Collins grimaced and brought out the photograph. “This is Ricks. A guitar player.”
Philbrick examined the photograph. He nodded without enthusiasm. “He sat in with the band once in a while, kept bucking for a job. We never hired him.” He opened his mouth, shut it again, squinted at the picture, gave it a nervous twitch. Collins, recognizing the symptoms, waited. Finally the man said reluctantly, “I think he used to go with one of my waitresses. I don’t know if she sees him now or not.” He signaled to the beefy waitress in the red blouse, and she came over. Philbrick showed her the photograph. “Isn’t this the guy that Molly sees once in a while?”
“Yeah. Steve, I think his name is.”
Philbrick peered into the cabaret proper. “Where’s Molly? Is she on?”
“It’s her late night. She don’t come on till nine. Seems like he was in not long ago,” said the waitress. “Two, three weeks. Molly had the rear section, and that’s where he sat, over in the corner by the bandstand with some people. They had a real gay time.”
“I’d better talk to this Molly,” said Collins. “Where does she live?”
“I’ll give you her address,” said Philbrick. He glanced over his shoulder; the waitress had gone off. “I’m just as happy she’s not here now, to tell the truth. Molly can be a little tough. She’s a good waitress but temperamental — not what you’d call a softhearted gal.”
“She might relax in this case,” said Collins. “I don’t want you to talk about this. Her boy friend was murdered last Tuesday.”
Philbrick blinked. “Who did it?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Philbrick rose rather hastily. “He had it in for me, not me for him. I couldn’t hire him; he was maybe good enough for Fresno, but up here — well, I run a real top place. Next week I’m booking Royal Jenkins, next month we got Big Biedermeier coming in for a week. So don’t put me down on your list of suspects.”
Collins said, “Do you know a man by the name of Earl Genneman?”
“Genneman? Can’t say I do. Is he a musician?”
“Maybe you’ll get me this Molly’s address.”
Joe Philbrick went off and presently returned with a slip of paper. “Molly Wilkerson. 5992 South Jefferson. That’s south about a mile. Keep going down Latham to the third stoplight, make a right onto Bingham Valley Road, go about three blocks, then a left onto South Jefferson.”
“Thanks,” said Collins. “Remember, Philbrick, don’t say anything about Ricks’ being dead.”
“You got my word, Inspector.”
Collins drove south through the waning afternoon. At the third stoplight he turned into Bingham Valley Road, a pleasant country lane lined with enormous eucalyptus trees. To either side were peach and apricot orchards, each with its old white three-story house. Then suddenly the orchards were uprooted and the land scabbed over with sprawling houses of stucco and used brick. Collins found South Jefferson, turned left, and proceeded to 5992: a small white cottage with a screened-in porch fronted by a scarred lawn, a pair of dwarf lemon trees, and a low hedge.
Collins parked in the road. He walked up to the porch and rapped on the screen door. A girl of about fifteen, wearing a yellow blouse and red shorts, opened the front door and called across the porch. “Yes, sir?”
“I want to see Miss Wilkerson,” said Collins.
“She’s not here just now. She ought to be home any time, though.”
Collins looked up and down the road. The girl said. “She won’t let anybody come inside the house while I’m baby-sitting, so you can wait on the steps.”
Collins seated himself on the second step and leaned back on his elbows to listen to the sounds of the neighborhood. From the house next door came the squawk of a television program. From behind him squealed the complaints of a pair of small children and the reprimands of the babysitter. A telephone bell shrilled; Collins heard the baby-sitter’s voice. The sun disappeared behind the eucalyptus across the way.
A black Valiant sedan came down the road and turned into the driveway, and a woman in black slacks and a jade blouse got out. She was tall and lean, with a harpy swiftness of movement, about thirty years old; she had a big nose in a clever face. Her eyes were grotesquely made up; her hair rose in a great sour-looking puff. She surveyed Collins with calculation. “You waiting for me?”
“You’re Molly Wilkerson?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Inspector Omar Collins, Fresno County Sheriff’s Office.”
“What have I done now?”
“Nothing, I hope,” said Collins. “I need information.”
“Just a minute till I send the baby-sitter home. Come in,” she added, as an afterthought.
Collins followed her across the porch into a living room furnished with a television set, an overstuffed sofa, two matching chairs, and two end-tables, each bearing an enormous lamp.
Molly Wilkerson looked into a bedroom where the children were playing. She heard a short recital of deeds and misdeeds, then the girl departed. “Don’t forget I’m working tonight,” Molly called after her. “You be here at eight-thirty.”
“Okay, Mrs. Wilkerson.” The front door slammed.
Returning to the living room, Molly surveyed Collins through careful eyes. “I can’t imagine why you want to talk to me.”
“I’m making inquiries into the death of Earl Genneman.”
Molly lifted her heavy eyebrows. “Who?”
“Earl Genneman, owner of Genneman Laboratories.”
“I wouldn’t know anybody like that.”
“You never even heard the name?”
“Definitely not. Should I of?”
“I thought it possible. Steve Ricks is involved.”
Molly lit a cigarette. “Steve Ricks,” she said. Cigarette smoke drifted up past her face.
Information out of this one was going to be hard to get, thought Collins. “I take it you’ve been notified of Ricks’ death?”
“What?” She seemed genuinely startled.
Collins said gravely, “I’d assumed his friends were notified.”
“Nobody said anything to me.”
“When did you see him last?”
Molly blinked. “How did Steve die?”
“He was murdered. Possibly by the killer of Earl Genneman.”
“You didn’t say Genneman was killed. What’s the connection with Steve?”
“You saw Steve when?” Who was questioning whom? Collins wondered.
Molly took a reflective puff. “Genneman... He had a big drug company, you say?”
Something was ticking at the back of Molly’s mind. But she shook her head again. “How could Steve be tied up with a big shot like that?”
Collins thought her perplexity forced. “When did you see him last?”
“Let’s see... You know where I work?” She seemed determined not to answer the question. It made him just as determined to get her to do so.
“Smoky Joe’s. You’re a waitress there.”
Molly pursed her lips, gave her head a fastidious shake, stubbed her cigarette out with delicate dabs. A wolverine, thought Collins, half fascinated. “I was born in a high-class family, Inspector. I was never expected to turn a hand for a thing. Then I was forced to make my own living. I just had to do something to keep my children from starving.”
“What about Steve Ricks?”
“Steve — well, he was a man I knew. A lot of fun for the races, the fights, a poker party — not the kind I’d take seriously.”
“Naturally not.” Collins tried to keep the weariness out of his voice.
“Especially after he went to Fresno, to play at that honky-tonk.”
“The Clover Club?”
“That’s the place.”
“And when did you see him last?”
Molly said suddenly, “Oh, two, three weeks ago, something like that.”