White Jazz

35

“Well, this writ does appear to be in order. But what’s this stamp on the bottom?”

Agent Henstell: “It’s a routing stamp. The U.S. attorney here sent the paperwork to a judge back east.”

“Was there a reason for that?”

To bypass Exley-friendly jurists — open the vault, you officious little shit.

“No, Mr. Noonan simply knew that the Federal judge for this district was too busy to read writ requests.”

“I see. Well, I suppose—”

I goosed him: “The writ’s valid, so let’s move this along.”

“There’s no need to be brusque. This way, gentlemen.”

Teller cages, guard station, walk-in vault. Unlocked — a Pinkerton at parade rest. Henstell: “Before we go in, I want to recap Mr. Noonan’s instructions.”

“I’m listening.”

“One, you’re allowed to keep any money you might find. Two, you’re allowed to go through any personal papers you might find, alone, in an examination cubicle here on bank property. After you go through them, they are to be turned over to me, for booking as Federal evidence. Three, any contraband items such as narcotics, or firearms, will be seized as evidence immediately.”

“Firearms” — icy tingles. “Agreed.”

“All right, then. Mr. Welborn, after you.”

Quick march — Welborn leading. Gray metal aisles — safe-deposit boxes recessed floor to ceiling. Left turn, right turn, stop.

Welborn, dangling keys: “5290 and 5291. There’s an examination room around the corner.”

“And you’re to leave Agent Henstell and me alone.”

“As you wish.”

Two boxes knee-high; four key slots. Tingles — I stuck my keys in.

Welborn — master keys in — clicks simultaneous.

Handkerchiefs up my sleeves.

Welborn, prissy: “Good day, Officers.”

Quick now — Henstell picking a cuticle, bored—

I cracked the drawers — paper piles bulged the boxes wide. RIGHT THERE on top:

A revolver — evidence bagged. Powder-dusted prints on the grips and barrel housing — protective glazed.

Henstell picking his nose.

Quick:

Unwrap the gun — bury it — paper-pile cover.

Henstell: “What have we got?”

“Folders and paperwork so far.”

“Noonan wants it all, and I wouldn’t mind being out of here by lunchtime.”

I dropped my hands; the handkerchiefs fell out. Block his view — wipe the piece—

Three times — Glenda — make sure.

I handed it over. “Henstell, look at this.”

He twirled the gun and snapped quick draws — bad déjà vu.

“Pearl grips — this Stemmons guy must have had a cowboy fetish. And look, no numbers on the barrel plate.”

I pulled the drawers out. “Do you want to look through these for narcotics?”

“No, but Noonan wants it all when you’re finished. He said I should pat-search you afterwards, but that’s not my style.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re going to love Federal custody. Noonan pops for steak lunch every day.”

Fake grunts: “You want to give me a hand with this?”

“Come on, they can’t be that heavy.”

Good fake out — I moved on it — over to a catty-corner cubicle. One table, one chair, no inside lock — I jammed the chair under the doorknob.

Dump the drawers, check the contents:

Folders, photos, odd papers — I stacked them on the table.

Four keys on a fob — “Brownell’s Locksmiths, 4024 Wabash Ave, East Los Angeles.”

Loose newspaper clippings — I smoothed out the crumples.

Go — skim it all:

Typed depositions — Glenda Bledsoe/Dwight Gilette — Murder One. My evidence suppression — detailed in longhand.

Georgie Ainge’s statement: a typed original and five carbons.

Photo blow-ups: Glenda’s juvie print strip and the gun prints. A fingerprint analysis report; photo glossies with comparison points checked.

Witness Disposition Report:

“Mr. Ainge is currently living under an assumed name at an undisclosed location in the San Francisco area. I have telephone access to him and have given him money so that he might hide out and escape potential reprisals from Lieutenant David D. Klein. He remains available to me should he be called as a witness in the matter of the County of Los Angeles vs. Glenda Louise Bledsoe.”

My bullshit detector clicked in — Ainge bugged out on his own — I’d bet money.

Handwritten pages — doodles, scrawls — half-legible hieroglyphics:

(Unreadable)/“I’ve got a trail worked out on paper”/(unreadable)/“He’s spent a fortune so far”/(unreadable)/ink smears. “So he’s spent a fortune operating Officer John Duhamel” — smears — “But of course he’s a rich kid policeman whose father died (April 1958) and left him millions.”

Scribbles/penis drawings — doped-up homo Junior. “Rich kid” Exley — easy make — working Johnny D. — no huge surprise. Doodles/gun drawings/indecipherable gobbledygook. “Operating this guy whose story you won’t believe.” Coffee stains/smears/cock drawings/“See file marked Evidence #1.”

Check the stack — there — a folder:

Newspaper clippings: mid-April ’58. Human-interest schmaltz:

Johnny Duhamel turns pro — his “wealthy” parents died penniless and USC dunned their estate. Johnny: attending grad school, three jobs — no pro fight career plans. USC cracks down: repay your college debt or drop out.

That piece — the L.A. Times, 4/18/58. Three recaps — the Herald/Examiner/Mirror — 4/24, 5/2, 5/3.

Weird:

Four L.A. dailies/four stories — no new facts exposited, no new angles probed. Gallaudet’s file check confirmed: Duhamel’s parents died broke.

More “Evidence #1”: numbered document photos. I flashed back to Junior’s pad — that Minox camera.

Photos 1, 2, 3: Security First National Bank forms. Checking and savings accounts opened: Walton White, 2750 N. Edgemont, Los Angeles. Two thirty-grand deposits coming off hinky: Edgemont stopped at 2400.

Notations on the back:

#1 — “Manager described ‘Walton White’ as ‘familiar somehow,’ 6′2″, 170, blond-gray hair, glasses, late thirties.”

#2 — “Manager shown magazine photograph of Edmund Exley. Confirms that E.E. opened the ‘Walton White’ accounts.”

#3 — “Manager stated that ‘Walton White’ (E.E.) requested blank bank checks immediately so that he could begin fulfilling transactions.”

Hot now — I started sweating.

Photos 4, 5, 6 — cancelled “Walton White” checks. Four grand, four grand, five grand — 4/23, 4/27, 4/30/58.

Made out to:

Fritzie Huntz, Paul Smitson, Frank Brigantino.

Bingo: the bylines on those copycat articles.

Photo #7 — a cancelled check. Eleven grand and change paid out to: the USC Alumni Debt Fund.

“So he’s spent a fortune operating Officer John Duhamel.”

“Operating this guy whose story you won’t believe.”

Reporters bribed.

Johnny bought.

Junior glomming bank records — intimidation prowess and charm pre-CRAAAZY.

Sweating — dripping on my file swag:

Duhamel fight clippings.

A deposition — Chuck “the Greek” Chamales — matchmaker, Olympic Auditorium.

“Revealed under the threat to expose his liaison with Lurleen Ruth Cressmeyer, age 14”:

Johnny D. tanked his one pro fight.

Ed Exley paid him to do it.

Duhamel told Chamales this — “one night when he was drunk.” The Greek to Junior, verbatim: “He didn’t get specific. He just told me on the QT that that Exley guy had special work for him.”

Odd pages left — gibberish/doodling. One sheet block-printed:

Exley and Duhamel — operating partners — operating WHO?

Suspects:

The Kafesjians.

Narco.

“This guy whose story you won’t believe.”

“This guy” — singular. A semantic fuck-up — maybe, maybe not.

Single-o suspects:

Tommy K.

J.C.

Dan Wilhite.

Skewed — I couldn’t link them directly to Johnny.

Crack the door — Henstell on the walkway, pacing. Shove the chair back, jam the knob shut, go—

I lit a match and torched a file page: faggot artwork sizzled. More matches, more pages — a contained blaze right there on the table.

Smoke out the floor crack—

Henstell banged on the door. “Klein, Goddamn it, what the hell are you doing!”

Flames, charred paper, smoke. I kicked the table over, stomped the blaze out.

“Klein, Goddamn it!”

Jerk the door open, shove him back, coughing smoke—

“Tell Noonan it was personal. Tell him I’m still his witness, and now I owe him one.”

Out to East L.A., light-headed — light smoke inhalation. Custody forty-seven hours off — two days to GET it:

“LONG HISTORY OF INSANITY BOTH OUR FAMILIES.”

Olympic east — rain clouds dousing smog. Chasing/chased/partnered up/partner fucked:

Richie’s Chino file was still missing — warden’s aides were tossing storage bins for it. Sid Riegle was out chasing Richie — Darktown/Hancock Park — no leads.

Six IA men tapped out: no new Herrick/Kafesjian links. Links extant: Pennsylvania/chemical work/L.A. arrivals ’31–’32. Late-’31 marriages: Joan Renfrew, Madge Clarkson — no criminal records — their hometowns queried.

Meg chasing real estate: a Spindrift pad title search. Zero so far, Meg persisting.

The Kafesjians at home, cabin-fevered — Feds out front, Feds out back. Partnered-up-family-tight — no way to tell them:

You and the Herricks — filthy together. Liquor bottles smashed/dogs blinded/music trashed — murder/suicide/castration — I can TASTE it. You’ll tell me, you’ll tell somebody — I’m partnered up strong on my ride down.

Strong and dirty: Exley. Strong/cautious/grasping: Noonan.

Use them both: fight/squirm/lie/beg/manipulate them.

Exley: Johnny D. as my wedge. The Feds — no lever yet — that fire fried my momentum. Henstell: “You know, Mr. Noonan was starting to think you’d be a pretty good witness.”

Was/is/could be/would be: DUES TIME. Junior nullified now — Glenda safe — punch my new grief ticket: FEDERAL.

No pre-court testimony taken yet — custody meant interrogation. Noonan — cautious/grasping — shooting me wake-up phone calls:

“You’re commanding a homicide case — how odd.”

“Would Richard Herrick be the Richie you seem to be so interested in? The man Tommy Kafesjian seems to be rather concerned with? Chief Exley told the Herald that you worked on a burglary case that may be tangentially connected to the killings. We must discuss this after you enter custody.”

“I understand the dilemma you’re in, David. You may think that you can dissemble to us and be less than forthcoming vis-à-vis your organized-crime connections, thus sparing yourself a Syndicate death sentence. You will of course be given Federal protection after your grand jury testimony, but you should know now that lies and lies by omission will not be tolerated.”

Smart fucker.

Holding back information — bet on it. My big fear: those Fed tails post-Johnson. Long-shot stuff, hard to shake: Abe Voldrich snuffed, a blue Pontiac spotted. Jack Woods — nine contract hits minimum — my preferred killer. Jack Woods, proud owner: a powder-blue ’56 Pontiac.

Downtown, the 3rd Street Bridge, Boyle Heights. East to Wabash — Brownell’s Locksmiths—

A parking-lot drive-up hut.

Four keys — three numbered — maybe traceable.

I pulled up, honked. A man right there, customer smile on. “Help you?”

I flashed my badge and the key fob. “158–32, 159–32, 160–32, and one unstamped. Who did you make them for?”

“I don’t even have to check my files, ’cause that 32 coding’s from this rent-a-locker storage place I do all the locker keys for.”

“So you don’t know who rented these individual lockers?”

“Right you are. The unstamped key’s for the front door, the number keys are for lockers. And I don’t cut no duplicates ’less the manager at the place gives the okay.”

“What ‘place’?”

“The Lock-Your-Self at 1750 North Echo Park Boulevard, which is open twenty-four hours, case you didn’t know.”

“You’re pretty snappy with your answers.”

“Well...”

“Come on, tell me.”

“Well...”

“Well nothing, I’m a police officer.”

Whiny, wheedling: “Well, I hate to be a stool pigeon, ’cause I sorta liked the guy.”

“What guy?”

“I don’t know his name, but he’s that little Mex bantam fights at the Olympic all the time.”

“Reuben Ruiz?”

“Right you are. He came in yesterday and told me he wanted dupes of the keys with them numbers, like he saw the keys but couldn’t get his mitts on the two original sets I cut. I told him, ‘Ixnay, not even if you was Rocky Marciano himself.’ ”

“You cut two original sets for the Lock-Your-Self place?”

“One customer original, one management original. The manager sent a guy by for a second customer set, ’cause the people who rented those lockers wanted dupes.”

Set number one — Junior. Set number two — maybe Johnny D. — Reuben’s pal.

“Officer, them locks and keys are being changed continually to thwart theft. So if you talk to Bob, the manager, will you tell him I’m doing my part toward keeping things—”

I hit the gas — the lock man ate exhaust fumes.

Echo Park off Sunset — a big warehouse. A parking lot, no door guard — my door key got me in.

Huge: crisscross hallways, locker-lined. A directory/map up front, number-coded.

The 32 codings were tagged “Jumbo.” Follow the map — two corridors down, left, stop:

Three floor-to-ceiling lockers six feet wide.

Scratched up — lock-pick marks.

Keys in, crack the doors:

158–32: mink coats hung eight feet deep, six feet wide.

Seven empty hangers.

159–32: stoles and pelts — dumped shoulder-high.

160–32: fox/mink/raccoon coats — fuckloads hung/dumped/piled/folded/tossed.

Johnny/Junior/Reuben.

Dudley Smith, fur-heist boss — scooped/hoodwinked/stiffed.

Exley and Duhamel — operating WHO?

Mink — touch it, smell it. Empty hangers — Lucille’s fur strip? Johnny trying to sell Mickey Cohen bulk fur??

Reuben Ruiz: ex — B&E man/burglar brothers.

His direct key approach — no go.

Break-in scratches/no door guard/Lock-Your-Self: open twenty-four hours.

Key clicks/lock clicks/brain clicks — I got my notebook and pen out. Three lockers — I dropped three identical notes inside:

Lock the doors — lock clicks/brain clicks — get to a phone.

I found a booth across Sunset. Ad Vice, two rings, “Riegle.”

“Sid, it’s me.”

“You mean it’s you and you want something.”

“You’re right.”

“So tell me, but I’ll tell you right now this Homicide work is wearing me thin.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Richie Herrick is nowhere. First Exley issues an APB, then he rescinds it, and we still can’t locate one single white man known to frequent Negro areas.”

“I know, and our best bet is to let Tommy Kafesjian find him for us.”

“Which doesn’t seem too likely with those Armenian humps holed up with Fed surveillance outside their house. Jesus...”

“Sid, write this down.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“The storage locker place at 1750 North Echo Park.”

“All right, I wrote it down. Now what?”

“Now you get your civilian car and stake out the entrance and parking lot. You write down the plate numbers on everyone who walks in. Every five or six hours you call in the stats to the DMV, and you go through until tomorrow morning and call me.”

Stage groans. “You’ll explain then?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s the Herrick job?”

“It’s fucking everything.”

36

Reuben Ruiz — talk, strongarm — whatever it took.

R&I shot me his address: 229 South Loma. Not that far — a quick run over — brother Ramon on the porch.

“Reuben’s at the ravine, bein’ a puto for the City of Los Angeles.”

Another quick run — Chavez Ravine.

Swarming now — evictions pending. “Police Parking” — a dirt lot going in. Cop cars jammed up tail to snout: Sheriff’s, LAPD, Feds.

Hills fronting the main drag; Mex kids chucking rocks. Black & whites scratched and dented.

An access road up — narrow, dusty. I walked it, hit the top, caught the view:

Hecklers bucking bluesuit containment — the main road cordoned off. Shack-lined roads/hills/gulleys — eviction notices rife. Camera crews shooting door to door: Feds and a bobbing sombrero.

Dig it: shack dwellers swarming that hat.

I walked down into it; blues juked me through the cordon. Catch the view: Shipstad, Milner, Ruiz in bullfighter garb.

Reuben:

Passing out money, spics swamping him.

“Dinero!”

“El jefe Ruiz!”

Big-time Mex jabber — incomprehensible.

Milner gaga-eyed: what is this?

I shoved, waved — Shipstad saw me. Trembly and flushed — Henstell probably blabbed.

He shoved toward me. We collided: hands on suitcoats instinctive.

“Gracias el jefe Reuben!” — Ruiz tossing cash away.

A dirt yard off the road — Shipstad pointed over. I followed him — tree shade, a sign: “Notice to Vacate.”

“Justify that firebug routine before Noonan revokes your immunity and has you arrested.”

Eyeball magnet: Reuben dishing out greenbacks.

“Look at me, Klein.”

At him, lawyer bullshit: “It was nontangential incriminating evidence. It in no way pertained to the Kafesjian family or to any focus of your investigation or my potential grand jury testimony. Noonan has enough on me as it is, and I didn’t want to feed him more potential indictable information.”

