“So you figure Baker killed somebody. Why? Did he say anything to you about last night?”

“These guys kill each other.”

“The victim wasn’t black, Mr Nolan.”

“No shit. I just assumed.”

“Caucasian woman.”

“Well, maybe he was just unloading after all that time in.” Nolan looked at Glitsky man-to-man. “You know.” He pointed at his crotch. “No conjugal visits at the Q. Lot of guys get out and that’s the first thing they do.”

Glitsky, suddenly very weary, shook his head. “No, it wasn’t that.”

Nolan, thoughtful, chewing. “Well, they kill white guys too.”

It was still early afternoon, balmy with a light breeze. Glitsky had the windows down on both sides of the Plymouth. Driving down Mission, he had intended to get on the freeway and head south to Holly Park and see if he could get a few words with Louis Baker.

But Al Nolan had gotten inside of him-young, hip, ponytailed Al Nolan with his ‘Ralph’ fifties-style bowling shirt, probably seriously thought he did a real job. And real clever to boot. Above it all with that glib shit that all these cons were just passing time before they went back. Jive about the Giants. For a minute Glitsky thought about bringing Al to the Hall and booking him for obstructing a homicide investigation. See how funny he thought that was.

He drummed his fingers on the dash. Then there was Marcel Lanier and the other cops in homicide with their damn golf clubs. What was the use?

He tried to get his mind kick-started back on Louis Baker. About why was he going down now to see Louis Baker. Sure, Hardy had his reasons. But for him, wasn’t it the same reason Al Nolan had for assuming Baker was guilty-because he was a black ex-con?

There wasn’t any hard evidence making him a suspect. There was Hardy’s suspicion, and Hardy’s fear. But Hardy, all white, points the finger at Baker, all black, and Abe Glitsky-half and half-jumps on the white wagon with both feet. Well, shit, why is that, Abe?