CHAPTER 4Lieutenant Lou Shapiro was sitting in a booth with a tired-looking glass of beer in front of him, gazing into space with his mournful eyes. The joint was busier than it had been earlier, but not much. The bartender, Harry, had found a relief man and was doing the room-side service himself, not really enjoying it. I slid into the space opposite the Lieutenant and held my peace till he granted me notice.
“Go ahead, talk,” he said.
“May I order a glass of beer?”
“Sure.”
I got Harry’s attention and ordered a glass. When he brought it I said to him, “Do you have a couple of minutes?”
He looked around, shrugged and sat down. “I guess so,” he said.
“I was here earlier,” I said.
“I remember.”
“This is Lieutenant Shapiro, Los Angeles police.”
Harry looked harassed. “What’s the bee
