Vic Daniel 6 - As she rides by

matter. Remember the so-called phony war in England in 1939—1940 when months went by and nothing much happened? Thirty seconds was about the extent of our phony war, I estimated. OK. So be it. I’d been at war before with the same dirty bunch, more or less, and the score to date was a highly satisfactory V. D. 1, them 0. But it had been messy, as things are inclined to get— and not only in the music business—when there is a lot of money at stake, so a certain amount of prudence would not be unadvisable, especially in the light of what had happened so quickly and viciously to my boy, lethal dose or not.
    OK. So I’d go to war prudently. I checked my office weapon, which dwelt in the second drawer down on the left side of the desk, as I was a lefty; it looked prudent enough to me. It looked even more prudent tucked into the shoulder holster I retrieved from the safe out back. I was just about to unplug the phone and take it and a couple of other bits and pieces out back for safekeeping, when it rang. I picked up the receiver immediately. Not because I thought it might be a contrite Evonne Louise Shirley looking for some smooth-kissing fool to while away a few hours with, I always answer the phone immediately if it’s within reach instead of letting it ring a few times first; what care I if people think I’ve got nothing else to do with my life but restlessly hover inches away from my Touch-Tone hoping against forlorn hope that someone, anyone, will call, a wrong number would do, a telephone survey, anything. Pfui, as the great Nero Wolfe said so aptly.
    On the phone was Diamond Lil, Joe’s lady friend, in tears. Also in a screaming rage against guess who.
    Joe had been beaten up, bad.
    Luckily, he had that twenty bucks I’d given him, so he found a cab to take him to her place. It cost him the whole twenty, too, although it shouldn’t have been more than ten bucks at the most.
    “Where?” I asked.
    “Soon as he got off the Woodman bus,” she said.
    “Who?”
    “Some freaks,” she said. “He said he didn’t see ‘em. They rolled him and even took the bag with his old clothes in, for God’s sake. And some box, he says. Lucky he had the twenty down in his sock, is all I can say.”
    It wasn’t all she had to say, as a matter of fact. She had a lot more to say, most of it about blaming me, and I could not deny my share of culpability, let alone stupidity. Well, it turned out he wasn’t hurt that bad after all, he’d been bonked on the head from behind and kicked around a bit and his nice new clothes was all tore up, which he was probably most upset about, if I really wanted to know. Here she paused expectantly. Of course I immediately said to tell Joe we’d go shopping again as soon as he felt up to it, and this time I’d throw in a pair of bloody boots.
    She finally hang up. I spotted the sign I’d hung up on the front door temporarily, went over and took it down, tore it up disgustedly, then chucked it. A lot of good it had been. I was only trying to make myself look like the most vulnerable party in the action, some nerdy, nervous accountant in glasses even, hoping that if any countermeasures were taken, they’d be taken against me. Directly, I mean, not by getting to me through getting to my dog, even I never thought of that. “Mind the dog,” I’d said as they left—brilliant, Daniel. They would be sorry, I vowed. V. D. does not get angry often, but when he does, look out below. Look out everywhere, in fact. Look out in particular the Pussycat Adult Cinema Co.
    OK.
    We tried to be friendly, you two.
    We tried to be nice.
    We didn’t hit you with the restraining order until it was our last resort. Elroy was ready with a deal to take over your interest in the property, but you didn’t want to know. OK, Harrison, Citizen, put this in your stop press: The United States of America and its allies might not have gone to war yet against Senor Saddam Hussein, but V. (for Victor) Daniel and his allies have against Gall & Garrison. How intelligent Senor Saddam Hussein was, I did not know. How intelligent Gall & Garrison were, I did know—imbecilically stupid, because:
    One. They endeavored to obtain an early settlement in their favor by frightening the two principals in the action into withdrawing; and,
    Two. Stealing the only piece of evidence in the case.
    One was doomed to failure because (a) Doc Taffy Chandler had come up with a real descendant of the once mighty Yokut Tribe—or close