LITMIR.BIZ

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know.”

      Decker illuminated the money with his penlight, aimed his .38, and shot off the tip of the envelope. The alley reverberated with the echo of the blast and filled with the smell of gunpowder. He reloaded the chamber and shut off the light.

      “If that’s the best you can do, I’m going to blow your wad to bits, Clementine. Where did they hang out?”

      A cackle came from the garbage cans.

      “You’re a fuckin’ A, Decker,” said a hollow whisper. “An A number one fuckin’ felon. Don’t you know it’s against the law to shoot money in America?” He laughed again. “Shoot it until it ain’t nothing but a pile of green Swiss cheese. My answer’s the same. Don’t know where they did their shit, don’t know who their stooges was, don’t know ’cause I didn’t want to know, Cop. I wasn’t into that shit, so I closed my eyes.”

      “Did they film their cult rituals?” Decker asked.

      “Yeah.”

      “Who has the films?”

      “Don’t know who their customers be.”

      “Who deals in snuffs around these parts?”

      “Lots of people.”

      “Names.”

      Silence.

      Decker waited.

      “Talk says the main distributor is a fat fuck named Cecil Pode.” Clementine coughed—a dry, hacking sound. “Works out of his studio in Culver City.”

      “Who gives Pode the films?”

      “Don’t know.”

      “Who does Pode sell the films to?”

      “Used to sell ’em to the Countess. Like I tole you, don’t know who her customers be.”

      “Let me get this straight. The Countess made films with the Blade. Then Cecil would buy them from the producer and sell the finished product back to her?”

      “That way she be paid off twice. Once as the star, the other when the goods be delivered. She knew who all the weirdos be and have an easy time unloading the shit at the price she wanted.”

      “Then why bother using Cecil as a distributor? Why not sell directly to the customers?”

      “Rumor has it that Cecil does the filming as well as the distributing.”

      “Are the films videotaped?”

      “No way! Good old-fashioned 16 mm half-inch film. Keeps it cheap and rare. Videotape’s too easy to pirate.”

      “Who paid Pode for his camera work?”

      “Don’t know.”

      “The Countess?”

      “Don’t know.”

      Decker felt frustration growing inside. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

      “Why was the Countess whacked?”

      Clementine didn’t answer. Decker repeated the question.

      “Sometimes people get carried away,” said Clementine softly.

      “Where could I find the Blade?”

      “Tole you before, man. Don’t know.”

      “Cecil know him?”

      “Don’t know.”

      “Ever know a girl named Lindsay Bates?”

      “Nope.”

      “Are you sure—”

      “I said I don’t know the chick,” Clementine interrupted. “You got enough for your money. I see you, Decker. Got your piece in your right hand and your smoke in your left. I got cat’s eyes, Cop—see things coming in as well as out. I didn’t trust you anymore than you trusted me, so that means, my man, that I got my piece too. You get cute, you be dead. Now get the hell out of here while you still got your balls in one piece.”

      “Stick around, Clementine. I just might need you again.”

      “Fuck you. Get out of here.”

      Decker backed out of the black void and into the silvery mist of the street lights. Suddenly he felt hot. Mopping his forehead with the back of his hand, he stood for a moment to catch his breath, then took off his jacket. By the time he reached the Plymouth, he was drenched in sweat.

      Pode lived in a frame house in Mar Vista. The neighborhood was predominantly white working class, but over the past few years, a slow trickle of immigrant Latinos had worked their way into the cheaper homes. Pode’s place was badly in need of a paint job and the lawn was a tangle of weeds. The porch steps were crumbling and the flagstone walkway was as much dirt as it was rock. If Pode had money, he obviously wasn’t spending it on hearth and home.

      The house was dark, the curtains drawn. After determining that no one was home, Decker went back to the car and waited. It was not the time to play hot dog and attempt a break-in. He knew Cecil was trapped. Marge was at the shop, he was here, and all good homing pigeons return to roost.

      He sipped the container of black coffee, listening to the staccato voices of the dispatchers reporting crimes—burglaries, robberies, GTAs. The yetzer harah is alive and well. More than well. Goddam robust.

      Devil worship, living sacrifices, pain flicks. How the hell did Lindsey figure in? Suppose she and the Countess had been snuffed in a film. How had the Countess gotten hold of her in the first place? Pulled her into a car at gunpoint in front of a busy shopping center? Stranger things had been known to happen, but he didn’t like it. And why was the Countess killed along with her? Maybe Lindsey Bates had a secret life as a satanic cultist and had been involved from the start.

      No. It didn’t make sense.

      The hours passed. Decker’s hopes for a quick catch began to fade. He’d come on too strong with Pode and Pode’d split town along with his goods.

      Decker radioed Marge.

      “Anything?” he asked her.

      “Dead.”

      “I think Pode might have taken an extended vacation.”

      “So now what do we do?”

      “There’s his son, Dustin, the stockbroker and film maker.”

      “Why do you think he’s dirty, Pete?”

      “I don’t think he’s one way or the other, but I still want to feel him out. We’ve returned each other’s calls but haven’t been able to connect.”

      “Doing the old Jack Cohen alias again?” Marge asked.

      “Jack loves intrigue.”

      She asked: “How long do you want to hang around?”

      “You can go home, Marge. He’s more likely to show up here than at his studio.”

      “Unless he has business to clear up here.”

      There was a pause.

      “How about another hour?” Marge suggested.

      “Okay.”

      At 4 A.M. they called it quits.

      It came to him—a flash of insight as he was pulling up into the driveway of his ranch. He shifted into reverse and headed for Santa Monica, arriving at the apartment complex a half hour before dawn. The chill and wetness of the night had seeped into the nape of his neck, and he pulled up the collar on his jacket. Stopping in front of number thirteen, he knocked hard on the door. Five minutes later, Truscott answered in his underwear and swayed drowsily, using the doorhandle for balance.

      “What’s goin’ on?” he muttered.

      “You

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