“Attorney to attorney, how can you live the way you do?”

Tongue tied—

“We’re trying to help you get out of this alive. I’m developing a plan to relocate you after you testify, and frankly Noonan doesn’t think I should be working so hard at it.”

“Which means?”

“Which means I dislike him slightly more than I dislike you. Which means he’s two seconds away from arresting you and putting you on display as a hostile witness, then releasing you and letting Sam Giancana or whoever have you killed.”

Meg jailed/ brutalized/clipped — Technicolor. “Will you relocate my sister?”

“That’s impossible. This last escapade has cost you credibility with Noonan, relocation for your sister was not covered in your contract and there is no established precedent for mobsters harming the loved ones of fugitive witnesses.”

GET MONEY.

Ruiz throwing it away.

“We’re your only hope. I’ll square things with Noonan, but you be at the Federal Building by eight A.M. day after tomorrow, or we’ll find you, arrest your sister and begin tax-charge proceedings.”

Crowd noise, dust. Reuben watching us.

I waved the keys. Sunlight on metal — he nodded.

Shipstad: “Klein...”

“I’ll be there.”

“Eight A.M.”

“I heard you.”

“It’s your only—”

“What’s Ruiz doing?”

He looked over. “Expiation of guilt or some such concept. Can you blame him? All this for a baseball stadium?”

Reuben walked up.

“Did you come to see him? And what’s with those keys?”

“Give me some time with him.”

“Is it personal?”

“Yeah, it’s personal.”

Shipstad walked; Ruiz passed him and winked. Rockabye Reuben: bullfight threads, grin.

“Hey, Lieutenant.”

I twirled the keys. “You go first.”

“No. First you tell me this is just two witness buddies gabbing, then you tell me popping Mexican bantamweights for robbery don’t push your buzzer.”

Bulldozers down the road — a shack crashed.

“Keys, Reuben. You saw the originals, memorized the numbers and tried to get that locksmith to cut dupes, and there’s tool marks on the lockers at that storage place.”

“I didn’t hear you say anything like ‘This is just two guys who’d like each other to stay out of trouble talking.’ ”

Gear whine/wood snap/dust — the noise made me flinch. “I’m way past arresting people.”

“I sort of thought so, given what the Feds been saying.”

“Reuben, spill. I’ve got this half-assed notion you want to.”

“Do penance, maybe. Spill, I don’t know.”

“Did you boost some furs out of those lockers?”

“As many as me and my righteous B&E buddies could carry. And they’re gone, in case you want a mink for your slumlord sister.”

Flowers sprouting next to weeds; smog wafting in.

“So you bagged some furs, sold them and gave the money to your poor exploited brethren.”

“No, I gave a silver fox pelt to Mrs. Mendoza next door, ’cause I popped her daughter’s cherry and never married her, then I sold the furs, then I got drunk and gave the money away.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah, and those stupidos down there’ll probably spend it on Dodger tickets.”

“Reuben—”

“Fuck it, all right — me, Johnny Duhamel and my brothers took down the Hurwitz fur warehouse. You were maybe pushing that way when I saw you in my dressing room, so now you tell me what you got before I sober up and get bored with this penance routine.”

“Let’s try Ed Exley operating Johnny.”

Smog — Reuben coughed. “You picked a good fucking topic.”

“I figured if Johnny talked to anybody, it was you.”

“You figured pretty good.”

“He told you about it?”

“Most of it, I guess. Look, this is, you know, off the record?”

I nodded — easy now — cut him rope.

Tick tick tick tick.

Jerk the rope: “Reuben—”

“Yeah, okay, I guess it was like this spring, like April or something. Exley, he read this newspaper story about Johnny. You know, a what you call human-interest story, like here’s this guy in graduate school working all these jobs, he used to be a comer in the Golden Gloves, but now he’s gotta turn pro even though he don’t want to, ’cause his parents croaked and stiffed him and his school, and how he’s broke. You follow me so far?”

“Keep going.”

“Okay, so Exley, he approached Johnny and what you call manipulated him. He gave Johnny money and paid off his college loan, and he paid off these debts Johnny’s parents left. Exley, he’s like some kind of rich-kid cop with this big inheritance, and he gave Johnny this bonaroo fucking amount of money and paid these reporter guys to write these other, you know, similar-type newspaper stories about him, playing on this angle that he had to turn pro out of, you know, financial necessity.”

“And Exley made Johnny tank that one pro fight he had.”

“Right.”

“And the newspaper pieces and the tank job were to set Johnny up as some sort of hard-luck kid, so it would look realistic when he applied to the LAPD.”

“Right.”

“And Exley got Johnny eased into the Academy?”

“Right.”

“And all this was to set Johnny up to work undercover.”

“Right, to get next to some people or something that Exley had this hard-on for, but don’t ask me who, ’cause I don’t know.”

THEM/Dan Wilhite/Narco — mix them, match them—

“Keep going.”

Bobs, feints — Reuben oozed sweat. “So Exley, he got Johnny this outside work while he was in the Academy, this gig where he what you call infiltrated these Marine Corps guys who were beating up and robbing all these rich queers. That punk Stemmons, you know, that ex-partner of yours, he was Johnny’s teacher at the Academy, and he read this report that Johnny wrote on the fruit-roller gig.”

“And?”

“And Stemmons, he was both, you know, attracted to and, what you call it, repelled by homos. He had the hots for Johnny, which embarrassed the shit out of Johnny, ’cause he’s a cunt man from the gate. Anyway, Johnny busted up the fruit-roller ring, and the Marine Corps police, they got, you know, convictions against the guys. Johnny graduated from the Academy and got assigned to the Detective Bureau right off, ’cause the queer gig made him look righteous good, and ’cause being a Golden Gloves champ gave him some righteous prestige. Anyway, that Irish guy, you know, Dudley Smith, he took a shine to Johnny and got him assigned to the Mobster Squad, ’cause he wanted an ex-fighter for this strongarm work they do.”

Linkage clicking in — no surprises yet.

“And?”

“And somehow Stemmons found out that Exley was what you call operating Johnny, and he pulled this wild queer number on him, and it disgusted Johnny, but he didn’t beat that puto faggot silly, ’cause Stemmons was this hotshot evidence teacher cop who could screw Johnny on this gig he was fuckin’ embroiled in with Exley.”

Popping punches, popping sweat — little moves synced to his story.

“And?”

“And you cops always pull that ‘and’ bit to keep people talking.”

“Then let’s try ‘so.’ ”

“So I guess it was about this time that Johnny got tangled up in the fur job. He said he had inside help, and he just hired on me and my brothers to do the hauling work. He was doing these other so-called bad things, and I figured it was strongarm shit on the Mobster Squad, but Johnny said it was lots worse, like so bad he was afraid to tell his good buddy Exley about it. Fucking Stemmons, he was talking all this criminal-mastermind noise up to Johnny, and I don’t know, but somehow he found out about Johnny and the fur heist.”

Ruiz shit-eater-grinning — punched out, winded.

“When did Johnny tell you all this?”

“After the fur heist, when we put on gloves and he told me to give him this penance beating.”

“And around that time Stemmons tried to horn in on Johnny’s part of the fur job.”

“Right.”

“Come on, Reuben. Right, and?”

“And Johnny told me the fur job was an Exley setup from the gate. It was part of his what you call cover, and Exley was in with that guy Sol Hurwitz. Hurwitz was some kind of gonebust gambler, and fuckin’ rich-kid Exley, he bought all the furs and told Johnny how to stage the heist.”

AUDACIOUS.

Links missing.

Exley’s heist/Dudley Smith’s investigation — why did Exley assign someone that good?

Linkage chronology — pure guesswork:

Johnny offers Mickey Cohen hot fur.

Dud gloms the Cohen lead and scares Mickey shitless.

Exley intercedes.

Exley operates Mickey — toward what end?

Mickey, skewed behavior — movie mogul, Darktown bungler — he still won’t pull his Southside slots.

Chick Vecchio — Mickey linked.

Chick — finger man — Kafesjian movie time.

Mickey and Chick — linked to:

THEM/Narco/Dan Wilhite.

Links:

Missing/hidden/obscured/twisted CRAAAZY—

Reuben — punched out, grinning: “So, I guess all this is just between us witness buddies.”

“That’s right.”

“Is Johnny dead?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad he never got married. Mea fucking culpa, I could of dropped a nice mink coat on his widow.”

Crash noise — another shack went down.

37

Stone’s throw: Chavez Ravine to Silverlake. Over to Jack Woods’ place — his car outside.

Powder blue gleaming: Jack’s baby.

The front door stood ajar — I knocked first.

“I’m in the shower! It’s open!”

I walked in — brazen Jack — phones and bet slips in plain view. A wall photo: Jack, Meg and me — the Mocambo, ’49.

“You remember that night? Meg got plowed on Brandy Alexanders.”

Meg sat between us — hard to tell whose girl.

“You’re cruising down memory lane pretty steep, partner.”

I turned around. “You clipped a guy for Mickey a couple of days before. You were flush, so you picked up the tab.”

Jack cinched his robe. “Is this the pot calling the kettle black?”

“Did you pop Abe Voldrich?”

“Yeah, I did. Do you care?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then you just came by to rehash old times.”

“It’s about Meg, but I wouldn’t mind an explanation.”

Jack lit a cigarette. “Chick Vecchio bought the hit for Mickey. He said Narco and Dan Wilhite wanted it. Voldrich was the Kafesjian family’s bagman to the LAPD. Chick said it was Mickey’s idea, that the Feds had turned Voldrich as a witness, and Mickey wanted his connections to the Kafesjians snipped. Ten grand, partner. My consolation prize for that hump Stemmons dying on me.”

“I’m not so sure I buy it.”

“So what? Business is business, and Mickey and those Armenians have got lots of stuff going down in Niggertown.”

“Something’s missing. Mickey doesn’t clip people anymore, and he hasn’t got ten grand liquid to save his life.”

“So it was the Kafesjians direct, or Dan Wilhite through Chick. Look, what do you care who—”

“Wilhite doesn’t know Chick personally, I’d bet on it.”

My sister’s lover — bored. “Look, Chick played on you and me as friends. He said Voldrich could spill to the Feds on you, so did I want to make ten G’s and help a buddy out. Now, you want to tell me how you made me for the job?”

Links: obscured/hidden/fucked with—

“Dave—”

“The Feds saw a car like yours near Voldrich’s place. They didn’t get any plate numbers, or you’d have heard from them by now.”

“So it was just an educated guess.”

“You’re the only clip guy I know with a powder-blue car.”

“So what about Meg?”

“First you tell me how it stands with you two.”

“It stands that she’s thinking about leaving her husband and getting a place with me.”

“A phone drop? Some crap-game pad?”

“We ruined her for squarejohn guys years ago, so don’t act like she doesn’t know the score.”

That photo — a woman, two killers.

“The Feds have got me by the shorts. I’m going into custody day after tomorrow, and if they try to screw me on my immunity deal Meg might get hurt. I want you to tell her to pull our money out of the bank, and I want you to stash her some place safe until I call you.”

“Okay.”

“Just ‘okay’?”

“Okay, send postcards from wherever the Feds hide you, and I’ve had a hunch that you were screwed for a couple of weeks now.”

That picture—

Jack smiled. “Meg said she’s doing this title search for you, and every time you talk on the phone you sound less like a strongarm guy.”

“And more like a lawyer?”

“No, more like a guy trying to buy his way out.”

“Look after her.”

“Write when you can, Counselor.”

A pay-phone call to Homicide. Shit news — no trace on Richie Herrick’s Chino file. A message — meet Pete Bondurant — 8:00, the Smokehouse, Burbank.

The Vecchio job — looming ugly.

Time to kill. Stone’s throw: Silverlake to Griffith Park. I drove up the east road to the Observatory.

Smog clearing, a view: Hollywood, points south. Coin telescopes mounted by the entrance: 180-degree swivels.

Time to kill, pocket change — I aimed one at the set.

Glass blur, asphalt, hills. Parked cars, up, over: the spaceship.

Crank the lens, squint — people.

Sid Frizell and Wylie Bullock talking: maybe their standard gore shtick. Blur, twist the lens: winos sleeping in the weeds.

Look:

A trailer door embrace: Touch and Rock Rockwell. Over right: Mickey C. spieling extras. Metal glare — Glenda’s trailer, Glenda.

Sitting on the steps, her legs jammed up. Her vampire gown getting ratty — faded, threadbare.

Glass blur, sun streaks. People walking by — dark obstructions. Hard to see, easy to imagine:

Her breath catching low guiding me in.

Sweat matting her hair a shade darker.

Touching her scars — her eyes implicit: horror gave me the will — and I won’t tell you how.

Sun spots, eyestrain. Twist the scope — a wino fistfight — pratfalls, gouging.

The lens clicked off — my time was up. My eyes hurt — I closed them and just stood there. Images hit me rapid-fire:

Dave Klein, strikebreaker — teeth on my truncheon.

Dave Klein, bet enforcer — baseball bat work.

Dave Klein, killer — hung over from cordite and blood stench.

Meg Klein, sobbing: “I don’t want you to love me that way.”

Joan Herrick: “Long history of insanity both our families.”

Somebody, please: give me one last chance to know.

38

“... so Mr. Hughes is pissed. Some psycho chopped Harold Miciak, and he was hoping it’d be open and shut, but now the Malibu Sheriff’s are thinking it’s not that Wino Will-o-the-Wisp guy. They’re thinking somebody chopped Miciak and strangled him to make it look like the Wisp, and Miciak’s ex-wife is bothering Mr. Hughes to put private eyes on the job like he’s supposed to spend money on this thing. Then, on top of all that, Bradley Milteer finds out that you’re porking Glenda Bledsoe and that she’s been stealing from Mr. Hughes’ fuck pads, but you never reported it.”

Southbound — Pete’s car. Bonus armed: knucks and sap.

“I got you the Glenda gig. Mr. Hughes didn’t trust me on it, ’cause he knows I’m susceptible to snatch. I figured, give the job to the old Enforcer, ’cause he’s pretty stoical in the woman department.”

I stretched — neck kinks, jangly nerves. “I’m paying you seven grand for this.”

“Yeah, and you bought me a barbeque beef plate and a beer, which frankly Mr. Hughes never did. What I’m saying is that Mr. Hughes is pissed at you, which is grief you don’t need.”

Normandie south — Pete smoking — crack the window. Replay: my call to Noonan.

“You burned up potential Federal evidence. You’re lucky I haven’t revoked your immunity outright, and now you want this rather outsized favor.”

“PLEASE.”

“I like the tremor in your voice.”

“PLEASE. Lift the surveillance on the Kafesjians tomorrow. It’s my last full day before custody, and I want to see if I can learn a few things before I go in.”

“My guess is that this pertains to the Kafesjians looking for that Richie character, who may be Richard Herrick of that rather outré triple-homicide case you’re working.”

“You’re right.”

“Good. I appreciate candor, and I’ll do it if you formally depose your Richie information during your pre-grand-jury interviews.”

“I agree.”

“It’s settled, then. Go with God, Brother Klein.”

“Brother” Klein — Lutheran choirboy — fists/sap/knucks—

Pete nudged me. “Chick’s meeting Joan Crawford at the Lucky Nugget. She’ll be camouflaged up, and they’re gonna play pokerino or something, then head for the fuck spot from there. I’m gonna snap some pictures on the QT, then Chick’s gonna give me the high sign. We’ll tail them to the spot, let them get cozy and take it from there.”

Cold air, bouncing headlights. A billboard: “Dodger Stadium Is Your Dream! Support the Chavez Ravine Bill!”

Pete: “Seven grand for your thoughts.”

“I’m thinking Chick must have a money stash someplace.”

“If you’re thinking take it, it means we have to clip him.”

“It’s just a thought.”

“And as thoughts go, not bad. Jesus, you and some ex-carhop actress. Is she—”

“Yeah, she’s worth the trouble.”

“I wasn’t gonna ask you that.”

“I know.”

“Like that, huh?”

“Like that.”

Straight south — Gardena — Pete talking grapevine:

Fred Turentine, Hush-Hush bug man: scandal duty for off-the-books cash. Boozer Freddy, AWOL: from dry-out farms and his jail teaching gig. Fed heat, restless niggers — you couldn’t score good ribs or dark poon for shit.

Gardena — poker-palace row pulsing neon. The Lucky Nugget — Chick’s Caddy in the lot, top down.

