Tony Dio or something.'
Carr shook his head. 'It'll never work. The men on surveillance would figure out we were pulling a fast one.' Higgins nodded in agreement. 'Then how do we do it?'
Carr lit a cigarette. 'We play
'Ernie Kun would help,' Higgins said. 'He once told me he hated Bailey … some deal about Bailey shaking down one of his informants a couple of years ago.'
Carr wrote Kun's name on the napkin. 'B. B. Martin and Bob Tomsic from the Field Office will help. They can take heat … and Larry Sheafe.'
'Ed Henderson owes me a favor,' Higgins said. 'Put his name down.'
Having compiled a list of names, Carr handed Ling a dollar bill and asked for a dollar's worth of dimes. Ling scooped dimes from the cash register and dropped them in Carr's hand.
For the next half hour, Carr and Higgins alternated placing phone calls from the pay booth just outside the front door. Within an hour Carr had placed a check mark beside all five names.
'If this thing comes apart we'll all burn and the guys we've brought in will have us to blame,' Higgins said.
'Think positive,' Carr said, turning to him. Neither he nor Higgins smiled.
As he wound carefully in and out of the westbound Santa Monica Freeway traffic, Carr half listened to a radio talk show host interview the tenor-voiced governor of California. 'It's like the song goes,' the governor said, '…
Carr turned it off and thought of Sally for a while. Because he was sleepy, he had both front windows rolled down. The smog was gone for the day, allowing him to breathe deeply a few times. Because he was close to Santa Monica, there was a hint of salt air. Carr turned off the next exit and pulled into the first service station with a telephone booth. He dialed Sally's number and listened as the phone rang about ten times. He hung up. After filling the sedan's gas tank with regular and buying a newspaper from a vending machine, he steered back onto the freeway.
A few minutes later he was in his apartment. He took off his suit coat and tossed it on the sofa, kicked off his shoes and plopped down with the newspaper. He read the front page and the editorial pages (they were all he ever read), stood up and went to the sink. He tossed the newspaper in a trashcan. Because the sink was brimming with dirty dishes he opened the cupboard and searched for dishwashing detergent. He remembered he was out. 'Damn,' he said out loud.
The doorbell rang.
It was Sally, dressed in a blue jogging outfit with a matching sweatband. Her hair was soaked with perspiration and she was out of breath. She pecked his check with a kiss as she brushed past him.
'I called you a while ago,' he said.
'Sure you did,' she replied sarcastically. She stared at the messy kitchen. 'And I'm sure you were just getting ready to wash those dirty dishes.' She sat down on the sofa and leaned back. Her eyes closed.
'Why are you out jogging at eleven P.M?' he said.
'Because I need the exercise.' She didn't open her eyes.
'You're taking a chance at this time of night.'
'I can't live my life worrying about such things,' she said, this time looking at him. 'I was going to ask why you haven't called me. But if I did, you would tell me you've been busy. Then I would get angry. So I won't ask.'
'Would you like a drink?'
She shook her head. 'Are you aware you're still wearing your gun?'
Carr looked at his side. Hastily he unclipped the inside-the-belt holster and went into the bedroom, opened a dresser drawer and shoved the gun in it. He closed the drawer and returned to the living room. Sally stood in the middle of the room with her hands clasped together behind her neck, doing torso-twisting exercises. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. When she didn't respond he moved away, letting his hands rest lightly on her shoulders.
'Our relationship has been a sexual one right from the beginning,' she said. 'We get along in bed. I sometimes wonder if there is anything… I mean anything beyond sex between you and me. Even when you tell me you love me I'm not sure that you really mean it.'
'I mean it,' he said softly.
She pushed his arms away. 'I have to do my hair and nails tonight. I've got to go. It's late and I have an early-morning deposition. She jogged to the door and opened it. Having blown him a kiss, she jogged down the steps and into the darkness.
Carr shut the door and locked it. He thought of his first date with Sally. They had gone to a jazz club in Studio City … was it nine or ten years ago?
After a search, he found a container of liquid hand soap under the sink in the bathroom. Using it as a substitute for dishwashing detergent, he washed and dried the pile of dishes and glasses in the sink, then put them away.
The telephone rang. It was Sally.
'You're having second thoughts about marrying me, aren't you?' she said.
He didn't answer.
'I know you are,' she said, her voice cracking. 'I can tell.'
The phone clicked.
FOURTEEN
After a wrong turn or two in the hilly residential area of Beverly Hills, Carr noticed a curbside sign that spelled out Beverly Hills Revolver Club in delicate type. He turned right and followed a driveway that led up a slight elevation to the club's parking lot. In the corner of the lot was a small building with a canopied entrance. He parked his sedan and got out. The view from the lot was of the Santa Monica Freeway, which guarded the southern perimeter of Beverly Hills like a moat.
On the other side of the freeway was a bank of gray apartment houses that Carr recognized as one of the many L.A. neighborhoods populated by Mexicans who had fled their cardboard houses in Tijuana for the high life of loud mufflers and garment district piecework. All things considered, Carr thought to himself, even cramped quarters in a run-down apartment house with a greenish-tinted swimming pool was better than cardboard city.
He entered a lobby and showed his badge to a red-haired receptionist with a bouffant hairdo. She wore a tan safari blouse. He told her what he wanted.
'Artie can probably help you,' she said as if she were interested. 'He's on the range right now.' She pointed to a glass door. 'You can wait for him inside if you like.'
Carr thanked her and went over to the glass door. She pressed a button. The lock clicked and Carr went inside, making his way down a hallway to a glass-enclosed viewing area behind an indoor firing range with four firing positions.
Three middle-aged women stood at positions on the firing line holding loaded revolvers. They each wore ear protectors and jogging outfits. Artie, the rangemaster, a flyweight-sized man with a safari jacket similar to the receptionist's, checked the ladies' weapons and stepped back. Using a microphone, he gave firing instructions. Target lights came on and the targets (man-sized gorillas pointing guns) faced front. The women fired, turning the targets sideways. Without conversation, the women reloaded. At the end of the firing set, Artie retrieved the women's targets and gave shooting advice. The women chattered and giggled with one another on the way
