Free The Emerald Cat Killer by Richard A. Lupoff

accounts. They keep too many records. I don’t like ’em. How about you just hand me cash?”
    â€œI’ll … I’ll try to work that out.”
    â€œNot good enough.”
    Their waitress was back with two platters of steaming food. She placed one in front of Lindsey, one in front of Chocron. Lindsey recognized the rice and beans on his platter but not the light brown object the size of a bedroom slipper. The food was accompanied by icy glasses and bottles of Negra Modelo.
    It was obvious that Chocron was waiting for Lindsey to make the next move. Lindsey bought time by pouring the dark Mexican beer for himself, sipping it appreciatively, watching the slim waitress weave her way gracefully between tables.
    Chocron said, “Taste your food. I guarantee you’ll like it.”
    That much was true.
    â€œ Pezcado empanada con cebollas. Fresh breaded fish with onions. This joint has the best fish in the world. You like it?”
    Lindsey conceded that the pezcado was delicious. After stalling as long as he could, he finally yielded on the money issue. He could use an International Surety credit card at a local ATM and take Chocron’s payment out in cash. If Ducky Richelieu or any of the bean counters in Denver had a gripe with that, they could take him off active duty and put him back on the retired list. He hadn’t asked for this job.
    â€œBut I’ll need the information first,” he insisted.
    Chocron gave Lindsey a look that would have frozen a bowl of hot lava. He opened an object that looked like a miniature flying saucer, pulled out a tortilla, and filled it with rice and beans and Tabasco sauce. He bit off a generous portion and chewed with obvious pleasure.
    He washed it down with dark beer.
    He said, “All right, Mr. Lindsey. I just hope you know who you are dealing with. If I give you what you want and you try to burn me, I can promise you that you will be very sorry.”
    That was a pretty good line, Lindsey thought. The kind of threat that Frank Farrar, the murder suspect of The Emerald Cat, might have leveled at Troy Percheron just before donning a set of brass knuckles and whaling into the dick.
    Chocron said, “Enjoy your meal and we’ll take a little walk.”
    At least Chocron was as good as his word when it came to paying for Lindsey’s meal.
    They headed down a shaded residential avenue toward Calle Catorce, the street that Oakland’s city fathers had renamed International Boulevard and that everyone in the neighborhood blithely continued to call Fourteenth Street.
    As they walked, Lindsey said, “I need information, Mr. Chocron. I need to know about The Emerald Cat. There is a serious question as to the actual authorship of the book.”
    The younger man smiled. They were near a church. A couple of dozen kids in short pants and sneakers were playing soccer in a playground next to the building. A priest came out of the front door as they passed the church and Chocron exchanged greetings with him.
    â€œPadre.”
    â€œRigo.”
    â€œI wrote that book,” Chocron told Lindsey.
    â€œSurely you are aware of the similarities between Troy Percheron and your other characters, and Tony Clydesdale and the other figures in Wallace Thompson’s detective novels. Not to mention the similarity of the titles themselves.”
    â€œYou can’t copyright a title. I checked on that. And besides, nobody ever wrote a book called The Emerald Cat before I did it.”
    â€œOf course. I hope you’re not going to say that Clydesdale and Percheron, Thebes and Cairo, are just coincidences. Please, Mr. Chocron, we both know better than that.”
    â€œWhy doesn’t Thompson complain, then?”
    â€œI’m sorry. I thought you knew he was dead.”
    Chocron shook his head. “Sorry to hear that.” He didn’t sound sorry.
    â€œThompson was a pseudonym. The obituary referred to him by his real name.”