We pulled up behind it — tail ready. Front-seat action — Joan Crawford and Chick necking hot.

Pete said, “Duck down, they’ll see you.”

I ducked and listened — car doors slammed. Back up — lovebirds on the stroll.

Pete got out. “Take a snooze or something. Don’t play the radio, you’ll run the battery down.”

Tracks inside: movie star, thug, shakedown man. I skimmed the radio dial: news, religious shit, bop.

Memory jog: rolling Gardena drunks back in high school. Bop to ballads, memory lane — zipping Meg’s prom gown too slow.

Fuck it — spare the battery — I turned the music off and dozed. Pete at the door: “Wake up, they’re leaving.”

The Caddy rolled, ragtop up. Pete pulled out — not too close.

East, north — cool air woke me up. Easy tailwork — collusion — Pete drove nonchalant. One arm out her window, oblivious: Joan fucking Crawford.

Due north — Compton, LYNWOOD — spooky turf.

Chick out front: left turn, right turn — Spindrift Drive.

48, 4900 — curb plates pulsing weird/nuts/strange. 4980 — Johnny D. — “Why meet there?”

Hard to breathe — I rolled the window down.

Left turn, right turn.

Empty courtyards.

Dry-ice chills: hot and cold.

Pete: “Jesus, I never made you for such a fresh-air fiend.”

Chick stopped — brake-light taps, signallike.

Memory lane:

Needle stabbed.

Toasty-warm tingly doped up.

Chick and Joanie, walking love-draped:

Into a vacant courtyard, up the RIGHT side walkway.

Then:

Carried, treading air.

RIGHT turn — a skanky room — MOVIE TIME.

Now:

Sucking air — hard to breathe — Johnny replays zinging me.

Pete pulled up curbside. “Chick passed me a note. He knows some guys making smut films here, so he thought Joanie’d like that angle. Movie stars never fail to fucking amaze me.”

Memory clicks — brutal late:

Glenda said Sid Frizell was shooting stag films.

“At some abandoned dive.”

“Down in LYNWOOD.”

“Hey, Klein, are you okay?”

Weapon check: .45, sap, knucks. “Let’s go.”

Pete loaded his camera. “It’s all set. We go in on ‘Baby, it’s so good.’ ”

Ready: knuck teeth scraped my law-school ring.

Pete: “Now.”

We ran in: stucco cubes, walkways, grass.

Place it then and now: Movie time, Johnny begging: “PLEASE DON’T KILL ME.”

Sex grunts — a right-side shack midway down. Tiptoes up, listen:

Smut moans, Chick: “Baby, it’s so gooood.”

Pete camera ready.

Looks, nods, kicks — we snapped the door clean.

Pitch black half a second.

Flashbulb pops: Joan Crawford gobbling Chick V. tonsil-deep.

Speedo:

Bulb blips — Joanie running out the door bare-ass, shrieking.

Chick pawing at a wall switch — the lights on.

A magnum on the nightstand — I grabbed it and scoped the room:

Mirrored walls.

Linoleum floor — maroon dots — dried blood.

Chick on the bed, zipping his fly.

Knucks/gun butt — quick—

I bashed his face, racked his nuts, cracked his arms. Bone jar up my hands — Chick balled himself tight.

A shadow on the bed — Pete restraining me. “Ease off. I gave Crawford some clothes and some money. We’ve got time to do this right.”

Chick doubled up, quaking, good cause: two giant fists flexing straight at him.

Canned shtick — Pete gleeful:

“The left one’s the hospital, the right one’s death. The right one steals your life while the left steals your breath. These hands are bad juju and the bad boogaloo, they’re the teeth of the demon as he slides down the flue.”

Chick stood up — bloody, trembly. “I am Outfit. I am a made guy. Feature you are both dead for this.”

Pete: “Dave, ask the man a question.”

I said, “You set me up. I told you I was meeting a ‘pretty-boy strongarm cop’ in Lynwood. Now, for starters you tell me who you told and how they got that home-movie idea.”

“Feature I will tell you nothing.”

Pete grabbed him by the neck. Flick: two hundred pounds airborne. Chick hit the far wall — mirror glass shattered.

Rag doll Chick — this “huh?” look.

Pete right there — stomp, stomp — fingers cracking under his heels. Chick showed balls: no audible grief.

I knelt down. “You set me up with the Kafesjians.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Chick, we go back. This doesn’t have to be ugly.”

“Feature you are ugly.”

“You fingered me to the Kafesjians. Cop to it and go from there.”

“I didn’t clue nobody you were meeting that cop you told me about. So you got set up, what the fuck, they set you up. Feature I knew they set you up, but feature it was after the goddamn fact.”

“You said ‘they.’ You mean the Kafesjians?”

“I mean it’s a figure of goddamn speech. You got set up ’cause you were born for it, all the shit you pulled and walked on. You got set up, but feature I didn’t do it.”

Pete: “I didn’t know you knew the Kafesjians. I thought you were strictly a Mickey guy.”

“Fuck you. You’re a chump change pimp for Howard Hughes. I fucked your mother. My dog fucked your mother.”

Pete laughed.

Chick — broken fingers, shock pale: “Feature I been rough-housed before. Feature I gave you a free introductory answer, but from here on in you get shit.”

Blood flecks on the floor — Johnny begging.

“You said ‘they.’ You mean the Kafesjians? Give me some details I can use.”

“You mean feed to the Feds? I know you rolled over for Welles Noonan.”

This greaseball thug — sweating off Joan Crawford’s perfume.

“Hand the fuckers up. Give me details.”

“Detail this” — one smashed middle finger twirling. “Suck on this, you kraut cocksuck—”

I grabbed his hand — a wall socket close — jam that fuck-you finger in—

Sparks/smoke — Chick convulsing — live-wire jolts shaking me.

Pete shook me: “STOP IT, YOU’LL KILL HIM!”

Chick shook free: juiced-up hip-hops on his knees, going green.

Fast:

Pete tossed him on the bed. Pillows, sheets, blankets — one mummified geek inside seconds.

Hip-hops sputtering out, his green tinge fading.

Johnny Duhamel begging — IN THIS ROOM.

I grabbed the magnum and popped the cylinder. Six rounds — I dumped five.

Pete nodded: I think he’s okay.

Show the gun, show the cylinder — spin it, lock it.

Chick — read his eyes — “You wouldn’t.”

I aimed point blank — my gun, his head. “You said ‘they.’ Did you mean the Kafesjian family?”

No response.

I pulled the trigger — click — empty chamber.

“How’d you get in with the Kafesjians? I didn’t know you knew them.”

No response.

I pulled the trigger — click — empty chamber.

“I know you gave Jack Woods the contract on Abe Voldrich, and Jack said Mickey ordered it. I don’t believe that, so you tell me who really did.”

Chick, raspy: “Fuck you.”

I pulled the trigger — twice — empty chambers.

Pete whooped: “Mother dog!”

Rainbow Chick turning gray/green/blue.

Cock the hammer, eeeaase the trigger sooo slooow...

“Okay, okay PLEASE!”

I pulled the gun back. Chick coughed, spat phlegm and talked:

“I got this order to recruit a hit on Abe Voldrich. Feature they figured I was too well known on the Southside to do it myself, so I thought, ‘Dave Klein, he could get burned by this Federal biz,’ and ‘Jack Woods, he does a job for a price, he’s Dave’s buddy, he’d want to spare Dave grief,’ so I talked him into it that way, not that he didn’t jew me up on the ticket.”

Raspy working on hoarse: “So, feature — I talked to Voldrich. The Feds cut him loose to take care of some stuff for a day or so, and I wanted to know what he knew before I had Jack clip him. Now, now, now” — snitch fever — “you just listen.”

Pete popping his knuckles — loud, like hammer clicks.

Chick, thrashing his blankets: “Voldrich said the Feds were hot to turn you as a witness. He said he overheard Welles Noonan and this FBI man Shipstad talking. They said they bugged your pad, and they’ve got a tape with you talking this amorphous stuff about your mob hits, and Glenda Bledsoe saying she snuffed some nigger pimp named Dwight Gilette. Feature, Davey: Noonan told Shipstad he was going to offer you immunity, get a shitload of information, then violate the agreement unless you testify against Glenda on the murder charge. Shipstad tried to talk Noonan out of crossing you, but Noonan hates you so bad he said he’d never agree.”

Feature:

The bed spinning.

The room spinning.

The gun spinning—

“Who are ‘they’?”

“Davey, please. I just did you this all-time solid.”

“Something’s off here. You’re not the one the Kafesjians would send to pump Abe Voldrich. Now, who set me up to kill Johnny Duhamel?”

“Davey, please.”

Everything spinning—

“Please, Davey...”

I hit him — gun-butt shots — his blankets caught the brunt. I pulled them down — ribcage work — the bed spun.

“Who set me up?”

No snitch.

“What’s with Mickey? Why are those out-of-town guys working his slots with the Feds right there?”

No snitch.

“You’re in with the Kafesjians? You’re tight with them? You fucking tell me what you know about Tommy chasing a guy named Richie Herrick.”

No snitch — ribcage work — my pistol grips shattered. Pete flashed me a signal: EASY.

I spun the cylinder again. “Is Sid Frizell shooting smut films here?”

No answer.

I pulled the trigger — click — empty chamber.

Chick balled up, quaking—

Pull the trigger — click — empty chamber.

Quaking/snitch-begging eyes: “They said they needed a strongarm place, so I said take this place, Sid and his crew were editing their stag stuff, so this place was empty.”

“Did they tell you they were making their own movie?”

“No! They said ‘strongarm spot’! That’s all they said!”

“Who developed their film? Did someone on Mickey’s movie crew help them out?”

“No! Frizell and his guys are fucking clowns! They don’t know anybody except me!”

“Who’s been running you?”

“No, Davey, please!”

I put the gun to the mattress — next to his head. “Who are THEY?”

“NO! I CAN’T! I WON’T!”

I pulled the trigger — click/click/roar — muzzle flash set his hair on fire.

This scream.

This huge hand snuffing flames out — stretching huge to quash that scream.

A whisper:

“We’ll stash him at one of your buildings. You do what you have to do, and I’ll watchdog him. We’ll work an angle on his money, and sooner or later he’ll spill.”

Smoke. Mattress debris settling.

Chick torched half-bald.

EVERYTHING SPINNING.

39

Back to L.A. — Pete’s car solo — pay-phone stops en route.

I broke it to Glenda: you’re nailed for Dwight Gilette. She said, “Oh, shit” and hatched a plan: she’d bus it to Fresno, hide out with an old carhop pal. Phone-tap panic hit me — I spieled her through the checkout procedure. Glenda pulled wires and checked diodes — no tap on her line.

Her goodbye: “We’re too good-looking to lose.”

Jack Woods — three no-answers — Meg ditto. A booth outside the Bureau, luck — Jack just walked in. I told him the Feds fucked me: grab Meg, grab our money, GO.

“Okay, Dave” — no goodbye.

I ran up to Ad Vice. A clerk’s slip on my desk: “Call Meg. Important.”

My In box, my Out box — no new Herrick field reports. I checked my desk — the Kafesjian/Herrick case file was gone.

The phone rang—

“Yeah?”

“Boss, it’s Riegle.”

“Yeah?”

“Come on, you assigned me to a stakeout, remember? The storage locker place, you told me—”

“Yeah, I remember. Is this routine, or something good?”

Miffed: “I got you twelve hours of DMV-certified squarejohns and one interesting bit.”

“So tell me.”

“So, a guy went in, then ran back to his car looking spooked. So, I got his plate number and checked him out, and I thought he looked sort of familiar. So, Richard Carlisle, you know him? He’s LAPD, and I think he works for Dudley Smith.”

Soft clicks.

“Boss, are you—”

I cradled the phone down, soft clicks building:

Dick Carlisle — fur-job detective.

Dick Carlisle — Mike Breuning’s partner.

11/51 — Breuning dead-ends a juvie B&E. Obvious perps: Tommy K., Richie Herrick.

My Kafesjian/Herrick case file — missing.

I walked down the hall to Personnel. File request slips on the clerk’s desk — for Division COs only.

I braced the clerk:

Michael Breuning, Richard Carlisle — get me their folders. “Yes, sir,” ten minutes, folders out — “not to leave the room.”

Carlisle — Previous Employment — no clicks.

Breuning — movie click — Wilshire Film Processing, developing technician — ’37–’39 — pre-LAPD.

Click — soft, circumstantial.

1:00 A.M. — back to Ad Vice. Stray thoughts: Pete guarding Chick at my El Segundo vacant.

Chick:

“THEY.”

Afraid to say “Kafesjian.”

Afraid to snitch they/THEM/who?

That message slip: “Call Meg. Important.”

Circumstantial — prickles up my short hairs.

Meg at Jack’s — worth a try. Three rings — Jack, edgy: “Yes?”

“It’s me.”

Background noise: high heels tapping. Jack said, “She’s here. She’s taking it pretty well, maybe just a little bit nervous.”

“You’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Right. We’ll hit the banks early, withdraw the cash and get bank drafts. Then we’re going to drive down to Del Mar, open some new accounts and find a place. You want to talk to her?”

Tap tap — Meg pacing — high heels made her stocking seams bunch. “No. Tell her it’s just goodbye for now, and ask her what the message was.”

Tap, tap, low voices. Footsteps, Jack: “Meg said she’s got a partial trace on that building in Lynwood.”

“And?”

“She found some property evaluation reports in that storage basement at the City Hall. What she’s got is a 1937 report listing Phillip Herrick and a Dudley L. Smith as bidders on 4980 Spindrift. Hey, you think that’s the Dudley Smith?”

Sweaty hands — I dropped the phone.

Say it:

Ed Exley vs. Dudley Smith.

40

EMERGENCY COMMAND #’s — my desk card. Chief of Detectives (Home) — dial it.

Exley, 1:00 A.M. alert: “Yes? Who is this?”

“It’s Klein. I just figured out you’re working Dudley Smith.”

“Come over now. My address is 432 South McCadden.”

A trellised Tudor — lights on, the door ajar. I walked in uninvited.

A showroom living room, catalog perfect. Exley in a suit and knotted tie — 2:00 fucking A.M.

“How did you find out?”

“I beat you to a bank writ and hit Junior Stemmons’ vault boxes. He had notes on you operating Duhamel, and Reuben Ruiz filled in some blank spots on the fur heist. I found out that Dudley and Phillip Herrick went in on some property together back in ’37. Herrick and J.C. Kafesjian came to L.A. a few years before, and I’m betting Dudley was the one who set J.C. up with the LAPD.”

Standing there, arms crossed. “Continue.”

“It fits. My Kafesjian and Herrick files were stolen, and Richie’s prison records are missing. Dudley could have snatchéd them both easily. He loves developing protégés, so you shoved Johnny Duhamel in his face.”

“Continue.”

Shock him: “I killed Johnny. Dudley doped me up, provoked me and filmed it. A fucking movie exists. I think he’s waiting to use me for something.”

Exley “shock” — one neck vein pulsing. “When you said Duhamel was dead, I knew it had to be Dudley, but this film business surprises me.”

“Surprise me. Give me your end of it.”

He pulled chairs up. “Give me your take on Dudley Smith.”

“He’s brilliant and obsessed with order. He’s cruel. It’s occurred to me a few times that he’s capable of anything.”

“Beyond your wildest imaginings.”

Scalp prickles. “And?”

“And he’s been trying to set himself up to control the L.A. rackets for years.”

“And?”

“And, in 1950 he acquired some heroin stolen from a Mickey Cohen — Jack Dragna truce meeting. He enlisted a chemist, who spent years developing compounds with it, in order to produce the drug more cheaply. His design was to accrue profit through selling it, to utilize it to keep Negro criminal elements sedated and then branch out into other rackets. His ultimate goal was something along the lines of ‘contained’ organized crime. He wanted to perpetuate illegal enterprises within specific vice zones, most notably South Los Angeles.”

“Get to specifics.”

Slow — tantalizing me: “In ’53 Dudley became involved in an attempt to take over a pornography racket. A meet was set up at the Nite Owl Coffee Shop. Dudley sent three men in with shotguns. A robbery was faked, and six people were killed. Dudley was instrumental in attempting to frame three Negro thugs for the murders. They escaped from jail and hid out, and as you know, I shot and killed them, along with the man who was hiding them.”

The room swirled—

“The case was assumed closed. As you also know, a man came forth later and gave the men I killed a valid Nite Owl alibi, which prompted a reopening. I know you know most of the story, but let two facts suffice: the actual gunmen were killed during the reopened investigation, and they left not one shred of evidence pointing to Dudley Liam Smith.”

