Vic Daniel 6 - As she rides by

them. Only insurance policy held by him was 8-year-old company policy, with no recent alterations, for $50,000.
    Also: Appended blood tests revealed an alcohol level of .04 in the deceased—roughly two drinks—and half of that for Mrs. Jones.
    And so what to make of all that, I wondered?
    Not much, on the face of it, except for a wave of disgust at the brutal and seemingly casual nature of it. And for what? Who carried around a lot of cash these days? Only the likes of Phil ‘n’ Ted. Pawn a necklace, a wedding ring, and a couple of watches and you won’t get rich, either. You might get some use out of a handful of credit cards if you got exceptionally busy for a couple of hours, but in the middle of the night? What a waste.
    I was saved from further reflections on mortality and ladybugs and brief candles and the like by the arrival of Injun Joe, who made his usual hesitant scratching noise on my office door. I welcomed him effusively. So did his old pal King. After giving him a good once-over and a couple f sniffs, I decided he could just about get through the doors of a war-surplus store, say, without getting heaved out, so off we went shopping, something I was not particularly looking forward to. I mean, what man likes shopping for clothes anyway, let alone when he’s buying them for someone else, let alone for an Injun wino.
    It turned out to be not that bad; we got all we needed (but not all he wanted) in just two stops, one at a Sergeant York’s surplus out on Ventura, the moccasins—and a pair of white socks I threw in—at a cut-rate shoe store next door. Luckily, Joe knew what sizes of everything he wore, as there was no way the clerks in either emporium were going to let poor old Joe in his torn old sweaters and sockless feet try on any of their products. King profited from the expedition to the extent of a new, super-hard rubber ball; all I got out of it was a bill totaling $82.83, can you believe.
    Back at the office, Joe expressed a desire to see himself all dolled up in his new finery. I said, OK, but he would just have to undoll himself after, because to protect my investment I would be keeping the duds chez moi until the big event, afterward he could do what he wanted with them and in them. So Joe scooted back to the kitchenette with his parcels, happy as a kid on Christmas morn. And I must say he looked greatly improved when he reappeared, even if he had his shirt buttoned up wrong. He corrected that. I asked him to do up the top button, too, as it looked more Indian, somehow. He did so. And when he added the beaded headband ($6.00!), darned if he didn’t look like a veritable descendant of the mighty Crazy Horse himself.
    After Joe had, with extreme reluctance, changed back into his old (old is right) clothes, I slipped him a little walking-around money, told him to show up promptly at the office at five o’clock Friday afternoon without fail, but with a shave and a shampoo, and off he shuffled, his blanket over one shoulder, to who knew what sad adventures. Shortly thereafter, King and I shuffled off home. I knew what adventure I was heading for that evening, ‘twas to be a musical adventure, to which I looked forward with mixed emotions. No, it wasn’t to hear some second-rate touring company sing La Traviata in the original Greek, to that my emotions wouldn’t be mixed in the slightest. Rick was sitting in with a local country band, and of course Tom ‘n’ Jerry were going to drop in casual like, just happening to have their axes with them, what luck! My mixed emotions didn’t come from the thought of the music, heaven forbid, I loved country and I liked Rick ‘n’ Tom ‘n’ Jerry. No, women were the cause of my emotional turmoil, not for the first time and extremely unlikely for the ultimate. See, my heartthrob, Evonne had, B.V.D. (before Vic Daniel), a heavy crush of her own, she had let slip out late one noche when we were dancing to something sweet and sentimental in her apartment wearing nothing but one sheet wrapped around the both of us. Said crush had played for her senior prom. It was the first time she had ever worn an evening dress. It was pale blue chiffon, with bell sleeves and a scoop neckline. A white camellia was pinned where camellias get pinned. A blue velvet headband kept her blond curls in check; long white gloves with innumerable buttons graced her dainty fingers and slim arms; T-strap Fuck-Me’s adorned her restless feet. Her perfume was a few dabs of