Dead Pigeon Read Free Page B

many horses that finished out of the money. The way he had figured it, there had to be a better way to make a living from the nags.
    He smiled as I walked in. “Last time I saw you some guy was trying to ace you. He must have hit a rock, huh?”
    That was the nickname my teammates had given me, Brock the Rock. Good beer and bad puns, that’s Denny.
    I made no comment.
    “Beer?” he asked. “I now serve Einlicher. On tap!”
    I shook my head. “Too early. Maybe some coffee?”
    “Instant?”
    “Is that all you have?”
    He nodded.
    “Then forget it. I came to town for Mike Gregory’s funeral. Do you remember him?”
    “Hell, yes. He died owing me a thirty-eight-dollar tab. I planned to go to his funeral yesterday, but my wife was ailing and I had to watch the store.”
    I put two twenties on the bar. “Now he doesn’t owe you.”
    He shook his head. “Forget it.”
    “Denny,” I said, “you take this money or I’ll tell the law how you once threw a race at Hollywood Park.”
    He smiled. “You wouldn’t and we both know it. But as long as you are now a rich man—” He picked up the twenties and handed me two singles.
    “Did Mike come here often?”
    “He did. He spent a lot more than the thirty-eight dollars in this place. Rich one day and poor the next, that was Mike.”
    “Do you mean lately?”
    “Not lately, no. Is that why you’re still in town? You playing cops and robbers again?”
    “If I have to. Do you know a man named Turhan Bay?”
    “The name I know, the man I don’t. A weirdo, right?”
    “I guess. How about a woman named Crystal Lane?”
    He shook his head.
    “There is a rumor floating around that Mike might have been involved in selling drugs. Did you hear it?”
    “Hell, no! Buying, maybe. But selling? Where would he get the money?”
    “Denny, if he could afford to buy, he must have got the money somewhere. A lot of addicts are peddlers. They need to sell in order to support their habit.”
    “Right. The way I always felt about Mike, he was his own worst enemy. But I find it hard to believe that he’d sink low enough to scout for new victims for the dealers.”
    That was my gut feeling, too. But it was possible that he might have only switched long-term addicts to a new cheaper source. That could be rationalized as an act of mercy. Mike, like all losers, was prone to rationalization.
    “Denny,” I said, “nobody knows this neighborhood as well as you do. You would be doing me a big favor if you would find out all you can about Turhan Bay.”
    “I’ll ask around.” He smiled. “At least thirty-eight dollars’ worth. Play it cool now, Brock. Don’t go off half cocked.”
    “I won’t.”
    I was halfway to the door when he asked, “How about that kook who was out to get you?”
    “He’s dead,” I said.
    According to my reckoning, the Temple of Inner Peace was only about two blocks from here. I left the car in Denny’s parking lot. My aged Mustang had been stripped in this area the last time I had ventured here. I noticed in the first block that the area had been upgraded since my last visit. But I could use the exercise.
    The building looked like a deserted church, complete with cross and steeple. The wide double doorway was up two steps under an arched entrance. A poster on one of the doors informed the faithful that the subject of tonight’s lecture was “Inner Peace and Outer Space.” Cocaine could give you inner peace and take you to outer space. Was that his pitch? It was difficult to believe that Bay could amass a million-dollar account with Joe Nolan by lecturing to the residents of Venice.
    A white-haired elderly woman in a brightly flowered dress was sitting at a card table in the foyer.
    “May I help you?” she asked.
    “I hope so. I was at a funeral yesterday where your minister gave the eulogy. The man who died was a friend of mine years ago. I have learned since that he had gone into a deep depression recently.”
    She frowned. “Are you