Swirling — grab for threads:

Dudley — smut fiend? — MOVIE TIME. Sid Frizell shooting stag films in that courtyard — no connection to Smith.

“Dud’s got new takeover plans going — strictly Niggertown.”

“Bravo, Lieutenant.”

“He’s running Mickey Cohen?”

“Continue.”

“Mickey’s been scuffling since he got out of prison. Four of his men disappeared earlier this year — Dudley killed them. All Mickey’s got going is that stupid horror movie he’s bank-rolling, which I don’t think ties to any of this.”

“Continue.”

“Mickey’s been acting strange since the Fed business started. He won’t dump his Southside coin machines, and I warned him half a dozen times. He’s got some out-of-town guys servicing slots in plain sight, with the Feds right there taking pictures. I mentioned it to Chick Vecchio, who handed me a line of shit about Mickey paying off a syndicate loan with his coin percentages. Chick’s in with Dudley. Dudley clipped those four Mickey guys and approached Chick. Chick’s the liaison between Dud and Mickey. That slot work with the Feds watching is some kind of setup.”

Exley fucking smiled. “You’ve put it together exactly as I have.”

“Get to Johnny. Tell me how you operated him.”

“No, tell me about your Stemmons evidence first.”

I ticked points: “I know about those bank accounts you set up. I know how you paid those reporters to write stories about Johnny. I know you paid off his debts, got him to tank that fight and got him into the Academy. You set up the fur heist yourself, so I’m thinking you arranged leads to have Dudley actually make Johnny for the heist. You knew how Dudley loved developing ‘protégés,’ so you put a fucking humdinger right in front of his nose.”

“Keep going.”

“Breuning and Carlisle — they’re in with Dudley.”

“Correct.”

“You got Johnny that Academy undercover job.”

“Elaborate on that.”

Leading me/pushing me/praising me — this string-pulling weak sister.

“You coached him to overreact. Dudley likes tough boys, so you made damn sure Johnny established some strongarm credentials.”

“Bravo, Lieutenant” — toss the dog a bone.

“You like running people as much as Dudley does. It must gall you to know he’s better at it.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“No, you cocksucker, I’m not. But I know it must get you to look in the mirror and see Dudley.”

Exley “anger” — a tight little grimace.

“Continue.”

“No, you give me a chronology. Dudley bit, and got Johnny assigned to the Mobster Squad. He’s the Robbery Division CO, so he got the Hurwitz heist pro forma. You planted leads to put Dudley on to Johnny, then what?”

“Then Johnny became an official Mobster Squad goon. It’s brutal work, Lieutenant. I always thought you’d be well suited for it.”

Tight fists — my knuckles ached. “Reuben Ruiz said Johnny was doing some ‘very bad things.’ Dudley started working him then, right? He made Johnny for the robbery, and he liked it. It impressed him, so he let Johnny in on his plans.”

“You’re on track. Continue.”

“Continue shit — what ‘very bad things’?”

“Dudley had Johnny terrorizing out-of-town hoodlums he had plans for. Johnny told me he was having difficulty doing it.”

“You should have pulled him then.”

“No. I needed more.”

“Do you think those out-of-town guys were the guys working Mickey’s slots? Do you think it ties into Dud running Mickey?”

“Yes. I’m not entirely sure, but I think it’s possible.”

His chair — Scotch tape dangling off a slat.

“Wrap it up.”

Exley buffed his glasses — his eyes looked soft without them. “Johnny began to lose Dudley’s respect. He was too lax with the out-of-town men, and he told me that Carlisle and Breuning were surveilling him sporadically, apparently because Dudley became instinctively suspicious of him. Junior Stemmons came back into Johnny’s life then, quite accidentally. Both he and Johnny were working South-Central, and somehow Stemmons got Johnny to admit his participation in the fur robbery. Johnny didn’t, apparently, implicate me, but Stemmons sensed that he was being operated. Dudley became aware of how dangerously unstable Stemmons was, and I think he suspected him of trying to extort Johnny. I know for a fact that Dudley tried to get a bank writ to seize potential Stemmons evidence, and I’m assuming that he tortured Johnny for information on the extent of Junior’s knowledge before he had you kill him. I had already gone to a Federal law clerk that I know, and he stalled Dudley’s writ while I tried to get one. You got to the vault boxes first, and I’m thinking that Welles Noonan must have assisted you.”

That dangling tape — just maybe.

“He did.”

“Are you going to be a Federal witness?”

“I’m supposed to be.”

“But you’re considering not testifying?”

Glenda — potential FED indictments pending.

“Mostly I’m thinking of running.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“The Kafesjian-Herrick job.”

“You’re expecting some kind of payoff?”

“No, I just want to know why.”

“Is that all you want?”

“No. I want you to get me a cup of coffee, and I want to know why you assigned me to the Kafesjian burglary.”

Exley stood up. “Do you think Dudley killed Junior Stemmons?”

“No, he would have ditched the body to buy more time to get at the vault boxes.”

“Are you thinking it was a legitimate overdose?”

“No, I’d bet on Tommy K. My guess is that Junior came on strong and Tommy got pissed. It happened at Bido Lito’s, so Tommy left the body there. The Kafesjians torched the place to destroy evidence.”

“You could be right. Wait, I’ll get you your coffee.”

He walked out. Kitchen sounds — I grabbed the tape.

Safe-combination bingo: 34L–16R–31L. Squarejohn thinking: every rich stupe pulled that chair-reminder bit. I pressed the tape back and scoped the room: cold, expensive.

Exley brought coffee in on a tray. I poured a cup for show.

“You put me on the Kafesjian burglary to bait Dudley.”

“Yes. Has he approached you?”

“Indirectly, and I told him flat out that you were using me as some sort of agent provocateur. He let it go at that.”

“And he has you compromised with that movie you told me about.”

“PLEASE DON’T KILL ME.”

“Get to it. Dudley and the Kafesjians.”

He sat down. “The burglary itself was just a coincidence, and I simply capitalized on the fact that Dan Wilhite sent you over to smooth things out with J.C. I suspect that the burglary and the Herrick killings, which are connected, are connected to Dudley at best tangentially. Essentially, after the Nite Owl reopening, I began querying retired officers about Dudley. I learned that he, not Chief Horrall, suborned the Kafesjians into the LAPD fold twenty-odd years ago. He was the one who initiated the notion of contained narcotics peddling in exchange for a certain amount of Southside order and snitch information, and of course many years later he went crazy with the notion of containment in general.”

“What about Phillip Herrick?”

“Your property-ownership lead is my first indication of a Smith-Herrick connection. You see, I just wanted Dudley diverted. I knew he had things brewing in South-Central, and I knew he was taking a discreet percentage from J.C. Kafesjian. I wanted the Kafesjians rattled, and I had hoped that your reputation would move Dudley to approach you.”

“Then you’d operate me.”

“Yes.”

Dawn breaking — my last free day. “I burned up Junior’s evidence. He had notes, your cancelled checks to those reporters, everything.”

“All my dealings with Duhamel were verbal. You’ve just assured me that there is no evidence on my operation extant.”

“It’s comforting to know that you’ll skate.”

“You can, too.”

“Don’t jerk my chain. Don’t offer me protection, and don’t mention sparing the Department.”

“You consider your situation beyond those things?”

Dawn light — my eyes stung. “I’m fucked, plain and simple.”

“Ask a favor then. I’ll grant it.”

“I got Noonan to lift his surveillance on the Kafesjians. They’ll be tail-free today only, and I think they’ll go after Richie Herrick. I want a dozen mobile tail men with civilian radio cars, and a special frequency set up to monitor their calls. It’s a shot at Dudley, which should please you no fucking end.”

“You’re assuming Richie can fill in some blanks on Dudley and the Kafesjians?”

“I’m assuming he knows all of it.”

Exley stuck a hand out — Dave, my buddy. “I’ll set up a radio spot at Newton Station. Be there at ten-thirty, I’ll have your men briefed and ready.”

That hand, persistent — I ignored it.

“You’re letting Narco go. The Department needs a scapegoat, and they’re it.”

That hand disappeared. “I have extensive dossiers on every Narco officer. At the proper time, I’m going to present them to Welles Noonan, as a way of affecting a rapprochement. And, parenthetically, Dan Wilhite committed suicide last night. He left a note that included a brief mention of the bribes he’s taken, and I’m going to send Noonan a memorandum on it before too long. He was obviously afraid of having his more outré secrets exposed, which is something you should consider should you decide to testify against the Department.”

Bad morning light — glaring.

“I’m past all that.”

“You’re not past needing me. I can help satisfy your curiosity regarding those families, so don’t forget that your interests are identical to mine.”

Bad morning light — one day left.

41

10:30 — Newton Street Station. A briefing room — chairs facing me.

No sleep — phone work kept me up. Recap: early-A.M. check-in — the Wagon Wheel Motel.

Those fur-storage notes: Dudley knew I knew/Dudley knew where I lived.

Calls:

Glenda said she was safe in Fresno.

Pete said he had Chick V. stashed, with Fred Turentine guarding him. Safe: my slum building, dummy signers, untraceable. “When he heals up a little, I’m gonna lean on him. He’s got money tucked away someplace, I can tell.”

Implied: rob him, kill him.

Welles Noonan had Kafesjian news:

Per our bargain: all Fed tails were lifted today only. TV misinformation was planted: “Probe surveillance quashed by court injunction.”

“I’m hoping our friends will think that an LAPD fix is in, and resume their outside life. Godspeed in this mission of yours, Brother Klein — and tune in Channel 4 or KMPC at two-forty-five this afternoon. Really, you’ll be in for quite a treat.”

Lying treacherous hump.

Tail men walked in and sat down. Mixed bag: suits and ties, loafer types. Twelve men — eyes on me.

“Gentlemen, I’m Dave Klein. I’m commanding the Herrick homicide job, and per Chief Exley’s order, you are to keep a twenty-four rolling surveillance on J.C., Tommy, Lucille and Madge Kafesjian. We are hoping that one of them will lead us to Richard Herrick, who Chief Exley and I want to question as a material witness in the Herrick 187s.”

Little nods — Exley pre-briefed them.

“Gentlemen, those folders on your desks contain Intelligence Division photos of the four Kafesjians, along with State Records Bureau mugs of Richard Herrick, and a more recent artist’s sketch of him. Know those faces. Memorize them. You’ll be stringing three-man tails on each family member, both mobile and on foot, and I don’t want you losing them.”

Folders open, pix out — pros.

“You’re all skilled tail men, or Chief Exley wouldn’t have chosen you. You’ve got radio-equipped civilian cars, and Communications Division has got you hooked up on band 7, which is absolutely Fed-listening-proof. You’re hooked up car to car, so you can talk among yourselves or contact me here at the base. You all know how to leapfrog suspects, and there are boom mikes outside the Kafesjian house. There’s a man in a point car listening, and once you assume your perimeter posts, he’ll tell you when to roll. Questions so far?”

No hands up.

“Gentlemen, if you see Richard Herrick, apprehend him alive. He’s a peeper at worst, and both Chief Exley and I believe that a man peeping on him is in fact the Herrick family killer. If approached, I doubt that he’ll react violently or resist arrest. He might try to flee, in which case you should pursue him and take him alive by any means necessary. Should you spot one of the Kafesjians, specifically Tommy or J.C., trying to kill or in any way harm Richard Herrick, kill them. If Tommy himself spots your tail and attempts to flee, chase him. If he makes any aggressive moves toward you, kill him.”

Whistles, smiles.

“Go — you’re dismissed.”

Bugs in my walls, bugs on my phone. Bugs snooping on Glenda, snooping on Meg. Fred Turentine — the “Bug King” — guarding Chick.

Bugs in my buildings — three hundred units plus. Tenants overheard: fix the roof, kill the rats. Bugs blasting bop — niggers tearing up my slum pads.

“Sir? Lieutenant Klein?”

I woke up aiming — trigger happy.

A bluesuit — scared. “S-s-sir, the point man broadcast in. He said the two Kafesjian guys are mobile, and he said he heard them talking up Richie Herrick.”

42

Tail reports — band 7, continuous squawk:

11:14: Madge and Lucille at home. J.C. and Tommy driving eastbound — separate cars.

11:43: J.C. at the downtown Public Library. Tail men in foot pursuit — walkie-talkie talkback:

The music room — J.C. rousting winos. “Hey! You know Richie Herrick, he used to read books here! Hey, you seen Richie, you tell me!”

No Richie confirmations.

12:06: J.C. mobile, eastbound.

12:11: Madge and Lucille at home.

Earaches — my headset fit tight.

12:24: J.C. at a skid-row movie house.

“He’s shining a flashlight at all these bums sleeping. He’s getting nowhere, and he’s getting mad.”

12:34: J.C. walking — Q&A at the Jesus Saves Mission.

12:49: Tommy walking — skid row.

12:56: Tommy at a skin-book arcade.

12:58: Tommy talking to a clerk.

Linkage?:

Transom magazine — Richie Herrick, author.

1:01: Tommy muscling the clerk. Unit 3-B67, walkie-talkie: “The guy’s pleading with Tommy. If Tommy pulls a weapon, I’ll go in.”

1:01: J.C. at a hot-dog stand.

1:03–1:04: Tommy driving northbound.

1:06: Unit 3-B67, walkie-talkie:

“I talked to the clown Tommy leaned on, and he said that Richie bought dirty magazines there. He said Richie said something about a pad in Lincoln Heights, and he told Tommy about it to get him off his back.”

1:11: Tommy — Pasadena Freeway north.

1:14: Tommy — Lincoln Heights off-ramp.

1:19: J.C. eating lunch: five kraut dogs, Bromo Seltzer.

1:21: Lucille heading out in her Ford Vicky.

1:23: Tommy cruising North Broadway, Lincoln Heights.

1:26: Madge at home.

1:34: J.C. scarfing dessert: jelly doughnuts and beer.

1:49: Tommy cruising side streets, Lincoln Heights.

1:53: Lucille — Pasadena Freeway northbound.

1:56: Lucille — Lincoln Heights off-ramp.

1:59: 3-B67/3-B71 — crosstalk:

Lucille cruising Lincoln Heights.

Tommy cruising Lincoln Heights.

North/south/east/west zigzags — missing each other.

Educated guess:

Two Richie chasers chasing Richie — cross-purposes.

Maybe Lucille got a phone tip — maybe the skin-mag clerk.

2:00–2:04: All J.C./Tommy/Lucille units:

No Richie Herrick sightings.

Transmitter static. I flipped dials — squelch, odd words: “multiple,” “maybe mob stuff,” “Watts.”

A clerk tapped me. “Sorry, Lieutenant, a Code 3 screwed up the lines.”

“What is it?”

“Homicides at the Haverford Wash. Maybe shotguns, maybe gangster stuff.”

My hackles jumped. “You monitor band 7, I’m going.”

Watts — Code 3, join the crowd: black & whites, lab vans, Fed cars. Deep Watts — rural — fields, scattered shacks.

A bluff — cop vehicles at the edge. I skidded up and fish-tailed in close.

Men looking down — Feds and LAPD combined. Push through, scope it:

A concrete run-off ditch — twenty feet deep.

Sewage water ankle-high — tech men kicking through it.

Blood streaks down the right-side embankment.

Four garbage-soaked bodies just below.

Steep cement leading down — I skidded all the way. Tech guys snapping pix — bulb light bouncing off bloody water.

I looked up:

Trees lining the embankment — good cover.

I looked down:

Shotgun shells bobbing in the muck.

Call it:

Tree-cover ambush — buckshot blew them down.

I sloshed over — techs swarming — more sirens up top. Four bottom-sucking dead men — their backsides ripped tailbone to ribcage.

Jumbled voices on the bluff: Noonan, Shipstad, Exley. Lab men flipping bodies, getting gore-splashed.

Four stiffs face-up now — two white, two Mex. I made three: goons working Mickey C. coin.

Snap conclusion:

Dudley ambush — NO FACE SHOTS — Darktown slot geek victims.

Snap theory:

Staged killings for the Feds — some onus dropped on out-of-town gangs. A Dudley Smith charade — SOMEHOW.

Look:

Exley kicking up water — his cuffs soaked.

Noonan closer — trousers rolled, fucking garters.

Tech talk, scrambled:

Handguns on the stiffs.

Spent rounds up top — threads attached — the killers wore bulletproof vests.

