White Jazz

1

The job: take down a bookie mill, let the press in — get some ink to compete with the fight probe.

Some fruit sweating a sodomy beef snitched: fourteen phones, a race wire. Exley’s memo said show some force, squeeze the witnesses at the hotel later — find out what the Feds had planned.

In person: “If things get untoward, don’t let the reporters take pictures. You’re an attorney, Lieutenant. Remember how clean Bob Gallaudet likes his cases.”

I hate Exley.

Exley thinks I bought law school with bribe money.

I said four men, shotguns, Junior Stemmons as co-boss. Exley: “Jackets and ties; this will end up on TV. And no stray bullets — you’re working for me, not Mickey Cohen.”

Someday I’ll shove a bribe list down his throat.

Junior set it up. Perfect: a Niggertown street cordoned off; bluesuits guarding the alley. Reporters, prowl cars, four jackets and ties packing twelve-gauge pumps.

Sergeant George Stemmons, Jr., snapping quick draws.

Hubbub: porch-loafing jigs, voodoo eyes. My eyes on the target — closed curtains, a packed driveway — make a full shift inside working bets. A cinderblock shack — figure a steel plate door.

I whistled; Junior walked over twirling his piece.

“Keep it out, you might need it.”

“No, I’ve got a riot gun in the car. We go in the door, we—”

“We don’t go in the door, it’s plated. We start banging on the door, they burn their paper. You still hunt birds?”

“Sure. Dave, what—”

“You got ammo in your car? Single-aught birdshot?”

Junior smiled. “That big window. I shoot it out, the curtain takes the pellets, we go in.”

“Right, so you tell the others. And tell those clowns with the cameras to roll it, Chief Exley’s compliments.”

Junior ran back, dumped shells, reloaded. Cameras ready; whistles, applause: wine-guzzling loafers.

Hands up, count it down—

Eight: Junior spreads the word.

Six: the men flanked.

Three: Junior window-aiming.

One: “Now!”

Glass exploded ka-BOOM, loud loud loud; recoil knocked Junior flat. Cops too shocked to yell “TRIPLE AUGHT!”

Window curtains in rags.

Screams.

Run up, jump the sill. Chaos: blood spray, bet slip/cash confetti. Phone tables dumped, a stampede: out the back door bookie fistfights.

A nigger coughing glass.

A pachuco minus some fingers.

“Wrong Load” Stemmons: “Police! Stop or we’ll shoot!”

Grab him, shout: “This was shots fired inside, a fucking criminal altercation. We went in the window because we figured the door wouldn’t go down. You talk nice to the news guys and tell them I owe them one. You get the men together and make fucking-A sure they know the drill. Do you understand me?”

Junior shook free. Foot thumps — window-storming plain-clothesmen. Cover noise: I pulled my spare piece. Two ceiling shots, a wipe — evidence.

Toss the gun. More chaos: suspects kicked prone, cuffed.

Moans, shouts, shotgun wadding/blood stink.

I “discovered” the gun. Reporters ran in; Junior spieled them. Out to the porch, fresh air.

“You owe me eleven hundred, Counselor.”

Make the voice: Jack Woods. Mixed bag — bookie/strongarm/contract trigger.

I walked over. “Did you catch the show?”

“I was just driving up — and you should put that kid Stemmons on a leash.”

“His daddy’s an inspector. I’m the kid’s mentor, so I’ve got a captain’s job as a lieutenant. Did you have a bet down?”

“That’s right.”

“Slumming?”

“I’m in the business myself, so I spread my own bets around for good will. Dave, you owe me eleven hundred.”

“How do you know you won?”

“The race was fixed.”

Jabber — newsmen, the locals. “I’ll get it out of the evidence vault.”

“C’est la guerre. And by the way, how’s your sister?”

“Meg’s fine.”

“Say hi for me.”

Sirens; black & whites pulling up.

“Jack, get out of here.”

“Good seeing you, Dave.”

Book the fuckers — Newton Street Station.

Rap sheet checks: nine outstanding warrants total. Missing Fingers came up a sweetheart: rape, ADW, flimflam. Shock pale, maybe dying — a medic fed him coffee and aspirin.

I booked the plant gun, bet slips and money — minus Jack Woods’ eleven hundred. Junior, press relations: the lieutenant owes you a story.

Two hours of pure shitwork.

4:30 — back to the Bureau. Messages waiting: Meg said drop by; Welles Noonan said the guard gig, six sharp. Exley: “Report in detail.”

Details — type them out, more shitwork:

4701 Naomi Avenue, 1400 hours. Set to raid a bookmaker’s drop, Sgt. George Stemmons, Jr., and I heard shots fired inside the premises. We did not inform the other officers for fear of creating a panic. I ordered a shotgun round directed at the front window; Sgt. Stemmons misled the other men with a “birdshot assault” cover story. A .38 revolver was found; we arrested six bookmakers. The suspects were booked at Newton Station; the wounded received adequate first aid and hospital treatment. R&I revealed numerous extant warrants on the six, who will be remanded to the Hall of Justice Jail and arraigned on felony charges 614.5 and 859.3 of the California Penal Code. All six men will be subsequently interrogated on the shots fired and their bookmaking associations. I will conduct the interrogations myself — as Division Commander I must personally guarantee the veracity of all proferred statements. Press coverage of this occurrence will be minimal: reporters at the scene were unprepared for the rapid transpiring of events.

Sign it: Lieutenant David D. Klein, Badge 1091, Commander, Administrative Vice.

Carbons to: Junior, Chief Exley.

The phone—

“Ad Vice, Klein.”

“Davey? Got a minute for an old gonif buddy?”

“Mickey, Jesus Christ.”

“I know, I’m supposed to call you at home. Uh... Davey... a favor for Sam G.?”

G. for Giancana. “I guess. What?”

“You know that croupier guy you’re watchdogging?”

“Yeah.”

“Well... the radiator’s loose in his bedroom.”

2

Rockabye Reuben Ruiz: “This is the tits. I could get used to this.”

The Embassy Hotel: parlor, bedrooms, TV. Nine floors up, suite service: food and booze.

Ruiz belting Scotch, half-assed restless. Sanderline Johnson watching cartoons, slack-jawed.

Junior practicing quick draws.

Try some talk. “Hey, Reuben.”

Popping mock jabs: “Hey, Lieutenant.”

“Hey, Reuben. Did Mickey C. try to infringe on your contract?”

“He what you call strongly suggested my manager let him buy in. He sent the Vecchio brothers out to talk to him, then he punked out when Luis told them, ‘Hey, kill me, ’cause I ain’t signin’ no release form.’ You want my opinion? Mickey ain’t got the stones for strongarm no more.”

“But you’ve got the cojones to snitch.”

Jabs, hooks. “I got a brother deserted the army, maybe lookin’ at Federal time. I got three bouts coming up at the Olympic, which Welles Noonan can fuck up with subpoenas. My family’s what you call from a long line of thieves, what you call trouble prone, so I sorta like making friends in what you might call the law-enforcement community.”

“Do you think Noonan has good stuff on Mickey?”

“No, Lieutenant, I don’t.”

“Call me Dave.”

“I’ll call you Lieutenant, ’cause I got enough friends in the law-enforcement community.”

“Such as?”

“Such as Noonan and his FBI buddy Shipstad. Hey, you know Schoolboy Johnny Duhamel?”

“Sure. He fought in the Gloves, turned pro, then quit.”

“You lose your first pro fight, you better quit. I told him that, ’cause Johnny and me are old friends, and Johnny is now Officer Schoolboy Johnny Duhamel, on the fuckin’ LAPD, on the righteous Mobster Squad, no less. He’s tight with the — what you call him? — legendary? — Captain Dudley Smith. So I got enough fuck—”

“Ruiz, watch your language.”

Junior — pissed. Johnson goosed the TV — Mickey Mouse ran from Donald Duck.

Junior killed the volume. “I knew Johnny Duhamel when I taught at the Academy. He was in my evidence class, and he was a damn good student. I don’t like it when criminals get familiar with policemen. Comprende, pendejo?”

“Pendejo, huh? So I’m the stupido, and you’re this punk cowboy, playin’ with your gun like that sissy mouse on fuckin’ television.”

Necktie pull, signal Junior: FREEZE IT.

He froze — fumbling his gun.

Ruiz: “I can always use another friend, Dave. There something you want to know?”

I boosted the TV. Johnson stared, rapt — Daisy Duck vamping Donald. Ruiz: “Hey, Dave. You wangle this job to pump me?”

Huddle close, semi-private. “You want to make another friend, then give. What’s Noonan have?”

“He’s got what you call aspirations.”

“I know that. Give.”

“Well... I heard Shipstad and this other FBI guy talking. They said Noonan’s maybe afraid the fight probe’s too limited. Anyway, he’s thinking over this backup plan.”

“And?”

“And it’s like a general L.A. rackets thing, mostly Southside stuff. Dope, slots, you know, illegal vending machines and that kind of shit. I heard Shipstad say something about the LAPD don’t investigate colored on colored homicides, and like all this ties to Noonan making the new DA — what’s his name?”

“Bob Gallaudet.”

“Right, Bob Gallaudet. Anyway, it all ties to making him look bad so Noonan can run against him for attorney general.”

Darktown, the coin biz — Mickey C.’s last going stuff. “What about Johnson?”

Snickers. “Look at that mulatto wetbrain. Can you believe he used to be forty-three, zero and two?”

“Reuben, give.”

“Okay, give he’s close to a fuckin’ idiot, but he’s got this great memory. He can memorize card decks, so some made guys gave him a job at the Lucky Nugget down in Gardena. He’s good at memorizing conversations, and some guys weren’t so what you call discreet talking around him. I heard Noonan’s gonna make him do these memory tricks on the stand, which—”

“I get the picture.”

“Good. I quit my own trouble-prone ways, but I sure got a trouble-prone family. I shouldn’t of told you what I did, so since you’re my friend I’m sure this ain’t getting back to the Federal guys, right, Dave?”

“Right. Now eat your dinner and get some rest, okay?”

Midnight — lights out. I took Johnson; Junior took Ruiz — my suggestion.

Johnson, bedtime reading: “God’s Secret Power Can Be Yours.” I pulled a chair up and watched his lips: glom the inside track to Jesus, fight the Jew-Communist conspiracy to mongrelize Christian America. Send your contribution to Post Office Box blah, blah, blah.

“Sanderline, let me ask you something.”

“Uh, yessir.”

“Do you believe that pamphlet you’re reading?”

“Uh, yessir. Right here it says this woman who came back to life said Jesus guarantees all gold-star contributors a new car every year in heaven.”

JESUS FUCK.

“Sanderline, did you catch a few in your last couple of fights?”

“Uh, no. I stopped Bobby Calderon on cuts and lost a split decision to Ramon Sanchez. Sir, do you think Mr. Noonan will get us a hot lunch at the grand jury?”

Handcuffs out. “Put these on while I take a piss.”

Johnson stood up — yawning, stretching. Check the heater — thick pipes — nix ballast.

Open window — nine-floor drop — this geek half-breed smiling.

“Sir, what do you think Jesus drives himself?”

I banged his head against the wall, threw him out the window screaming.

3

LAPD Homicide said suicide, case closed.

The DA: suicide probable.

Confirmation — Junior, Ruiz — Sanderline Johnson, crazy man.

Listen:

I watched him read, dozed off, woke up — Johnson announced he could fly. He went out the window before I could voice my disbelief.

Questioning: Feds, LAPD, DA’s men. Basics: Johnson crash-landed on a parked De Soto, DOA, no witnesses. Bob Gallaudet seemed pleased: a rival’s political progress scotched. Ed Exley: report to my office, 10:00 A.M.

Welles Noonan: incompetent disgrace of a policeman; pitiful excuse for an attorney. Suspicious — my old nickname — “the Enforcer.”

No mention: 187 PC — felonious homicide.

No mention: outside-agency investigations.

No mention: interdepartmental charges.

I drove home, showered, changed — no reporters hovering yet. Downtown, a dress for Meg — I do it every time I kill a man.

10:00 A.M.

Waiting: Exley, Gallaudet, Walt Van Meter — the boss, Intelligence Division. Coffee, pastry — fuck me.

I sat down. Exley: “Lieutenant, you know Mr. Gallaudet and Captain Van Meter.”

Gallaudet, all smiles: “It’s been ‘Bob’ and ‘Dave’ since law school, and I won’t fake any outrage over last night. Did you see the Mirror, Dave?”

“No.”

“ ‘Federal Witness Plummets to Death,’ with a sidebar: ‘Suicide Pronouncement: “Hallelujah, I Can Fly!” ’ You like it?”

“It’s a pisser.”

Exley, cold: “The lieutenant and I will discuss that later. In a sense it ties in to what we have here, so let’s get to it.”

Bob sipped coffee. “Political intrigue. Walt, you tell him.”

Van Meter coughed. “Well... Intelligence has done some political operations before, and we’ve got our eye on a target now — a pinko lawyer who has habitually bad-mouthed the Department and Mr. Gallaudet.”

Exley: “Keep going.”

“Well, Mr. Gallaudet should be elected to a regular term next week. He’s an ex-policeman himself, and he speaks our language. He’s got the support of the Department and some of the City Council, but—”

Bob cut in. “Morton Diskant. He’s neck and neck with Tom Bethune for Fifth District city councilman, and he’s been ragging me for weeks. You know, how I’ve only been a prosecutor for five years and how I cashed in when Ellis Loew resigned as DA. I’ve heard he’s gotten cozy with Welles Noonan, who just might be on my dance card in ’60, and Bethune is our kind of guy. It’s a very close race. Diskant’s been talking Bethune and I up as right-wing shitheads, and the district’s twenty-five percent Negro, lots of them registered voters. You take it from there.”

Play a hunch. “Diskant’s been riling the spooks up with Chavez Ravine, something like ‘Vote for me so your Mexican brothers won’t get evicted from their shantytown shacks to make room for a ruling-class ballpark.’ It’s five — four in favor on the Council, and they take a final vote sometime in November after the election. Bethune’s an interim incumbent, like Bob, and if he loses he has to leave office before the vote goes down. Diskant gets in, it’s a deadlock. We’re all civilized white men who know the Dodgers are good for business, so let’s get to it.”

Exley, smiling: “I met Bob in ’53, when he was a DA’s Bureau sergeant. He passed the bar and registered as a Republican the same day. Now the pundits tell us we’ll only have him as DA for two years. Attorney General in ’60, then what? Will you stop at Governor?”

Laughs all around. Van Meter: “I met Bob when he was a patrolman and I was a sergeant. Now it’s ‘Walt’ and ‘Mr. Gallaudet.’ ”

“I’m still ‘Bob.’ And you used to call me ‘son.’ ”

“I will again, Robert. If you disown your support of district gambling.”

Stupid crack — the bill wouldn’t pass the State Legislature. Cards, slots and bookmaking — confined to certain areas — taxable big. Cops hated it — say Gallaudet embraced it for votes. “He’ll change his mind, he’s a politician.”

