"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 lawenforcement 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 troubleprone 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?"
o o o
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.
CHAPTER THREE
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.
o o o
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?"
o o o
I slept the night off, a room at the Biltmore-figure reporters had my pad staked out. No dreams, room service: 6:00 P.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; Exle
y 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..."