Lab men swamping Exley, holding him back. Noonan on me, splashing me.

Waving photos — matching dead men — dead panicked.

“Oh God, oh no. We identified these—”

I steered him clear of Exley. Noonan kicked at the water — shotgun shells jumped.

“We identified these men. Mickey Cohen divested his Southside coin machines to them. They’re part of a midwestern syndicate... Mickey said they’re the ones who killed those men of his who just disappeared a while ago. Mickey’s got no stomach for the rackets anymore... He sold them his coin business to get out of it.”

Bullshit — actor Mickey — Glenda critiqued his “style.”

Noonan: “We turned Mickey as a witness. We granted him immunity and promised him a Federal Service Medal. He thinks it will help him secure a district gambling franchise, which is absurd, since that bill will never pass the State Legislature.”

Mr. U.S. Attorney — plaid garters.

“Klein, do you know anything about this?”

“Major Witness” Mickey — confirmed. A flash: Bob Gallaudet supported district gambling.

Exley watching us.

“Klein—”

“No, I don’t.”

“This may hurt us. Mickey was going to testify against those men.”

“Us”/“we” — Glenda juked Fed royal.

“I want an extra day before I enter custody.”

“Under no circumstances. Don’t ask me again, and don’t even consider begging additional favors. This is your last day to resolve your curiosity vis-à-vis the Kafesjians, and as of tomorrow those curiosities will become a matter of Federal testimony.”

Mr. U.S. Attorney — used rubbers stuck to his ankles.

“Who do you think killed these guys?”

“I would say East Coast mafiosi. I would say the word got out that Mickey divested his coin machines, and some East Coast men are attempting to crash the racket.”

Clueless dumbfuck.

“Trust ME, lad” — Dudley Smith in my head.

Shouts up top:

“Mr. Noonan! Mr. Noonan, he’s on the radio!”

Noonan splashed up the hill; Exley hooked a finger my way.

Duck him — up to the bluff fighting shivers. Fed cars, Feds: Shipstad, Noonan, Milner et fucking al.

Mickey Cohen on KMPC:

“... This is a public announcement undertaken in true sincerity, so I will say it now: I am severing my rackets connections. It is a mitzvah and a good deed of atonement, and I am coming forth to aid the Federal rackets probe currently doing business in Nigger — I mean Southside Los Angeles. I do this with great personal tsuris, which is the same as agony to you many Angeleno viewers and listeners who do not understand Yiddish. I am doing this severing because vicious midwestern hoodlums killed four of my men some months ago, and they are now threatening to kill my ex-wife, and let me now state that those rumors of her leaving me for some shvartze calypso singer are false. I am doing this severing because it is the moral thing to do as taught in the Bible, that wonderful perennial bestseller with many wonderful lessons for gentiles and Jews alike. I sold my Nig — I mean Southside vending-machine business to the midwestern hoodlums to save lives. I am now prepared to aid my dear friend U.S. Attorney Welles Noonan and his courageous...”

Mickey rambling.

Shipstad grinning.

Noonan trembling — wet feet, rage.

“... and the Federal rackets probe is undertaken out of principles espoused in the Bible, one of those goyishe chapters that serve as the basis of inspirational movies like Samson and Delilah or maybe the scintillating The Ten Commandments.”

Noonan: “Mickey’s testimony is a bit anticlimactic now. I would like to blame these deaths on the Kafesjians, but vending machines have never been their raison d’être. Eight A.M. tomorrow, Brother Klein. Bring Kafesjian information, and don’t even think of asking for an extension.”

“Trust ME, lad” — Dudley Smith sweet as Jesus.

43

4:09: J.C. and Madge at home.

4:16: Lucille walking — Lincoln Heights — bars, newsstands.

4:23: Tommy walking — Lincoln Heights. Unit 3-B67: “I think he’s checking out shooting galleries. He’s hit four places the past two hours, and they look like hype pads to me.”

4:36: Lucille walking.

4:41: Tommy walking.

3-B67: “I called the Highland Park Squad about those places Tommy hit. They said hype pads affirmative. Him and Lucille haven’t run into each other yet, which goddamn amazes me.”

4:53–4:59, all units: No Richie Herrick sightings.

5:02: Base to all J.C./Madge units: proceed to Lincoln Heights and saturate for Richie Herrick.

5:09: Lucille at Kwan’s Chow Mein Pagoda. 3-B71: “She walked straight to the kitchen, and I know this place. Uncle Ace Kwan sells white horse, so I’ll bet Lucy didn’t stop in for chop suey.”

5:16: Lucille exiting the restaurant. 3-B71: “She looks nervous, and she’s carrying a brown paper bag.”

Weird — hype Lucille? — unlikely.

Junkie Richie — ditto.

Tommy cruising dope pads—????

5:21: Tommy pissing in the street in full view of children. 3-B67: “Jesus, what a whanger! This clown has gotta hold the white man’s world record!”

A clerk nudged me; I pulled off my headset. “What is it?”

“High brass to see you. The parking lot, ASAP.”

Exley.

Go — past the squadroom — civilian radio blaring: Gangland Slayings! Mickey Cohen Reforms! Outside — Dudley.

Lounging on a prowl car.

Breuning and Carlisle by the fence — out of earshot. Breuning wearing a herringbone coat — MOVIE TIME patterns.

“Hello, lad.”

Don’t flinch, don’t move too sudden, don’t tremble.

“I got your notes, lad.”

I stepped closer. Smell him: bay rum cologne.

“I hope you availed yourself of a splendid mink stole for that lovely sister of yours. Is she still consorting with Jack Woods?”

“I’ve got Chick Vecchio stashed. He snitched you on the movie, the furs, you running Mickey and those slot guys you clipped in Watts.”

“I would say you’re dissembling. I would say Exley hearsay is your sole source of information. You’re assuming I told Chick things that indeed I didn’t, and frankly I doubt that he would speak indiscreetly, even under the most severe duress.”

“Try to find him.”

“Is he dead or just temporarily indisposed?”

“He’s alive, and he’ll talk to stay that way.”

Breuning and Carlisle watching us bug-eyed.

“They can’t hear us, lad.”

Don’t blink. Don’t tremble—

“Lad, your notes stated that you wished to act independent of Edmund Exley. I found that encouraging, and your mention of money even more so.”

“Breuning put that sword in my hand. I’ll trade you Vecchio for him, the movie and fifty thousand.”

“Mike was hardly the director of your cinema debut.”

“Let’s just say he pays.”

“Lad, you surprise me. I had thought your homicidal tendencies to be strictly profit-motivated.”

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to accept this new aspect of my personality.”

Dudley roared. “Lad, your sense of humor is beyond salutary, and I agree to your offer.”

“Tonight then. A public place.”

“Yes, my thoughts exactly. Shall we make it eight o’clock, the Hollywood Ranch Market parking lot?”

“Agreed.”

“I’ll have Mike bring the fifty. He’ll think it’s a payoff run, and he’ll be told to accompany you to fetch Vecchio. Take him with you, and when things are settled, call me at AXminster 6–4031 to tell me where Chick can be found. And, lad? Mike will be wearing a vest — you should know that and aim accordingly.”

“I’m surprised — you and Breuning go back.”

“Yes, lad, but you and I go forward. And on that topic, how do you assess the extent of Edmund Exley’s information?”

Seal it — touch him. That cologne — don’t gag.

“Lad...”

I draped an arm around his shoulders. “He knows everything that I do and whatever else Johnny Duhamel told him. There’s nothing on paper, and his Duhamel evidence is hearsay impossible to corroborate. He ran me against you on the Kafesjian burglary, and my only regret is that he’s too big to kill.”

“Are you saying our transgressions might go unpunished as a result of his lack of evidence?”

“I’m saying you’ll skate — if you curtail your plans with Mickey.”

“And yourself, lad? Dare I proffer the word ‘loyalty’?”

“It’s the Feds, Exley or you. You’re the only one with cash money.”

Embracing me — Dudley Liam Smith. “You’ve made a wise choice, lad. We’ll discuss Exley later, and I won’t insult your intelligence with the word ‘trust.’ ”

44

6:16: J.C. and Madge at home.

6:21: Tommy prowling dope pads — Lincoln Heights.

6:27: Lucille prowling bars — Lincoln Heights.

6:34, all units: no Richie Herrick sightings.

6:41: Tommy eating dinner: Kwan’s Chow Mein Pagoda.

3-B67, walkie-talkie: “I’m no lip reader, but I can tell Uncle Ace is telling Tommy how Lucille copped some white horse from him. Tommy’s goddamn fuming. Oops, he’s walking. 3-B67 to base, over and out.”

6:50: Tommy cruising Lincoln Heights — random zigzags.

6:54: Lucille walking — Lincoln Park — chatting up bums.

6:55, 6:56, 6:57, 6:58 — Mike Breuning pictured dead a hundred ways.

NO—

45

“... so I’ll cross Dudley. I won’t hand over Vecchio — and Dudley thinks I’m going to kill Breuning. We nail Breuning for the Duhamel killing, and I’ll eyewitness Tommy K. popping Steve Wenzel, which gives us a wedge on the Kafesjians. Breuning will fucking shit his pants when I ARREST him, then we’ll—”

“Klein, will you calm down—”

“Calm down shit, I’m a lawyer, you listen to me.”

“Klein—”

“No, you listen. Breuning snitches Dudley, then Gallaudet convenes a special County grand jury to hear evidence. We upstage the Feds on Narco and the Kafesjians tangential to Dudley, and I testify on the Duhamel killing and all conspiracies extant with the Kafesjians, Dan Wilhite, Narco, Smith, Mickey Cohen, my mob hits, all of it. I’m a cop, I’m an attorney, I’ll be the goat, I’ll testify when the trials start, the Feds’ll be fucked, you’ll look so good Welles Noonan’ll wither up and die and Gas Chamber Bob’ll ride the trials straight to the governorship and—”

“Klein—”

“Exley, PLEASE, let me do this. Dudley knows I’m a killer, and he thinks he’s operating me on Breuning. Now, if I bring Breuning in, he’ll punk out — without Dudley he’s got no guts. Exley, PLEASE.”

Tick tick tick tick tick — seconds/a minute—

“Do it.”

Phone-booth sweats — drenched — I cracked the door for a breeze.

“And no backup men at the Ranch Market — Breuning might spot them.”

“Agreed. Do it.”

Pay phone to pay phone — bug-fear precautions. Long distance — twenty dimes — Newton Station to Mel’s Drive Inn, Fresno.

Glenda talked a blue streak:

Touch told Mickey she drove to T.J. for a scrape. Dig her new stand-in — Rock Rockwell, full drag. Dig Fed witness Mickey on TV — blatant Vampire plugs.

Reckless Glenda — tell me everything.

She was carhopping now: roller skates, cowgirl outfits. A Fed fugitive — fuck it — she spilled a malt on the Fresno DA — and he loved it. Good tips, getting gooood on skates — really gooood tray dips. Stylish Glenda, strong Glenda — tell me ANYTHING.

Her blue streak dwindled; her tough-girl shtick tapped out hoarse. Scared Glenda — chain-smoking to tamp down her nerves.

I told her:

You scared me.

You cut me loose from this woman I had no business loving.

46

Hollywood Ranch Market — Fountain and Vine.

Open-air entrance, parking lot. Cars, shoppers, box boys pushing carts.

8:02 P.M. — standing curbside. Sweaty, chafing — my bulletproof vest fit tight.

Breuning walking toward me — across-the-lot diagonal.

Packing a suitcase.

Fatter than fat — his vest bunched up at the hips.

Parking-lot lights: humdrum shoppers lit up. No backup types dawdling.

I cut over. Breuning clenched up — fat neck toady fuck.

“Show me the money.”

“Dud said you should hand up Vecchio first.”

“Just show me.”

He opened the bag — just a crack. Cash stacks — fifty grand easy.

“Satisfied?”

A box boy circled by, hands in his apron. A toupee, familiar—

Breuning eyeballed him — Say what?

Black-and-white-glossy familiar — slot surveillance pix—

Breuning fumbled his piece up—

His suitcase hit the ground.

I snagged my .45 on my vest.

The box boy shot through his apron two-handed — Breuning caught two clean head shots.

Screams.

A breeze — money flying.

I got my piece free; the box boy swung my way — two hands out.

Point blank: three shots slammed my vest and pitched me backward. Muzzle smoke in his eyes — I shot through it.

Point blank — no way to miss — a bloody toupee sheared clean, Jesus fuck—

Screams.

Shoppers grabbing money.

Breuning and the box boy tangled up dead.

Another “box boy” — braced against a car hood, aiming at me.

People running/milling/huddling/eating pavement.

I threw myself prone. Shots — rifle loud.

Roof snipers.

That box boy blending in — human shields bobbing every which way.

Snipers — Exley backup.

Firing at the box boy — missing wide.

Bullhorn amplified: “Cease fire! Hostage!”

I stood up. “Hostage”: box boy dragging an old lady backward.

Elbows flailing, clawing at him — resisting mean.

Blade flash — he slit her throat down to the windpipe.

Bullhorn roar: “Get him!”

Rifle shots strafed the old lady — box boy hit the sidewalk hauling dead weight.

Run—

Straight across diagonal — his blind side.

“DON’T SHOOT, HE’S OURS!” — somebody/somewhere.

On him, his shield up — this mouth-gaping, neck-severed thing. I shot through her face and ripped them separate; I matched his face as one more Fed-photo dead man.

47

“The crime wave that has local authorities baffled continues. A scant hour ago four people were shot and killed at the picturesque Hollywood Ranch Market, two of them identified as Midwest-based criminals posing as market employees. An LAPD officer was also gunned down, as was an innocent woman taken hostage by one of the criminals. Thousands of dollars dropped from a suitcase were scattered in the ensuing pandemonium, and when calculating in the gangland slayings in Watts earlier today that also left four dead, the City of the Angels begins to seem like the City of the Devils.”

My motel room, TV news. Call it for real:

Exley backup, Smith targets: Breuning and me. A Dudley charade: rogue cops slain, bag cash found. Movie time pending then: my rep even more trashable postmortem.

“... LAPD Chief of Detectives Edmund J. Exley spoke to reporters at the scene.”

Recap — my Newton check-in call:

“Tommy and Lucille are still cruising Lincoln Heights, and they still haven’t seen each other. And... uh... sir? Your pal Officer Riegle called in... and... uh... sir, he said to tell you he heard that Chief Exley issued an APB order on you ’cause you left that shooting scene without telling anybody.”

Exley on camera: “At this time we are withholding the identities of the victims for legal reasons. I will neither confirm nor refute a rival television station’s speculation on the identity of the officer who was killed, and at this time I can only state that he was killed in the line of duty, while attempting to entrap a criminal with marked LAPD money.”

Flashback: that slot man eating that old lady’s brains.

I called El Segundo. Ring, ring — “Yeah, who’s this?” — Pete Bondurant.

“It’s me.”

“Hey, were you at the Ranch Market? Some news guy said Mike Breuning got it and one cop bugged out.”

“Does Chick know about Breuning?”

“Yeah, and it’s spooking him no end. Hey, were you there?”

“I’ll be over in an hour and tell you about it. Is Turentine there?”

“He’s here.”

“Have him set up a tape recorder and ask him if he’s got the equipment to monitor police calls. Tell him I want to tap into band 7 at Newton Street Station.”

“Suppose he doesn’t have the stuff?”

“Then tell him to get it.”

48

The stash pad — my low-rent unit.

Pete, Freddy T.; Chick Vecchio cuffed to a heat pipe. A tape rig and shortwave set — with band 7 pickup.

Mobile units calling in to Newton. Broadcasting base to cars: Exley himself.

Incoming:

Tommy and Lucille cruising separate — Lincoln Heights, Chinatown, moving south.

The point man at the K. house:

“I heard it out the boom mike. It sounded to me like J.C. just slapped the piss out of Madge. To top it off, there’s Fed cars driving by on the QT every hour or so.”

Unit 3-B71: “Lucille’s walking around Chinatown asking questions. She’s looking sorta distraught, and that last joint she went into — the Kowloon — it looked like a dope front to me.”

Pete — wolfing spareribs.

Fred — nursing a highball.

Chick — purple bruises, half his scalp scorched.

Fred poured himself a refill. “The Kafesjians and you. I don’t get it.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Sure, and I wouldn’t mind listening to something other than these goddamn radio calls.”

Pete said, “Don’t tell him shit, it’ll end up in Hush-Hush.”