No laughs — Bob coughed, embarrassed. “It looks like the fight probe is down. With Johnson dead, they’ve got no confirming witnesses, and I got the impression Noonan was just using Reuben Ruiz for his marquee value. Dave, do you agree?”

“Yeah, he’s a likable local celebrity. Apparently Mickey C. made some kind of half-baked attempt to muscle his contract, so Noonan probably wanted to use Mickey for his marquee value.”

Exley, shiv shot: “And we know you’re an expert on Mickey Cohen.”

“We go back, Chief.”

“In what capacity?”

“I’ve offered him some free legal advice.”

“Such as?”

“Such as ‘Don’t fuck with the LAPD.’ Such as ‘Watch out for Chief of Detectives Exley, because he never tells you exactly what he wants.’ ”

Gallaudet, calm: “Come on, enough. Mayor Poulson asked me to call this meeting, so we’re on his time. And I have an idea, which is to keep Ruiz on our side. We use him as a front man to placate the Mexicans in Chavez Ravine, so if the evictions go down ugly, we have him as our PR guy. Doesn’t he have some kind of burglary jacket?”

I nodded. “Juvie time for B&E. I heard he used to belong to a burglary gang, and I know his brothers pull jobs. You’re right — we should use him, promise to keep his family out of trouble if he goes along.”

Van Meter: “I like it.”

Gallaudet: “What about Diskant?”

I hit hard. “He’s a pinko, so he has to have some Commie associates. I’ll find them and strongarm them. We’ll put them on TV, and they’ll snitch him.”

Bob, head shakes: “No. It’s too vague and there’s not enough time.”

“Girls, boys, liquor — give me a weakness. Look, I screwed up last night. Let me do penance.”

Silence: long, loud. Van Meter, off a sigh: “I heard he loves young women. He supposedly cheats on his wife very discreetly. He likes college girls. Young, idealistic.”

Bob, a smirk fading: “Dudley Smith can set it up. He’s done this kind of thing before.”

Exley, weird emphatic: “No, not Dudley. Klein, do you know the right people?”

“I know an editor at Hush-Hush. I can get Pete Bondurant for the pix, Fred Turentine for bugging. Ad Vice popped a call house last week, and we’ve got just the right girl sweating bail.”

Stares all around. Exley, half smiling: “So do your penance, Lieutenant.”

Bob G. — diplomat. “He let me study his crib sheets in law school. Be nice, Ed.”

Exit line — he waltzed, Van Meter walked hangdog.

Say it: “Will the Feds ask for an investigation?”

“I doubt it. Johnson did ninety days observation at Camarillo last year, and the doctors there told Noonan he was unstable. Six FBI men canvassed for witnesses and got nowhere. They’d be stupid to pursue an investigation. You’re clean, but I don’t like the way it looks.”

“You mean criminal negligence?”

“I mean your longstanding and somewhat well-known criminal associations. I’ll be kind and say you’re ‘acquainted’ with Mickey Cohen, a focus of the investigation your negligence destroyed. Imaginative people might make a slight jump to ‘criminal conspiracy,’ and Los Angeles is filled with such people. You see how—”

“Chief, listen to—”

“No, you listen. I gave you and Stemmons that assignment because I trusted your competence and I wanted an attorney’s assessment of what the Feds had planned in our jurisdiction. What I got was ‘Hallelujah, I Can Fly’ and ‘Detective Snoozes While Witness Jumps Out Window.’ ”

Quash a laugh. “So what’s the upshot?”

“You tell me. Assess what the Feds have planned past the fight probe.”

“I’d say with Johnson dead, not much. Ruiz told me Noonan had some vague plans to mount an investigation into the Southside rackets — dope, the Darktown slot and vending machines. If that probe flies, the Department could be made to look bad. But if it goes, Noonan will announce it first — he’s headline happy. We’ll get a chance to prepare.”

Exley smiled. “Mickey Cohen runs the Southside coin business. Will you warn him to get his stuff out?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Off the topic, did you read my report on the bookie house?”

“Yes. Except for the shots fired, it was salutary. What is it? You’re looking at me like you want something.”

I poured coffee. “Throw me a bone for the Diskant job.”

“You’re in no position to ask favors.”

“After Diskant I will be.”

“Then ask.”

Bad coffee. “Ad Vice is boring me. I was passing through Robbery and saw a case that looked good on the board.”

“The appliance store heist?”

“No, the Hurwitz fur warehouse job. A million in furs clouted, no leads, and Junior Stemmons popped Sol Hurwitz at a dice game just last year. He’s a degenerate gambler, so I’d bet money on insurance fraud.”

“No. It’s Dudley Smith’s case, and he’s ruled insurance out. And you’re a commanding officer, not a case man.”

“So stretch the rules. I tank the Commie, you throw me one.”

“No, it’s Dudley’s job. The case is three days old and he’s already been assigned. Beyond that, I wouldn’t want to tempt you with saleable items like furs.”

Shivved — deflect it. “There’s no love lost between you and Dud. He wanted chief of detectives, and you got it.”

“COs always get bored and want cases. Is there any particular reason why you want this one?”

“Robbery’s clean. You wouldn’t be suspicious of my friends if I worked heist jobs.”

Exley stood up. “A question before you go.”

“Sir?”

“Did a friend tell you to push Sanderline Johnson out the window?”

“No, sir. But aren’t you glad he jumped?”

I slept the night off, a room at the Biltmore — figure reporters had my pad staked out. No dreams, room service: 6:00 A.M. breakfast, the papers. New banners: “U.S. Attorney Blasts ‘Negligent’ Cop”; “Detective Voices Regret at Witness Suicide.” Pure Exley — his press gig, his regret. Page three, more Exley: no Hurwitz-job leads — a gang with toolmaking/electronics expertise boosted a million plus in cold fur. Pix: a bandaged-up security guard; Dudley Smith ogling a mink.

Robbery, sweet duty: jack up heist guys and boost their shit.

Work the Commie: phone calls.

Fred Turentine, bug man — yes for five hundred. Pete Bondurant — yes for a grand — and he’d pay the photo guy. Pete, Hush-Hush cozy — more heat on the smear.

The Women’s Jail watch boss owed me; a La Verne Benson update cashed her out. La Verne — prostitution beef number three — no bail, no trial date. La Verne to the phone — suppose we lose your rap sheet — yes! yes! yes!

Antsy — my standard postmurder shakes. Antsy to itchy — drive.

A run by my pad — reporters — no haven there. Up to Mulholland, green lights/no traffic — 60, 70, 80. Fishtails, curve shimmy — slow down, think.

Think Exley.

Brilliant, cold. In ’53 he gunned down four niggers — it closed out the Nite Owl case. Spring ’58 — evidence proved he killed the wrong men. The case was reopened; Exley and Dudley Smith ran it: the biggest job in L.A. history. Multiple homicides/smut intrigue/interlocked conspiracies — Exley cleared it for real. His construction-king father killed himself non sequitur; now Inspector Ed got his money. Thad Green resigned as Chief of Detectives; Chief Parker jumped Dudley to replace him: Edmund Jennings Exley, thirty-six years old.

No love lost — Exley and Dudley — two good haters.

No Detective Division reforms — just Exley going iceberg cold.

Green lights up to Meg’s house — just her car out front. Meg in the kitchen window.

I watched her.

Dish duty — a lilt to her hands — maybe background music. Smiling — a face almost mine, but gentle. I hit the horn—

Yes — a primp — her glasses, her hair. A smile — anxious.

I jogged up the steps; Meg had the door open. “I had a feeling you’d bring me a gift.”

“Why?”

“The last time you got in the papers you bought me a dress.”

“You’re the smart Klein. Go on, open it.”

“Was it terrible? They had this clip on TV.”

“He was a dumb bunny. Come on, open it up.”

“David, we have to discuss some business.”

I nudged her inside. “Come on.”

Rip, tear — wrapping paper in shreds. A whoop, a mirror dash — green silk, a perfect fit.

“Does it work?”

A swirl — her glasses almost flew. “Zip me?”

Shape her in, tug the zipper. Perfect — Meg kissed me, checked the mirror.

“Jesus, you and Junior. He can’t stop admiring himself either.”

A swirl, a flash: prom date ’35. The old man said take Sissy — the guys hounding her weren’t appropriate.

Meg sighed. “It’s beautiful. Just like everything you give me. And how is Junior Stemmons these days?”

“Thank you, you’re welcome, and Junior Stemmons is half smart. He’s not really suited for the Detective Bureau, and if his father didn’t swing me the command at Ad Vice I’d kick his ass back to a teaching job.”

“Not a forceful enough presence?”

“Right, with a hot-dog sensibility that makes it stand out worse, and itchy nerves like he’s raiding the dope vault at Narco. Where’s your husband?”

“Going over some blueprints for a building he’s designing. And while we’re on the subject...”

“Shit. Our buildings, right? Deadbeats? Skipouts?”

“We’re slumlords, so don’t act surprised. It’s the Compton place. Three units in arrears.”

“So advise me. You’re the real estate broker.”

“Two units are one month due, the other is two months behind. It takes ninety days to file an eviction notice, and that entails a court date. And you’re the attorney.”

“Fuck, I hate litigation. And will you sit down?”

She sprawled — a green chair, the green dress. Green against her hair — black — a shade darker than mine. “You’re a good litigator, but I know you’ll just send some goons down with fake papers.”

“It’s easier that way. I’ll send Jack Woods or one of Mickey’s guys.”

“Armed?”

“Yeah, and fucking dangerous. Now tell me you love the dress again. Tell me so I can go home and get some sleep.”

Counting points — our old routine. “One, I love the dress. Two, I love my big brother, even though he got all the looks and more of the brains. Three, by way of amenities, I quit smoking again, I’m bored with my job and my husband and I’m considering sleeping around before I turn forty and lose the rest of my looks. Four, if you knew any men who weren’t cops or thugs I’d ask you to fix me up.”

Points back: “I got the Hollywood looks, you got the real ones. Don’t sleep with Jack Woods, because people have this tendency to shoot at him, and the first time you and Jack tried shacking it didn’t last too long. I do know a few DAs, but they’d bore you.”

“Who do I have left? I flopped as a gangster consort.”

The room swayed — frazzled time. “I don’t know. Come on, walk me out.”

Green silk — Meg stroked it. “I was thinking of that logic class we took undergrad. You know, cause and effect.”

“Yeah?”

“I... well, a hoodlum dies in the papers, and I get a gift.”

Swaying bad. “Let it go.”

“Trombino and Brancato, then Jack Dragna. Honey, I can live with what we did.”

“You don’t love me the way I love you.”

4

Reporters at my door, wolfing take-out.

I parked out back, jimmied a bedroom window. Noise — newsmen gabbing my story. Lights off, crack that window: talk to defuse Meg’s bomb.

Straight: I’m a kraut, not a Jew — the old man’s handle got clipped at Ellis Island. ’38 — the LAPD; ’42 — the Marines. Pacific duty, back to the Department ’45. Chief Horrall resigns; William Worton replaces him — a squeaky-clean Marine Corps major general. Semper Fi: he forms an ex-Marine goon squad. Esprit de Corps: we break strikes, beat uppity parolees back to prison.

Law school, freelance work — the GI Bill won’t cover USC. Repo man, Jack Woods’ collector — “the Enforcer.” Work for Mickey C: union disputes settled strongarm. Hollywood beckons — I’m tall, handsome.

Nix, but it leads to real work. I break up a squeeze on Liberace — two well-hung shines, blackmail pix. I’m in with Hollywood and Mickey C. I make the Bureau, make sergeant. I pass the bar, make lieutenant.

All true.

I topped my twenty last month — true. My Enforcer take bought slum pads — true. I shacked with Anita Ekberg and the redhead on “The Spade Cooley Show” — false.

Bullshit took over; talk moved to Chavez Ravine. I shut the window and tried to sleep.

No go.

Lift that window — no newsmen. TV: strictly test patterns. Turn it off, run the string out — MEG.

It was always there scary wrong — and we touched each other too long to say it. I kept the old man’s fists off her; she kept me from killing him. College together, the war, letters. Other men and other women fizzled.

Rowdy postwar years — “the Enforcer.” Meg — pal, repo sidekick. A fling with Jack Woods — I let it go. Study ate up my time — Meg ran wild solo. She met two hoods: Tony Trombino, Tony Brancato.

June ’51 — our parents dead in a car wreck.

The guts, the will—

A motel room — Franz and Hilda Klein fresh buried. Naked just to see. On each other — every taste half recoil.

Meg broke it off — no finish. Fumbles: our clothes, words, the lights off.

I still wanted it.

She didn’t.

She ran crazy with Trombino and Brancato.

The fucks messed with Jack Dragna — the Outfit’s number-one man in L.A. Jack showed me a picture: Meg — bruises, hickeys — Trombino/Brancato verified.

Verified — they popped a mob dice game.

Jack said five grand, you clip them — I said yes.

I set it up — a shakedown run — “We’ll rob this bookie holding big.” August 6, 1648 North Ogden — the Two Tonys in a ’49 Dodge. I slid in the backseat and blew their brains out.

“Mob Warfare” headlines — Dragna’s boss torpedo picked up quick. His alibi: Jack D.’s parish priest. Gangland unsolved — let the fucking wops kill each other.

I was paid — plus a tape bonus: a man raging at the scum who hurt his sister. Dragna’s voice — squelched out. My voice: “I will fucking kill them. I will fucking kill them for free.”

Mickey Cohen called. Jack said I owed the Outfit — the debt kosher for a few favors. Jack would call, I’d be paid — strictly business.

Hooked.

Called:

June 2, ’53: I clipped a dope chemist in Vegas.

March 26, ’55: I killed two jigs who raped a mob guy’s wife.

September ’57, a rumor: Jack D. — heart disease bad.

I called him.

Jack said, “Come see me.”

We met at a beachfront motel — his fixing-to-die-fuck spot. Guinea heaven: booze, smut, whores next door.

I begged him: cancel my debt.

Jack said, “The whores do lez stuff.”

I choked him dead with a pillow.

Coroner’s verdict/mob consensus: heart attack.

Sam Giancana — my new caller. Mickey C. his front man: cop favors, clip jobs.

Meg sensed something. Lie away her part, take all the guilt. Sleep — restless, sweaty.

The phone — grab it — “Yes?”

“Dave? Dan Wilhite.”

Narco — the boss. “What is it, Captain?”

“It’s... shit, do you know J. C. Kafesjian?”

“I know who he is. I know what he is to the Department.”

Wilhite, low: “I’m at a crime scene. I can’t really talk and I’ve got nobody to send over, so I called you.”

Hit the lights. “Fill me in, I’ll go.”

“It’s, shit, it’s a burglary at J.C.’s house.”

“Address?”

“1684 South Tremaine. That’s just off—”

“I know where it is. Somebody called Wilshire dicks before they called you, right?”

