Page 18 of Making His Bones

“Yeah,” agreed Wolf. When he stood, a lapful of crumbs tumbled to the floor. But he meant what he said. “We think Bud Pitchfork is behind this kiddie porn, and he knows about the murder, too.”

Ignoring his fresh martini, DeFreeze leaped to his feet. “I know nothing, and I resent that you’re implying otherwise! If I knew about an illegal op in Seeker, I’d shut it down!”

“That’s it,” snarled Funkhauser, and strode around his side of the table to put his hand around DeFreeze’s throat. He walked the flailing man back a few steps until he slammed him against the wall. DeFreeze squiggled his arms and legs like an upturned turtle, but one knee to the groin stopped that, too. I knew from a film where I’d been an extra that it took about one to two minutes to kill a guy this way, with your fat fingers in his windpipe. “Listen,” Funkhauser growled, as we all crowded around, “what does Pitchfork have to do with the porn op behind the album store?”

Wolf Glaser pinned one of DeFreeze’s wrists to the wall. Lytton pinned the other one. Wolf still had a piece of bread in his other hand. He demanded, “Squeal like a pig, you fucking pig.”

“Help, help,” croaked DeFreeze.

I shoved my face into the mix. Had DeFreeze always smelled this bad? “We already know Pitchfork is behind it. Our people hacked in and it said ‘Barnyard Productions’ and showed a haystack.”

DeFreeze lowered one squished eye at me. “You’re from that show where people get chased. Unchained.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.” I nodded at Funkhauser to increase the pressure. “You can hold your mud, oinker, but our man here is going take you to the ground.”

“Yeah,” agreed Wolf. “We’re going to smoke you.”

“Okay, okay,” squeaked DeFreeze. His eyes were rolling up in his head as Funkhauser squeezed harder. “Yes.” Only it sounded like “yeth.”

Lytton nodded, and Funkhauser released his grip, allowing DeFreeze to collapse like a dissolving palace of snow. Everyone else walked back to their seats, but Lytton, Wolf and I remained standing over the victim. DeFreeze clutched his claws at his throat as he wheezed with pain, but Lytton and Wolf were relentless.

“So?” yelled Lytton. “Pitchfork does have something to do with the porn op?”

Wolf threw his bread with disgust at the sheriff. “You had to go shit your pants, you weeny whiny crybaby!”

I put my hand to my mouth and backed away. “Just admit it, DeFreeze!”

“I do,” he wheezed. “You’re right. Bud Pitchfork runs Barnyard Productions in the back of the record store.”

Lytton asked, “So you knew about it, yet you allowed it to continue? He paid you off?”

“Yes.” DeFreeze coughed. He was struggling to sit upright, as having his squished larynx crammed against the wall couldn’t have been pleasant. No one helped him.

I barked, “And what does Pitchfork know about Delilah’s murder? Did it have something to do with the porn ring?”

“No . . . no . . . no . . . Nothing to do with it. The porn ring didn’t even exist back then. But I think Pitchfork knows something. You’ll have to ask him directly. Only . . . don’t tell him I told you so. He’s the pastor of our church, you know.”

Lytton and I shared fiery glances. I spat, “Yeah. Some pastor,” before going back to my place at the table.

Only, I couldn’t eat. Maybe it was smelling DeFreeze’s shit that did it. Or knowing that a pastor knew something about a child murder.

Wolf Glaser helped himself to more bread. “This bread is amazing,” he said, as DeFreeze finally got to his feet, clutching the wall behind him. “It tastes just like San Francisco bread. Does anyone mind if I take this whole basket home?”

L