As she rides by

large feet, “tell the truth, I could use a couple of bucks till payday, chief.”
    “You got it.” I extracted a fiver from my wallet and handed it over. “Got some news for you, Joe. That fence? It’s coming down one of these days.”
    “No kiddin’? Terrific, chief. So it worked, eh, all that what we did?”
    “It sure did,” I said. “And, speaking of work . .
    “I get ‘cha,” he said. “I’m outa here.” He paused by the door. “So long. Oh. Know what? It was her, that big blonde. She’s the one who thumped me, can you believe it? Wham, bam, and I was gone. I didn’t tell Lil some dame beat me up, how would that look? OK, chief, OK, I’m gone.” And, slowly, he was. King saw him out, then lay down on his blanket again.
    “I’d like to see some dame try that on me,” I told him. “Especially that there Ms. Garrison, woo-woo.”
    I tried Mr. Howieson at his home number. His wife said he was taking a nap, and was it important? I told her that I was afraid it was. She asked me what my name was. I told her. A minute later, Mr. Howieson, not sounding in the least sleepy, said, “Mr. Daniel. Good important or bad important?”
    “Bad,” I said.
    “How bad?”
    “Could be five million bad,” I said.
    “Mr. Daniel,” he said after a short pause, “five million bad isn’t bad, it’s disastrous.”
    “Yep,” I said. “I didn’t want to spoil your weekend, but I figured you’d better know.”
    “You’ve just spoiled my year,” he said, “fuck the weekend. Jesus. What a mess. You sure?”
    “Sure enough,” I said.
    “So now what do we do?” he said. “After I recover from my hysterical fit, that is.”
    “All I can think of is to set up a meeting as soon as possible involving you, me, maybe your legal advisor, someone from the LAPD who’s either Fraud or Grand Theft or both, and a certain Sergeant Brav, who was the responding cop that night back in March when your ex-employee Jonathan Flint passed on.”
    “Oh, God,” Mr. Howieson said. “I never even thought of that side of it; didn’t want to, probably.”
    “Who does?” I said. “Monday morning is likely the soonest we can set it up, and I suggest here, because you don’t want cops prowling around your offices before they have to, as Mrs. Mary Jones might just wonder why; the time for the cops to show is when they have been delivered of the proper warrants to hit both Joneses simultaneously and irrevocably. Nor do you and your legal beagle particularly want to be seen at this time in your friendly neighborhood police station.”
    “Or any other time, for that matter,” Mr. Howieson said bitterly. “Shit. What a mess.”
    “So all in all,” I said, “better let’s make it here.”
    “Better let’s, better let’s,” he said. “I don’t care. Make it on the fucking moon, better let’s.”
    “Better let’s you be the one to contact the various cops, too,” I said. “LAPD Central will tell you what station Brav works out of and who to contact in Fraud or whatever.”
    “Why don’t you chase those fuckers down?” he said. “You don’t think I have enough on my mind already?”
    “If you were a cop, Mr. Howieson, whose word would you take that there was something rotten in the state of Norwalk, some seedy private eye in Studio City yet—and you know how most cops adore us in the private sector, why, I get love letters from them regularly—or an upstanding, reputable, golf-playing, high-exec type like you?”
    “Hate the game,” he said. “Always did. It’s probably a coincidence my father was California amateur champion three times and fucking amateur champion of everywhere else, too.”
    “Also,” I said, “cops do not generally like it when some run-down gumshoe comes up with a possible motive for a crime they haven’t, let alone a whole passel of contributing evidence.”
    “All right, all right, all right,” he said. “Monday at ten at your office, wherever the hell it is, unless I call and tell you different. By the way—well done, I suppose.”
    I thanked him, told him where the hell my office was, and replaced the receiver. What I didn’t tell him were the main reasons I wanted the rendezvous at my place, which were threefold: It is a rare pleasure to have cops at your beck and call, instead of the other way around, which makes onefold. It is a rare pleasure to have mighty executives at your beck and call, which makes twofold. And threefold, I’m lazy.

Chapter