“Right, J.C.’s wife. The whole family was out for the evening, but Madge, the wife, came home first. She found the house burgled and called Wilshire Station. J.C., Tommy and Lucille — that’s the other kid — came home and found the house full of detectives who didn’t know about our... uh... arrangement with the family. Apparently, it’s some goddamn nutso B&E and the Wilshire guys are making pests of themselves. J.C. called my wife, she called around and found me. Dave...”

“I’ll go.”

“Good. Take someone with you, and count it one in your column.”

I hung up and called for backup — Riegle, Jensen — no answer. Shit luck — Junior Stemmons — “Hello?”

“It’s me. I need you for an errand.”

“Is it a call-out?”

“No, it’s an errand for Dan Wilhite. It’s smooth J.C. Kafesjian’s feathers.”

Junior whistled. “I heard his kid’s a real psycho.”

“1684 South Tremaine. Wait for me outside, I’ll brief you.”

“I’ll be there. Hey, did you see the late news? Bob Gallaudet called us ‘exemplary officers,’ but Welles Noonan said we were ‘incompetent freeloaders.’ He said that ordering room-service booze for our witnesses contributed to Johnson’s suicide. He said—”

“Just be there.”

Code 3, do Wilhite solid — aid the LAPD’s sanctioned pusher. Narco/J.C. Kafesjian — twenty years connected — old Chief Davis brought him in. Weed, pills, H — Darktown trash as clientele. Snitch duty got J.C. the dope franchise. Wilhite played watchdog; J.C. ratted rival pushers, per our policy: keep narcotics isolated south of Slauson. His legit work: a dry-cleaning chain; his son’s work: muscle goon supreme.

Crosstown to the pad: a Moorish job lit up bright. Cars out front: Junior’s Ford, a prowl unit.

Flashlight beams and voices down the driveway. “Holy shit, holy shit” — Junior Stemmons.

I parked, walked over.

Light in my eyes. Junior: “That’s the lieutenant.” A stink: maybe blood rot.

Junior, two plainclothesmen. “Dave, this is Officer Nash and Sergeant Miller.”

“Gentlemen, Narco’s taking this over. You go back to the station. Sergeant Stemmons and I will file reports if it comes to that.”

Miller: “ ‘Comes to that’? Do you smell that?”

Heavy, acidic. “Is this a homicide?”

Nash: “Not exactly. Sir, you wouldn’t believe the way that punk Tommy What’s-His-Name talked to us. Comes to—”

“Go back and tell the watch commander Dan Wilhite sent me over. Tell him it’s J.C. Kafesjian’s place, so it’s not your standard 459. If that doesn’t convince him, have him wake up Chief Exley.”

“Lieutenant—”

Grab a flashlight, chase the smell — back to a snipped chainlink fence. Fuck — two Dobermans — no eyes, throats slit, teeth gnashing chemical-soaked washrags. Gutted — entrails, blood — blood dripping toward a jimmied back door.

Shouts inside — two men, two women. Junior: “I shooed the squadroom guys off. Some 459, huh?”

“Lay it out for me, I don’t want to question the family.”

“Well, they were all at a party. The wife had a headache, so she took a cab home first. She went out to let the dogs in and found them. She called Wilshire, and Nash and Miller caught the squeal. J.C., Tommy and the daughter — the two kids live here, too — came home and raised a ruckus when they found cops in the living room.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“Madge — that’s the wife — showed me the damage, then J.C. shut her up. Some heirloom-type silverware was stolen, and the damage was some strange stuff. Do you feature this? I have never worked a B&E job like this one.”

Yells, horn bleats.

“It’s not a job. And what do you mean ‘strange stuff’?”

“Nash and Miller tagged it. You’ll see.”

I flashed the yard — foamy meat scraps — call the dogs poisoned. Junior: “He fed them that meat, then mutilated them. He got blood on himself, then trailed it into the house.”

Follow it:

Back-door pry marks. A laundry porch — bloody towels discarded — the burglar cleaned up.

The kitchen door intact — he slipped the latch. No more blood, the sink evidence tagged: “Broken Whiskey Bottles.” Cabinet-drawers theft tagged: “Antique Silverware.”

Them:

“You whore, to let strange policemen into our home!”

“Daddy, please don’t!”

“We always call Dan when we need help!”

A dining room table, photo scraps piled on top: “Family Pictures.” Sax bleats upstairs.

Walk the pad.

Too-thick carpets, velvet sofas, flocked wallpaper. Window air coolers — Jesus statues perched beside them. A rug tagged: “Broken Records/Album Covers” — The Legendary Champ Dineen: Sooo Slow Moods; Straight Life: The Art Pepper Quartet; The Champ Plays the Duke.

LPs by a hi-fi — stacked neat.

Junior walked in. “Like I told you, huh? Some damage.”

“Who’s making that noise?”

“The horn? That’s Tommy Kafesjian.”

“Go up and make nice. Apologize for the intrusion, offer to call Animal Control for the dogs. Ask him if he wants an investigation. Be nice, do you understand?”

“Dave, he’s a criminal.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be brown-nosing his old man even worse.”

“DADDY, DON’T!” — booming through closed doors.

“J.C., LEAVE THE GIRL ALONE!”

Spooky — Junior ran upstairs.

“THAT’S RIGHT, GET OUT” — a side door slamming — “Daddy” in my face.

J.C. close up: a greasy fat man getting old. Burly, pockmarked, bloody facial scratches.

“I’m Dave Klein. Dan Wilhite sent me over to square things.”

Squinting: “What’s so important he couldn’t come himself?”

“We can do this any way you want, Mr. Kafesjian. If you want an investigation, you’ve got it. You want us to dust for prints, maybe get you a name, you’ve got it. If you want payback, Dan will support you in anything within reason, if you follow—”

“I follow what you mean and I clean my own house. I deal with Captain Dan strictly, not strangers in my parlor.”

Two women snuck by. Soft brunettes — nongrease types. The daughter waved — silver nails, blood drops.

“You see my girls, now forget them. They are not for you to know.”

“Any idea who did it?”

“Not for you to talk about. Not for you to mention business rivals who might want to hurt me and mine.”

“Rivals in the dry-cleaning biz?”

“Not for you to make jokes! Look! Look!”

A door tag: “Mutilated Clothing.” “Look! Look! Look!” — J.C. yanked the knob — “Look! Look! Look!”

Look: a small closet. Spread-legged, crotch-ripped pedal pushers tacked across the walls.

Stained — smell it — semen.

“Now it is not to laugh. I buy Lucille and Madge so many nice clothes that they must keep some down in the parlor. Perverted degenerate wants to hurt Lucille’s pretty things. You look.”

Tijuana whore stuff: “Pretty.”

“Not so funny now, Dan Wilhite’s errand boy. Now you don’t laugh.”

“Call Dan. Tell him what you want done.”

“I clean my own house!”

“Nice threads. Your daughter working her way through college?”

Fists clenching/veins popping/face-rips trickling — this fat greasy fuck pressing close.

Shouts upstairs.

I ran up. A room off the hall — scope the damage:

Tommy K. up against the wall. Reefers on the floor, tough guy Junior frisking him. Jazz posters, Nazi flags, a sax on the bed.

I laughed.

Tommy smiled nice — this skinny nongreaser.

Junior: “He flaunted that mary jane. He ridiculed the Department.”

“Sergeant, apologize to Mr. Kafesjian.”

Half pout, half shriek: “Dave... God... I’m sorry.”

Tommy lit up a stick and blew smoke in Junior’s face.

J.C., downstairs: “Go home now! I clean my own house!”

5

Bad sleep, no sleep.

Meg’s call woke me up: get our late rent settled, no silk-dress talk. I said, “Sure, sure” — hung up and pitched Jack Woods: twenty percent on every rent dollar collected. He jewed me up to twenty-five — I agreed.

Work calls: Van Meter, Pete Bondurant, Fred Turentine. Three green lights: La Verne’s pad was bugged; a photo man was stashed in the bedroom. Diskant — tailed and overheard: drinks at Ollie Hammond’s Steakhouse, 6:00 P.M.

The bait stood ready: our Commie consort. Pete said Hush-Hush loved it: pinko politico trips on his dick.

I called Narco — Dan Wilhite was out — I left a message. Bad sleep, no sleep — the nightmare Kafesjians. Junior last night, comic relief: “I know you don’t think I rate the Bureau, but I’ll show you, I’ll really show you.”

5:00 P.M. — fuck sleep.

I cleaned up, checked the Herald — Chavez Ravine bumped my dead man off page one. Bob Gallaudet: “The Latin Americans who lose their dwellings will be handsomely compensated, and in the end a home for the L.A. Dodgers will serve as a point of pride for Angelenos of all races, creeds and colors.”

Knee-slapper stuff — it doused my Kafesjian hangover.

Ollie Hammond’s — stake the bar entrance, wait.

Morton Diskant in the door, six sharp.

La Verne Benson in at 6:03 — tweed skirt, knee sox, cardigan.

6:14 — Big Pete B., sliding the seat back.

“Diskant’s with his friends, La Verne’s two booths down. Two seconds in and she’s giving him these hot looks.”

“You think he’ll tumble?”

“I would, but then I’m a pig for it.”

“Like your boss?”

“You can say his name — Howard Hughes. He’s a busy guy — like you.”

“He was a dumb fuck. If he didn’t jump, I probably would have pushed him.”

Pete tapped the dashboard — huge hands — they beat a drunk-tank brawler dead. The L.A. Sheriff’s canned him; Howard Hughes found a soulmate.

“You been busy?”

“Sort of. I collect dope for Hush-Hush, I keep Mr. Hughes out of Hush-Hush. People try to sue Hush-Hush, I convince them otherwise. I scout pussy for Mr. Hughes, I listen to Mr. Hughes talk this crazy shit about airplanes. Right now Mr. Hughes has got me tailing this actress who jilted him. Dig this: this cooze blows out of Mr. Hughes’ number-one fuck pad, with a three-yard-a-week contract to boot, all to act in some horror cheapie. Mr. Hughes has got her signed to a seven-year slave contract, and he wants to get it violated on a morality clause. Can you feature this pussy pig preaching morality?”

“Yeah, and you love it because you’re—”

“Because I’m a pig for the life, like you.”

I laughed, yawned. “This could go on all night.”

Pete lit a cigarette. “No, La Verne’s impetuous. She’ll get bored and honk the Commie’s shvantz. Nice kid. She actually helped Turentine set up his microphones.”

“How’s Freddy doing?”

“He’s busy. Tonight he compromises this Commie, next week he wires some fag bathhouse for Hush-Hush. The trouble with Freddy T. is he’s a booze pig. He’s got all these drunk-driving beefs, so the last time the judge stuck him with this service job teaching electronics to the inmates up at Chino. Klein, look.”

La Verne at the bar door — two thumbs up. Pete signaled back. “That means Diskant’s meeting her after he ditches his friends. See that blue Chevy, that’s hers.”

I pulled out — La Verne in front — right turns on Wilshire. Straight west — Sweetzer, north, the Strip. Curvy side streets, up into the hills — La Verne stopped by a stucco four-flat.

Ugly: floodlights, pink stucco.

I parked a space back — room for the Red.

La Verne wiggled up to her door. Pete sent out love taps on my siren.

Foyer lights on and off. Window lights on — the downstairs-left apartment. Party noise: the pad across from La Verne’s.

Pete stretched. “You think Diskant’s got the smarts to make this for an unmarked?”

La Verne opened her curtains, stripped to peignoir and garters. “No, he’s only got one thing on his mind.”

“You’re right, ’cause he’s a pig for it. I say one hour or less.”

“Twenty says fifteen minutes.”

“You’re on.”

We settled in, eyes on that window. Lull time, party noise: show tunes, voices. Bingo — a tan Ford. Pete said, “Forty-one minutes.”

I slid him twenty. Diskant walked up, hit the door, buzzed. La Verne, window framed: bumps and grinds.

Pete howled.

Diskant walked in.

Ten minutes ticking by slow... lights off at La Verne’s love shack. Hold for the photo man’s signal: flashbulb pops out that front window.

Fifteen minutes... twenty... twenty-five — a Sheriff’s unit double-parking.

Pete nudged me. “Fuck. That party. 116.84 California Penal Code, Unlawfully Loud Assembly. Fuck.”

Two deputies walking. Nightstick raps on the party-pad window.

No response.

“Klein, this is not fucking good.”

Rap rap rap — La Verne’s front window. Flashbulb pops — the bedroom window — big-time-bad-news improvisation.

Screams — our Commie hooker.

The deputies kicked the foyer door down — I chased the fuckers, badge out—

Across the lawn, up the steps. Topsy-turvy glimpses: the photo man dropping out a window sans camera. Through the lobby — party kids mingling — La Verne’s door snapped clean. I pushed through, punks tossing drinks in the face.

“Police! Police officer!”

I jumped the doorway dripping Scotch — a deputy caught me. My badge in his face: “Intelligence Division! LAPD!”

The dipshit just gawked me. Bedroom shrieks—

I ran in—

Diskant and La Verne floor-tumbling — naked, flailing, gouging. A camera on the bed; a dumbfuck shouting: “Hey! You two stop that! We’re the Sheriff’s!”

Pete ran in — Dumbfuck grinned familiar — old-deputyacquaintance recognition. Fast Pete: he hustled the clown out quicksville. La Verne vs. the pinko: kicks, sissy punches.

The camera on the bed: grab it, pop the film out, seal it. Hit the button — flashbulb light in Diskant’s eyes.

One blind Commie — La Verne tore free. I kicked him and punched him-s — he yelped, blinked and focused — ON THE FILM.

Shakedown:

“This was supposed to be some kind of setup, but those policemen broke it up. You were heading for the scandal sheets, something like ‘Red Politician Blah Blah Blah.’ You come across and that won’t happen, because I sure would hate for your wife to see this film. Now, are you sure you want to be a city councilman?”

Sobs.

Brass knucks on. “Are you sure?”

More sobs.

Kidney shots — my knucks tore flab.

“Are you sure?”

Beet-red bawling: “Please don’t hurt me!”

Two more shots — Diskant belched foam.

“You drop out tomorrow. Now say yes, because I don’t like this.”

“Y-yes p-p-p—”

Fucked-up shitty stuff — I hit the living room quashing shakes. No cops, La Verne draped in a sheet.

Pete, dangling bug mikes: “I took care of the deputies, and Van Meter called on your two-way. You’re supposed to meet Exley at the Bureau right now.”

Downtown. Exley at his desk.

I pulled a chair up, slid him the film. “He’s pulling out, so we won’t have to go to Hush-Hush.”

“Did you enjoy the work?”

“Did you enjoy shooting those niggers?”

“The public has no idea what justice costs the men who perform it.”

“Which means?”

“Which means thank you.”

“Which means I have a favor coming.”

“You’ve been given one already, but ask anyway.”

“The fur robbery. Maybe it’s insurance fraud, maybe it’s not. Either way, I want to work cases.”

“No, I told you it’s Dudley Smith’s assignment.”

“Yeah, you and Dud are such good buddies. And what’s with this ‘already’ favor?”

“Besides no reprimand or interdepartmental charges on Sanderline Johnson?”

