OF COURSE, there might be no connection. It didn’t make sense, did it, that the same guy who’d killed Felix Perry should afterward have kidn*pped little Red? Maybe the columnist had been carrying trouble on both shoulders. See what I mean? He’d been killed trying to get the Westburne envelope, but perhaps the k********g traced to something else. There was a guy ought to know.
I drove out to La Jolla, San Diego’s north coast suburb, and a place where the inhabitants put their pants on one leg at a time like anywhere else. And in fact the pants are less likely to be pressed than most places.
The difference is that in La Jolla the old duck stumping along the street in the unpressed pants could be either somebody’s gardener, or the retired president of an Eastern corporation whose calluses c