“I’m just thinking twelve mobile tail cars and Ed Exley monitoring calls himself means it’s some kind of big deal, which maybe Dave should elaborate on. Like for instance, who are these Tommy and Lucille chumps looking for?”

Light bulb:

Richie “Peeper” Herrick — Chino inmate/bugging know-how. Fred Turentine, drunk driver — Chino teaching gigs.

“Freddy, when were you teaching that electronics class up at Chino?”

“Early ’57 up till I got bored and hung up my probation maybe six months ago. Why? What’s that got to do with—”

“Did a kid named Richie Herrick take the class?”

Light bulb — dim — juicer Freddy. “Riiiight, Richie Herrick. He escaped, and some psycho chopped his family.”

“So, did he take your class?”

“Sure did. I remember him, because he was a shy kid and he played these jazz records while the class worked on their projects.”

“And?”

“And that’s it. There was this other white guy that he palled with, and he took the class with Herrick. He stuck close to him, but I don’t think it was a queer thing.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“Nooo, I can’t place it.”

“Description?”

“Shit, I don’t know. Just your average white-trash inmate with a duck’s-ass haircut. I don’t even remember what he was in for.”

Something?/nothing? — tough call. Chino files missing—

“Dave, what’s this all ab—”

Pete: “Leave Klein alone, you’re getting paid for this.”

Band 7:

Tommy mobile — Chinatown.

Lucille mobile — Chinatown near Chavez Ravine.

I doused the volume and grabbed a chair. Chick edged his chair back.

In his face: “DUDLEY SMITH.”

“Davey, please” — raspy dry.

“He’s behind all the trouble in Niggertown, and he just sent Mike Breuning out to die. Spill on him, and I’ll cut you loose and give you some money.”

“Suppose I don’t?”

“Then I’ll kill you.”

“Davey...”

Pete signaled me: feed him liquor.

“Davey... Davey... please.”

I handed him Freddy’s glass.

“You guys don’t know Dudley. You don’t know the kind of stuff he’d do to me.”

Bonded sour mash — three fingers. “Drink it, you’ll feel better.”

“Davey...”

“Drink.”

Chick guzzled it down. Grab the glass, refill it, watch him swill.

Instant booze panache: “So what kind of money are you talking about? I’ve got expensive tastes, you know.”

“Twenty grand” — pure bullshit.

“That plays lowball to me.”

Pete said, “Talk to Klein or I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Okay, okay, okay” — refill gestures.

I filled the glass. “Chick, give.”

“Okay okay okay” — sipping slow.

I propped the tape rig up by his chair and hit Record.

“Dudley, Chick. The furs, Duhamel, the Kafesjians, the whole takeover story.”

“I guess I know most of it. Feature Dudley likes to talk, ’cause he figures everybody’s too scared of him to tattle.”

“Get to it.”

Booze-brave: “I say Domenico ‘Chick’ Vecchio knows when to talk and when to shut up. I say fuck ’em all except six, and save them for the pallbearers.”

Pete said, “Will you please fucking give?”

“Okay okay, feature Dudley, he was the boss at Robbery Division. Exley, he had this hard-on for him, because he made Dud for lots of stuff over the years—”

“Like the Nite Owl job?”

“Yeah, like the Nite Owl. Anyway, Dudley always took the most interesting robbery cases for himself, ’cause that’s just the way he is. So Exley shot the Hurwitz Fur case to Robbery, and Dud grabbed it, and he got some leads that he later on figured out were planted by Exley, and those fucking leads led him to his very own so-called protégé, Johnny Duhamel.”

Freddy and Pete noshing spareribs — rapt.

“Keep going.”

“Okay, now Dudley, he’d recruited Schoolboy Johnny for the Mobster Squad. You know how he drools for tough boys, and when Johnny was in the LAPD Academy he showed some meanness that Dud really liked. So he stayed mean on the Mobster Squad, and now Dudley sees that he’s a fucking badass heist guy, which, being Dudley, pleases him no fucking end. So, Dud called Johnny on the heist, and Johnny admitted it, but he refused to snitch his partners, which also impressed Dud. So, feature, Dudley gave Johnny a skate on the fur job and confided some of his own crime gigs to him, which meant that so far Exley’s trap was working.”

Tape hiss. Chick, snitching nice and loose now: “So feature that Dudley bagged Johnny’s furs and stored them at a storage locker joint. A couple got out, ’cause Dudley told Johnny to get next to Lucille Kafesjian when Exley assigned you and that punk Stemmons to that burglary job. Johnny, he got a little lightweight boner for Lucille and gave her one.”

“Dudley told Johnny to become intimate with Lucille?”

“Yeah, sort of like a safeguard if you started leaning on the Kafesjians too hard.”

“Then what?”

“Then that goddamn Stemmons blundered in. He was Johnny’s teacher at the Academy, and Johnny made him for a closet fruit back then. So Junior, he saw this striptease that Lucille did with this mink Johnny gave her, I think he was working Bido Lito’s on the burglary job. Johnny was there, and him and Junior talked, which resparked this fucking faggot torch Stemmons had for Johnny.”

“So at first Junior came on like a pal.”

“Right, and feature that all that Mobster Squad strongarm stuff wasn’t really Johnny’s style, it was just this role Exley had him playing. Anyway, Johnny, he was stretched pretty thin and feeling pretty bad about it, and he told Stemmons about how brutal the work was, and Junior started figuring out that somebody was running him undercover. Johnny never flat-out snitched Dudley to him, but he told him about these ‘auditions’ Dudley was doing without naming no names.”

“What ‘auditions’?”

“Dud was bringing these out-of-town guys in. He needed them to work the Southside coin, and he wanted the Feds to see them. Dud said later that Johnny figured out the guys were going to get clipped when Mickey went public with his Fed witness bit.”

Haverford Wash — four dead. “But Johnny didn’t confide that to Junior.”

“Right.”

“And the coin men were just pigeons set up to get clipped later?”

“Right.”

“What about the ‘auditions’ themselves?”

“Dudley told the out-of-town guys they had to earn the right to work for him. He said that meant enduring pain. He paid them money to let Johnny hurt them while he watched and talked this philosophical shit to them. Dick Carlisle said Dud broke their spirits and made them goddamn slaves.”

Pete said, “Holy shit.”

Freddy said, “I don’t believe this.”

“Who clipped the slot guys?”

“Carlisle and Breuning. You want to hear a nice Dudley touch? He had them soak their buckshot in rat poison, then repack the shells.”

“Get back to Johnny.”

Chick stretched — his cuff chain rattled. “Dud had Johnny monitoring the slot guys — you know, watching them service the machines. He was doing that one night or something, and Dick Carlisle saw Junior come up to him and start talking this nutso rebop. Carlisle got this feeling that Johnny might be a plant, so he told Dudley, and Dud had Carlisle and Breuning keep this loose tail on him. Now, I don’t know who killed Stemmons — probably Tommy or J.C. Kafesjian — but around the time Carlisle got hinky, J.C. told Dudley that Stemmons was acting crazy, shaking down pushers, shaking down him and Tommy and telling them he could monkey-wrench your burglary investigation. So, this nutty faggot Junior, he’s talking up his own Niggertown takeover stuff, and in my opinion Dud would have clipped him himself, if he hadn’t of OD’d or got snuffed by the Kafesjians.”

“Then what?”

“Then Dud got a tip that Johnny called you to set up a meet — and I didn’t tell him. So now he knew Johnny was a fucking traitor or decoy or something.”

The meet: Chick knew. Bob Gallaudet knew.

“Then what?”

“So Johnny told you to meet him at that pad in Lynwood. Dud used to own it years ago, so I guess Johnny just wanted to meet you someplace close to the bungalow where... you know.”

Change-up: “Phillip Herrick.”

“Who’s that?”

“He was murdered in Hancock Park last week. Dudley co-owned 4980 Spindrift with him.”

“So?”

Easy call: no Herrick knowledge.

“So Johnny told me to meet him there, and your little movie set was close by. What do you figure he wanted to show me?”

“Maybe the smut-movie setup.”

“Maybe, but you told me Sid Frizell wasn’t connected to any of Dudley’s plans.”

“He’s not, but Dud loves stag stuff, and when he got tight with Mickey, Mickey told him about this batshit horror movie he was bankrolling and how Sid Frizell wanted to shoot smut films, but he couldn’t find a spot. Dud told Mickey to tell Frizell to use one of the rooms in that court, so down the line Sid did, but feature I know for a fact that he doesn’t even know Dudley.”

SOMETHING — some CONNECTION — knifing me.

“Does Dudley own those bungalows?”

“Feature yes he does, through dummy partners. Feature he owns about twenty other abandoned dives, just bought dirt fucking cheap off the Lynwood City Council.”

“And?”

Leering at me ugly drunk: “And feature Dudley Liam Smith does not get his rocks off on girls, boys or Airedale terriers. Feature he likes to watch. Feature the mirror walls in that flop where you rousted me and feature he’s got a shitload of other flops just like it. Feature he’s got this idea to film these on-the-sly smut movies where the fuckers and fuckees don’t even know they’re being watched. Feature he’s got bids in with the Bureau of Land and Way to house the spics evicted from Chavez Ravine in those pads and that dump on Spindrift. Feature Dudley’s going to film all these taco benders fucking and sell the movies to geeks like himself who dig all that voyeuristic horseshit.”

Rumors:

Sid Frizell shooting LYNWOOD stag films.

LYNWOOD spic relocation maybe looming.

That SOMETHING — click:

Atomic Vampire.

Movie gore: incest/eye poking/blinding.

Kafesjian 459 — dogs blinded.

Herrick 187 — three victims eye socket blasted.

Sid Frizell — ex-con type.

Non-Dudley-connected — Chick convinced me.

Non-click: SOMETHING missing.

I said, “Dudley and Mickey.”

“You mean what’s the skinny on Dudley’s rackets thing?”

Shortwave sputter: “Chinatown, Chinatown, Chavez Ravine.”

“Right.”

“Well, feature the word ‘containment.’ That’s Dud’s big word, and what he wants to do is build up this empire on the Southside, maybe stretching into Lynwood, where he’s got all this property. He’ll only sell dope to niggers, and he’ll run whores and smut on the QT, and he’ll run all the coin hardware that Mickey so-called divested. His big deal is supposed to be district gambling, with Mickey as his front man. Feature he killed all of Mickey’s guys except me and Touch, and feature he fucking manipulated Mickey into cozying up to the Feds. The Mick’s a hero now, he’s a lovable shmuck, and Dud thinks he can buy up more Lynwood property and start so-called ‘containing’ the economy down there, then set Mickey up to front his district gambling franchise, all nice and legal.”

“District gambling won’t pass the State Legislature.”

“Well, feature Dudley thinks otherwise. Feature he’s got a political guy with very large juice in his pocket to make sure it does get passed.”

Gas Chamber Bob Gallaudet: district gambling supporter.

Tipped off to the Duhamel meet.

Goosebumps: my dry-ice burns started tickling.

“So Dud found out you were meeting Johnny. Breuning and Carlisle slugged you and doped you up, and Dud tortured Johnny before you sliced him. They got him to admit that Exley was running him as a decoy and that he had these fake bank accounts and this operations cash stashed in a safe at his house. Johnny said he kept trying to pull out of the deal because he knew the slot guys would probably get clipped and lots of other shit would hit the fan, but Exley kept sending him back to find out more.”

Radio hum: Tommy mobile, Lucille mobile.

Pete and Freddy dumbstruck — holy shit/mother dog!

“Why did Dudley make that movie? Why didn’t he just kill Johnny and me?”

“He said he wanted to compromise you and use you. He said he was going to offer you this job as liaison and bagman to the LAPD. He said he could use you to take Ed Exley down. He said you were probably a pretty good lawyer, and he said you could teach him things about property maintenance.”

Chick oozing brainwaves: kowtow to Dudley or die.

Pete oozing brainwaves: kill the wop and grab his money.

Freddy oozing brainwaves: Hush-Hush would love THIS.

Atomic Vampire — INCEST/GORE.

“Chick, what do you know about Sid Frizell?”

“Feature I know close to nothing.”

“Has he done time?”

“County time for child-support skips. He’s no hard-case penitentiary guy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

To Freddy: “Sid Frizell. He’s a tall, skinny guy about thirty-five. He’s got sort of an Okie drawl.”

“No bells. Am I supposed to know him?”

“I thought he might have taken your class at Chino.”

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, I’m a bug man, so I listen to how people talk. Sorry, but there were no Okie drawls in my class.”

SOMETHING MISSING.

I grabbed the phone and got an operator — Chino on the line.

A warden’s aide answered. Go, tell him:

Compile a roster for me — cons at Chino Richie Herrick concurrent. Messenger it down? — No, I’ll call you back for a verbal.

2:00 A.M. — custody looming. Radio sputter, pop/pop — Pete cracking his knuckles. Chick loopy drunk, scorched hair — my damage.

Smells — stale food, smoke. A view out the window: overflowing trashcans. My building — nine G’s a year net profit.

Think: snitches, deal-outs.

Last-ditch tries.

Welles Noonan — a Gallaudet rival.

Think trades: Glenda for Bob G. and Dudley.

The bedroom phone — shaky hands on the dial. MA 4–0218 — Noonan.

“U.S. Attorney’s Office, Special Agent Shipstad.”

“It’s Klein.”

“Klein, this call didn’t happen.” — low, furtive.

“What?”

“Noonan got a film can special-delivery. It’s you chopping up some guy, and I know it’s a setup, but he doesn’t care. A note said copies go to the press if you testify for us, and Noonan said your immunity agreement is cancelled. He’s issued a Federal arrest warrant on you, and this call did not happen.”

CLICK—

Chairs/shelves/tables — I threw them and kicked them and dumped them. I punched myself arm-dead on the curtains; exhaustion had me swaying light-headed.

Radio squawk:

“Madge left the house alone. The point car’s on her.”

“Lucille’s entering Chavez Ravine. She’s driving erratic, she’s sideswiping trees—”

49

Crisscross headlights, dirt roads — Chavez Ravine.

Dark — no streetlights — cop lights only. Roof lights, headlights, flashlights — tail men mobile and on foot.

Bumper crunched upside a tree: Lucille’s Ford, abandoned.

APBs out on me—

I ditched my car and sprinted up the access road. Zigzag flashlights down below: a shack-to-shack search.

“Lad.”

Dark, just his voice. I aimed at it, half pull triggered.

“Lad, hear me out before you act precipitously.”

“You sent that movie to Noonan.”

“No, Bob Gallaudet did. I told him you had Chick Vecchio hidden, and Bob assumed that Chick would behave in a cowardly fashion and inform on us. Lad, Bob handed you up to Noonan. He threatened to make public a second copy of the film if you testified as a Federal witness, assuming that your testimony would damn both himself and this aging Irishman who bears quite a grudging fondness for you. Noonan was furious, of course, and Bob quite wisely retreated to a more judicious footing: he said that the film threat stood, but he would not enter the attorney general’s race if Noonan promised no open-court mention of him. Noonan, bright lad that he is, agreed.”

“Gallaudet ratted you to Noonan?”

“No, Allah be praised, he just evinced panic and spoke nebulously of complex criminal conspiracies. I’m sure Noonan considers me just an aging policeman with a gift for language and a stern reputation.”

Shouts down below. Stray headlights blipped Dudley smiling benign.

“Who gave Bob that movie copy?”

“Mike Breuning. He was afraid our enterprises were in jeopardy, so he gave Robert a copy to cut a deal for himself. Alas, Mike confessed what he had done before I sent him out to meet you, which is why I set him up so harshly.”

“Gallaudet?”

“Ensconced with Allah, lad. Neatly dismembered and unreachable. Kill Vecchio, if you haven’t already, and there’s just Exley sans hard evidence.”

“Chick told me Duhamel snitched Exley.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“He said Exley kept money in a safe?”

“Yes, Chick is correct.”

“Inside his house?”

“Yes, lad, that would be logical.”

“Big money?”

“Yes, that’s correct. Lad, get to the point, you’re tantalizing me.”

“I can tap that safe. I’ll kill Vecchio and steal Exley’s money. We’ll split it.”

“You’re very generous, and I’m surprised that you haven’t expressed rancor over my machinations at the Ranch Market.”

“I want you to like me. If I run, I don’t want you coming after the people I leave here.”

“You’re perceptive to assume my survival.”

“The money?”

“I’ll accept half graciously.”

Commotion down the hill: cops kicking in shack doors.

“Chick told you the thrust of my plans, did he, lad?”

“Yes.”

