“Here we go,” the sister said as she jiggled the dice, the cup next to her ear, an earnest expression on her face. Out they flew, bouncing off the backsplash and coming up ten.

  “Damn,” Ingram cursed softly.

  She snickered good-naturedly.

  He took the cup and shook it vigorously. He tipped the cup and the dice jetted out, banging against the backsplash as hers had done. A six and five came up.

  “Hot dog,” he said.

  Sister Violet said, “Sit on the table and stick your foot out.” Rubber gloves on over thoroughly washed hands, she sewed his wound closed. “I pray that doesn’t get gangrenous.”

  “You and me both.”

  “Even a heathen’s prayers are heard.” She put away her medical supplies, plopping the scissors in a jar of disinfectant.

  “Especially in a foxhole.” He eased onto his feet.

  “Here you go, sport.” She handed him a cane.

  “Thank you.” He started to exit. “If I’d come up snake eyes, would you have turned me away?”

  “Every day has an element of chance.”

  They returned to the front together and the sister called in a mother with a child in a striped T-shirt. Walking with the cane eased some of his discomfort and he had a couple of aspirin when he got back home. She’d told him to keep the foot elevated as much as he could, but he had preparations for tonight to attend to. He did keep shoes off his feet, though, and went around his place in his socks. He had a pair of slip-ons he’d wear tonight instead of trying to wrestle a lace-up shoe over the gauze. From his closet he retrieved his .45 in the small steamer-like trunk box. He’d swathed it in Cosmoline, and secured a cotton cloth around the gun with masking tape. He undid this, feeling its heft in his hand. He wiped off the excess grease. Sense memory came back, how to take it apart and reassemble the gun, though it had been years since he’d held the weapon. He distinctly recalled his drill sergeant hammering to the recruits: your sidearm is like a woman, treat her right and she’ll always respond.

  “’Cause if your baby jams, then Joe Chink gets to jam a bayonet up your ass.”

  Words to live by, Ingram noted dryly, sitting at his kitchen table as he took the .45 apart. From his tool drawer he’d removed gun oil, a round-headed brush and a small can of solvent for cleaning off old deposits. Wicks and his buddy with the pig-sticker were looking for Hanisha and Clovis, who were in hiding. Why, and did it have anything to do with Ben’s death? The phone rang and he plucked the handset free.

  “You want a home-cooked meal tonight, lover man?”

  “More than anything, honey chile, but I have to see a man about a horse this evening.”

  “Yeah, what’s her name?”

  “I’d ask you along, but it could go sideways.” Might as well tell her what happened now, he reasoned.

  “I’m a big girl, in case you didn’t notice, Harry. What is it?”

  He brought her up to speed.

  “Jesus, Harry,” Anita Claire said. “You sure you should be doing this? What I mean is at least wait until your foot’s better.”

  “They figure me for a chump, Anita, who punked out to save his skin. They won’t be expecting me to come back at them.”

  “Do you hear how you sound? Is this for your friend Ben or revenge for you?”

  “I’m not going off half-cocked. But these two work for Hoyt or some damn body in the association. You wouldn’t want me knuckling under to the capitalists, would you?”

  “How clever you are. I think there’s a way to do this with the velvet glove approach rather than a hammer.”

  “Meaning my head?”

  “Yes.”

  She was into this. He was liking her more and more. “What do you suggest?”

  That night at the Stockyard, the crowd wasn’t shoulder-to-shoulder, but orders for the untaxed liquor were plentiful, and several sets of bodies were pressing closer together than public decorum allowed, slow dancing to music from the jukebox. Edwards had the machine calibrated so the music couldn’t be played loud, and its speakers were often drowned out by the din of the patrons. No sense being too blatant about what was going on upstairs, he’d once told Ingram. He knew too that Edwards was paying off a desk sergeant at 77th Division to keep the beat cops off his back.

