That said a little more, but it wasn't any lead to who. Cliff Elger, roaring mad at something Art had said, following him down to the street, getting madder when he couldn't rouse Art's temper in return… Maybe. Normandie was a blacktop street.
So was the street Madge Corliss' apartment was on. So were a lot of streets-including Third and the side streets around there. Wait a minute again. If that little build-up about how it happened was so, didn't it say probably that the car had been parked along the curb, not diagonally? And that wasn't much help either, because on most streets in L.A. and Hollywood the street parking wasn't diagonal. You got that in a lot of towns around-Glendale, Pasadena, Beverly Hills-but not much here.
"Hell," said Mendoza, and parked, pocketed the keys, and walked up to the jail.
Sergeant Nesbitt was waiting for him at the top of the steps. "Lieutenant Mendoza? Nesbitt." He was a square, solid man about forty, with a square stolid face. "I understand you're going to claim my young punks on a murder rap. Well, glad to oblige. They're all under eighteen, though, you won't be getting the gas chamber for them."
"What's the story?" They went inside.
"Well, we've been having quite a little wave of break-ins up in my stamping ground. Drugstores, independent markets, dress shops, and so on. The cheaper stores. where the buildings are old and the locks not so good, you know. It's been mostly petty stuff, we figured it was juveniles-not much cash, and stuff they wouldn't get much for- I think myself some of it was stolen to give away to their girl friends, make them look big. You know. Cigarettes, liquor, clothes from the dress shops, and so on. Well, Saturday night a squad car touring out on Fountain spotted what looked like a flashlight in the rear of this drugstore on a corner, took a closer look, found the back door forced, and picked these three up in the stock room. They had an old Model A Ford sitting by the back door, half full of stuff they'd already piled in it." Nesbitt rummaged and produced his notebook. "One Michael Wills, Joe Lopez, George Kellerman. They're all from down around your part of town, and they've all been in a little trouble before. Wills was picked up and warned once for carrying a switchblade, and the other two have one count each of Grand Theft Auto-little joy riding, you know. Probation. Wills and Kellerman are seventeen, Lopez sixteen."
"Well, they've got into big trouble this time,” said Mendoza. "Who had the. 22?"
"Wills. I'd say he's the ringleader."
"O.K., let's go in and look at them."
Nesbitt told the desk man whom they wanted to see; in a few minutes they were let into one of the interrogation rooms, and the boys were brought in by a uniformed jailer.
Mendoza looked at them coldly, resignedly. They were about what he'd expected to see, from the black leather jackets and wide belts and dirty jeans to the expressions on their faces. And there was a lot of talk about it, from a lot of different people, and a lot of different solutions offered to cure the problem. It was a problem all right. They said, clean up the slums. A fine idea, but it wasn't going to cure the problem, because quite a lot of very respectable citizens-Luis Rodolfo Vicente Mendoza among others-had grown up in the slums. They said lack of discipline, which was a little more realistic, but it was theoretically a free country and you couldn't tell people how to bring up their kids. They said prejudice, they said inadequate public schools. What nobody among all the do-gooders would ever admit was that some people just came equipped that way, and that more people were just naturally the kind who'd play along with any strong character to be one of a gang; and you weren't going to change character overnight.
Wills was tall and thin, with an angular pale face, sullen pale eyes, and lank dark hair; he looked older than seventeen. Kellerman was a fat lump, big and awkward and blond. Lopez was a little runt of a kid, skinny and dark, with terrified eyes. They just stood and looked back at him.
"Well, let's get the show on the road," said Mendoza sharply. "Which of you shot Nestor last Tuesday night?"
They looked surprised; and then Lopez looked almost idiotic with panic. "We n-never shot nobody, mister.?Se lo digo, no! Honestamente , we never-we never do a thing like that-"
"You got rocks in your head?" said Wills coldly. "What makes you think we shot a guy?"
"I don't think, I know," said Mendoza. "There's no point going the long way round here. You've been pulling a series of break-ins. Probably in other places than Hollywood. Last Tuesday night you broke into the office of Dr. Frank Nestor, on Wilshire Boulevard. Only you found the office wasn't empty-Dr. Nestor was there." Why had he been there, by the way? Not very important? "Wills, you had the. 22. When Dr. Nestor showed up, did you panic and shoot on impulse, or did you kill him deliberately? You did have the. 22-It's your gun?"
"For Christ's sake!" said Wills incredulously. "That's crazy, man! We was never near no doctor's office, Tuesday night or any other! We never heard o' that doctor. Why the hell'd we want to break in a doctor's?"
"I can think of reasons," said Mendoza.
"Oh-dope. We don't go for that crap," said Kellerman. "Not me, boy! I seen what it done to my brother. You're nuts-we'd never do a real bad thing like that. Gee, what was a couple cartons cigarettes and-"
"I said, let's not go the long way round," said Mendoza.
"I've got other things to worry about than you three louts." He took a step toward them and Lopez cringed back. "Now listen-"
"You c'n beat me all you want!" cried Lopez in a high frightened voice. "Just go on 'n' try-you never make me-?Santa Maria y Josejo – I never-"
"Oh, for God's sake, Joe," said Wills contemptuously, "they don't dare lay a hand on us!" He gave Mendoza an insolent leer. "They got to stay little gents-ain't that so, bloodhound?"
Mendoza pasted a careful, bland smile on his mouth. Never let them see they were getting to you. It was sometimes difficult. Sure-that juvenile thing last year. All the careful rules and regulations to protect the citizenry-and the L.A.P.D. with a lot of private rules on that too, especially about the minors, and what it came to was that the punks could call you every name in the book, tell the most obvious lies, accuse you of anything from wife beating to sodomy, and you had to take it without even a word or two in reply. Sometimes a man lost his temper a little and roughed up one of them-which was the only way to reach a lot of them-and then you got the press screaming about police brutality and the tenderhearted public excitedly demanding investigation. Mendoza smiled at these three young punks, pityingly. The only other way to reach them was to talk to them like the immature children they were. "Look, Mikey boy," he said very gently, "I've got no time to waste playing games with little boys. I'll give you just five minutes to tell me a straight story, but whether you do or not, I'm getting warrants on all of you for murder. As of now. That. 22 is the gun that killed Frank Nestor, that we know, and it was in your possession on Saturday night. Which of you had it on Tuesday night?"
Evidently he reached them with that. Lopez started to say a fervent Hail Mary, with his eyes shut; Kellerman just looked worried. Wills suddenly dropped his sneer and said, "Listen, is that on the level? Somebody got killed with that gun? Jesus-"
"I told you there was somethin' a little funny about it, Mike," said Kellerman.