Free Cat and Mouse by William Campbell Gault

alike.”
    I grinned at him. “Maybe we should have asked for a double bed.”
    “Let’s get off that kick, Brock.” He paused. “We’re going to find that bastard, aren’t we?”
    “Or die trying. Did you see much action in the Marines?”
    “I killed a few people.” He took a deep breath. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it. Should we eat here?”
    “We may as well. The food’s not bad and they have a liquor license.”
    He had his standard double bourbon, I a bottle of Beck’s. We both ordered the special of the day, Wiener schnitzel, cottage fries, buttered carrots, and a tossed green salad.
    Over our coffee, he said, “I’m bushed. I spent most of last night driving to San Valdesto after the funeral. Maybe only one or two stops tonight?”
    “Fair enough. It’s been a tiring day for me, too. How about this Fernando Valdez, the guitarist? His address isn’t far from here.”
    “Let’s go.”
    The residence of Fernando Valdez was not a house; it was a converted garage. A long shelf loaded with flowers in pots ran the length of the overhead door. A battered Dodge pickup truck was on the driveway.
    The entrance was on the side of the building. There was no bell. Harley knocked.
    The tall, thin Chicano youth who opened the door was wearing blue cords and a blue work shirt. His long black hair was gathered in a ceramic ring at the back. He was barefoot.
    Harley said, “I’m Jasper’s father and this is a friend of mine. We’re investigating Jasper’s…death.”
    “Come in,” the youth said.
    His dining table was a steel card table, a campers’ stove sat on a table nearby. His bed was an army cot. His clothes were on hangers, strung on a long pole at the far end of the room. There were three chairs for visitors. There was no bathroom or any faucet in sight.
    Harley said, “We’re trying to learn the true name of a man who calls himself Big Bear. We haven’t had much luck.”
    “Neither did any of us,” Fernando said. “I’m sure he had more than one name. I suspect he had a police record and that could be why.”
    Harley said, “He seemed to be admired in your group.”
    “Not by me. He was the one who put Jasper on the hard stuff. Your son, Mr. Belton, never touched the stuff until that creepy bastard put him on it. That’s more than I can say for the rest of Duane’s friends.”
    “Duane told us Big Bear left town owing him seventy dollars.”
    Fernando smiled. “That’s peanuts to Duane. His mama sends him a big fat check every week. She lives in Beverly Hills and he lives in Venice! Gringos!” He smiled again. “Nothing personal, gentlemen.”
    “No offense taken,” Harley said. He took a five-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to Fernando. “There’s nothing else you could tell us about Big Bear?”
    Fernando shook his head. Then, “Wait. There was a woman he brought to one of Duane’s parties one night. Damn it, I forget her first name! Her last name was Meredith and I remember the street she told me she lived on. It’s Cervato Way but I can’t remember if she told me the house number. She must have been about sixty and ugly as sin. There can’t be too many people named Meredith on Cervato Way. It’s only about three blocks long and ends at the beach.”
    “Thank you,” Harley said.
    “You’re welcome. I hope you find that bigoted bastard. If you do, give him a shot for me.”
    “I will,” Harley said. “Thanks, again.”
    Outside, he said, “I’ve had more than enough for today. Let’s hit the sack.”
    I agreed.

CHAPTER 9
    T HE MORNING WEATHER REPORT on the radio could have been a taped replay of the standard San Valdesto report: overcast in the morning, clearing by noon, except along the coast.
    At breakfast, Harley asked, “This Meredith woman first?”
    I nodded. We had found the only Meredith listed on Cervato Way last night in the phonebook— J. Meredith, 267 Cervato Way.
    I nodded.
    “Your car or mine?” he