Episode 5

Tate opened the drawer and saw the butt of an automatic pistol sticking out from a few sheets of paper. He pissed up the gun by the checked rubber grips and put it on top of the desk. There were small rust spots on the slide and receiver, and areas of the bluing were worn away.

"A Walther PPK," Tate said flatly. "Have you had it long?"

"Six or seven years. I inherited it from my father. I haven't fired it in years."

Tate pressed the magazine release and an empty magazine slid out. The magazine was also sparsely pocked with rust spots.

"Do you have another magazine? A box of cartridges, perhaps."

"There's a box of bullet in the back of the right bottom drawer."

Tate took a plastic bag from his jacket pocket and slid the pistol and magazine into it. He started to write out a receipt for the gun, and asked Malik to retrieve the box of ammunition for him. He watched, out of the tail of his eye, as the man rummaged through the deep drawer, a mess with stacked files, a videotape, a couple of rolls of Ace bandage, until Malik retrieved a cardboard box of surplus European military 9mm cartridges. Malik handed the box to Tate and Tate, upon opening the box, noticed that more than a few of the brass shells were turning green with tarnish.

"No other magazine?"

"No. I really don't like guns much."

"Why do you have it, then?"

" I keep it because it was my father's. I have it here because I was held up a few years ago. I didn't want to be caught like that again."

"Were you held up here?"

"Yeah. The guy hit me a couple of times with his gun when he thought I was holding money back from him."

""Were you holding money back?"

"Of course! But if he'd hit me once more with the fuckin' thing he would have gotten the money. I decided that I'd had enough of that shit and brought the gun in to the club."

Tate handed Malik the receipt and had him sign it. It listed the Walther and the box of bullets.

"We're going to have a ballistics test done on this antique. If it doesn't match the slug in the man in the car you'll get it back."

"Fine," Malik said lighting a cigarette. "I really don't like having it here anyway."

"What do you know about Angel Grant?"

"Not much. She's been working here on and off for a couple of years. The name I put on her paycheck is Angela Garfield. Why?"

"She seemed to have drawn the special attention of the victim. Did you notice?"

"Everybody likes Angel. She's cute, great figure and has a nice business personality. Especially when a guy is a big tipper."

"Is she on the game?"

"If she's turning tricks I don't know about it. I don't want to know about it. This is a boobs and beer joint. Guys come in here and pay to see and drink. Not touch and screw. It probably sounds stupid to you, but I try to run a clean club."

"Do you have an address and phone number for her? Perhaps a photograph?"

Malik turned to the computer keyboard and soon a list of employees, complete with addresses and telephone numbers appeared on the monitor screen. The tapping of a few more keys resulted in the printer ejecting two printed sheets of paper. Malik marked several names on the list with a pencil and then handed the sheets to Tate.

"The checked names are people who were working here during the last shift. I've got a picture of Angel in my desk somewhere."

Malik looked through the files stacked in the drawer from which he had taken the box of ammunition until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a photo and handed it to Tate. It was an 8"X10" color glossy photograph.

"Here she is. A cute girl, no?"

The photograph showed a fresh-faced, blue eyed blonde. Her hair was worn in a neat Dutch-boy cut. She was wide-eyed with a full lipped mouth coated with red lipstick, and bright white even teeth. Tate guessed, from the photo, that she could pass for any age between fifteen to twenty-five. At least her face could. She barely wore an abbreviated Catholic school girl's uniform; a tight white blouse unbuttoned and tied at the midriff, which barely contained her large breasts, a blue plaid pleated mini skirt, white knee socks and black patent leather Mary Jane shoes. In one hand she held what looked like a text book at her side while the other hand was placed on a cocked hip.

"I'm sure that her mother is proud of her," Tate said.

Malik shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette in a dirty coffee cup. "We all do what we have to do to get by."

Tate handed the box of bullets, the gun and the photograph to Garza who had been standing silently at the doorway, and then slipped the list of employees into his jacket pocket.

"I'm sure that Sergeant Garza has several other questions to ask you, Mr. Malik. And please don't forgot to give him your surveillance camera tapes. For the moment, all of this building and the parking lot are considered to be part of the crime scene. Don't take anything out or move anything without being instructed to do so. Understood?"

"No problemo. I just want to open the club again ASAP. My kid's college tuition depends on it."

As Tate left the office he motioned for Garza to follow him. A few steps outside the door he asked in a low voice, "What do you think?"

"He's a cool one," Garza answered. "He finds a guy shot dead in his parking lot and acts as calm as if he found bird crap on his car."

"See what you can get out of him. Not much, probably. And try to find out what table the victim was wooing the dancer from. Maybe the crime scene guys can find a secret message left by the killer."

"Sho'nuff, Garza snorted. "And maybe they can take a picture of the victim's retina and find out the last thing he saw."

** Note to the reader: From here on out all episodes of this story will be first drafts. Please forgive any linguistic boners that may occur. Thanks, Mr. Barnett.