The Delta Star Read Free Page A

that, Dilford,” Dolly yelled in her partner’s ear. “And another thing-how the hell would you like it wearing a goddamn flak vest that’s made for a man? I got tits, you ever noticed. And nice ones, I been told.”
    “So whaddaya want,” Dilford sniffed, “a bulletproof vest designed by Frederick’s of Hollywood? And something I don’t like: do you gotta wear double pierced earrings? It’s sickening enough after three years on the job to be working with five-foot mini-cops that wear earrings, let alone two earrings in each ear!”
    Jane Wayne and The Bad Czech were doing an imitation of a slow dance on the three-coffin dance floor. One groupie was out cold on the bar and the one with fat-handles, who dressed like a thieves’ market in Cairo, was trying to persuade Hans to leave the mutt and take her out to the car for a quickie, a suggestion that shocked Hans. Not the quickie, but leaving Ludwig. Which was why he tried unsuccessfully to arouse the Rottweiler every few minutes. Ludwig had spent many an evening sleeping in the front seat of some groupie’s car while Hans was at play in the back. Not so this night.
    Hans was second generation from Düsseldorf, but had never spoken German at home and knew about as much of the language as he could get from WW II movies. Still, he affected a good accent, loved dogs madly, and quickly picked up the handful of German commands he needed to con the immigrant dog into thinking he was a real kraut.
    “ Fuss , Ludwig! Bitte ” Hans pleaded, “wake up, baby.” Kee-rist, the fat groupie was starting to look good! “ Fuss , Ludwig! Fuss !
    “Why ya give him so fuckin much beer?” the groupie whined.
    “Why you have to say it’s so cute and encourage me?” Hans whined right back at her.
    Which caused Jane Wayne to break the clinch of The Bad Czech, who was hanging on for all his might to keep from falling. She playfully dipped him at the conclusion of the dance, and she looked at the snoring Rottweiler sound asleep on his back, one ear hanging in the corner pocket of the pool table, lips flopping upside down baring tiger fangs, snoring louder than the groupie on the bar top.
    Then, Ludwig, deep in some canine dream or fantasy, did what he often did in his sleep. He began to grow a wet, pink, pony-sized erection. Which caused a groupie staggering out of the women’s room to say, “Goddamn. Just like my old man. Errol Flynn when he’s asleep. Awake, Liberace. Shit!”
    I’m getting out of here right now, Mario Villalobos thought. But before he could go, Leery, all business, set a double shot of vodka in front of the detective and said, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mario!”
    And in truth Leery was always delighted to see the detective. Straight vodka drinkers could put it away. The detective already had an $80 bar tab this week.
    “Show me a straight vodka drinker, I’ll show you a guy on his way out,” Leery always said. And he liked to get it all before they ended up at the veterans’ hospital, or Forest Lawn.
    “Got all the losers of the world in one place tonight,” Mario Villalobos observed, putting the double shot down much too fast, causing the saloonkeeper to leer happily and pour him another.
    “Business ain’t too bad, ain’t too bad,” Leery said, then glanced toward the other room where Jane Wayne and The Bad Czech were waxing nostalgic and trying to boogaloo. “Wish Hans wouldn’t bring that dog in here no more,” he added anxiously. “Used to be Ludwig was good for business. Lapping up suds and all. Now it ain’t so cute. Him sleeping on the pool table all the time. Screws up the felt. Slobber and dog hair. And what would Internal Affairs do if they caught Hans turning that dog into a alky?”
    “That dog, complete with training, is probably worth several thousand dollars,” Mario Villalobos said. “Which makes him more valuable to the city than every other loser in this place put together.” Then, feeling malevolent, the detective added,