Panos nodded. "I thought I'd save you guys some leg-work." As he had last night, he wore his uniform. Steam curled from a large mug of coffee at his right hand. "One of the guys in the game-Nick Sephia?" He pointed. "You'll see him there-he's my nephew. Used to work for me, in fact."
"Since when has poker gotten legal?" Russell asked.
"You know anybody in vice wants to hassle with it?" Panos asked. "When so many of them play themselves? Anyway, it turns out Nick knows all the guys from Wednesday. Those five, six including him. Which makes this your lucky day."
Cuneo stopped his drumming. "In what way?"
Panos sipped coffee. "In the way that you won't even need to talk to all of them."
Russell came forward to the edge of the couch. "How would we avoid that?"
"You start with John Holiday. You ever heard of him?"
Cuneo raised his head. "Not much since Tombstone. I heard he died." Then, "Why would we have heard of him?"
"He had some legal troubles not too long ago. They made it into the newspapers."
"What'd he do?" Russell asked.
"What he used to do," Panos said, "was run a pharmacy, Holiday Drugs. Ring any bells?"
Cuneo looked the question to Russell, shrugged. "Nada," he said. "So, what?"
"So he got into the habit of filling prescriptions without worrying too much about whether or not they had a doctor's signature on them. When they stung him, they had guys on videotape writing their own scrips at the counter right in front of him."
"When was this exactly?" Russell asked. "I think I did see something about it."
Panos considered briefly. "Year, year and a half ago."
"And he's not still in jail?" Cuneo asked.
"He never went to jail. He got himself a hotshot lawyer who cut some deal with the DA, got the thing reduced to a Business and Professions Code beef. He got some community hours and they took his license, but that's it. Basically, he walked."
Cuneo's fingers started moving again. The William Tell Overture-ta da dum, ta da dum, ta da dum dum dum. "So you think Holiday's the shooter?"
"I'm saying you might save yourselves some trouble if you talk to him first. If you can find him sober." He sipped some coffee. "My brother Roy is working up in Thirty-two now. Maybe he could help you."
"You keep wanting to help us," Cuneo said.
If Cuneo was trying to get some kind of rise out of Panos, he wasn't successful. The Patrol Special took no offense, turned his palms up. "I liked Sam Silverman, Inspector. I liked him a lot. If I've got resources that might help you find his killer, I'm just telling you you're welcome to them. If you're not so inclined, of course that's your decision."
"What's your brother do," Russell asked, "that he might help us?"
"Roy? He's an assistant patroller, same as Mr. Creed last night. He works the beat. He'll know the players."
"In the game, you mean?" Russell asked.
"That, too," Panos said. "But I was talking more generally. The connections."
"Always Thirty-two?"
Panos nodded at Cuneo. "Mostly. He likes the action downtown." A shrug. "He might be able to save you some trouble, that's all. He'll know where you can find Holiday anyway, without a bunch of running around."
Cuneo flicked at the player list. "Why him? Holiday. Other than the old pharmacy beef."
"He lost six thousand dollars at Sam's the night before."
The number jerked Russell's head up. "Six thousand!"
"That's the number Nick gave me."
Cuneo whistled. "He came to this game with six grand in his pocket?"
Russell was on the same page. "Where'd he get that kind of money?"
"He owns a bar, the Ark." He pointed northward. "Again, up in Thirty-two. A real dump, but they must move some booze. Whatever it was, he had the money on Wednesday, and lost it all."
"I know the Ark," Cuneo said. "Maybe your brother could meet us outside, give us what he can. Say a half hour?"
"I'll call him right away," Panos said. "Set it up."
"Six grand?" Russell asked again.
"Yeah, well," Panos said. "The point is he'd be motivated to get it back. Wouldn't you think?"
They were driving back downtown through the dark drizzle. Cuneo was forcing air rapidly back and forth through the gap in his front teeth, keeping a rhythm, tapping the steering wheel to the same beat. After ten blocks of this, Russell finally had to say something. "You ever get tested for like hyperactivity or anything, Dan?"
His partner looked over. "No. Why?"
"Because maybe you don't know it, but you never stop."
"Stop what?"
"Making noise. Humming songs, keeping a beat, whatever."
"I do?" A pause. "Are you kidding me?"
"No. You do. Like right now, you were doing this." Russell showed him. "And hitting the steering wheel to the same beat."
"I was? I was just thinking about these poker guys."
"And last night it was 'Volare.' And back in the office just now with Panos, you were doing the Lone Ranger or Bonanza or something with your fingers." Russell played the beat on the dashboard. "I mean, I don't want to complain, but you've always got something going and I just wondered if it was something you could control."
Cuneo accelerated through an intersection. He looked across at his partner. "All the time?"
Russell considered. "Pretty much."
Cuneo made a face.
"I think, as you say, it's mostly when your mind's on something else," Russell said. "When it's just you and me it's one thing. But around witnesses…"
"Yeah, I hear you." They drove on another few blocks in silence. Finally, Cuneo turned in his seat again. "Maybe we could get some signal, where you tell me when I'm doing it. You pull at your ear or something."
"I could do that."
"And when it's you and me alone, just tell me."
"I don't want to be on your case all the time."
"Hey, be on my case. You're doing me a favor."
"Well, we'll see."
They had gone a few more blocks and were stuck in rain-soaked Friday rush hour gridlock a couple of blocks south of Market when Russell spoke again. "Dan. You're doing it again. 'California Girls.'
Clint Terry knew trouble when he saw it, and this time he recognized it right away. Roy Panos, all by himself, was usually good for some kind of problem, and tonight he had reinforcements. Cops, without a doubt, the smell all over them. Cops were always trouble.
In the bar's mirror, he saw them enter, stop in the doorway, look the room over. They stayed by the front for a moment, talking. Checking out the place, the one good window with its view of the Parisian Touch massage parlor across the street. Plywood over the other one. The stools were bolted to the floor. The bar was pitted and over-lacquered.
Clint Terry went about six feet four, 280. He had been almost famous once as a young man, when his life had breathed with great promise. An All-American linebacker at Michigan State, he then had gone on to play half a season with the Packers before a couple of guys had clipped him, one from each side, and had broken all three major bones in his right leg, which Bob Costas on national TV had conceded was a damn good trick. They still replayed the tape of his last moment in pro ball a couple of times a year, on shows with titles like "Football's Ugliest Moments."
By the time he was twenty-four, his football career over, he came out to the left coast, where nobody knew him, to explore his sexuality. He'd heard there was more tolerance for alternative lifestyles in San Francisco than anywhere else, and that turned out to be true. To support himself, he got a job as a bouncer at the Condor, a strip club in North Beach. For almost three years he did okay, until in a misplaced burst of enthusiasm he bounced one tourist too hard and got charged with manslaughter.