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Da
The wrong words, then, “Make it good you County fuck,” whispered up close. Da
Shouts all around; whistles blowing. Da
The next hour went Speed-O-Vision fast.
Friendly Norm helped him clean himself up and took him to a bar on the Boulevard. Da
At the bar it was all questions, back to Ted Krugman, no time to think of repercussions.
Norm Kostenz took his photograph for a record of the assault and kissed his ass, a tough-guy worshiper; Da
Da
Da
Dusk was falling, twilight darkening over low rain clouds. Da
It was a one-story gray French Provincial, louvered windows and an arched doorway, deco lettering in brass above the mailbox. An enclosed autoport was built on, the entrance illuminated by roof lights. Three cars were parked inside; Da
Full darkness hit; Da
Time dragged; Da
Da
“Yes? Who’s requesting?”
Da
The operator said, “We’re a little bit backlogged on vehicle registrations, but—”
“This is the police line, not DMV Central. I’m a Homicide detective, so you kick loose for me.”
The man sounded chastised. “We were helping regis—I’m sorry, Deputy. Give me your names.”
Da
The operator said, “Yessir.” The line buzzed; Da