As she rides by

already knew about, as I’d admired it at Rick’s, and a late-model compact, which I also knew about, as I’d read about it in Sergeant Brav’s report. The studio owned a two-year-old Ford half-ton, not surprisingly. And that was it.
    Then came the nasty drive down Vermont to 8th. I found a place to park in a side street—on Hampshire, I think it was—told King to mind the vehicle, and strolled back to the corner of 8th and Berendo, which looked exactly like a million other corners except for the dead pigeon that lay in the gutter by the storm drain, awaiting the rains. Quietly normal, is how you could describe that corner; it’d be even qui eter at night when the few small businesses there were would be closed. And, like many a million other corners in LA, it was a four-way stop intersection. Why would Mrs. Jones have stopped and started her way up to Berendo, when she could have zipped up Vermont , just two blocks away? Or, indeed, turned off Vermont right there? I looked up and down 8th for a possible reason, and lo and behold, spotted one, not fifty yards away. Well, it would certainly have been a reason for me to turn off after suffering through several dry hours of the Drama—a bar. A bar called the Treble Clef, no less, which, dogged investigator that I am, I decided I had no option but to investigate.
    Immediately on entering, I instantly deduced that the joint was a musician’s hangout, as every inch of wall was covered with either posters for gigs or photos of giggers gigging. Another giveaway to the astute was the hundred or so instruments of every shape, age, and nationality hanging from the ceiling. The T-shirt worn by the shapely bargirl, which commemorated some Stones tour, only confirmed my darkest suspicions. Could Mary have known about such a place? Highly likely, given her connection with Tex —wedded to—and his involvement in the music biz—also wedded to. Were our protagonists on their way to, or even coming from, the Treble Clef on the night in question? Short of directly asking Mary, which I did not want to do at all, it would be next to impossible to find out after all those months, but at least I now knew there was a plausible reason for Mary’s compact to be where it was when it was. Which left me you know where, one more time. I walked back to the car, let King out briefly, then faced the miserable drive back home through the thickening and bad-tempered afternoon traffic with surprising cool, all things considered. And so much for Wednesday.
    And so much for Thursday, too.
    And so much for Friday, more or less, until a quarter to five, which is when I began preparing for the gathering of the clans. Evonne had promised to bring along two fold-up chairs from her garden, and I had two already in the office, which left me eight more to scrounge. As previously arranged, I collected six from the Nus next door and two from Mrs. Morales, next door but two. Then I pushed my desk back till I could just squeeze in behind it, and lined the chairs up neatly in two rows in front of it. A quick dusting, then a quick carpet-sweep, which would have been smarter to do before I set out the chairs, I belatedly realized, but what the hell, no man is perfect, not even Mrs. Daniel’s little boy. Then I arranged my papers and memo pad and pencils and what-have-you neatly on the desk, then I waited. Gee—my first-ever press conference—be still, you butterflies.
    Injun Joe was the first to show. He waved at me through the window, and I beckoned him in. In he sidled.
    “How’re ya doin’, chief?” he said, nodding my way. “Ain’t too early, am I?”
    “Right on time, Joseph my boy,” I assured him. “And are we squeaky clean, as we promised?”
    “Yeah, yeah,” he said.
    “Our hair, too?”
    “Yeah, yeah, Lil saw to that. Can I put my new stuff on now, chief?”
    “You assuredly can,” I said. “Right back there. I left a shopping bag for you to stow the garments you are presently wearing in, which you will then please hide away out of sight under the sink.”
    “Got ‘cha,” he said, shuffling out back to the kitchenette. Then he turned and said, “Oh. I thoughta somethin’.”
    “What, Joe?”
    “What’s my name?”
    “What do you mean, what’s your name? Your name’s Joe, isn’t it?”
    “Yeah, but, like, my Indian name.”
    “I’ve got an Indian name for you,” I said, “if you really want one. How about Joseph Big Pain in the Wigwam?” He grinned at me. “How