“Did you infer that I enjoy watching?”

“Yes.”

“I view it as a dispensation for the grand work of containment I’ll be doing. I view it as a means to touch compelling filth without succumbing to it.”

FLASH: Lucille nude.

“You’re a watcher, lad. You’ve touched your own dark capacities, and now you enjoy the surcease of simple watching.”

FLASH: whore-pad windows.

“I empathize with your curiosities, lad.”

FLASH — peeper tapes — pictures synced to sounds.

“It pleases me that the Kafesjians and Herricks seem to have piqued those curiosities. Lad, I could tell you many grand stories about those two families.”

FLASH — bright open windows — TELL ME THINGS.

“Lad, do you feel the basis of an understanding starting to form? Are you beginning to see the two of us as kindred souls, brothers in curious—”

Shouts, flashlights converging—

I ran down — tripping and stumbling. Shacks pressed up tight together — lights fixed in one doorway.

Tail men huddled outside — push through, look:

Lucille and Richie Herrick — DOA.

Tourniquet tied/veins pumped/mouths frozen gasping.

Entwined on a mink coat bed.

H bindles, spikes and Drano on a fox pelt.

50

8:01 A.M. — Federal fugitive.

Fugitive pad, fugitive car — a ’51 Chevy bought off a junker lot. Fugitive calls:

Glenda safe — style vs. fear — style winning.

Sid Riegle, panicked — Exley men rousted my men.

Bureau talk: Lucille and Richie died from heroin-Drano cocktails. Sid: “Ray Pinker said she hotshot him, then killed herself. Doc Newbarr said no way was it murder, then suicide — everything was too nice and neat.”

More talk:

Tommy and J.C. — Fed-rousted and released at 4:00 A.M. Madge K. gone for parts unknown — the point man lost her.

A call to Pete — find me that woman, she can TELL ME things.

Fugitive wheels: the Cahuenga Pass south. Rearview panic checks — everything looked strange and wrong.

Radio news: Hot L.A. Crime Wave! Mickey Cohen Federal Witness! DA Gallaudet Misses Breakfast Talk — Assembled Scribes Baffled!

Last night — Dudley’s farewell:

“I’ll require verification on Chick. His right hand should suffice — it bears quite a recognizable tattoo.”

Brain teaser:

Vampire gore/the Kafesjian-Herrick case — who?/why?

South: Hollywood, Hancock Park. Left turn — 432 South McCadden.

Virgin — no cars curb or driveway.

I walked up and knocked. Nobody watching — knife the keyhole, work the lock.

In.

Close the door, bolt it — lights on, go.

I checked the living room walls: no pictures, no fake panels.

I checked the den — framed photos — Dudley Smith, Bureau toastmaster. Pull them, look behind—

No safe.

Upstairs — three bedrooms — more walls, more pictures:

Dudley Smith as Santa Claus — a polio ward, ’53.

Dudley Smith, guest speaker — Christian Anti-Communist Crusade.

Dudley Smith at a crime scene: ogling a dead jigaboo.

Three bedrooms — twenty Dudley Smith pictures — Exley hate fuel.

No safe.

Back downstairs — check the kitchen — nothing.

Check the carpets — every one tacked flat. Upstairs — hallway throw rugs — pull them—

A hinged panel under a red Persian.

Inset with a tumbler dial and handle.

Trembly — 34L–16R–31L — two run-throughs, snap/thunk — yank the handle.

Drawstring bank bags. Five. Nothing else.

Hundreds, fifties, twenties. Old bills.

I shut the lid, spun the dial and fixed the rugs. Downstairs, the kitchen—

Cutlery right there. I grabbed a cleaver — heebie-jeebies — Chick.

51

“Davey... please.”

Psychic: begging me two seconds in the door. A tattoo on his right hand: “Sally 4-Ever.”

“Davey, please.”

683 grand and that cleaver. Pete out chasing Madge, Fred asleep in the bedroom.

Chick, cuffed down — panic spritzing:

We go back, we had laughs, I’m sorry I got fresh with Glenda, but how can you blame me? We had laughs, we made money, Pete wants to kill me, he’s a fucking neon sign...

“Davey, please.”

Pillow bullet mufflers. Curtains for a makeshift shroud.

“Davey... Jesus Christ... Davey.”

Tired — no stones for it — yet.

Dead man talking:

I’ll disappear... you can trust me... Glenda’s great... Sid Frizell says she’s star stuff. Frizell... what a chump... no ideas... that camera guy Wylie Bullock’s got twice the smarts, and he couldn’t direct traffic on Mars. You and Glenda... I wish you the best... Davey, I know what you got planned, I can see it in your eyes...

Tired.

No stones for it — yet.

The phone rang — I cradled it up. “Yeah?”

“It’s Pete.”

“And?”

“And I found Madge Kafesjian.”

“Where?”

“The Skyliner Motel, Lankershim and Croft in Van Nuys. She’s in room 104, and the desk man says she’s on a hankie binge.”

“You’re staking her?”

“I’m on your payroll, and I’m watching that room till you say otherwise.”

“Just stay there. I’ll be out soon, so—”

“Look, I talked to Mr. Hughes. He said the Sheriff’s found a witness who saw Glenda by the Hollywood Hills fuck pad like the approximate night that Miciak bought it. They think she’s hinky, and they’re looking for her as a suspect. It looks like she blew town, but—”

“Just stick at the motel.”

“Your payroll, boss. How’s Chick—”

I hung up and dialed Chino direct.

“Deputy Warden Clavell’s office.”

“Is he in? It’s Lieutenant Klein, LAPD.”

“Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Clavell left me a list of names to read you.”

“Read off the released inmates first.”

“Current addresses too?”

“The names first, I want to see if something grabs me.”

“Yes, sir” — slow, precise:

“Altair, Craig V... Allegretto, Vincent W.... Anderson, Samuel NMI... Bassett, William A.... Beltrem, Ronald D.... Bochner, Kurt NMI... Bonestell, Chester W....

Bordenson, Walter S.... Bosnitch, Vance B.... Bullock, Wylie D.—”

Tilt/click/snap — SOMETHING missing/SOMETHING there:

Wylie Bullock.

Vampire cameraman.

Idea man — pressing gore on Sid Frizell.

“Burdsall, John C.... Cantrell, Martin NMI—”

“Go back to Wylie Bullock. Give me his parole date and his last known address.”

“Um... he was paroled on November 9, 1957, and his parole disposition address is the Larkview Trailer Court, Arroyo and Brand in Glendale.”

Freddy in the hallway — yawning.

“Sir, do you want the rest of these names?”

I put the phone down. “Was there a guy named Wylie Bullock in your class at Chino?”

“Yeah... riiight... he was that guy following Richie Herrick around.”

Adrenaline — zoooom.

Chick: “Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee.”

Stay of execution: dumb guinea luck.

52

R&I/DMV:

Bullock, Wylie Davis — DOB 7/16/25. Brown/brown, 5′10″, 165. Popped 3/56 — pornography beefs — 3 to 5, Chino.

Occupation: photographer-cameraman. Vehicle: ’54 Packard Clipper, white & salmon, Cal. GHX 617.

Freeways out to Glendale — my rat’s-ass car belched smoke. Wylie/Madge/Dudley — TELL ME THINGS.

Arroyo off-ramp, south to Brand — the Larkview Trailer Court.

Parking slots: and no two-tone Packard tucked in. A map out front: “W. Bullock” — three rows over, six trailers down.

Rock gardens, jacked-up trailers, white trash wives out sunning. My SOMETHING MISSING:

Frizell-Bullock confabs — Wylie assertive: Incest! Poke the vampire’s eyes out!

Three over, six down — a chromium Airstream. My .45 out surreptitious — knock.

No answer — no surprise — no Packard. I tried the door — locked — too many squarejohns around for a break-in.

The set — go.

Freeways back — my clunker wheezed. Griffith Park, the set — no Bullock vehicle in sight.

Mickey by the spaceship — wearing a Jew beanie.

“The Feds and LAPD were here chasing your tush. The Malibu Sheriff’s were looking for my erstwhile star Glenda Bledsoe, who I understand you are playing Bury the Brisket with. You break my heart, you handsome snatch bandit.”

No “crew” — just Mickey. “Where is everybody?”

“Shmuckface, Attack of the Atomic Vampire is in show-biz parlance a ‘wrap.’ Glenda may look a bit muscular in her concluding moments, given that Rock Rockwell portrayed her in long shots, but that aside I consider my movie a cinema landmark.”

“Where’s Wylie Bullock?”

“I should know? I should care?”

“Sid Frizell?”

“Paid off and on the night boat to Nowheresville for all I care.”

Beanie, flag lapel pin — hero Mickey. “You look happy.”

“I have a movie in the can, and I have made friends of the Federal persuasion. And do not judge me as a snitch fuck, because a certain U.S. attorney told me you have those tendencies yourself.”

Dudley’s lovable shmuck. “I’ll miss you, Mickey.”

“Run, David. The tsuris you have caused seeks retribution. Run to Galapagos and watch turtles fuck in the sun.”

The Cahuenga Pass — back over coughing fumes. Lankershim and Croft — the Skyliner Motel.

Horseshoe-shaped — cut-rate pool-view cabanas. Pete staked out curbside — snoozing with the seat back.

I parked behind him. Tell-me money in the trunk — I stuffed my pockets.

Skirt the pool over — room 104. I knocked — Madge opened up quick.

Haggard — heavy makeup made it worse. “You’re that policeman. Our house was broken into... you came over...”

“Hankie binge” — wet eyes, tear tracks.

“I’m sorry about your daughter.”

“It was a merciful death for both of them. Did you come to arrest me?”

“No. Why should I—”

“If you don’t know, I won’t tell you.”

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

“So you filled your pockets with money.”

C-notes spilling out. “I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

“Did Dan Wilhite send you?”

“He’s dead. He killed himself.”

“Poor Dan” — one short sigh.

“Mrs. Kafesjian...”

“Come in. I’ll answer your questions if you promise not to slander the children.”

“Whose children?”

“Ours. Whoever’s. Just exactly what did you...?”

I sat her down. “Your family and the Herricks.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me everything.”

1932 — Scranton, Pennsylvania.

J.C. Kafesjian and Phillip Herrick work at Balustrol Chemicals. J.C. is a laborer, Phillip a solvent analyst. J.C. is crude, Phil is cultured — they are friends — nobody knows why.

1932: the friends move to Los Angeles together. They court women and marry them: J.C. and Madge Clarkson, Phil and Joan Renfrew.

Five years pass: the men toil at boring chemical jobs. Five children are born: Tommy and Lucille Kafesjian; Richard, Laura and Christine Herrick.

J.C. and Phil are bored, angry and poor. Their chemistry knowledge inspires a scheme: brew homemade liquor.

They do it — and thrive.

The Depression continues; poor people need cut-rate spirits. J.C. and Phil sell it cheap — work-camp workers their chief clientele. They accrue profits and hoard their shares.

J.C. and Phil — friends and partners.

J.C. and Phil — cuckolding each other.

Neither man knows:

Two affairs predate their weddings. Lovers: J.C. and Joan, Phillip and Madge. The adultery continues — five children are born — their patrimony inconclusive.

J.C. opens a dry-cleaning shop; Phil invests in a chemical plant. They continue their home liquor business.

J.C. pushes Phil to cut costs: lower-quality alcohol solvents mean greater profits.

Phil agrees.

They sell a batch to some CCC workers — a dozen men go permanently blind.

June 22, 1937:

A blind man carries a pump shotgun into a tavern.

He fires the weapon at random — three people are killed.

He sticks the barrel in his mouth and blows his own head off.

Sergeant Dudley Smith investigates. He learns the source of the shotgun man’s blinding; he tracks the liquor to Phil and J.C. He makes them an offer: his silence for a percentage of their holdings.

They agree.

Dudley recognizes J.C.’s mean streak — and cultivates it. He believes that Negroes could be kept dope-sedated; he urges J.C. to sell them drugs. He urges Chief Davis to let J.C. “serve” them: as a sanctioned dope peddler and informant to the fledgling Narcotics Squad.

Dudley hides his role — few know that he is J.C.’s recruiter. Chief Davis retires in ’39; Chief Horrall takes over. He assumes credit for the Kafesjian recruitment — and taps Officer Dan Wilhite to serve as J.C.’s contact.

Years pass; Dudley continues to extract his business percentage. J.C.’s dry-cleaning shops flourish; he builds up a Southside dope kingdom. Phil Herrick earns legitimate wealth: PH Solvents is hugely successful.

The adultery goes on: J.C. and Joan, Phillip and Madge.

Both women have assured their lovers that birth control precautions have been taken. Both have lied — they loathe their husbands, but will not leave them. Madge knows J.C. would kill her; Joan needs Phillip’s money and newly developed social connections.

Five children.

Inconclusive patrimony.

No dangerous resemblances emerging.

Joan wanted J.C.’s baby: he treated her atypically tender. Madge wanted Phillip’s: she despised her vicious husband. Guesswork fathers softens things — both women believe it.

Post — World War II:

Major Dudley Smith, OSS, sells black-market penicillin to escaped Nazis. Phil Herrick, naval officer, serves in the Pacific; J.C. Kafesjian runs his dry-cleaning shops and dope racket. Dudley returns to L.A. late in ’45; Herrick, fourteen months at sea, comes home unexpectedly.

He finds Joan nine months pregnant. He beats her — and learns that J.C. has been her lover throughout their marriage. She had planned to put the child up for adoption; Phil’s surprise return prevented her. She hid her pregnancy with long indoor sojourns; Laura, Christine and Richie — away at boarding school — do not know what happened.

Joan runs to J.C.

Madge hears them talking and confronts them.

J.C. brutally beats both women.

Madge admits her long affair with Phil Herrick.

Cuckold husbands, cuckold wives. Enraged men — two women beaten and raped. Terrible chaos. Abe Voldrich calls in Dudley Smith.

He has the five children blood-tested — the results are ambiguous. Joan Herrick delivers her baby; Dudley strangles it three days old.

Laura and Christine never learn the facts of their lineage.

Tommy, Lucille and Richie do — several years later.

The boys grow up friends — maybe brothers — whose father is whose? They burglarize houses and play jazz; Richie falls in love with Lucille. He comforts her with Champ Dineen — he didn’t know his bloodlines either.

Tommy emulates his “name” father J.C. — selling dope while still in high school. He’s always lusted after Lucille — now there’s a chance she isn’t his sister. He rapes her — and makes her his personal whore.

Richie finds out — and swears to kill Tommy.

Tommy relishes the vow — he considers Richie a weakling.

Richie drives to Bakersfield and buys a gun. He gets caught selling dope; Dudley Smith intercedes, but cannot convince the DA to drop charges. Richie Herrick, sentenced to Chino: 1955.

Tommy swears he’ll kill him when he’s released — he knows his personal whore Lucille deeply loves him. Richie swears to kill Tommy — he has debased the maybe sister he loves chastely.

Lucille runs wild — prostitute, window dancer, taunter of men. Phil Herrick seeks her out — his maybe daughter. Their first coupling is a street assignation. Lucille agrees just to taunt him.

His gentleness surprised her — this maybe daddy more like Richie than Tommy. They continued to meet: always talking, always playing games. Phil Herrick and Lucille: maybe daddy-daughter lovers, maybe just a whore and a john.

And Madge and Joan became friends. They hid from the madness together — fugitive time spent simply talking. Confidantes: years of partial shelter.

Richie escaped from Chino — fit only to voyeur-watch Lucille. Joan and Richie exchanged letters; Richie said a friend soon to be paroled would avenge him painlessly. This man seemed to have a hold on Richie: Richie never even said his name.

Joan killed herself nine months ago; the insanity peaked all at once. Lucille did not know Richie was watching her; Tommy read Junior Stemmons’ reports and assumed that Richie was the voyeur. He vowed to kill him — afraid that Exley-linked men would find him first. Lucille found him — their ticket to shelter in a needle.

Tissues on the floor — Madge fretted a whole box to shreds.

“Would you call that ‘everything,’ Lieutenant?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you’re a very curious man.”

“Do you know the name Wylie Bullock?”

“No.”

“Who killed Junior Stemmons?”

“I did. He was browbeating Abe Voldrich at one of our cleaning shops. I was afraid he’d find out the truth about Richie and Lucille, and I wanted to protect them. I attacked him rather foolishly, and Abe subdued him. We knew Dudley would protect us if we killed him, and Abe knew he was an addict.”