“Chief, come on.”

“I destroyed the autopsy report on Johnson. The coroner noted a non sequitur bruise with imbedded paint fragments on his forehead, as if he banged his head against a windowsill before he jumped. I’m not saying that you’re culpable; but other people, notably Welles Noonan, might. I had the file destroyed. And I have a case for you. I’m detaching you from Ad Vice immediately to start working on it.”

Weak knees: “What case?”

“The Kafesjian burglary. I read the Wilshire Squad occurrence report, and I’ve decided I want a major investigation. I’m fully aware of the family’s LAPD history, and I don’t care what Captain Wilhite wants. You and Sergeant Stemmons are detached as of now. Shake the family, shake their known associates. J.C. employs a runner named Abe Voldrich, so lean on him while you’re at it. I want a full forensic and the files checked for similar B&Es. Start tomorrow — with a show of force.”

I stood up. “This is fucking insane. Lean on our sanctioned Southside dope kingpin when the U.S. Attorney just might be planning a rackets probe down there. Some pervo kills two dogs and jacks off on some—”

Exley, standing/crowding: “Do it. Detach canvassing officers from Wilshire Patrol and bring in the Crime Lab. Stemmons lacks field experience, but use him anyway. Show of force. And don’t make me regret the favors I’ve done you.”

6

SHOW OF FORCE.

8:00 A.M., 1684 South Tremaine. Personnel: lab crew, print team, four bluesuits.

The blues deployed: house-to-house witness checks, trashcan checks. Traffic cops standing by to shoo the press off.

Show of force — Exley’s wild hair up the ass.

Show of force — short-shrift it.

A compromise with Dan Wilhite — one edgy phone call. I said Exley pure had me; he called the job crazy — J.C. and the Department: twenty years of two-way profit. I owed Dan; he owed me — favors backlogged. Wilhite, scared: “I retire in three months. My dealings with the family won’t stand up to outside-agency scrutiny. Dave... can you... play it easy?”

I said, “My ass first, yours second.”

He said, “I’ll call J.C. and jerk his leash.”

8:04 — showtime.

Black & whites, a lab van. Patrolmen, tech men. Gawkers galore, little kids.

The driveway — I walked the lab guys back. Ray Pinker: “I called Animal Control. They told me they got no dead dog reports from this address. You think the people planted them in some pet cemetery?”

Garbage day — trashcans lined up in the alley. “Maybe, but check those cans behind the back fence. I don’t think Old Man Kafesjian’s so sentimental.”

“I heard he was a real sweetheart. We find the dogs, then what?”

“Take tissue samples for a make on what they were poisoned with. If they’re still chewing on washcloths, get me a make on the chemical — it smelled like chloroform. I need ten minutes to talk up J.C., then I want you to come inside and bag fibers in the kitchen, living room and dining room. Send the print guys in then, and tell them just the downstairs — I don’t think our burglar went upstairs. He jerked off on some pedal pushers, so if Pops didn’t throw them out you can test the semen for blood type.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, Jesus. Listen, if he did dump them, they’re probably in those garbage cans. Pastel-colored pedal pushers ripped at the crotch, not everyday stuff. And Ray? I want a nice fat summary report on all this.”

“Don’t shit a shitter. You want me to pad it, say it.”

“Pad it. I don’t know what Exley wants, so let’s give him something to chew on.”

Madge at the back door, looking out. Heavy makeup — Pan-Cake over bruises.

Ray nudged me. “She doesn’t look Armenian.”

“She’s not, and their kids don’t look it either. Ray—”

“Yeah, I’ll pad it.”

Back to the street — rubberneckers swarming. Junior and Tommy K. locking eyes.

Tommy, porch loafer: bongo shirt, pegger pants, sax.

Junior sporting his new look: whipped dog with a mean streak.

I braced him — avuncular. “Come on, don’t let that guy bother you.”

“It’s those looks of his. Like he knows something I don’t.”

“Forget about it.”

“You didn’t have to kowtow to him.”

“I didn’t disobey my CO.”

“Dave...”

“Dave nothing. Your father’s an inspector, he got you the Bureau, and my Ad Vice command was part of the deal. It’s a game. You owe your father, I owe your father, I owe Dan Wilhite. We both owe the Department, so we have to play things like Exley’s off the deep end on this deal. Do you understand?”

“I understand. But it’s your game, so just don’t tell me it’s right.”

Slap his fucking face — no — don’t. “You pull that idealistic shit on me and I’ll hand your father a fitness report that will bounce you back to a teaching job in record goddamn time. My game got you where you are. You play along or you see ‘ineffectual command presence,’ ‘overly volatile’ and ‘poor composure in stress situations’ on Daddy’s desk tonight. You call it, Sergeant.”

Punk bravado: “I’m playing. I called the Pawnshop Detail and gave them a description of the silverware, and I got a list of Kafesjian’s dry-cleaning shops. Three for you, three for me, the usual questions?”

“Good, but let’s see what the patrolmen turn first. Then, after you hit your three, go downtown and check the Central burglary files and Sheriff’s files for 459s with similar MOs. You turn some, great. If not, check homicide unsolveds — maybe this clown’s a goddamn killer.”

A stink, fly swarms — lab men hauled the dogs out, dripping garbage.

“I guess you wouldn’t tell me these things if you didn’t care.”

“That’s right.”

“You’ll see, Dave. I’ll prove myself on this one.”

Tommy K. honked his sax — spectators clapped. Tommy bowed and pumped his crotch.

“Hey, Lieutenant! You come and talk to me!”

J.C. on the porch, holding a tray out. “Hey! We have an eye opener!”

I walked up. Bottled beer — Tommy grabbed one and guzzled. Check his arms: skin-pop tracks, swastika tattoos.

J.C. smiled. “Don’t tell me too early for you.”

Tommy belched. “Schlitz, Breakfast of Champions.”

“Five minutes, Mr. Kafesjian. Just a few questions.”

“I say all right, Captain Dan said you okay, this thing is not your idea. You follow me. Tommy, you go offer the other men Breakfast of Champions.”

Tommy dipped the tray à la carhop. J.C. bowed, follow-me style.

I followed him into the den: pine walls, gun racks. Check the parlor — print men, carhop Tommy hawking beer.

J.C. shut the door. “Dan told me you just going to go through the motions.”

“Not quite. This is Ed Exley’s case, and his rules are different than ours.”

“We do business, your people and mine. He knows that.”

“Yeah, and he’s stretching the rules this time. He’s the Chief of Detectives, and Chief Parker lets him do what he wants. I’ll try to go easy, but you’ll have to play along.”

J.C.: greasy and ugly. Face scratches — his own daughter clawed him. “Why? Exley, he’s crazy?”

“I don’t know why, which is a damn good question. Exley wants the major-case treatment on this one, and he’s a better goddamn detective than I am. I can only bullshit him so far.”

J.C. shrugged. “Hey, you smart, you got more juice. You a lawyer, you tight with Mickey Cohen.”

“No. I fix things, Exley runs things. You want smart? Exley’s the best detective the LAPD’s ever seen. Come on, help me. You don’t want regular cops nosing around, I understand that. But some piece-of-shit burglar breaks in here and rips up—”

“I clean my own house! Tommy and me, we find this guy!”

Easy now: “No. We find him, then maybe Dan Wilhite gives you a shot. No trouble, nice and legal.”

Head jerks no-no. “Dan says you got questions. You ask, I answer. I play ball.”

“No you’ll cooperate, no you won’t?”

“I cooperate.”

Notebook out. “Who did it? Any ideas?”

“No” — deadpan — no read.

“Enemies. Give me some names.”

“We got no enemies.”

“Come on, you sell narcotics.”

“Don’t say that word in my home!”

EASY NOW: “Let’s call it business. Business rivals who don’t like you.”

Fist shakes no-no. “You make the rules, we play right. We do business fair and square so we don’t make no enemies.”

“Then let’s try this. You’re what we call a suborned informant. People like that make enemies. Think about it and give me some names.”

“Fancy words for snitch and fink and stool pigeon.”

“Names, Mr. Kafesjian.”

“Men in prison can’t break into nice family houses. I got no names for you.”

“Then let’s talk about Tommy and Lucille’s enemies.”

“No enemies, my kids.”

“Think. This guy breaks in, breaks phonograph records and mutilates your daughter’s clothing. Did those records belong to Tommy?”

“Yes, Tommy’s long-play record albums.”

“Right. And Tommy’s a musician, so maybe the burglar had a grudge against him. He wanted to destroy his property and Lucille’s, but for some reason he didn’t get upstairs to their bedrooms. So, their enemies. Old musician buddies, Lucille’s old boyfriends. Think.”

“No, no enemies” — soft — say his brain just clicked on.

Change-up: “I need to fingerprint you and your family. We need to compare your prints against any prints the burglar might have left.”

He pulled a money clip out. “No. It’s not right. I clean my own—”

I squeezed his hand shut. “Play it your way. Just remember it’s Exley’s show, and I owe him more than I owe Wilhite.”

He tore his hand free and fanned out C-notes.

I said, “Fuck you. Fuck your whole greasy family.”

Rip, tear — he trashed two grand easy.

I waltzed before it got worse.

7

Shitwork time.

Pinker labbed the dogs. The print guys got smudges, partials. The crowd dwindled; blues canvassed. Junior logged reports: nothing hot that night, archetypal Kafesjian rebop.

Dig: epic family brawls, all-night sax noise. J.C. watered the lawn in a jock strap. Tommy pissed out his bedroom window. Madge and Lucille: wicked tantrum shouters. Bruises, black eyes — standard issue.

Slow time — let it drag.

Lucille and Madge took off — adios in a pink Ford Vicky. Tommy practiced scales — the lab men popped in earplugs. Beer cans out the windows — Lunch of Champions.

Junior fetched the Herald. A Morton Diskant announcement: press conference, 6:00 tonight.

Time to kill — I hit the lab van, watched the techs work.

Tissue slicing, extraction — our boy jammed the dogs’ eyes down their throats. Back to my car, a doze — bum sleep two nights running stretched me thin.

“Dave, rise and shine” — Ray Pinker, too goddamn soon.

Up yawning. “Results?”

“Yes, and interesting. I’m not a doctor and what I did wasn’t an autopsy, but I think I can reconstruct some things conclusively.”

“Go. Tell me now, then route me a summary report.”

“Well, the dogs were poisoned with hamburger laced with sodium tryctozine, commonly known as ant poison. I found leather glove fragments on their teeth and gums, which leads me to believe that the burglar tossed them the meat, but didn’t wait for them to die before he mutilated them. You told me you smelled chloroform, remember?”

“Yeah. I figured it was the washrags in their mouths.”

“You’re close so far. But it wasn’t chloroform, it was stelfactiznide chloride, a dry-cleaning chemical. Now, J.C. Kafesjian owns a string of dry-cleaning shops. Interesting?”

The man broke in, stole and destroyed. A psycho, but precise — no disarray. Bold: and time-consuming. Psycho-crazy shit: and neat, precise.

“You’re saying he might know the family, might work in one of the shops.”

“Right.”

“Did you find the girl’s pants?”

“No. We found charred fabric mounds in that garbage can with the dogs, so there’s no way to test the semen for blood type.”

“Shit. Fried pedal pushers sounds just like J.C.”

“Dave, listen. This verges on theory, but I like it.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, the dogs were chemically scalded right around their eyes, and the bones in their snouts were broken. I think the burglar debilitated them with the poison, clamped down on their snouts, then tried to blind them while they were still alive. Stelfactiznide causes blindness when locally applied, but they flailed too much and bit him. They died from the poison, then he gutted them postmortem. He had some strange fix on their eyes, so he carefully pulled them out, stuffed them down their throats and stuffed the washrags soaked in chemical in their mouths. All four eyeballs were saturated with that chloride, so I rest my case.”

Junior and a bluesuit hovering. “Dave—”

Cut him off: “Ray, have you ever heard of watchdog torture on a 459?”

“Never. And I’ll go out on a limb for motive.”

“Revenge?”

“Revenge.”

“Dave...”

“What?”

“This is Officer Bethel. Officer, tell the lieutenant.”

Nervous — a rookie. “Uh, sir, I got two confirmations on a prowler on this block the night of the burglary. Sergeant Stemmons, he’s had me checking on the houses where nobody was home earlier. This old lady told me she called the Wilshire desk, and this man, he said he saw him too.”

“Description?”

“J-just a young male Caucasian. No other details, but I called the desk anyway. They did send a car out. No luck, and no white prowlers got arrested or FI carded anywhere in the division that night.”

A lead — shove it at Junior. “Call Wilshire and get four more men to hit the not-at-home addresses, say from six o’clock on. Have them go for descriptions on possible prowlers. Check those files I told you to and go by the first three Kafesjian shops on your list. Ray?”

“Yeah, Dave.”

“Ray, tell Stemmons here your chemical angle. Junior, hit that angle with the employees at the shops. If you get a rabbit, don’t do something stupid like kill him.”

“Why not? Live by the sword, die by the sword.”

“You dumb shit, I want to hear this guy’s take on the Kafesjians.”

Three E-Z Kleen shops — 1248 South Normandie closest. I drove over — the pink Ford stood out front.

I double-parked; a guy ran out looking anxious. Make him: Abe Voldrich, Kafesjian high-up.

“Please, Officer. They don’t know anything about this goddamn break-in. Call Dan Wilhite, talk to him about the... uh...”

“Ramifications?”

“Yeah, that’s a good word. Officer—”

“Lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant, let it rest. Yes, the family has enemies. No, they won’t tell you who they are. You could ask Captain Dan, but I doubt if he’d tell you.”

Smart little hump. “So we won’t discuss enemies.”

“Now we’re cooking with gas!”

“What about stelfactiznide chloride?”

“What? Now you’re talking Greek to me.”

“It’s a dry-cleaning chemical.”

“That end of the business I don’t know from.”

Walking in: “I want an employee list — all your shops.”

“No. We hire strictly colored people for the cleaning and pressing work, and most of them are on parole and probation. They wouldn’t appreciate you asking questions.”

Jig crime — no — it played wrong. “Do you have colored salespeople?”

“No, J.C. doesn’t trust them around money.”

“Let me check your storeroom.”

“For that what you call it chemical? Why?”

“The watchdogs were burned with it.”

Sighing: “Go, just don’t roust the workers.”

I skirted the counter. A small factory in back: pressers, vats, darkies folding shirts. Wall shelves: jars, bottles.

Check labels — two run-throughs, a catch: stelfactiznide chloride, skull and crossbones.

I sniffed a jug — foul/familiar — my eyes burned. Put it back, dawdle — the women might show. No luck — just darting slave eyes. I walked back up front popping sweat.

Lucille at the counter, hanging shirts. Bump bump — ass grinds to a radio beat. Bump, flash: a vamp smile.

I smiled back. Lucille zipped her mouth, threw away a pretend key. Outside: Voldrich and Madge. Mama K.: wet makeup, tears.

I walked out to the car. Whispers — I couldn’t hear shit.

