The man, wearing a Hawaiian pattern shirt, faded blue jeans and basket shoes turns into the Base Hit jazz club entrance in the late afternoon and picks his steps carefully down the creaking wooden stairway. Cobwebs brush his face. He recoils at the stench of drifting sour dust, reaches underground level and nods to the old hag seated behind a table. "Hi, Edna. Mike's expecting me." A smile shows deep lines on her face. She jabs a finger at a bell push by her right elbow. Bouncer Elroy Brown comes through the beaded curtains hanging from a doorway, recognizes the visitor, grins, jerks a thumb for the man to follow and leads him into the smoke-filled, alcohol-stinking bar and stage area. Elroy knocks on an office door, opens it and mumbles several words. The visitor coughs at the fumes irritating his throat. Elroy steps aside for the visitor to enter.
     Club owner Mike Rand rises as the man comes in. "Good to see you again."
     The unsmiling caller says, "We have a job for Elroy and your guest."
     Rand smiled weakly, but it broadens when the visitor puts two swollen envelopes on the table. "Five thousand bucks in the green envelope," the caller says. "Four thousand, plus instructions in a small envelope is for the man. The other thousand is for you and Elroy. There's another ten grand in the red packet. Give that to the man when he finishes the job."
     A jazz band strikes up on stage with a mangled version of 'Bugle Call Rag,' and the office walls shudder. The visitor winces and rubs his ears. "Maybe you should spend some dough and find a band who knows how to play." He goes to the door, turns, and says, "When the job is done, you inform Angelo, okay?"

After the visitor has departed, Rand tells Elroy to fetch the guest. Five minutes later, a small, dumpy man, eyes swollen with sleep, comes in with Elroy. Rand points to the pile of four thousand dollars which has a small envelope on top. "This is for you, plus instructions of what you're to do. You get another ten when the job is job."
     Benny Thompson's eyes opened wider through a sleepy mist. He counts the four thousand dollars, slits open the small envelope and reads the instructions. He studies Rand. "Where does Elroy come in?"
     Rand, veined face mottled blue and gray from too much alcohol reaches for a bottle of vodka. "Elroy is your driver. Use him as you wish."
     "Who has my final ten grand?"
     Rand drinks from the vodka bottle and waves the red envelope. "I have."...

Detectives Miller and Beluga spend part of the afternoon interviewing Eatery staff members, hoping someone knows where the Mob twosome are based, but nobody can help. They tell Ed Ludholme to sit tight and contact Police Headquarters if Abrizzi or any of his cohorts show. Miller follows Beluga onto the street. "I keep saying this, Harry," she says, squinting in the powerful sunlight, "but what do we do next?"
     The Cavalier radio bleeps at them. Miller reaches inside. "Yeah, hello, Miller speaking." There is a message, says HQ. The caller wants to meet Beluga on Duke Street. It is concerning the Mob and Roscoe Johnson. "You got a name for the caller and when he wants to see us?" asks Miller.
     "The time makes no difference - just be there."
     Miller frowns at Beluga. "What's this, Harry - another set-up?"
     Beluga shrugs, climbs in the Cavalier and starts the engine. Miller gets in next him and asks where Duke Street is. "It's a blind alley about fifteen minutes drive from here," he says. "Usually it's loaded at night with drug users and deadbeats, but it's rated number one for accurate street talk - if, that is, you can find the right contact." He checks passing traffic and pulls away towards Fifth.

At Duke Street a train rattled points on the overhead system. Beluga pulls in twenty yards down the street and switches off the Cavalier engine, and checks his Police Special .38. Miller does likewise. She had seen many hovel streets that stink foul in the sun but this alley is a mass of closed premises with walls, doors and windows covered in graffiti, advertising suggestions, positions and possible meeting places. "Some dump," she says.
     "You don't have this in San Diego?" says Beluga, smiling wryly.
     "Sure we do - but we have better street artists." Miller glances over her shoulder at an approaching tramp - a shuffling, hands-in-pockets drop-out with a busted hat and a glazed look. He walks past them, wobbling unsteadily, picks up a cigarette butt from a crack in the concrete sidewalk and shambles on. 
     A cat, tail held high, pads across the street and stops at the wall next the Cavalier. A knock sounds on the car roof above Beluga. A face shows at the window. "Are you Harry Beluga?"
     "That's right, and you're the guy who wants to see us about Roscoe Johnson?"
     "Yeah - I'm Tiny. You get out the car and we talk."
     Miller gets out first. The cat brushes against her legs. Beluga studies Tiny, checks the street for possible trouble and steps out to the stench of an open-air bathroom. Beluga, at one inch over six feet tall, smiles up at Tiny. "Okay, big feller, what is it you want? And don't waste my time because I'm having a bad day."
     Tiny walks to the nearest wall and leans against it, reaches down for the cat and shoves it between his shirt and a partially zipped up jersey. He looks at Miller. "I know about you," he says. "You're the cop from San Diego who's looking to pin down Angelo."
     Miller's face hardens. "How you know that?"
     "News travels fast here. You're called the Headbuster."
     "The what?"
     Tiny strokes the cat's head. "The Headbuster. We hear you scared the crap outa Elroy Brown at the Base Hit. Anybody who can do that has my respect."
     Beluga checks the street again. Thirty yards away, a few drop-outs are lounging in a doorway but otherwise the hot afternoon has driven others to seek cover. "What do you know about the Base Hit?"
     Tiny stretches to his full height of seven feet. "I know a Mob hit man tried to take out you and your partner."
     "Is that so? Do you know who this hit man was?"
     Tiny grins. "I don't know everything, and anyway, there's no free news on this street. Any information will cost you."
     Miller strokes the cat's head. "Listen good, Lofty. You play around with us and we confiscate your cat, right? You ask to see us concerning Roscoe Johnson, so say your piece - and make it quick. And if we don't get it, then..."
     "Then I get my head busted."
     Miller smiles. "That's right - so - what news have you got?"
     "One thing I gotta say," says Tiny. "What I give you stays with us. You don't call me as witness to anything. And I do mean anything."
     "Okay, okay," says Beluga. "Just speak your piece about Roscoe."
     "Roscoe was not a planned Mob hit," says Tiny. "He upset a black guy called Norbert. Norbert is part of a two-man hit team. They trailed Roscoe on his way home and Norbert gunned him down. They made a mistake taking out that kid. Roscoe was one of us. We don't like it when the Mob do that." Tiny looks along the street and licks his lips. "You guys got any dough? A hundred would do for starters."
     "A hundred!" said Miller.
     "Yeah," Tiny says. "I know where you can find Norbert and his sidekick, Mex."
     Beluga brings out his billfold and extracts the exact money, holds out the notes, but retains a tight grip on them. "One hundred dollars, Tiny - and your information had better be good."
     Tiny was confident he had an ace card. "I know a Mob hit man tried taking you both out at the jazz club. I got a name, but only a first name. Are you guys interested?"
     Beluga released his own grip on the hundred. "We sure are."...