  Sitting on a stool in the bar area was Anita Claire. She wore a clingy dress that wouldn’t have her mistaken for a librarian. She drank a martini and noted the customers coming into the establishment—that is, the ones who got past the bouncer on the ground floor, who stood behind a steel door with an eye slot in it, like out of Prohibition.

  The Stockyard had gotten its name because there was a mural on one of the walls in the front here—an idealized depiction of farm life. Anthropomorphic pigs and cows sauntered about in a green field in vests, spats and dresses, several with open umbrellas to ward off the sun. There was a barn and silo in the background of the panorama and a bull in a bowler and rolled-up sleeves commanded a puffing tractor. What had been in this building before the plumbing supply occupied the bottom floor was the subject of speculation. When Edwards worked out the deal with the Wertzendahls, the German Americans who’d bought the building in 1957, the second floor had been vacant for years, except the mural. The commercial realtor they’d worked with suggested it must have been a meat-packing operation, but that made no sense on the top floor.

  “Carry a cow carcass up those steps?” Walter Wertzendahl had opined. “I think not.”

  Pressed against the mural in the gloom, a man and woman were kissing and caressing, his hand under her skirt. In the scene behind them a cow with big eyes lazed in the grass on a blanket reading a book. Claire, looking at the couple and the cartoon, turned her head as a man matching Ingram’s description of Wicks came through the archway into the bar.

  Wicks sat on a stool. He signaled the bartender by bending two extended fingers. He was the second white man to enter the bar and remain here. Others passed the bar to head down a short hallway to an alcove where a second bouncer controlled the hidden door mechanism to the casino area. The other white man in the bar was a pudgy individual in a gray suit who sipped beer and ogled the colored gals. Sweat had broken out on his balding pate and now and then as he talked to himself, he’d giggle.

  Claire waited several minutes, not imbibing. Checking her watch, she took a final sip of her drink and set it aside. She rose and moved past the creep, quite aware his eyes were locked on her. Purposely she brushed Wicks’s back and stopped. Assuming a tipsy voice she said, “Say, you was down at the It club, wasn’t you? The night Shorty Rogers was blowing hot?”

  Wicks checked her out up and down. “Naw, doll, that was some other guy. Too bad for me, huh?”

  She shook a finger at him, tongue flicking out. “Yeah, it was you. Me and my friend you talked to.” Like one of those hula girl figurines hot rodders bolted on their dashboards, Claire swayed side to side standing in place.

  “That so? What friend was that?” Interest glittered in his eyes.

  She grinned, wagging her finger again and maneuvered around a passing couple as she said, “You know, Hanisha.” Stepping farther backward, Claire got more people between her and Wicks, who’d come off his stool fast at hearing the name.

  “Excuse me,” Claire said as she put her hand on a woman’s shoulder, nudging her out of the way as she hurried past.

  “Damn, girl, what’s your hurry? They givin’ away free foot massages in the back?” the woman cracked.

  Claire reached the short hallway, Wicks not far behind. Two Black men exited the casino area in a good mood, one of them having won at the blackjack table.

  “Hey fellas,” she said to them, putting a hand on one of the men’s arms. “What’s your hurry?”

  “Hey yourself,” this one said. He wasn’t much taller than her, but he had wide shoulders.

  “I need to talk to her,” Wicks said.

  “Who the hell is you, gray boy?” the one who’d talked to Claire said.

  “This ain’t Culver City,” his friend added. He was taller and thinner, mahogany skinned.

  “Look here, me and this gal got business.”

  “That right?” wide shoulders said.

  Claire had her back to the alcove, the two gamblers between her and Wicks. The bouncer, a beefy man who’d played tackle on the Rams for two years with Night Train Lane, was now in the hallway too. He was called Timmy T, short for Timmy Teeth, due to his loosening them in his opponents’ mouths.

  Claire slipped past him. The alcove was an empty room not much bigger than a janitor’s closet. Inset here was a visible door. In case the bouncer had to turn someone away, he’d usher them through this door where there were descending stairs to exit the building. Claire took those stairs.