I hit a pay phone — fuck the E-Z Kleen shops.

I called Ad Vice and left a message for Junior: buzz Dan Wilhite, bag a Kafesjian snitch list. Probably futile — he’d refuse, hot to placate J.C. A message from Junior: he’d checked around, learned stel-what-the-fuck was a standard dry-cleaning chemical used worldwide.

Back to South Tremaine — one black & white in front. Bethel waved me over. “Sir, we got two more confirmations on that prowler night before last.”

“More details on his description?”

“No, but it looks like he’s a peeper too. We got that same ‘young, white’ make, and both people said he was peeping in windows.”

Think: burglary/mutilation tools. “Did they say he was carrying anything?”

“No, sir, but I think he could have secreted the B&E stuff on his person.”

“But the people didn’t call in complaints.”

“No, sir, but I got a lead that might tie in.”

Coax him: “So tell me, Officer.”

“Well, the woman in the house directly across the street told me that sometimes Lucille Kafesjian dances naked in her bedroom window. You know, with the lights on behind her at night. She said she does it when her parents and her brother are out for the evening.”

Guesswork:

Exhibitionist Lucille, peeper/prowler/B&E man hooked on the family.

“Bethel, you’re going places.”

“Uh, yessir. Where?”

“In general. Right now, though, you stick here. You keep going back to the addresses where no one was home earlier. You try to flesh out the description of the peeper. Got it?”

“Yessir!”

Rolling shitwork:

Wilshire Station, paper checks: arrest rosters, MO files, FI cards. Results: window-peeping young white men — zero. Dogslashing burglars — zero.

University Station, arrest/MO — buppkis. FI cards, three recent: a “youngish,” “average build” white man was reported peeping whore motels. My eyeball man? — maybe — but:

No motel addresses — just “South Western Avenue” listed. No complainant names or badge ID numbers listed.

No place to go right now.

I called 77th Street Station. The squad boss, bored:

No dog snuffs. A young white peeper spotted roof-prowling: fuck-pad motels, jazz clubs. No arrests, no suspects, no FI cards — the squad had a new card system pending. He’d route me the club/motel locations — if and when he found them.

Tommy K.’s jazz records smashed?

More calls: Central Jail, LAPD/Sheriff’s R&I. Results: no dog-snuff arrests this year; zero on young white peeper/prowlers. 459 pops post-Kafesjian: no Caucasian perps.

Calls — a pay phone hogged three hours — every LAPD/Sheriff’s squad room tapped. Shit: no young white peepers in custody; two wetback dog slashers deported to Mexico.

Waiting: the Bureau pervert file.

I rolled downtown. An office check — no messages, a report on my desk:

Junior — half-ass smart when he tried. I left him a note: the peeper, stripper Lucille updates. Orders: go back to the house, run the canvassers, avoid the family.

Keyed up — glom the pervert file. Dog stuff/B&E/Peeping Tom, see what jumped:

A German shepherd — fucking Marine. Doctor “Dog”: popped for shooting his daughter up with beagle pus. Dog killers — none fit my man’s specs. Dog fuckers, dog suckers, dog beaters, dog worshipers, a geek who chopped his wife while dressed up as Pluto. Panty sniffers, sink shitters, masturbators — lingerie jackoffs only. Faggot burglars, transvestite break-ins, “Rita Hayworth” — Gilda gown, dyed bush hair, caught blowing a chloroformed toddler. The right age — but a jocker cut his dick off, he killed himself, a full-drag San Quentin burial. Peepers: windows, skylights, roofs — the roof clowns a chink brother act. No watchdog choppers, the geeks read passive, caught holding their puds with a whimper. Darryl Wishnick, a cute MO: peep, break, enter, rape, watchdogs subdued by goofballlaced meat — too bad he kicked from syph in ’56. One flash: peepers played passive, my guy killed badass canines.

No jumps.

5:45 — keyed up, hungry. Rick’s Reef the ticket — maybe Diskant on TV.

I drove over, wolfed bar pretzels. TV news: Chavez Ravine, traffic deaths, the Red.

Boost the volume:

“... and so I’m withdrawing for personal reasons. Thomas Bethune will be re-elected by default, which I fervently hope will not guarantee the facilitation of the Chavez Ravine land grab. I will continue to protest this travesty as a private citizen. I...”

No more appetite — I took off.

Nowhere to go — just a cruise. South — some magnet pulled me.

Figueroa, Slauson, Central. A gray cop Plymouth behind me — say IAD, Exley ordered. I gunned it — adios, maybe tail car.

Peeper turf — nightclubs, fuck flops. Bido Lito’s, Klub Zamboanga, Club Zombie — low roofs, good for climbing. Lucky Time Motel, Tick Tock Motel. Easy peeping: roof access, weeds shoulder high. A brain click: catch Lester Lake at the Tiger Room.

U-turn, check the rearview, shit — a gray Plymouth cut off.

IAD or Narco? Goons keeping tabs?

Side streets — dawdling evasive — Lester’s set closed at 8:00 sharp. Lester Lake: tenant, informant. Snitch duty cheap — he owed me.

Fall ’52:

A call from Harry Cohn, movie kingpin. My “Enforcer” tag intrigued him; he figured “Klein” made me a Jewboy. A shvartze crooner was banging his girlfriend — clip him for ten grand.

I said no.

Mickey Cohen said no.

Cohn called Jack Dragna.

I knew I’d get the job — no refusal rights. Mickey: a taste for light poon don’t rate death — but Jack insists.

I called Jack: this is petty shit, don’t set a standard. Muscle Lester Lake — don’t kill him.

Jack said you muscle him.

Jack said take the Vecchio brothers.

Jack said take the nigger someplace, cut his vocal cords—

Gulp — one split second—

“Or I’ll nail you for Trombino and Brancato. I’ll drag your whore sister’s name through the mud.”

I grabbed Lester Lake at his crib: get cut or get killed — you call it. Lester said, cut, fast, please. The Vecchios showed — Touch packed a scalpel. A few drinks to loosen things up — knockout drops for Lester.

Anesthesia — Lester moaned for Mama. I hustled a disbarred doctor over — surgery in exchange for no abortion charge. Lester healed up; Harry Cohn found a new girlfriend: Kim Novak.

Lester’s voice went baritone to tenor — he chased jig poon strictly now. Touch brought boyfriends to hear him.

Lester said he owed me. Our deal: a flop at my shine-only dive — reduced rent for good information. Success: he talked spook to the spooks and snitched bookies.

The club — a tiger-striped facade, a tiger-tux doorman. Inside: tiger-fur walls, tiger-garb drink girls. Lester Lake on stage, belting “Blue Moon.”

I grabbed a booth, grabbed a tigress — “Dave Klein to see Lester.” She zipped backstage — slot machines clanged out the doorway. Lester: mock-humble bows, bum applause.

House lights on, dig it: jungle bunnies sprawled in tiger-fur booths. Lester right there, holding a plate.

Chicken and waffles — popping grease. “Hello, Mr. Klein. I was gonna call you.”

“You’re short on the rent.”

He sat down. “Yeah, and you slumlords cut a man no slack. Could be worse, though. You could be a Jew slumlord.”

Eyes our way. “I always meet you in public. What do people figure we’re doing?”

“Nobody never asks, but I figure they figure you still collect bets for Jack Woods. I’m a betting man, so I’d say that’s it. And speaking of Jack, he was collecting your rents this afternoon, which made me want to call you before he leaned on me like he leaned on that poor sucker down the hall.”

“Help me out and I’ll let you slide.”

“You mean you asks, I answers.”

“No. First you get rid of that slop, then I ask and you answer.”

A tiger girl passed — Lester dumped his plate and swiped a shot glass. A gulp, a belch: “So ask.”

“Let’s start with burglars.”

“Okay, Leroy Coates, out on parole and spending money. Wayne Layne, boss pad creeper, pimping his wife to make the nut on his habit. Alfonzo Tyrell—”

“My guy’s white.”

“Yeah, but I keep to the dark side of town. Last time I heard of a white burglar was never.”

“Fair enough, but I’d call this guy a psycho. He cut up two Dobermans, stole nothing but silverware, then trashed some family-type belongings. Run with it.”

“Run with it nowheres. I know nothing ’bout a crazy man like that, ’cept you don’t have to be Einstein to figure he’s bent on that family. Wayne Layne shits in washing machines, and he’s as crazy a B&E man as I care to be acquainted with.”

“Okay, peepers then.”

“Say what?”

“Peeping Toms. Guys who get their kicks looking in windows. I’ve got peeper reports nailed at my burglary location and all over the Southside — hot-sheet motels and jazz clubs.”

“I’ll ask around, but you sure ain’t getting much for your month’s rent.”

“Let’s try Wardell Henry Knox. He sold mary jane and worked as a bartender at jazz joints, presumably down here.”

“Presumably, ’cause white clubs wouldn’t hire him. And was is correct, ’cause he got hisself snuffed a few months ago. Person or persons unknown, just in case you wants to know who did it.”

Jukebox blare close — jerk the cord — instant silence. “I know he was murdered.”

Indignant niggers mumbling — fuck them. Lester: “Mr. Klein, your questions are getting pretty far afield. I’ll guess a motive on Wardell, though.”

“I’m listening.”

“Pussy. Ol’ Wardell had hound blood. He was the righteous fuckin’ pussy hound supreme. If it moved, he’d poke it. He’d ream it, steam it, banana cream it. He must’ve had a million enemies. He’d fuck a woodpile on the off chance there was a snake inside. He liked to taste it and baste it, but he’d never waste it. He—”

“Enough, Jesus Christ.”

Lester winked. “Ask me something I might know something about.”

In close. “The Kafesjian family. You’ve got to know more than I do.”

Lester talked low. “I know they’re tight with your people. I know they only sell to Negroes and what you’d call anybody but square white folks, ’cause that’s the way Chief Parker likes things. Pills, weed, horse, they are the number-one suppliers in Southside L.A. I know they lend money and take the vig out in snitch information, you know, independent pushers they can rat to the LAPD, ’cause that is part of their bargain with your people. Now, I know J.C. and Tommy hire these inconspicuous-type Negro guys to move their stuff, with Tommy riding herd on them. And you want crazy? — try Tommy the K. He hangs out with the suedes at Bido Lito’s and gets up and plays this godawful tenor sax whenever they let him, which is frequently, ’cause who wants to refuse a crazy man, even a little skinny twerp like Tommy? Tommy is craaazy. He is bad fuckin’ juju. He is the Kafesjian muscle guy, and I heard he is righteous good with a knife. I also heard he will do anything to ingratiate hisself with Narco. I heard he clipped this drunk driver who hit-and-ran this Narco guy’s daughter.”

Craaazy. “That’s all?”

“Ain’t it enough?”

“What about Tommy’s sister, Lucille? She’s a geek, she parades around naked at her pad.”

“I say say what and so what. Too bad Wardell’s dead, he’d probably want to poke her. Maybe she likes it dark, like her brother. I’d poke her myself, ’cept last time I tried white stuff I got my neck sliced. You should know, you was there.”

Jukebox trills — Lester himself — somebody put the plug back in. “They let you put your own songs in there?”

“Chick and Touch Vecchio do. They’re more sentimental ’bout that old neck-slicin’ time than slumlord Dave Klein. Long as they run the Southside slots and vending shit for Mr. Cohen, Lester Lake’s rendition of ‘Harbor Lights’ will be on that jukebox. Which gives me pause, ’cause the past two weeks or so these new out-of-town-lookin’ guys been working the hardware, which might bode bad for ol’ Lester.”

“Those haaarbor lights” — pure schmaltz. “Mickey should watch it, the Feds might be checking out the machinery down here. And did anyone ever tell you you sound like a homo? Like Johnnie Ray out of work?”

Howling: “Yeah, my ladyfriends. I make them think I gots queer tendencies, then they works that much harder to set me straight. Touch V. comes in with his sissy boys, and I studies his mannerisms. He brings in this bottle-blond sissy, it was like getting a righteous college degree in fruitness.”

I yawned — tiger stripes spun crazy.

“Get some sleep, Mr. Klein. You look all bushed.”

Fuck sleep — that magnet was still pulling me.

I zigzagged east and south — no gray Plymouths on my ass. Western Avenue — peeper turf — whore motels, no addresses to work off. Western and Adams — whore heaven — girls jungled up by Cooper’s Donuts. Colored, Mex, a few white — slit-leg gowns, pedal pushers. Jump start: Lucille’s hip huggers, slashed and jizzed on.

Brain jump:

Western and Adams — University Division. University Vice, hooker ID stashes there: alias files, john lists, arrest-detention reports. Lucille smiling whorish, Daddy’s blood on her claws — jump to her selling it for kicks.

Big jump — odds against it.

I rolled anyway—

Uny Station, brace the squad whip — that whore stuff, a mishmash:

Loose mug shots, report carbons. Names: whores, whore monikers, men detained/booked with whores. Three cabinets’ worth of paper in no discernable order.

Skimming through:

No “Kafesjian,” no Armenian names — an hour wasted — no surprise — most hookers got bailed out behind monikers. Punch line: if Lucille whored, if she got popped — she’d probably call Dan Wilhite to chill things. 114 detention reports, 18 white girls — no physical stats matched Lucille. A half-ass system — most cops let whore reports slide, the girls always repeated. John lists: no Luce, Lucille, Lucy white girl listed — no Armenian surnames.

More mugs — some with neckboard numbers and printing: real names, john names, dates. Shine girls, Mexicans, whites — 99.9 percent skank. Goosebumps: Lucille — profile, full face — no neckboard, no printing.

Go, do it: recheck all paper. Three go-rounds — zero, zilch, buppkis. No clicks back to Lucille.

Just one mug strip.

Call it lost paperwork.

Say Dan Wilhite yanked the paper — the mugs got overlooked.

Guess burglar = peeper = Lucille K. john.

I wrote it up, a note to Junior:

Check all stationhouse john/prostie lists — try for information on Lucille’s tricks.

Goosebumps: that godawful family.

I hit the Bureau, dropped the note on Junior’s desk. Midnight: Ad Vice empty.

“Klein?”

Dan Wilhite across the hall. I called him over — my squadroom.

“So?”

“So, I’m sorry for the run-in with Kafesjian.”

“I’m not looking for apologies. I’ll say it again: so?”

“So it’s a tight situation, and I’m trying to be reasonable. I didn’t ask for this job, and I don’t want it.”

“I know, and your Sergeant Stemmons already apologized for your behavior. He also asked for a tally of perpetrators J.C. and his people have informed on, which I refused to give him. Don’t ask again, because all notations pertaining to the Kafesjians have been destroyed. So?”

“So it’s like that. And the question should be ‘So what does Exley want?’ ”

Wilhite crowded up, hands on hips. “Tell me what you think this 459 is. I think it’s a dope mob warning. I think Narco is best suited to handle it, and I think you should tell Chief Exley that.”

“I don’t think so. I think the burglar’s hinked on the family, maybe Lucille specifically. It might be a window peeper who’s been working Darktown lately.”

