Free Fiddlers by Ed McBain

Jewish yenta, Jenny Cho - for such was her Americanized name - told the detectives that she�d opened her first salon fifteen years ago, with a $30,000 start-up investment, after a ten-week course that gave her a license in manicuring. Before then, she�d clipped, filed, and polished her own nails at home�
    �Korean girl have very strong nail,� she told them. �No need nail salon. We do for ourselves.�
    � and now she ran a string of six manicure salons scattered all over the city, all with the word �Blossom� in their names. Yon had been her Korean name, before she changed it to Jenny. It meant �lotus blossom.�
    The detectives listened politely.
    At ten that Wednesday morning, there were women all over the place, sitting in these high, black-leather upholstered chairs, feet soaking in tubs of water, nails getting painted, or dried, reading magazines. One of the ladies with her feet in a tub was sitting with her skirt pulled up almost to Seoul. Parker was tempted not to look.
    �Who you looking for?� Jenny asked.
    �Know a woman named Alicia Hendricks?� Parker said.
    �Beauty Plus?�
    �Lustre Nails?�
    �Oh sure,� Jenny said. �She come here alla time. Nice girl. She okay?�
    �She�s dead,� Parker said.
    Jenny�s eyes immediately shifted. Just the very slightest bit, almost as if the light had changed, it was that subtle. But both these men were detectives, and that�s why they were here in person, rather than at the other end of a phone. They both saw the faint flicker of recognition; both realized they might be getting close to something here.
    Jenny was no fool.
    She caught them catching on.
    Saw in their eyes the knowledge of what they�d seen in hers.
    �I so sorry to hear that,� she said, and ducked her head.
    They allowed her the moment of grief, authentic or otherwise.
    �When did you see her last?� Parker asked.
    �Two,�t�ree week ago. She come by with new line. What happen to her?�
    Sounding genuinely concerned.
    �Someone shot her.�
    �Why?�
    You tell us, Parker thought.
    �How long did you know her?� Genero asked.
    �Oh, maybe two year. T�ree?�
    �Did you know she was doing drugs?�
    Straight out. Made Alicia sound like a cotton shooter or some other kind of desperate addict, but what the hell. It certainly caught Jenny Cho�s attention.
    The word flashed in her brown eyes like heat lightning. She knew Alicia was doing drugs. Dabbling. Experimenting. Whatever. But she knew. And she wanted no part of it now. The alarm sizzled in her eyes, they could feel her backing away from the very word. Drugs. Shrinking away from the knowledge.
    But she was smart.
    �Yes, but not so much,� she said. �Some li�l pot, you know?�
    �Uh-huh,� Parker said.
    �Any idea where she was getting it?� Genero asked.
    �You go An�rews Boul�vard, you buy pot anyplace. All over the street, anyplace.�
    �Uh-huh,� Parker said again.
    �Other dope, too,� Jenny said. �All kine�a heavy shit.�
    �You think she might�ve been doing any of the heavier stuff?�
    �No,� Jenny said. �No, no. She a good girl. Jussa li�l pot ever now and then. Dass all.�
    The detectives said nothing.
    �Ever�body do a li�l pot ever now and then,� Jenny said.
    They still said nothing.
    �Why? You think dass why somebody maybe shoot her?� Jenny said.
    �Maybe,� Parker said, and shrugged.
    �What do you think?� Genero asked.
    �I think I so sorry she dead,� Jenny said.
    * * * *
    �So tell me about yourself,� Reggie said.
    The top of the Jaguar was down, they were tooling along soundlessly on back roads, her red hair blowing in the wind. He had bought a billed motoring cap at Gucci�s, cost him four hundred dollars, the tan leather as soft as a baby�s ass. He wore it tilted jauntily over one eye. All he needed was a pair of goggles to make him look like some kind of Italian playboy.
    �What would you like to know?� he asked.
    She was