“It’s the same thing,” Coffin Ed contended. “Sailors are everything to everybody.”

“You know Baron?” Grave Digger said to Lady Gypsy.

“It happens that I don’t.”

“You know Black Beauty.”

“Yes.”

“What was his racket?”

“Pimping.”

“Pimping! That pansy!”

“You said his racket, not his pleasure. And you employed the past tense. Is he dead?”

“He was the old woman who got killed.”

“Killed? They said she wasn’t hurt.”

“That’s another story. But you must know Baron. He’s in the clique.”

“That’s what I told myself,” Lady Gypsy admitted. “But truthfully, I don’t.”

“You know the Jenkins girl, however.”

Lady Gypsy shrugged. “I’ve seen her. I don’t know her. She comes in here from time to time with various tricks. She’s always got some little racket going.”

“With Baron?”

“You can’t trick me, Digger. I’ve told you the truth about Mister Baron. I don’t know him, and I don’t think she knew him, either.”

“Okay! Okay! Where do we find her?”

“Find her? How would I know where to find a chippie whore?”

“You got Findings written on your board downstairs,” Coffin Ed put in.

“Yeah, and you’d better live up to it or you are going to find yourself where you don’t want to be found,” Grave Digger added.

“You know that old courtyard between One-eleventh and One-twelfth Streets?”

“The Alley.”

“Yes. She’s got a man in one of those holes in there somewhere.”

“Who’s the man?”

“Just a man, Digger. I don’t know who he is or what he does. You know I wouldn’t be interested in a man who was interested in a chippie like that.”

“Okay, Ed, let’s get going,” Grave Digger said.

“We’d better call the desk first and let Anderson know the horse got out.”

“You call him.”

Coffin Ed reached for the telephone on the night table.

Grave Digger turned to the cops and said, “You men had better get back to your cars; you’ve been off the street too long as it is.”

Lady Gypsy said, “I want to put in a charge against that man for assault and battery and theft.”

“You’ll have to go to the station,” Grave Digger said. “And you had better wear a suit.”

Chapter 10.

When Roman and Sassafras came running down the stairs from Lady Gypsy’s and made for the Buick parked at the curb, it was a good thing that nobody saw them. They were enough to catch the eyes of the blind. Roman had stuck Lady Gypsy’s fortune-telling turban, with its big glass eye, on the side of his head—so now he had three eyes all looking in different directions. He had draped the rainbow-colored gown over his leather jumper and army pants, but it was too short, and his paratrooper boots were showing. He carried his coonskin cap in his left hand and his big rusty .45 in his right. “If we get caught I’m going to act crazy and start running,” he panted hoarsely. “They won’t shoot a crazy fortune teller.”