“Or maybe it’s a crazy-man act. A rival mob using terror tactics.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. I’m not really a case man, but—”

“No, you’re a thug with a law degree—”

FROST/EASY/DON’T MOVE.

“—and I regret calling you into this mess. Now I’ve heard that that Fed probe is going to happen. I’ve heard Welles Noonan has auditors checking tax returns — my own and some of my men. That probably means that he knows about Narco and the Kafesjians. We’ve all taken gratuities, we’ve all got expensive items we can’t explain, so—”

Sweating on me, hot tobacco breath.

“—you do your duty to the Department. You’ve got your twenty in, I don’t and my men don’t. You can practice law and suck up to Mickey Cohen, and we can’t. You owe us, because you let Sanderline Johnson jump. Welles Noonan has got this Southside hard-on because you compromised his prizefight job. The heat on my men is because of you, so you square things. Now, J.C. and Tommy are crazy. They’ve never dealt with hostile police agencies, and if the Feds start pressing them they’ll go out of control. I want them quieted down. Stall this bullshit investigation of yours, feed Exley whatever you have to. Just get out of that family’s way as quick as you can.”

Crowded, elbowed in. “I’ll try.”

“Do it. Make like it’s a paying job. Make like I think you pushed Johnson out the window.”

“Do you?”

“You’re greedy enough, but you’re not that stupid.”

Crowd him back, walk — my legs fluttered. A clerk’s slip on my desk: “P. Bondurant called. Said to call H. Hughes at Bel-Air Hotel.”

8

“... and my man Pete told me about your splendid performance vis-à-vis the Morton Diskant matter. Did you know that Diskant is a member of four organizations that have been classified as Communist fronts by the California State Attorney General’s Office?”

Howard Hughes: tall, lanky. A hotel suite, two flunkies: Bradley Milteer, lawyer; Harold John Miciak, goon.

7:00 A.M. — distracted, a plan brewing: frame some geek for the Kafesjian job.

“No, Mr. Hughes. I didn’t know that.”

“Well, you should. Pete told me your methods were rough, and you should know that Diskant’s record justified those methods. Among other things, I’m seeking to establish myself as an independent motion picture producer. I’m planning on producing a series of films depicting aerial warfare against the Communists, and a major theme of those films will be the end justifies the means.”

Milteer: “Lieutenant Klein is also an attorney. If he accepts your offer, you’ll receive an additional interpretation of the contractual aspects.”

“I haven’t practiced much law, Mr. Hughes. And I’m pretty busy right now.”

Miciak coughed. Tattooed hands — zoot gang stuff. “This ain — isn’t a lawyer job. Pete Bondurant’s got his plate full, so—”

Hughes, interrupting: “ ‘Surveillance’ sums this assignment up best, Lieutenant. Bradley, will you elaborate?”

Milteer, prissy: “Mr. Hughes has a young actress named Glenda Bledsoe signed to a full-service contract. She was living in one of his guest homes and was being groomed to play lead roles in his Air Force films. She infringed on her contract by moving out of the guest home and by leaving script sessions without asking permission. She’s currently playing the female lead in a non-union horror film shooting in Griffith Park. It’s called Attack of the Atomic Vampire, so you can imagine the quality of the production.”

Hughes, prissy: “Miss Bledsoe’s contract allows her to make one non-Hughes film per year, so I cannot violate the contract for that. There is, however, a morality clause that we can utilize. If we can prove Miss Bledsoe to be an alcoholic, criminal, narcotics addict, Communist, lesbian, or nymphomaniac, we can violate her contract and get her blackballed from the film industry on that basis. Our one other avenue is to secure proof that she knowingly took part in publicizing non-Hughes performers outside of her work for this ridiculous monster film. Lieutenant, your job would be to surveil Glenda Bledsoe with an eye toward securing contract-violating information. Your fee would be three thousand dollars.”

“Have you explained the situation to her, Mr. Milteer?”

“Yes.”

“How did she react?”

“Her reply was ‘Fuck you.’ Your reply, Lieutenant?”

Close to “No” — freeze it — think:

Hush-Hush said Mickey C. bankrolled that movie.

“Guest home” meant “fuck pad” meant Howard Hughes left to choke his own chicken.

Think:

Glom some Bureau guys for tail work. Glom a slush fund: Kafesjian frame cash.

JEW HIM UP.

“Five thousand, Mr. Hughes. I can recommend cheaper help, but I can’t neglect my regular duties for any less than that.”

Hughes nodded; Milteer whipped out a cash roll. “All right, Lieutenant. This is a two-thousand-dollar retainer, and I’ll expect reports at least every other day. You can call me here at the Bel-Air. Now, is there anything else you need to know about Miss Bledsoe?”

“No, I’ll find an in on the movie crew.”

Hughes stood up. I laid on the glad hand: “I’ll nail her, sir.”

A limp shake — Hughes wiped his hand on the sly.

New money — spend it smart. Think smart:

Nail Glenda Bledsoe fast. Let Junior carry some Kafesjian weight — hope his fuck-up string ended. Figure out that Darktown tail, stay tailless.

Instinct: Exley wouldn’t rat me on Johnson. Logic: he destroyed the coroner’s file; I could rat him for a piece of Diskant. Instinct: call his Kafesjian fix PERSONAL. Instinct — call me bait — a bad cop sent out to draw heat.

Conclusions:

Number one: Call Wilhite and Narco more dangerous; call me a bent cop juking their meal ticket. Maybe the Fed grand jury blues upcoming: true bills, indictments. Rogue cops out of work then, one scapegoat: a lawyer-landlord with a sure police pension. Out-of-work killers, one target: me.

Number two: Find a burglar/pervert confessor — some geek to take my 459 fall. Palm squadroom bulls for leads; keep Junior on the case legit. No legit B&E man? — Joe Pervert buys the dive.

I drove over to Hollywood Station. No file-room clerk — I boosted “459 Cleared,” “False Confessions,” ’49–’57. A 187 sheet on the board — the “Wino Will-o-the-Wisp.” Perv stuff, nice — I grabbed a carbon.

Conclusion number three:

Call me still short of scared.

Griffith Park, the west road up — streams, small mountains. Steep turns, scrub-hill canyons — Movieland.

I pulled into a makeshift lot — vehicles parked tight. Shouts, picket signs bobbing way back. I hopped a flatbed, scoped the ruckus.

Union placard shakers — Chick Vecchio facing them off — the stiff-arm fungoo up close. A clearing, trailers, the set: cameras, a rocket ship half Chevy.

“Scab!” “Scab scum!”

Over, buck the line — “Police officer!” Punk pickets — they let me through, no grief. Chick greeted me — smiles, back slaps.

“Scab scum!” “Police collusion!”

We walked over to the trailers. Catcalls, no rocks — sob sisters. Chick: “You looking for Mickey? I’ll bet he’s got a nice envelope for you.”

“He told you?”

“No, it’s what my brother would call an ‘inescapable conclusion to the cognoscenti.’ Come on, a witness flies out the window with Dave Klein standing by. What’s a card-carrying cogno supposed to think?”

“I think you almost did some union thumping.”

“Hey, we should have called the old Enforcer. Seriously, you got ideas? Mickey’s got a bad case of the shorts. You know any boys who won’t cost us an arm and a leg?”

“Fuck it, let them picket.”

“Uh-uh. They yell when we’re shooting, which means scenes have to be redubbed, which costs money.”

Someone, somewhere: “Cameras! Action!”

“Serious, Dave.”

“Okay, call Fats Medina at the Main Street Gym. Tell him I said five sparring partners and a roadblock. Tell him you’ll go fifty a man.”

“For real?”

“Do it tonight, and you won’t have union trouble tomorrow. Come on, I want to check out this movie.”

Up to the set. Chick held a finger to his lips — scene in progress.

Two “actors” gesticulating. The spaceship close up: Chevy fins, Studebaker grille, Kotex-box launching pad.

Touch Vecchio: “Russian rocket ships have dropped atomic waste on Los Angeles — a plot to turn Angelenos into automatons susceptible to Communism! They have created a vampire virus! People have turned into monsters who devour their own families!”

His co-star — blond, padded crotch: “Family is the sacred concept that binds all Americans. We must stop this soulusurping invasion whatever the cost!”

Chick, cupping a whisper: “The hoot is my brother’s killed eight men, and he takes this noise serious. And feature — him and that bottle-blond fruitcake are porking in trailers every chance they get, and chasing chicken down at the Fern Dell toilets. You see that guy with the megaphone? That’s Sid Frizell, the so-called director. Mickey hired him on the cheap, and to me he reads ex-con who couldn’t direct a Mongolian cluster fuck. He’s always talking to that guy Wylie Bullock, the cameraman, who at least has got a place to live, unlike most of the bums Mickey’s hired. Feature: he hired the crew out of the slave markets down on skid row. They sleep on the set, like this is some kind of fucking hobo jungle. And the dialogue? Frizell — Mickey shoots him an extra sawbuck a day to be scriptwriter.”

No Mickey, no women. Touch: “I would slay the highest echelon of the Soviet Secretariat to protect the sanctity of my family!”

Blondie: “I of course empathize. But first we must isolate the atomic waste before it seeps into the Hollywood Reservoir. Look at these wretched victims of the vampire virus!”

Cut to werewolf-mask extras hip-hopping. Hip, hop — T-Bird popped out of back pockets.

Sid Frizell: “Cut! I told you people to leave your wine back with your blankets and sleeping bags! And remember Mr. Cohen’s order — no wine before your lunch break!”

A geek lurched into the spaceship. Touch squeezed Blondie’s ass on the QT.

Frizell: “Five-minute break and no drinking!” Background noise: “Scab scum! Police puppets!”

No Glenda Bledsoe.

Touch oozed by the camera slow. “Hi, Dave. Looking for Mickey?”

“People keep asking me that.”

“Well, it’s an inescapable conclusion of the cognoscenti.”

Chick winked. “He’ll show up. He goes by this bakery to get week-old bread to make sandwiches with. Feature the cuisine we get: stale bread, stale doughnuts and this lunch meat sold out the back door at this slaughterhouse out in Vernon. I quit eating on the set when I caught fur on my baloney and cheese.”

I laughed. Script talk: Blondie and an old geek dressed like Dracula.

Touch sighed. “Rock Rockwell is going to be such a big star. Listen, he’s actually telling Elston Majeska how to interpret his lines. What does that imply to the cognoscenti?”

“Who’s Elston Majeska?”

Chick: “He was some kind of silent-movie star over in Europe, and now Mickey gets him passes from this rest home. He’s a junkie, so Mickey pays him off in this diluted H he gets cheap. Old Elston says his lines, shoots up and goes on a sugar jag. You ought to see him snarf those stale doughnuts.”

Pops peeled a Mars Bar, weaving — Blondie grabbed his cape.

Touch, swooning: “One man sandwich with the works!”

Frizell: “Glenda to the set in five minutes!”

“When I met Mickey, he was clearing ten million a year. From that to this, Jesus Christ.”

Chick: “Things come and go.”

Touch: “The torch passes.”

“Bullshit. Mickey got out of McNeil Island a year ago — and nobody has grabbed his old action. Is he scared? Four of his guys have gotten clipped, all unsolveds — and I mean nobody knows who did it. You guys are all the muscle he’s got left, and I can’t feature why you stick around. What’s he got left, the Niggertown coin business? How much can he be turning on that?”

Chick shrugged. “So feature we been with Mickey a long time. Feature we don’t like change. He’s a scrapper, and scrappers get results sooner or later.”

“Nice results. And Lester Lake told me some out-of-town guys are working the Southside coin.”

Chick shrugged. Wino cheers and wolf whistles — Glenda Bledsoe in a pom-pom-girl outfit.

Feature:

Tall, lanky, honey blond. All legs, all chest — a grin said she never bought in. A little knock-kneed, big eyes, dark freckles. Pure something — maybe style, maybe juice.

Touch shot me details: “Glamorous Glenda. Rock and me are the only males on the set immune to her charms. Mickey discovered her working at Scrivner’s Drive-In. He’s smitten, Chick’s smitten. Glenda and Rock play brother and sister. She’s been infected with the vampire virus, and she puts the make on her own brother. She turns into a monster and sends Rock running off into the hills.”

Frizell: “Actors on their marks! Camera! Action!”

Rock: “Susie, I’m your big brother. The vampire virus has stunted your moral growth, and you’ve still got two years to go at Hollywood High.”

Glenda: “Todd, in times of historic struggle, the rules of the bourgeoisie don’t apply.”

A clinch, a kiss. Frizell: “Cut! It’s a take! Print it!”

Rock broke the clinch. Whistles, cheers. A wino booed; Glenda flipped him the finger. Mickey C. ducked in a trailer, lugging groceries.

I eased around the set and tapped the door.

“Wine money not disbursed until six o’clock! The tsuris you stumblebums inflict! This is a motion picture location, not the Jesus Saves Rescue Mission!”

I opened the door, caught a flying bagel. Stale — I tossed it back.

“David Douglas Klein, the ‘Douglas’ a dead giveaway you are not of my kindred blood, you farshtinkener Dutch fuck. Refuse my food, but I doubt you will refuse the money Sam Giancana has transmitted to me for you.”

Mickey tucked a wad under my holster. “Sammy says thank you. Sammy says damn good job on such short notice.”

“It was too close to home, Mick. It caused me lots of trouble.”

Mickey plopped into a chair. “Sammy doesn’t care from your troubles. You of all people should know the ethos of that farshtinkener crazy cocksucker.”

“He’s supposed to care about your trouble.”

“Which in his brutish spaghetti-bender fashion he does.”

Glenda cheesecake — four walls’ worth. “Let’s say he miscalculated this time.”

“As the song goes, ‘I should care?’ ”

“You should care. Noonan’s prizefight probe went out the window too, so now he’s hot to get something going in Niggertown. If the Feds hit the Southside, they’ll raid your coin locations. If I get a line on it I’ll tell you, but I might not know. Sam put your last going business in real trouble.”

Chick V. by the doorway; Mickey, cheesecake eyes. “David, such tsuris you predict, such tsuris I am nonplussed by. My desires are strictly to see district gambling get in, then retire to Galapagos and watch turtles fuck in the sun.”

Laugh it out. “District gambling will never pass the State Legislature, and if it did, you’d never get a franchise. Bob Gallaudet is the only reputable politician who supports it, and he’ll change his mind if he makes attorney general.”

Chick coughed; Mickey shrugged. A permit on the door: “Parks-Recreation, Approval to Film.” I squinted — “Robert Gallaudet,” small print.

Laugh that out. “Bob let you film here for a campaign contribution. He’s about to make DA, so you think a grand or two gets you the inside track on district gambling. Jesus, you must be shooting dope like old Dracula.”

Pinups galore — Mickey blew them kisses. “The prom date I never had in 1931. I could guarantee her a corsage and many fine hours of Bury the Brisket.”

“She reciprocate?”

