CHAPTER 6“You’re the private eye, Mac?” he said.
His voice was thin as those tasteless Swedish wafers, rasping softly between his teeth—what he had left of them.
“Well,” I said, “who are you?”
“Dingo, they call me,” he said. “Dingo—that’s a wild like dog.”
“I know,” I said. “What did you want with me?”
“I got something,” he said. “You might like to see it.”
“What is it?”
“Some kind of material.”
“What material?”
“About that broad, that lady that knocked herself off. King? Lorrie King.”
“You selling it, or giving it away?”
“Well—” he ran his hand roughly over his mouth.
“If you’re selling, I’m not interested,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll give it to you.”
He reached inside his frayed jacket and his hand came out with a small brown envelope, thin and stiff. The flap was open.
