Gat Heat by Richard S. Prather Page B

his head. I glanced back and saw a plainclothes car, a black and white cruiser, and two motorcycles around the Lincoln. There were cops—and guns—everywhere you looked. I guess there were at least a dozen policemen, and I figured that was approximately the right number.
    Stub Corey and the driver were getting out of the Lincoln, leaning forward with their hands on its top as the officer shook them down.
    Bingo straightened up, rubbing the side of his face. “Where’d they all come from?” he said wonderingly.
    The officer who’d pulled the door open was a detective sergeant, and I handed him the Colt .45.
    â€œHere’s Kestel’s gun,” I said. “He was—”
    Bingo didn’t let me finish. “Gun?” he said. “It ain’t my gun. I ain’t got no gun. Gun, you crazy? What would I be doing with a gun? Why, Scott and me, we was just takin’ a drive. Then you guys started beatin’ me up.”
    I looked at the sergeant and he looked at me. Neither of us said anything. There was no need. That was Kestel’s story and he’d stick with it. And it was eight to five he’d be on the streets again an hour after he was booked. Hoods have expensive lawyers. And the hoods’ expensive lawyers have read, with delight, all of our omniscient Supreme Court’s decisions defining and clarifying the rights of hoods.
    â€œWhy don’t you confess, Bingo?” I asked him. “Hell, it can’t do you any harm.”
    â€œConfess what? I didn’t do nothin’. Here we are, takin’ a little ride and cops come out of the bushes. You beat me up. Everybody shoves me around—”
    â€œYou want me to sock you again, Bingo?”
    He shut up.
    I got out of the car and went back toward the Lincoln, A lieutenant named Dan Peterson, a gray-haired detective working out of the Hollywood Division, was standing before Stub Corey and the pudgy-faced driver with the hook nose and speaking to them as I walked up next to him.
    I’d heard the refrain before. So, undoubtedly, had Stub and the other hood.
    â€œâ€”that you have the right to remain silent,” he was telling them politely. “Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to the presence of an attorney to assist you prior to questioning and to be with you during questioning, if you so desire. If you cannot afford an attorney you have the right to have an attorney appointed for you prior to questioning. Do you understand these rights?”
    Corey smiled, exposing the hole in his row of teeth. “What?” he said. “Would you say that again, officer?”
    Peterson’s jaw muscles bulged slightly, but he said, “Will you voluntarily answer my questions?”
    â€œWhy should I do that? You some kind of nut or something, officer?”
    Peterson looked up at the sky, then stepped back, turned his head and nodded to me.
    â€œThanks, Dan,” I said. “Spread my very large thanks around among the boys, will you?”
    He smiled. “Stub Corey and Little Phil here,” he said. “Who’s the other guy?”
    â€œLester Kestel.”
    â€œOld Bingo, huh? What was going on?”
    â€œHe had a .45 in my gut. The boys were escorting me out to see Jimmy Violet.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œNobody told me. I’ll probably ask Jimmy after a while. I suppose you got Corey’s silenced pistol. That should count as at least a misdemeanor—”
    â€œPistol, yeah,” he interrupted. “No silencer on it, though.”
    He showed me the gun. There were grooves around the barrel’s end, but the bulky cylindrical silencer wasn’t on the gun.
    I swore—knowing we’d probably never be able to prove he’d ever had a silencer. Possession of which is a felony and thus illegal. Even today. And he just might have a permit to carry the heater.
    I said, “It’s