  In the alcove Timmy T said to Wicks, “What’s the problem here?” He stood over Wicks by two inches. The two other men left.

  “Nothing, it’s fine,” Wicks said. He returned to the bar. The stool where he’d been sitting was now occupied and his beer had been removed. He stood for a moment, hand in his pocket jingling his change as he was considering what to do next. Then in the archway he spied Claire, who’d re-entered the blind pig through the front so as to be seen. He started for her slow and steady as she turned away.

  Claire was nearly at the bottom of the carpeted stairs, Wicks at the top, descending. She exited onto the sidewalk. Overhead the neon sign of the pipe being continually fitted and refitted hummed, its light momentarily bathing her in arctic blue and white. She then pivoted away and headed toward the far corner of the building. Wicks was hanging back just enough as newcomers walked into the unlicensed establishment. She made a left turn down a gap between the buildings. Hearing his footfalls, she could tell he’d picked up the pace. He arrived at the opening, stepping into the light cast from an overhead streetlamp, a pale yellow circle beneath his feet. Farther along the passageway was a gloom darker than the night around them. Claire breathed heavily as she waited. As Wicks entered the darkness, he was struck in the forehead hard. He rocked back against a brick wall, his eyes glossy.

  Ingram brought the sap down again on the hood’s head. This time the other’s knees gave out. He slid to the ground, back against the brick wall. Ingram reached inside the hoodlum’s jacket and removed his Browning from its shoulder holster. He handed the gun to Claire, who held it authoritatively.

  “What does Hoyt have to do with Hanisha? She supplies the brown sugar, ain’t that right?” he asked him.

  “You’re so smart, you tell me, asshole,” Wicks muttered, trying to get his legs underneath him.

  Ingram sapped him again.

  “Shit, man,” Wicks swore. Blood seeped from the top of his head, wetting his hair.

  “Careful you don’t kill him,” Claire advised.

  “He’s got a thick skull.” Ingram pressed his good foot into the man’s chest. “Why’d Hoyt have Ben killed?”

  “Who?” Wicks said.

  “You know who the hell I’m—”

  “Let him go,” Morty yelled from the entrance to the gap, leveling a gun at them.

  “Aw shit,” Ingram stammered.

  Claire fired the Browning. The bullet pierced the wall near Morty’s head, raising brick dust as he ducked away.

  She grabbed Ingram’s arm to speed him along and they ran farther into the passageway, swallowed by the black. At Ingram’s urging, they dropped to the ground, lying prone. Morty fired and missed, and Claire fired back as Morty helped his partner to his feet. He had to help Wicks along as they made their getaway, their footfalls receding.

  “Damn, Annie Oakley,” Ingram said appreciatively as they got up, dusting their clothes off.

  “We couldn’t just stand there and get drilled.” A car roared away on the street.

  “No, we couldn’t.” His heart accelerated, thudding in his ears, but it wasn’t from fear.

  A heightened sheen illuminated her face from within. “That was exciting.”

  “Yes, it was,” he croaked.

  They grabbed each other and the two could barely contain themselves as Ingram drove them to his apartment. He nearly hit a post behind his building as he parked. Claire had his zipper down and had unbuckled his pants as she stroked him. Her dress bunched up, he fingered her clit, yet they were not so far gone and managed to get out of the car and up the stairs. They only made it as far as the front room and made love there on the rug. He was glad he’d vacuumed it a couple of weeks ago.

  At some point the pair finally made their way to his bed, discussing what they knew so far.

  Claire said, “If your friend was killed because he was trying to blackmail Winston Hoyt, are his goons looking for Clovis and Hanisha for the same reason?”

  “Maybe they have copies of the photos I have,” Ingram answered. “Ben was working for Hoyt so he wouldn’t have come at him directly. He could have used those two to work the scheme.”

  “What if they double-crossed your friend?” she asked.

  “Hoyt makes the payoff. Instead of splitting the dough they kill him.”

  “You sound like you don’t believe that.”

  “Clovis would have shot Ben or beat him over the head. That cat don’t strike me as the subtle type to mess with the brakes.”