“So Abe shot him up and dumped him at Bido Lito’s.”

“Yes.”

“And you told Tommy, and he burned the place down. He hung out there, and he was afraid we’d find evidence on him.”

“Yes. And I don’t feel bad about that young man Stemmons. I think he was in as much pain as Richie and Lucille were.”

I emptied my pockets — big wads of cash.

“You’re naive, Lieutenant. Money won’t make J.C. and Tommy go away.”

53

“EVERYTHING” = “MORE” = “BULLOCK.”

Back to the trailer dump — a two-tone Packard in the lot. I jammed up behind it, spewing smoke.

Voices, feet kicking gravel.

Thick fumes — I got out coughing. Exley and two IA men — packing shotguns.

“Everything” means “more” means—

Fumes, gravel dust. Shotgun flankers, Exley sweating up a custom-made suit.

“Bullock killed the Herricks and trashed the Kafesjian place. How did you know—”

“I called Chino to get my own roster. That woman in the warden’s office told me you went crazy over Bullock.”

“Let’s take him. And get those guys out of here — I know he’s got stuff on Dudley.”

“You men wait here. Fenner, give the lieutenant your shotgun.”

Fenner tossed it — I pumped a shell home.

Exley said, “All right then.”

Now:

We ran three rows over, six trailers down — civilians watched us slack-jawed. That Airstream — radio hum, the door open—

I stepped in aiming; Exley squeezed in behind me. Two feet away: Wylie Bullock in a lawn chair.

This bland geek:

Smiling.

Raising his hands cop-wise slow.

Spreading ten fingers wide — no harm meant.

I jammed the shotgun barrel under his chin.

Exley cuffed his hands behind his back.

Radio hum: Starfire 88’s at Yeakel Olds.

“Mr. Bullock, you’re under arrest for the murders of Phillip, Laura and Christine Herrick. I’m the LAPD chief of detectives, and I’d like to question you here first.”

Monster’s den: Playboy pinups, mattress. Bullock: Dodger T-shirt, calm brown eyes.

I goosed him: “I know about you and Richie Herrick. I know you told him you’d get him revenge on the Kafesjians, and I’ll bet you know the name Dudley Smith.”

“I want a cell by myself and pancakes for breakfast. If you say that’s okay, I’ll talk to you here.”

I said, “Make like you’re telling us a story.”

“Why? Cops like to ask questions.”

“This is different.”

“Pancakes and sausage?”

“Sure, every day.”

Chairs circled up, the door shut. No Q&A/no notebooks — Maniac speaks.

June, 1937 — Wylie Bullock, almost twelve — “I was just a kid, you dig me?”

An only child, nice parents — but poor. “Our flop was as small as this trailer, and we ate at this gin mill every night, because you got free seconds on the cold cuts.”

June 22:

A crazy blind man enters the tavern. Random shotgun blasts: his parents get vaporized.

“I got hospitalized, ’cause I was in some kind of shock.”

Foster homes then — “some nice, some not so hot” — revenge dreams minus a bad guy — the shotgun man killed himself. Trade schools — a knack for cameras — “Old Wylie’s a born shutterbug.” Camera jobs, curiosity: 6/22/37 — why?

Amateur detective Wylie — he kept pestering the cops. The brush-off: “They kept saying the case file was lost.” Newspaper study: Sergeant Dudley Smith, investigating officer. Calls to now-Lieutenant Smith — none returned.

He haunted that tavern. Rumors haunted the place itself: bad bootleg trashed the shotgun man’s eyes. He chased rumors: who sold bootleg whiskey back in ’37?

Bad leads — years’ worth — “like impossible to verify, you know?” Two rumors persistent: “dry-cleaning-cut hooch,” “this Armenian guy — J.C.”

He made a logical jump: the E-Z Kleen shops/J.C. Kafesjian. “I didn’t have any proof — it just felt right. I kept a scrapbook on the blind man case, and I had this picture of Sergeant Smith from ’37.”

“It was becoming like an obsession.”

Supporting that obsession: camera work. Illegal: “I took snatch pictures and sold them to sailors and Marines up from Diego.”

Obsession focus: the Kafesjians.

“I sort of circled around them. I found out J.C. and Tommy pushed dope and had these police connections. Lucille was a floozy, and Tommy was vicious. It was sort of like they were my pretend family. Tommy had this buddy Richie, and the two of them played this jazz music really lousy. I used to follow them, and I watched them get into some kind of big falling-out over Lucille. Richie got popped selling dope up in Bakersfield. He got sentenced to Chino, and I was in an E-Z Kleen shop one day, and I heard Tommy tell Abe Voldrich that when he got out Richie was dead meat.”

Early ’56 — two bombshells hit him simultaneous:

One — he’s outside a Southside E-Z Kleen. Huddled up: J.C. Kafesjian and Dudley Smith — nineteen years older than that news pic.

Two — he gets popped selling snatch photos.

“I figured Dudley Smith and the Kafesjians were dirty together. I couldn’t prove anything, but I thought maybe Smith gave J.C. a skate on that poison liquor he sold. After a while I just believed it.”

He started hatching revenge plots — this Eyeball Man inside him fed him plans. He pleaded guilty to selling pornography — his lawyer said beg for mercy.

“At the County Jail this guy told me about the X-ray lab at Chino — what a good job it was. I figured I could get a job there if I got sentenced to State time, ’cause I knew so much about photography. See, I had a real plan now, and I wanted to do a Chino hitch so I could get next to Richie.”

The judge hit him with three-to-five State. They bought his X-ray experience snow job: Wylie Davis Bullock, go to Chino.

“So I went to Chino and got next to Richie. He was a lonely kid, so I befriended him, and he told me this AMAZING goddamn story.”

Amazing:

The Kafesjians, the Herricks — who fathered whose children? Phil Herrick and J.C. — bootleg dealers back in the ’30s. The blind man killings — Richie said yes, maybe — it might be Dudley Smith’s wedge. Incest: maybe/quasi/brother/father perv stuff.

“I guarantee you you have never heard nothing to compare to the stuff Richie told me.”

Richie, sissy/voyeur:

“He told me he was in love with Lucille, but he wouldn’t touch her because she might be his half-sister. He said he loved spying on her.”

Richie, compulsive talker:

“He put things together for me. I figured out enough about Dudley Smith to know that he met up with Herrick and Kafesjian some time right after the killings. I figured Smith got cozy with them and took bribes not to snitch that they brewed that liquor. I knew now. I knew these two crazy families killed my family.”

Richie, talking vengeance on Tommy:

“I knew he didn’t have the balls for it. I said just wait — I’ll get you your revenge if you promise not to bother the Kafesjians.”

Richie promised.

“Then his mother wrote him and went through this sob-sister suicide routine. Richie walked Chino — fucking minimum security, he just walked.”

Richie stayed loose.

He got paroled two months later.

“I tried to find Richie. I staked out the Kafesjian and Herrick houses, but I never saw him.”

“That Lucille, though — wow. I used to watch her do the shimmy-shimmy naked.”

Months ticked by. “One day right before she killed herself I saw Old Lady Herrick leave a letter in her box for the postman. I snuck up and grabbed it, and it was addressed to Champ Dineen, this jazz clown that Richie worshipped. There was a PO box address, so I figured Moms and Richie were working a mail-drop thing. I sent Richie a note at his box: ‘Dig Lucille do the shimmy shimmy in her window. Now you be patient and I’ll get you your revenge.’ ”

The note worked — months ticked by — he peeped Richie peeping Lucille. AMAZING: peeper Richie, amateur bug man — that electronics class did him solid. He walked the straight and narrow himself — movie jobs, parole confabs — nobody knew the Eyeball Man kept his dick hard—

“I started getting these wild ideas.

“The Eyeball Man said I should follow the Kafesjian guys and Dudley Smith around just for kicks.

“I was dogging Smith one day. He had lunch with Mickey Cohen, and I grabbed a booth next to them. Cohen said he was fronting this horror movie shooting in Griffith Park, and this Sid Frizell guy who was directing it shot stag films on the side. Smith said he loved naughty movies, and that Cohen should tell Frizell he had a nice sound stage he could use. Cohen said Frizell was skanky enough to take him up on it.”

He hit the Vampire set — “Man, was this flick from hunger.” He offered his camera services cut-rate; Cohen hired him; he gamed dumbfuck Sid Frizell — strapped for ideas. “I fed him these incestuous-type bits and all this blinding stuff, ’cause I figured one day I’d show Richie the finished-up movie. I told Frizell I had smut experience, and he pestered this Cohen guy Chick Vecchio into talking to Smith. Smith gave the okay, so Frizell got to shoot his stuff at this dive down in Lynwood.

“So I got cozy close to things, but I still didn’t have the fucking plan worked out. Then the Eyeball Man came through.”

He said tweak the Kafesjians with a voodoo B&E. Put the onus on Richie — keep him scared — keep him hiding.

“So I did it. I guess it’s like symbolism, ’cause the Eyeball Man told me exactly how to do things. I tried to blind the dogs with this dry-cleaning chemical, but that didn’t work, so I pulled their eyes out. I broke liquor bottles to goose them on their bootleg gig, and I broke Tommy’s records up ’cause the Eyeball Man said that would symbolize how Richie hated Tommy. Richie always hated Lucille whoring, so I cut her pedal pushers up and shot a load on them.”

Wicked fun.

“The Eyeball Man said make Richie squirm, so I scoped him out at these motels, getting all weepy over Lucille, and I cut up his bed with this silverware I stole to spook him. There was lots of heat around the Kafesjians because of the B&E and the Fed thing, so the Eyeball Man told me to kill Phil Herrick early. The daughters came home unexpected, and the Eyeball Man said snuff them too. I figured Richie was a fucking escapee, so the cops would think he did it and snuff him on the spot.”

Then?

“The Eyeball Man said kill Tommy and J.C. slow. He said rip Dudley Smith’s eyes out and eat them.”

Now?

“Pancakes and sausage, daddy-o. A nice safe cell for me and the Eyeball Man.”

Licking his chops.

Flapjack batter on a shelf.

EVERYTHING.

Chest pings/headache/dry mouth — Dudley Smith meets the Eyeball Man.

Exley pointing at the door.

I followed him outside. Spooky sunlight — trailer-park geeks watching us.

“What’s your assessment?”

Juke him/fuck him — LIE:

“I want to take Bullock in to Welles Noonan. I’m dodging custody, and he can help me smooth things out. He’s a key witness on Dudley and the Kafesjians, and if we cooperate with the Feds we can cut their probe off at the knees, especially with you giving them Narco.”

“He’s insane. He’s not a valid witness.”

“Yeah, but all he is to us is a psycho. He’s not even fit to stand trial.”

“Gallaudet will get indictments. He’ll prosecute him himself.”

“Bob’s dead. He was in with Dudley on some district gambling scheme. Dudley killed him.”

Weak knees — I steadied him — Edmund Jennings Exley poping cold sweat.

“I’ve got Chick Vecchio stashed. He begged me for Federal custody, and Madge Kafesjian filled in some of Bullock’s story and told me how Dudley hooked J.C. up with the Department. Exley, it’s all contained. Vecchio, Bullock, Madge — they rat Dudley and only Narco gets hurt. It’s your basic plan, and all you have to do is cut me some slack before I take Bullock in.”

“Specifically?”

“Call Noonan. Tell him you’re handing your Narco dossiers over. Tell him to retract his warrant on me until I bring our witnesses in.”

Do it — grab the bait — I’ll run with your money—

“Exley...”

“Yes. Move Bullock some place safe after dark, then call me.”

“You’ll call Noonan?”

“Yes, I’ll call him now.”

“I’m surprised you’re trusting me.”

“I’ve betrayed your trust before, and I’m running out of strategies. Just keep the shotgun and try not to kill him.”

I settled in.

Bullock talked pancakes and the Eyeball Man.

EVERYTHING spun me crazy — backward, forward — back to Meg, up to Glenda.

Escape plans. Buyouts. Schemes — nothing jelled.

Dusk came on — I kept the lights off. Music somewhere — EVERYTHING spun me fresh.

Nothing jelled.

Bullock fell asleep cuffed to his chair.

Nothing jelled.

Bullock muttered gibberish in his sleep.

Shakes, shudders — something like a whimper ripping through me.

I braced myself against the wall—

Killings, beatings, bribes, payoffs, kickbacks, shakedowns. Rent coercion, muscle jobs, strikebreaker work. Lies, intimidation, vows trashed, oaths broken, duties scorned. Thievery, duplicity, greed, lies, killings, beatings, bribes, payoffs, Meg—

That whimper got loose — Bullock cocked his head to hear it better. Sobs then — choking back tears, sobs racking through me so hard the trailer shook.

EVERYTHING.

Spinning, falling, confessing.

I don’t know how long it lasted.

I came out of it thinking:

NOT ENOUGH.

I made the call.

54

The Sears & Roebuck parking lot: wide open, empty. A block off: my Eastside building.

Early. Arclights on asphalt — he’d see us.

683 grand stuffed in four attaché cases.

My .45 taped to my ankle.

Wylie Bullock in the front seat — cuffed with his hands in his lap.

Exley’s cleaver beside him.

Headlights coming.

I laid the money bags on the hood. No suitcoat, no holster — frisk me.

Headlights up, brakes, lights off. Dudley Smith stepped out, smiling.

Coatless, empty holster — frisk me.

“Lad, you’re early.”

“I’m cautious.”

“Given your circumstances, I would be, too. And that man I glimpse in your car?”

“He’s a pilot. He’s flying me south.”

He looked in — the passenger window half down. Bullock stayed calm, my suitcoat draped over his cuffs.

“What grand briefcases! Have you tallied the amount?”

“Almost seven hundred thousand.”

“Is this my share?”

“It’s yours.”

“In exchange for?”

“The safety of the people I leave here.”

“You used the plural, lad. Have you loved ones beyond your sister?”

“Not really.”

“Aah, grand. And Vecchio?”

“He’s dead.”

“Have you brought the verification I requested?”

“It’s in with the money.”

“Well, then given that Edmund Exley is unapproachable and somewhat compromised, I would say this is goodbye.”

I stepped closer — blocking his view — cover for Bullock.

“I’ve still got those curiosities.”

“Such as?”

Louder — barely — don’t rile him yet:

“Madge Kafesjian told me about the blind man killings. I wondered how you cut your deal with J.C. and Phil Herrick.”

Dudley roared — huge stage laughs.

I reached back and freed the door.

“I was brazen then, lad. I understood the metaphors of greed and blind rage, and the absurdity of a sightless man wielding a ten-gauge did not escape me.”

“I wish I could have seen you cut the deal.”

“It was fairly prosaic, lad. I simply told Mr. Kafesjian and Mr. Herrick that their thriftily brewed liquor caused four deaths and assorted untold suffering. I informed them that in exchange for a percentage of their business holdings that suffering would remain strictly a point of contention between them and God.”

“Just like that?”

Bullock mumbling.

“I also offered visual persuasion. A coroner’s photograph of a young couple rendered headless expressed a certain shock value.”

Mumbling louder — I coughed to cover the noise.

“Lad, is your pilot confrere talking to himself?”

Getting hinky — watch his hands.

“Lad, will you open the briefcase that contains my verification?”

I stepped closer.

Dudley flexed his hands one single beat too quick.

I pivoted to slam a knee shot; he sidestepped me.

Shivs dropping out his shirt cuffs — grab a briefcase, swing it—

Two stilettos palmed deft.

Stabbing at me — ripping leather — two blades stuck.

I dropped the briefcase.

Dudley stood wide open.

Bullock piled out, hands on the cleaver.

“EYEBALL MAN! EYEBALL MAN!”

I slammed a knee shot.

Dudley went down.

Bullock went at him cleaver-first.

Wild swings — the handcuffs fucked his grip up — the blade ripped Dudley’s mouth ear to ear. Roundhouse coup de grace — the cleaver hit asphalt.

“EYEBALL MAN!” — Bullock on Dudley:

Biting.

Clawing.

Ripping at his eyes.

Look:

One gushing red socket.

“NO!” — my scream/my gun out/aiming at them tangled up together.

I fired twice — two misses — ricochets off the pavement.

Two more shots braced against the hood — Bullock’s face exploded.

Bone spray in my eyes.

Firing blind — ricochet zings, a jammed slide.

Dudley on Bullock — prying at his hands.

Dudley weaving, screaming exultant — his eye cupped back to his face.

I grabbed the money and ran. Echoes boomed behind me: “EYEBALL MAN! EYEBALL MAN!”