Gat Heat by Richard S. Prather

me?”
    â€œYou wouldn’t of come.”
    â€œYeah, you’re right. I’d come to his funeral, but that’s the only—Don’t do it, Bingo.”
    It was pretty close. He’d hauled the gun back, and maybe was going to swing it. Maybe. He wasn’t quite right in the head. Anyway, he didn’t.
    â€œSo Jimmy Violet wants to see me, huh?” I said. “What about?”
    â€œHe’ll tell you.”
    I saw the amber light start glowing on the dashboard. I did not, however, reach for the phone. Not just then.
    First I said, “Let me tell you something, Bingo. I never had any reason to build a real gripe against you. Not before today. But you have now earned a spot near the top of my list.”
    â€œI just wet my pants.”
    â€œHell, if the smell’s a clue, it happened before you got in the car.”
    He started swearing in a high-pitched voice that got even higher. He was burning, on the edge—which was where I wanted him. On it, not over it.
    â€œHold it,” I said. “Look at that, Bingo.” I moved a hand—slowly—and pointed at the phone light.
    Breath hissed between his teeth, but he didn’t say anything. He really wasn’t right at all in the head.
    â€œYou know what this is, Bingo? It’s a phone. Radio-telephone, under the dash.”
    â€œSo what?”
    â€œSo I’d better answer it.”
    â€œIn a pig’s rear end, you’ll answer it.”
    â€œListen, try to use your brains just once today. I know who the call’s from, I’ve been expecting it. It’s from my secretary—not really my secretary, but Hazel Green, the gal on the switchboard in the Hamilton.”
    He hissed a little more. “So? So what?”
    â€œUse your conk, you saphead.” I stretched it a little. “She knows I’m in the car—knows I’m driving the car, for that matter. If I don’t answer she’ll also know something’s wrong. She’ll know I’ve got trouble, or somebody else is driving the heap—”
    â€œShut up, lemme think.”
    â€œThat’ll be the day. If I don’t answer she’ll sure as hell tip the fuzz—”
    â€œShut up.”
    â€œO.K.” I grinned at him. “If that’s the way you want it, Bingo.”
    He wavered for maybe three seconds, then said, “Answer it.” As I reached for the phone he added, “But make it fast. Fast , you get it? One wrong crack and she’ll hear the shot herself.”
    I put the phone against my ear. “Hello.”
    â€œShell, I got it. Edward Walles, a home on Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills.” She gave me the number—clear up at the north end of Beverly, barely inside the city limits—then went on, “I checked the utility companies. Do you realize they’ve got electricity, and gas, and hot and cold running water in Beverly Hills?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo it’s their home. In the name of Mr. and Mrs. Edward Walles.”
    â€œFine,” I said. “And thank you, Miss Green.”
    Then I hung up and looked at Bingo. “O.K.? That suit you?”
    He was squinting his eyes, and his hand was so tight around the gun’s butt that his knuckles were bloodless, but he said, “Sounded O.K. Yeah … O.K.”
    I’d figured it would sound O.K. to him. Bingo would certainly know I didn’t have a personal secretary, and he probably knew there was a gal on the switchboard in the Hamilton. He might even know her name was Hazel.
    But he wouldn’t know about the way we usually yacked on the phone.
    And very likely he didn’t know her last name was not Green.
    Bingo liked it that I was driving carefully, and slowly. Well, I like it too—now. So I continued to drive carefully, and even slowed down a little more. The slower the better from here on, as far as I was concerned.
    â€œJimmy still at the same place?” I