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Darkness made the room pulsate. Da
“Marty didn’t say.”
“Did he describe him? Was he a partner of Marty’s when he was pulling jobs back in ‘43 and ‘44?”
Bordoni said, “Mister, it was a two-minute conversation, and I didn’t even know Marty pulled jobs back then.”
“Did he mention an old ru
“No. Marty was always close-mouthed. I was his only pal at Q, and I was surprised when he said he had an old partner. Marty wasn’t really the partner type.”
Da
Bordoni sighed like he was bored; Da
“They were from all over the country, and they were just jive—jazz stuff, wish you were here, the horses, baseball.”
“Did Marty mention other musicians he was playing with?”
Bordoni laughed. “No, and I think he was ashamed to. He was gigging all these Podunk clubs, and all he said was ‘I’m the best trombone they’ve ever seen,’ meaning Marty knew he wasn’t much but these cats he was gigging with were really from hunger.”
“Did he mention anybody at all, other than this old partner you were going to team up with?”
“Nix. Like I told you, it was a two-minute conversation.”
The Miller High Life sign atop the Taft Building blipped off, jarring Da
“Marty! Are you crazy! He wouldn’t even pork nancy boys up at Q!”
“Anybody up there ever make advances to him?”
“Marty would have died before he let some brunser bust his cherry!”
Da
Bordoni bobbed his head; Da
Buddy Jastrow long gone, four shots a night not enough, his textbooks and classes not real. Da
Alone again, Da
Looking for house lights that might be Him looking back was childish; eye prowling for sinister shapes was a kid’s game—the kind of game he played by himself as a schoolboy. Da
He got something near sleep, an exhaustion shortcut where he wasn’t quite out, couldn’t quite form thoughts and saw pictures that he wasn’t making himself. Street signs, trucks, a saxophone man ru
Da
A second ring, stop, a third ring. Da
The girl was almost breathless. “City radio. See the maintenance man, Griffith Park, the hiking trail up from the observatory parking lot. Two dead men, LAPD rolling. Sweetie, did you know this was going to happen?”
Da
Two LAPD black-and-whites beat him.
Da
Da
Two cops nodded; two turned away, like a County detective was lower than dirt. Da
Two dead men, nude, lying sideways on a little bed of dirt surrounded by low thornbushes. Rigor lock, coats of dust and leaf debris said they had been there at least twenty-four hours; the condition of the bodies said that they died at 2307 North Tamarind. Da
The men had been placed in a 69 position—head to groin, head to groin, genitals flopped toward each other’s mouths. Their hands had been placed on each other’s knees; the larger man was missing a right index finger. All four eyes were intact and wide open; the victims had been slashed like Marty Goines all over their backs—and their faces. Da
He stood up. The patrolmen were smoking cigarettes, shuffling their feet, destroying the chance for a successful grid search. One by one they looked at him; the oldest of the four said, “Those guys like yours?”
Da
The old-timer cop answered him. “Maintenance man saw a wino ru
The other cops laughed. Da
A big, beef-faced man got out of the unmarked and looked right at him. Da
Two Coroner’s men hauled out collapsible gurneys; Da