“Tomorrow, maybe yes, but today she breaks my heart. Dinner tonight was already finalized, then Herman Gerstein called. His company is set to distribute my movie, and he needs Glenda to accompany his faygeleh heartthrob Rock Rockwell on a publicity date. Such tsuris — Herman is grooming that rump ranger for stardom apart from me, he’s terrified the scandal rags will discover he takes his pleasure Greek. Such duplicity to lose her company, my comely brisketeer.”

“Publicity date” — contract breaker. “Mickey, watch your coin biz. Remember what I told you.”

“Go, David. Take a bagel for the road.”

I walked out; Chick walked in. I checked my envelope — five G’s.

A pay phone, two dimes: the DMV cop line, Junior.

Stats: Glenda Louise Bledsoe, 5′8″, 125, blond/blue, DOB 8/3/29, Provo, Utah. California license since 8/46, five moving violations. ’56 Chevrolet Corvette, red/white, Cal. DX 413. Address: 2489 1/2 N. Mount Airy, Hollywood.

Junior at the Bureau — no luck — the Ad Vice clerk said he didn’t check in. I left a message: buzz me at Stan’s Drive-in.

I dawdled over, grabbed a space by the phone booth. Coffee, a burger — scan those file carbons.

Burglars, confessors — physical stats/MO/priors — I took notes. The Wino Will-o-the-Wisp — shit, still at large. Names, names, names — candidates for a psycho framee. Scribbling notes — distracted — flirty carhops, new money. Nagging me: a frame meant no payoff — no way to match Lucille and the burglar to WHY?

The phone — I ran, grabbed it. “Junior?”

“Yeah, the clerk said to call you.”

Wary — not his style. “You got that note I left you, right?”

“Right.”

“Right, and did you check the stationhouse whore files for paper on Lucille Kafesjian?”

“I’m working on it. Dave, I can’t talk now. I’ll — look, I’ll call you later.”

“The fuck later, you jump on that work—” CLICK — dead air.

Home, paperwork. Pissed at Junior — an erratic punk getting worse. Paperwork: Exley’s Kafesjian report padded up fat. Lists next: potential Glenda tailers, potential pervert framees. Calls in: Meg — Jack Woods glommed our back rent. Pete B: do Mr. Hughes solid, I convinced him you’re not a Hebe. Calls out: Ad Vice, Junior’s pad, no luck — find him, ream his insubordinate heart. My tailer list, bum luck holding — no men to start tonight. My job by default — a publicity date meant contract breaker.

Back to Hollywood: side streets, the freeway. No tails on me: dead sure. Up Gower, Mount Airy, left turn.

2489: courtyard bungalows — peach stucco. A carport — with a red and white Corvette snuggled in.

5:10 — just dark. I parked close — courtyard/carport view.

Time dragged — the stakeout blues — piss in a cup, toss it, doze. Auto/foot traffic — light. 7:04 — three cars at the curb.

Doors open, flashbulbs popping; Rock Rockwell — tuxedo, bouquet. A jog to the courtyard, back with Glenda — nice — a tight sweater dress. Bulb glare caught her patented Look — it’s a joke and I know it. Zoom: all three cars U-turned southbound.

Rolling stakeout — four cars long — Gower, Sunset west. The Strip, Club Largo, three-car pile-out.

Valets swooped in, servile. More photos — Rockwell looked bored. I parked in the red and fixed my windshield: “Official Police Vehicle.” The entourage hit the club.

I badged in, badged a Shriner off a bar stool. Turk Butler on stage — bistro belter supreme. Ringside: Rock, Glenda, scribes. Photo men by the exit — zoom lenses zoomed in.

Break that contract.

Dinner: club soda, pretzels. Easy eyeball work: Glenda talked, Rock sulked. The reporters ignored him — snore city.

Turk Butler off stage, chorus girls on. Glenda smoked and laughed. Big lungs on the dancers — Glenda pulled her sweater up for chuckles. Rock hit the sauce — whiskey sours.

A club hop at ten sharp — across Sunset on foot to the Crescendo. Another bar stool, eyeball surveillance: pure Glenda. Showstopper Glenda — odd wisps of Meg, and her own SOMETHING.

Midnight — a dash for the cars — I tailed the convoy brazen close. Back to Glenda’s pad, sidewalk arc lights: a dud goodnight kiss caught on film.

The newsman took off; Glenda waved. Quiet out — voices carried.

Rock: “Hell, now I’ve got no wheels.”

Glenda: “Take mine, and bring Touch back with you. Say two hours?”

Rock grabbed her keys and ran — gleeful. The Vette peeled out burning rubber — Glenda winced. “Bring Touch back with you” hit funny — tail him.

Gower south, Franklin east. Sparse traffic — still no tails on me. North on Western, say a movie set run — Mickey’s permit kept the park road open.

Los Feliz, left turn, Fern Dell — streams and glades before the Griffith Park hills. Brake lights blinked — fuck — Fern Dell — Vice cops called it Cocksuckers’ Paradise.

He parked — rush hour — cigarette tips red in the dark. I swung right and stopped — my beams on Rock and a cute young quiff.

I killed my lights, cracked the window. Close — I caught the proposition:

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I... I think fall is the best time in L.A., don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure. Listen, I just borrowed a really nice car. We could maybe make last call at the Orchid Room, then go someplace. I’ve got some time to kill before I pick my boy — I mean somebody up.”

“You don’t mince words.”

“I don’t mince period. Come on, say yes.”

“Nix, sweetie. You’re big and brusque, which I like, but the last big brusque guy I said yes to turned out to be a deputy sheriff.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Nix, nyet, nein and no. Besides, I heard Administrative Vice has been operating Fern Dell.”

Wrong — Ad Vice never popped fruits. Outside chance — gung-ho Junior, Vice cowboy.

Rock — “Thanks for the memories” — match flare, his cigarette lit. Prowling now — easy to track — I watched the tip glow queer to queer.

Time wheezed, a bum soundtrack: sex moans out in the woods. An hour, an hour ten — Rock walked back zipping his fly.

Zoom — the Vette peeled. I followed slow — no traffic — call the set his destination. A roadblock out of nowhere — baseball-bat men waved him through.

Truck headlights approaching — I backed up and watched.

Brake squeals — a big flatbed — picket clowns in back. A spotlight flashed — bright white blindness on the target.

Goons hit the truck swinging — nail-studded Louisville Sluggers. The windshield exploded — a man stumbled out belching glass. The driver ran — a nail shot took his nose off.

The bed gate crashed — goons went in close — ribcage work. Fats Medina dragged a guy by the hair — his scalp came off.

No screams — wrong — why no sound—

Back to Fern Dell, down to Glenda’s. No screams — weird — then my pulse quit banging my ears so I could hear.

Wait the boys out: “Rock,” “Touch” — the nance type, this eight-notch killer. Suspicious: 2:00 A.M., a B-movie siren set for hostess.

One courtyard light on — hers. I tapped the two-way, flipped bands to kill boredom. Dispatch calls — the Bureau frequency — voices.

Hurwitz fur-job talk — Robbery men. Make the voices: Dick Carlisle, Mike Breuning — Dudley Smith strongarms. No trace on the furs; Dud wanted fences braced hard. Crackle: station-to-station interference. Breuning: Dud pulled Johnny Duhamel off the Mobster Squad — a scary kick-ass ex-fighter. More static — I flipped dials — a liquor-store heist on La Brea.

The Vette hit the carport; the boys hit Glenda’s pad nuzzled up.

One ring — the door open and shut.

Figure access.

The courtyard proper — too risky. Nix the roof — no way to get up. Behind the bungalows — maybe a window to peep.

Risk it — worth it — juicy hearsay.

I walked over, counted back doors down — one, two, three — hers locked tight. One window — curtains cracked — eyes to the glass:

A dark bedroom, a connecting door ajar.

Press the glass, slide it up. Open — no shimmy, no squeak. Vault the sill: up and in.

Smells: cotton, stale perfume. Dark going gray — I saw a bed and bookshelves. Voices — hug the door — listen:

Glenda: “Well, there is a precedent.”

Touch: “Not a successful one, sweetie.”

Rockwell: “Marie ‘the Body’ McDonald. A from-nowhere career, then this kidnapping out of nowhere. The papers smelled publicity stunt quicksville. I think—”

Glenda: “It wasn’t realistic, that’s why. Her hair wasn’t even mussed. Remember, Mickey Cohen is bankrolling our movie. He’s hot for me, so the press will think gangland intrigue right off. Howard Hughes used to keep me, so we’ve got him for a supporting play—”

Touch: “ ‘Keep,’ what a euphemism.”

Rock: “What’s a euphemism?”

Touch: “Lucky you’re gorgeous, ’cause you’d never make it on brains.”

Glenda: “Cut it out, and listen. I’m wondering what the police will think. It’s not a kidnapping for ransom, because frankly nobody would pay good money to get Rock and I out of trouble. What I’m think—”

Touch: “The police will think revenge on Mickey or something, and Mickey won’t know a thing. The police love to bother Mickey. Bothering Mickey is a favorite activity of the Los Angeles Police Department. And you two will be good. Georgie Ainge will slap you around just a little bit more than a smidgin, for realism’s sake. The police will buy it, so just don’t worry. You’ll both be kidnap victims, and you’ll both get lots of publicity.”

Rock: “Method acting.”

Glenda: “It compromises Howard, the creep. He’d never violate the contract of a beautiful kidnap victim.”

Touch: “Tell true, sweetie. Was he hung?”

Glenda: “Hung like a cashew.”

They all howled. The real howler: fake kidnaps always bombed.

A doorway crack — I pressed up, squinted. Glenda — robe, wet hair: “He talked about airplanes to get himself excited. He called my breasts my propellers.”

More laughs — Glenda edged out of my light. Needle scratches, Sinatra — wait the tune out for one more look.

No luck — just “Ebb Tide” done very slow. Through the bedroom, out the window, thinking crazy: Don’t snitch her.

9

Monsters:

Charles Issler, confessor — front-page-hot female snuffs. “Hit me! Hit me!” — known to bite Homicide bulls who wouldn’t oblige.

Michael Joseph Krugman, confessor — the Jesus Christ 187. His motive — revenge — Jesus fucked his wife.

Swirling:

Beaucoup confessors — find a patsy in LAPD file print.

Some INSTINCT working through—

Donald Fitzhugh — queer snuff confessor; Thomas Mark Janeway — kiddie molestations strictly. That INSTINCT THING worked me over — almost a taunt. The Wino Will-o-the-Wisp: strangler/mutilator/stumblebum slayer. No hard candidates—

I woke up. THAT INSTINCT big:

The Kafesjians knew who trashed their pad — if I framed some geek they’d fuck things up.

Sweaty sheets/sweaty files/that rap sheet I glommed late:

George Sidney Ainge, aka “Georgie.” White male, DOB 11/28/22. Pimp convictions ’48, ’53 — fourteen months County time total. Gun sale rousts ’56, ’7, ’8 — no convictions. Last known address 1219 S. Dunsmuir, L.A. Vehicle: ’51 Caddy Eldo, QUR 288.

Touch to Glenda: “Georgie Ainge will slap you around just a little bit more than a smidgin.”

I shaved, showered, dressed. Glenda smiled, saying stall things for now.

The Bureau, an Exley memo waiting: “Kafesjian/459 — report in full.” 8:00, no daywatch men in yet — no potential Georgie Ainge skinny.

Coffee — overdue. Some DA called — that botched bookie raid — I shitted him lawyer to lawyer. Junior walking: up the side stairs, furtive. I whistled — long and shrill.

He walked over. I shut the door, shut my voice in: “Never hang up on me or get cute like that again. One more time and I’m submitting a transfer request that will ruin you in the Bureau so fast—”

“Dave—”

“Dave shit. Stemmons, you fucking toe the line. You obey my orders, you do what I tell you to do. Now, did you check the stationhouse files for paper on Lucille Kafesjian?”

“N-no listings, I ch-checked all around” — nervous, hinky.

Change-up: “Have you been hotdogging queers in Fern Dell Park?”

“W-what?”

“Some quiff said Ad Vice was operating the park, which we both know is bullshit. I repeat, were you—”

Hands up — placating me. “Okay, okay, guilty. I owed a favor to this old student of mine at the Academy. He’s working Hollywood Vice and he’s swamped, the squad boss has him detached to that wino-killing job. I just made a few collars and let him do the booking. Look, I’m sorry if I didn’t go by the rules.”

“Learn the fucking rules.”

“Sure, Dave, sorry.”

Shaky, sweaty — I gave him a handkerchief. “Have you heard of a pimp named Georgie Ainge? He sells guns on the side.”

Head bobs, eager to please. “I heard he’s a rape-o. Some squadroom guy told me he likes gigs where he gets to hurt women.”

“Wipe your goddamn face, you’re sweating up my floor.”

Junior quick-drawed — the gun bobbed at me. Quick — slap him — my law school ring drew blood.

White knuckles on his piece. Brains — he pointed it down.

“Stay angry, tough guy. We’ve got an outside job, and I want you pissed.”

Separate cars, let him stew with half the picture: good guy/bad guy, no arrest. Stay pissed: I’ve got a moonlight gig going, a fake kidnap might deep-six it. Junior — “Sure, Dave, sure” — eager beaver.

I got there first — a mock chateau — four floors, maybe ten units per. A ’51 Eldo at the curb — a match to the Ainge rap sheet.

I checked the mail slots: G. Ainge, 104. Junior’s Ford hit the curb — two wheels on the sidewalk. I beelined down the hall.

Junior caught up. I winked; he winked — half twitch. I pushed the buzzer.

The door opened a crack. Ear tug — cue the bad guy.

Junior: “LAPD, open up!” — wrong — I signaled kick it in.

The door swung wide. Right there: a fat lowlife, arms raised. Old tracks — hold for the “I’m Clean” pitch.

“I’m clean, Officers. I got me a nice little job, and I got me Nalline test results that prove I don’t geez no more. I’m still on County probation, and my PO knows I switched from horse to Silver Satin.”

I smiled. “We’re sure you’re clean, Mr. Ainge. May we come in?”

Ainge stood aside; Junior closed the door. The flop: Murphy bed, wine bottles tossed helter-skelter. TV, magazines: Hush-Hush, girlie stuff.

Junior: “Kiss the wall, shitbird.”

Ainge spread out. I scoped a Hush-Hush cover: Marie “the Body” McDonald, fake kidnap supreme.

Georgie ate wallpaper; Junior frisked him slow. Page two: some boyfriend drove Marie to Palm Springs and stashed her in an old mining shack. A ransom demand — her agent called the FBI. Satire: stage your own publicity kidnap, five easy steps.

Junior dropped Ainge — a kidney shot — not bad.

Georgie sucked wind. I skimmed the mags — bondage smut — women gagged and harnessed.

Junior kicked Ainge prone. A blonde looked sort of like Glenda.

Out loud: “ ‘Lesson number one: call Hedda Hopper in advance. Lesson number two: don’t hire kidnappers from Central Casting. Lesson number three: don’t pay your publicist with marked ransom money.’ Whose idea, Georgie? You or Touch Vecchio?”

No answer.

