Honky-Tonk Girl by Jr. Charles Beckman, Jr.

He wants to know, “—Botello paused and swallowed painfully—”why we haven’t brought your daughter Raye in for questioning. He says he knows she’s been hangin’ around with Miff Smith for the past month. Furthermore, he was one of the first to get into Smith’s room after the murder. Lives right across the street. He was there with the usual crowd that gathers around somethin’ like that. He claims he picked up a woman’s pin. It’s shaped like a flamingo and has real diamonds, he says, and he swears he can trace it to Raye. He’s seen her wearin’ it when she used to come down to where their band was playin’ nights, when she was hangin’ around to see Miff Smith. He says if we don’t bring her in, he’s gonna turn the pin over to George Swenninger down at the Herald ....”
    Botello took a crumpled newspaper out of his pocket. “Swenninger has already given this thing a big play. Look, here on the front page. It seems this Miff Smith guy wasn’t just no ordinary two-bit Honky-Tonk Street musician. He was a nationally known jazz musician. Swenninger is howling that we should find out who knocked him off. If he gets that pin, he’ll blast you and the department wide open, hatin’ your guts like he does.”
    For a long moment there was utter silence in the room. Cowles was sitting back in the shadows now and his face was no longer clearly visible to the sweating Fred Botello. His long fingers suddenly pulled the telephone to him. The dial whirred. His voice talked softly into the instrument. Fred’s straining ears couldn’t make out the words. Fred shifted his weight from one aching foot to another. He rubbed the pit of his burning stomach. Cowles replaced the telephone on the table. His face was gray. He moved forward, out of the shadows.
    â€œIt’s Raye’s pin,” he whispered. “She’s been missing it ever since that night.” His long bony fingers slowly drew together in a knot, wadding up a ball of paper in their sinewy grasp. He got to his feet slowly and suddenly threw the paper in Fred’s face.
    â€œYou stupid bastard!” he screamed. “You couldn’t even go to the bathroom without having somebody help you! Why didn’t you take Nickles in?”
    Fred half-lifted the hat which he was holding in both hands, as if to protect himself from the abuse of Cowles’ raging voice. “If I’d brought him in officially and booked him for withholdin’ evidence,” he protested, “the paper would sure have gotten the story.”
    â€œAll right. Then get him unofficially!” Cowles paced from behind his desk, walking furiously and gripping the back of his neck with clenched fingers. “Raye would be in the clear if we could get that chippie.”
    â€œHow about this Jordon dame? Several witnesses knew she was with Smith when he was shot. We’ve already picked her up at her house. She’s at the hospital now, out of her nut. I figure she did it.”
    â€œDon’t worry about her. She won’t give you any trouble as far as complications. Besides, you haven’t got a motive. She hardly knew the guy. Question her enough to make it look good. Then let her go. I’m not worried about her. It’s that damned Honky-Tonk Street whore I’m afraid of....”
    Cowles stopped a moment to think, then went on. “I don’t want you to handle Nickles by yourself. Go pick up Gene. I’ll call him. Take him with you. Rough up Nickles if you have to. But get that damned pin away from him, by any means. And impress on him that he’d better keep his nose out of this case. Tell him that—just that way. I want that tin horn trumpet player shut up! And I want that streetwalker picked up!”
    Fred plodded hurriedly out and walked back down the hall. In a room near the front door, the cute secretary was sitting at a desk. Her