  “You aren’t saying a colored man can’t be clever, are you?”

  “If you’d met him you wouldn’t be saying that. That negro is direct like raw catfish left out in the sun too long.”

  “Could be with direction from your girl he’s less so.”

  “Okay, maybe,” he allowed, nodding. “Hoyt found out they were involved and wants to silence them too?”

  “Or buy them off. You said you didn’t find the negs, but they have to be somewhere. They might have them.”

  “Negs can be duped, you know. Kodak makes a film for doing it easily.”

  “Then all kinds of bodies could be dropping.”

  “Naw, I guess they’d want to keep this to themselves.”

  “I think so too.” Nude, she got out of bed and left the bedroom to rummage in his refrigerator. She returned with a bottle of beer and got back in bed, draping a leg over his as he sat propped against the headboard. “What if it’s something else?” she said. “Hanisha supplies the colored girls for their little parties, a little pepper to the salt for seasoning. Them chicks report back to her what they’ve seen and heard. Men like to brag when they’re waving their dicks around. Spellbinding us impressionable women.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Or so I’ve been told.” She took a sip and shared the bottle with him.

  He drank some. “Then there could be more photos than just what Ben had.”

  She snuggled beside him under the covers. “If he drove Hoyt to his little get-togethers, he could have met one of the women. He dated Black women, didn’t he?”

  “He did,” Ingram acknowledged.

  “Add to that—what if Hanisha had compiled names of those who partook? You said you thought you recognized a judge in one of the shots.”

  “Men like that can’t have their reputations questioned. Especially if there’s a photo with his tongue between a colored woman’s legs.” He caressed her as he said this.

  “What exactly are you saying, Harry?” She kissed him.

  “You know there was an article about this in Dapper.”

  “About what?” she asked, not so innocently.

  He cleared his throat. “Oral sex, I believe was what they called it. Like what was good for the gander was good for the goose. Copies of the issue were banned in a lot of cities, there was even a bonfire of them down South. All that was officially. Unofficially, there was a whole lot of under the counter sales.”

  “Well, well. Did you learn anything from that article?”

  “I picked up a few pointers.” Feeling bold he added, “But I usually do best at on-the-job training.”

  “Hmmm,” she said, kissing him, then lying back.

  When morning came Claire was up early as there was preparation to be done for King’s visit to town less than a week away. His advance men would be here in two days, she’d told him, putting in her earrings.

  “You going to look for those two, aren’t you?”

  “I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind. Problem is them being palefaces, I got no way to get to them. Strummer has a few contacts on the white side of town from his Dragna days, but something tells me that might be barking up the wrong tree. When I’ve asked him in the past about being in touch with any of those guys, he always shined me on.”

  “What about a Jewish gangster?”

  “What about one?”

  “My mom could be helpful.”

  “She’s Jewish?”

  “And if she is?”

  “It’s cool with me, baby. Anyways, I never dated a Jewish chick.”

  She chuckled. “She’s not, she’s of stern Lutheran stock, to be precise. But even out here there were trade unionists called on and their hoodlum relatives who broke legs and cracked heads, useful undertakings in certain campaigns. There might be a few of those guys she still knows. I’ll call and ask her.”

  “That would be great.”

  “You might also want to try and find out what Ben was doing up on Mulholland that day.”

  “Probably an errand for Hoyt is what I figured. Or he could have been checking out a club in the Valley. That tall pitcher for the Dodgers, Drysdale, has a restaurant out there called the Dugout.”

  “They offer live music?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Well, like I said, maybe you should find out.” She came over to where he sat clothed on the side of the bed. “Bye,” she said, her hand rubbing the back of his head.

  “Bye.”

  She smacked red from her lipstick on his cheek and was gone.

  Feeling spry, he returned to the Y and worked out. Afterward he was hungry and went to the Detour and ate heavily, probably negating his morning’s labors. He did wonder how many calories you burned off having sex as he buttered his toast.