I flashed two fingers: GO FULL. Junior slammed kidney shots; Georgie Ainge drooled bile.

Kneel down close. “Tell us about it. It’s not going to happen, but tell us anyway. Tell us nice and we won’t tell your PO. Stay snotty and we’ll pop you for possession of heroin.”

Gurgles, “Fuck you.”

Two fingers/GO FULL.

Rabbit shots — strong — Ainge curled up fetal-style. A punch hit the floor — Junior yelped and grabbed his piece.

I snatched it, worked the chamber, popped the clip.

Junior — “Dave, Jesus!” — farewell, tough guy.

Ainge groaned — Junior kicked him — ribs cracked.

“OKAY! OKAY!”

I hauled him into a chair; Junior grabbed his gun back. Silver Satin on the bed — toss it over.

Chugalug — Ainge coughed, burped blood. Junior crawled for his clip — hands and knees.

“Whose idea?”

Ainge — “How’d you tumble?” — wincing.

“Never mind. I asked you, ‘Whose idea?’ ”

“Touch, Touch V., his idea. The deal was to goose his bun boy’s career, with that blond cooze along for some cheesecake. Touch said three hundred and no rough stuff. Listen, I just took the job to get a taste.”

Junior: “A taste of horse? I thought you were clean, shitbird.”

“ ‘Shitbird’ went out with vaudeville. Hey, you get your badge in a cereal box?”

I held Junior back. “A taste of what?”

Giggles. “I don’t sell guns no more, I don’t procure females for purposes of prostitution. I switched from H to jungle juice, so my tastes are none of—”

“A taste of what?”

“Shit, I just wanted to bust up that Glenda cooze.”

I froze — Ainge kept talking — rank wine breath.

“... you know, I just wanted to put the hurt on something Howard Hughes put the boots to. I got fired at Hughes Aircraft during the war, so you could maybe call that Glenda cunt my payback. Va-va-voom, that is some fine piece of—”

I kicked his chair over, threw the TV at his head. He ducked — tubes popped, exploded. I grabbed Junior’s gun — aimed, fired — clicks, no fucking clip, fuck me.

Ainge snaked under the bed. Soft, talking nice:

“Look, you think that Glenda woman’s My Fair Lady? Look, I know her, she used to whore for this pimp Dwight Gilette. I can hand her up to you on a guaranteed gas-chamber bounce.”

“Gilette” — vague — a 187 unsolved. I unloaded my own piece — safety valve.

Ainge, soft: “Look, I sold guns then. Glenda knew that. Gilette was slapping her around, so she bought a .32 to protect herself. I don’t know, something happened, so Glenda shot Gilette. She shot him, and she ended up taking his knife away from him. She fucking cut him too, and then she sold me the gun back. I’ve got it stashed, you know, I figured maybe some day, some reason, maybe it’s got prints on it, I was gonna threaten her with it on the kidnap thing. Touch, he don’t know about it, but you can make this a fucking gas-chamber job.”

Make the case:

’55, ’56 — Dwight Gilette, mulatto pimp, dead at his pad. Highland Park dicks handled it: fatal shots, no gun found — the stiff stabbed postmortem. Knife man Gilette — aka “Blue Blade.” Forensics: two blood types made; female hair and bone chips found. Hypothesis: knife fight with a whore, some hooker shot/shanked a skilled blade freak.

Bugs up my spine.

Ainge kept talking — gibberish — I didn’t hear it. Junior scribbled up his notebook fast.

Fast — don’t think why — find the gun.

One room — an easy toss — closet, dresser, cupboards. Ainge blabbing non-stop — Junior coaxing him out from under the bed. Tossing hard, tossing zero: skin mags, probation forms, rubbers. Topsy-turvy glimpses: evidence-prof Junior stacking pages.

No gun.

“Dave.”

Ainge cozied up — a fresh bottle half guzzled. Junior: “Dave, we’ve got ourselves a homicide.”

“No. It’s too old, and there’s just this geek’s word.”

“Dave, come on.”

“No. Ainge, where’s the gun?”

No answer.

“Tell me where the gun is, goddamn it.”

No answer.

“Ainge, give up the fucking gun.”

Junior, quick hand signals: LET ME WORK HIM.

Work shit — grab his notebook. Skim it — Georgie’s pitch down — details, approximate dates. No locate on the gun — call odds on latent prints thirty to one.

Junior, flexing his mean streak: “Dave, give me my notebook back.”

I shoved it at him. “Wait outside.”

This X-ray stare — not bad for a punk.

“Stemmons, wait outside.”

Junior eeeased out, tough-guy slow. I locked the door and fixed on Ainge.

“Give up the gun.”

“Not on your life. I was talking scared then, but now I figure different. You want my interpretation?”

Brass knucks, get ready.

“My interpretation is the kid thinks a murder beef for the Glenda cooze is a good idea, but for some reason you don’t. I also know that if I give up that gun it’s a probation violation vis-à-fucking-vis harboring contraband items. You know what a ‘hole card’ is? You know—”

On him — knucks downstairs/upstairs — flab rippers/broken face bones/fear-of-God time:

“No kidnapping. Not a word to Touch or Rockwell. You don’t talk about Glenda Bledsoe, you don’t go near her. You don’t give that gun up to my partner or anyone else.”

Coughs/moans/sputters trying to yes me. Bloody phlegm on my hands; shock waves up my knuck arm. I kicked through TV rubble getting out.

Junior on the sidewalk, smoking. No preamble: “We pop the Bledsoe woman for Gilette. Bob Gallaudet will grant Ainge immunity on the gun charge. Dave, she’s Howard Hughes’ ex-girlfriend. This is a big major case.”

Head throbs. “It’s shit. Ainge told me the gun story was a lie. What we’ve got is a three-year-old homicide with one convicted-felon hearsay witness. It’s shit.”

“No, Ainge lied to you. I think there is a gun extant.”

“Gallaudet would never file. I’m an attorney, you’re not. Believe me.”

“Dave, just listen.”

“No, forget it. You were damn good in there, but it’s over. We came to break up an impending felony, and—”

“And protect this moonlight job of yours.”

“Right, which I’ll kick back to you on.”

“Which is unreported income in violation of departmental regs.”

Seeing red: “There’s no case. We’re on the Kafesjian job, which is a major case, because Exley’s got a hard-on for it. If you want juice, play tight with me on that. Maybe we soft-pedal it, maybe we don’t. We have to work angles on that case to protect the Department, and I don’t want you going off half-cocked on some stale-bread pimp snuff.”

“A homicide is a homicide. And you know what I think?”

Smug little shitbird. “What?”

“That you want to protect that woman.”

Seeing red, seeing black.

“And I think that for a cop on the take, you take pretty small. If you want to steal, steal big. If I ever broke the regs, I wouldn’t start at the bottom.”

PURE BLACK — knucks out.

Pure rabbit — Junior tripped into his car. Pulling out, window down: “You owe me for the way you patronize me! You owe me! And I might collect damn soon!”

RED BLACK RED.

Junior fishtailed straight through a red light.

I drove to the set just to see her; I figured one look would say yes or no.

Big blue eyes looked right through me — I couldn’t even guess. She acted; she laughed; she talked — her voice gave nothing away. I stuck to the trailers and framed her in longshots — Miss Vampire/maybe pimp slasher. A change of costume, demure stuff to low-cut gown—

Shoulder-blade scars. ID them: slash marks, one puncture wound/bone notch. Call it à la Hush-Hush:

HOOKER/ACTRESS MURDERS HALF-BREED PIMP! AIRPLANE MOGUL SMITTEN! ROGUE COP STEPS FROM CLOVER TO SHIT!

I watched her act, watched her subtle-goof the whole silly business. Dark came on, I just watched, no one bugged the skulking stage-door Johnny.

Rain shut things down — I would have watched all night otherwise.

A pay-phone stint, zero luck: no Exley at the Bureau, no Junior to wheedle or threaten. Wilhite, my feelers out — not at Narco, not at home. Down to the Vine Street Hody’s: paperwork, dinner.

I wrote out two Exley reports: full disclosure and whore Lucille omitted — insurance if I swung Wilhite’s way. That frame brainstorm — nix it — Exley wouldn’t bite, the Kafesjians made one big monkey wrench. Hard to concentrate — Junior hovered — taunting me with murderess Glenda.

Ex-whore Glenda; whore Lucille.

Rain blurred people outside. Hard to see faces, easy to imagine them — easy to make women Glenda. A brunette looked in the window — Lucille K. one split second. I banged the table getting up; she waved to a waitress, just some plain Jane.

Darktown — nowhere else to go.

Systematic:

No exact peeper locations — two divisions botched paperwork — no whore motel/jazz club addresses to work from. South on Western, driving one-handed, one hand free to jot motel names. Systematic: no tails on me, forty-one hot-sheet flops Adams to Florence.

Jazz clubs, more confined: Central Avenue, southbound. Nineteen clubs, count bars in, boost the tally up to sixty-odd. Rain kept foot traffic thin; neon signs hit hypnotic — half-second blips in my windshield.

Rain fizzling — try the coffee-and-donuts routine.

A Cooper’s stand on Central — whore heaven — I fed the girls coffee and showed the Lucille pix. Big nos, one yes — a Western-and-Adams girl stepping east. Her story: Lucille worked “occasional” — tight pedal pushers — no street name, no truck with other whores.

Pedal pushers — slashed/jacked off on — my burglar.

Midnight — half the clubs shut down. Neon blipped off; I caught boss men locking their doors. Peeper/prowler questions — “Say what?”s straight across. The Lucille mugs — straight deadpans.

1:00 A.M., 2:00 A.M. — shit police work. B-girls at bus stops and cab stands — I talked Lucille with my brain revving Glenda. More nos, more rain — I ducked into a diner.

A counter, booths. Packed — all spooks. Whispers, nudges — niggers smelling Law. Two B-girl types in a front booth — hands under the table furtive quick.

I joined them. One bolted — I jerked her back by the wrist. Sitting beside me: a skanky high yellow. Bad juju percolating — I could feel it.

“Dump your purses on the table.”

Slow and cool: two pseudo-snakeskin bags turned out. Felony tilt: tinfoil Benzedrine.

Change-up: “Okay, you’re clean.”

Darky: “Sheeeit!”

High Yellow: “Man, what you—?”

I flashed the Lucille pix. “Seen her?”

Purse debris zoomed back; High Yellow chased Bennies with coffee.

“I said, have you seen her?”

High Yellow: “No, but this other po-lice been—”

The dark girl shushed her — I felt the nudge.

“What ‘other police’? And don’t you lie to me.”

High Yellow: “ ‘Nuther officer was aroun’ asking questions ’bout that girl. He didn’ have no photographs, but he had this, this... po-lice sketch, he called it. Very same girl, good picture if you asks me.”

“Was he a young man? Sandy-haired, late twenties?”

“That’s right. He had this big pom-po-dour that he kept playin’ with.”

Junior — maybe working off a Bureau likeness sheet. “What kind of questions did he ask you?”

“He ask did that mousy little white girl ho’ roun’ here. I say, ‘I don’t know.’ He ask did I work the bars down here, and I say yes. He ask ’bout some Peepin’ Tom, I say I don’t know ’bout no jive Peepin’ Tom.”

Brace the dark girl: “He asked you the same questions, right?”

“Tha’s right, an’ I told him the same answers, which is the righteous whole truth.”

“Yeah, but you nudged your friend here, which means you told her something else about that policeman, because you are the one acting hinky. Now spill before I find something else in your purse.”

Cop-hater rumbles — the whole room. “Tell me, goddamn it.”

High Yellow: “Lynette tol’ me she see that po-liceman shake down a man in Bido Lito’s parking lot. Colored man, an’ Lynette say the pom-po-dour cop take money from him. Lynette say she see that same po-lice at Bido’s talkin’ to that pretty-boy blond po-liceman who works for that mean Mr. Dudley Smith, who jist loves to have his strongarm men roust colored people. Ain’ all that whooole truth, Lynette?”

“Sho’ is, sugar. The whoooole truth, if I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

Flying:

Junior — shakedown artist? — “If you want to steal, steal big.” “Pretty-boy blond cop” —??????

“Who was the colored man at Bido Lito’s?”

Lynette: “I don’t know, an’ I ain’t seen him before or since.”

“What did you mean by ‘shakedown’?”

“I mean he put the arm on that poor man for money, and he be usin’ rude language besides.”

“Give me a name for that blond cop.”

“Ain’ got a name, but I seen him with Mr. Smith, and he so cute I give it free to him.”

Lynette laughed; High Yellow howled. The whole room laughed — at me.

Bido Lito’s, 68th and Central — closed. Mark it: a lead on crazy man Junior.

I staked the parking lot — no suspicious shit — music out a door down the block. Squint, catch the marquee: “Club Alabam — Art Pepper Quartet Nitely.” Art Pepper — Straight Life — a Tommy K. smashed record.

Strange music: pulsing, discordant. Distance distorted sounds — I synced a beat to people talking on the sidewalk. Hard to see faces, easy to imagine them: I made all the women Glenda. A crescendo, applause — I hit my brights to get a real look. Too bright — jigs passing a reefer — gone before I could blink.

I pulled up and walked in. Dark — no doorman/cover charge — four white guys on stage, backlit. Sax, bass, piano, drums — four beats — not music, not noise. I bumped a table, bumped a left-behind jug.

My eyes adjusted — bourbon and a shot glass right there. I grabbed a chair, watched, listened.

Sax solo — honks/blats/wails — I poured a shot, downed it.

Hot — I thought of Meg — juicehead parents scared us both away from liquor. Match flare: Tommy Kafesjian at ringside. Three shots quick — my breath timed itself to the music. Crescendos, no break, a ballad.

Pure beautiful: sax, piano, bass. Whispers: “Champ Dineen,” “The Champ, that’s his.” Tommy’s broken record: Sooo Slow Moods.

One more shot — bass notes — skipped heartbeats. Glenda, Meg, Lucille — some booze reflex warmed their faces.

Exit-door light — Tommy K. walking out. Validate this slumming, pure cop instincts:

Peeper/prowler/B&E man — all one man. Jazz fiend/voyeur — the noise fed the watching.

Noise/music — go, follow it—

Hot-sheet row — motels pressed tight — one long block. Stucco dives — bright colors — an alley behind them.

Ladder roof access: I parked, climbed, looked.

Vertigo — noise/music and liquor still had me. Slippery, careful, a perch — pure balls made me choose a high signpost. A breeze, a view: windows.

A few showing light: fuck flop rooms — bare walls — nothing else. I shivered out the booze — the music hit harder.

Lights on and off. Bare walls — no way to see faces, easy to imagine:

Glenda killing that pimp.

Glenda naked — Meg’s body.

Chills — I got the car, cranked the heater, drove—

Meg’s — dawn — no lights on. Hollywood — Glenda’s place dark. Back to my place — a letter from Sam G. in the mailbox.

USC season tickets. A P.S.: “Thanks for proving jungle bunnies can fly.”

Noise/music — I smashed the mailbox two-handed.