I reached into my coat pocket for my photograph of Maggie Cadwallader. "Her?" I said. "This tomato?"
The counterman scrutinized the photo and shook his head. "Naw, lover-boy would never be seen with a beast like this. Ugh. What a—"
"Shut up. Tell me about the women you have seen him with."
Chastened, he went on, his voice low: "Just movie star material. Real beauts. Class-A poontang hangin' onto him like there's no tomorrow."
"Do you know any of these women? Are any of them regular customers?"
"Naw, I think he just brings 'em in for a quick burger, 'cause he lives around here."
"How do you know that?"
"That's kinda funny. Once he was in here with this good-lookin' blond. She was teasin' him about somethin'. He didn't like it. She had her hand on the countertop. Eddie started squeezin' it, real hard. The dame had tears in her eyes. She was hurtin' bad. She said, 'Not now, baby. You can give it to me good at the apartment, but not here. We'll be back there in a minute. Please, baby.' She looked scared, but kind of excited, too, you know?"
"When was this?" I asked.
"I dunno. Months ago."
"Have you seen this woman again, with or without Eddie?"
"I don't think so."
"Did you see Eddie exhibit violence toward any other women?"
"Naw. But I wouldn't call that violence."
"Shut up." I handed him a slip of paper from my notebook. "Write down your name and address," I said.
The ex-con did it, his jaw quavering slightly. "Look, Officer . . ." he started.
"Don't worry," I said, smiling. "You're in no trouble. Just keep it zipped about what we talked about. Capische?"
"Yeah."
"Good." I put the slip of paper into my pocket and dropped a five-spot on the counter. "Keep the change," I said.
I found a pay phone in the parking lot and called Dudley Smith downtown. It took some moments for him to come onto the line and I waited in the sweltering booth, lost in thought, the receiver jammed to my ear. Smith's loud high-pitched brogue suddenly hit me.
"Freddy, lad! How nice to hear from you!"
I recovered fast, speaking calmly: "Good news, Dudley. Our boy was seen at a local diner with a woman some months ago. The counterman said he abused her physically and she enjoyed it. I got a statement from him." Dudley Smith seemed to be considering this—he was silent for the better part of a minute. In my eagerness, I broke the silence: "I think he's a sex sadist, Dudley."
"Ahhh, yes. Well, lad, I think our pal is a lot of things. I've got some interesting stuff, too. Now, Freddy, tomorrow you will be the straight man to greatness. You pick me up at my house at nine A.M., 2341 Kelton Avenue, Westwood. Wear a light-colored suit, and be prepared to learn. Have you got that?"
"Yes."
"Ahhh . . . grand. Was there anything else you wished to tell me, lad?"
"No."
"Grand. Then I'll see you tomorrow."
"Goodbye, Dudley."
I drove home and showered and changed clothes. I shaved for the second time that day. I drove downtown fighting a tingling anticipation that was half nerves and half a thigh-warming sexual flush. I parked in the lot for city employees on Temple Street, showing the attendant my badge in lieu of a parking sticker. I combed my hair several times, checking in my rearview mirror to see that the part was straight.
At exactly five o'clock, I was stationed directly in front of the Spring Street entrance to city hall, waiting for Lorna Weinberg.
Lorna came out the broad glass doors a few minutes later, limping with one foot kicked out at almost a right angle. She guided her way with a thick, rubber-tipped black wood cane. She carried a briefcase in her left hand, and had an abstracted look on her face. When she saw me she frowned.
"Hello, Miss Weinberg," I said.
"Mr. Underhill," she returned. She moved her cane to her left hand and offered me her right. We shook, the handshake an implicit reminder that this was a civil meeting of two professional people.
I said, "Thank you for agreeing to see me. I know you're a busy woman."
Lorna nodded brusquely and shifted her weight to her good leg. "And you're a busy man. We should find a place to go and talk. I'm very curious to hear what you have to say." Catching herself being almost friendly, she added, "I trust you wouldn't waste my time." When I didn't acknowledge that, she asked, "Would you?"
I gave Lorna Weinberg my widest, most innocent smile. "Maybe. So much for the amenities. Do you eat dinner?"
Lorna frowned again. "Yes, Officer, I do. Do you?"
"Yeah. Every night. An old childhood habit. You know any decent places around here?"
"Not that I can walk to."
"If your bum leg acts up we can rest or I can carry you. Or we can drive somewhere."
Lorna winced against my comments, curling her lip reflexively. "We can drive," she said, "in my car."
I was more than willing to concede the point.
We walked the half-block to Temple very slowly, saying very little. Lorna limped steadily, easily throwing the dead leg forward in almost perfect rhythmic grace. If she was in pain she didn't show it; only her bare arm holding the cane betrayed any sign of tension.
I tried to think of something to say, but all my one-liners seemed fatuous or abrasive. As we crossed the street I grabbed her elbow to steady her and she withdrew it angrily.
"Don't," she snapped, "I can manage myself."
"I'm sure you can," I said.
The car was a late model Packard with an automatic shift and a specially constructed stirrup to hold Lorna's bad leg. Without consulting me, she drove north to Chinatown. She was a good, efficient driver, maneuvering the big car deftly through the heavy evening traffic on North Broadway. Squeezing effortlessly into a tight parking space and setting the hand brake with a flourish, Lorna turned to face me. "Is Chinese all right?" she asked.
The restaurant interior was a marvel of papier-mâché architecture. All four walls were shaped like mountain ranges, with cascading waterfalls dropping into a trough filled with giant goldfish. The room was bathed in a bluish-green light that imparted an underwater effect.
An obsequious waiter guided us to a booth at the back and handed us menus. Lorna made a great show of studying hers while I formulated my thoughts into a useful brevity. I stared at her as she perused her menu. Her face was very strong and very beautiful.
She looked up from her menu and caught my gaze. "Aren't you going to eat?" she asked.
"Maybe," I said. "If I do, I know what I'll have."
"Are you that rigid? Don't you like to try new things?"
"Lately, yes. Which is why I'm here."
"Is that a double-entendre, Officer?"
"It's a cross between a proposition and a statement of purpose."
"Is that a double-entendre?"
"It's a cross between a paradox and a logical fallacy."
"And the part I—"
I interrupted, "The paradox is murder, counselor, and the fact that I intend to profit from the capture of the murderer. The logical fallacy is that—well, in part I'm here because you are a very handsome and interesting woman." Lorna opened her mouth to protest, but I raised my voice to drown her out. "Pardon my language, but, as a colleague of mine says, 'Enough horseshit.' Let's eat, then I'll tell you about it."
Lorna glowered at me, speechless. I could tell she was mustering her resources for a wicked return salvo. Fortunately for me, our waiter glided up silently and said, "You order now?"
Before Lorna could start again I took a sip of green tea and began the story of Freddy Underhill, rogue cop, and his incredible intuition and persistence. She started to question me several times, but I just shook my head and continued. She changed expressions only once during my monologue, when I mentioned the name of Dudley Smith. Then her rapt look changed to one of anger. By the time I finished, our food had come. Lorna looked from me to her plate, then pushed it away and made a face.