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  Tingles. "Keep going."

  "Well . . . I was fixing the sink in room 19. I found all this nice-looking silver stuck into the bed ... you know, the sheets and the mattress all ripped up. I . . . I figured .. . I figured the guy who rented the room went crazy. . . and.. . and he wouldn't press no charges if I swiped his stuff."

  Grab the lead: "_What does 'the guy' look like?_"

  "I don't know--a guy. I never seen him. Ask the night clerk, she'll tell you."

  "She'll tell both of us."

  "Hey, you said--"

  "Put your hands behind your back."

  Balls--two seconds' worth--another shrug. I cuffed him up loose-- keep him friendly.

  "Hey, I'm hungry."

  "I'll get you a candy bar."

  "You said you'd cut me loose!"

  "I'm going to."

  "But my car's back here!"

  "Take a bus."

  "_Pinche cabrón! Puto! Gabacho maricón!_"

  o o o

  A half-hour run. Praise Jesus: no backseat noise, no cuff thrashing. The Red Arrow Inn: connected cabins, two rows, a center driveway. A neon sign: "Vacancy."

  I pulled up to cabin 19: dark, no car out front. Chasco: "I got my master key."

  I unlocked his cuffs. High beams on--he opened 19, backlit nice.

  "Come look! Just like I tol' you, man!"

  I walked over. Evidence: doorjamb jimmy marks--_recent_--fresh splinters. The room itself: small, linoleum floor, no furniture. The bed: slashed sheets, ripped mattress spilling kapok.

  "Go get the clerk. Don't run away, you'll piss me off."

  Chasco hauled. I scoped the bed close up: fork holes in the mattress, stabs down to the springs. Semen stains--my peeper screamed CATCH ME NOW. I ripped off a sheet swatch--the jizz could be tested for blood type.

  "No-good ofay trash!"

  I turned around--"Ofay trash dee-stroy my nice bed!"--this jig granny flapping a rent card.

  Grab it--"John Smith"--predictable--ten days paid up front, checkout time tomorrow. Granny popped spit; Chasco pointed outside.

  I followed him. Jesus, eager: "Carlotta don't know who rented the room. She said she thinks it's a young white guy. She said this wino rented the room for him, and the tenant guy said he had to have room 19. She ain't seen the tenant guy herself. I ain't either, but listen, I know that wino. You give me five dollars and a ride back to my car and I find him for you."

  Fork it over: two fives, the Lucille pix. "One for you, one for Carlotta. Tell her I don't want any trouble and ask her if she knows this girl. _Then_ you go find me that wino."

  Chasco ran back, passed the five, flashed the mugs--Moms nodded yes yes yes. Jesus, back to me: "Carlotta said that girl's like a once-in-awhile--she rent short-timer and don't fill out no rent card. She said she's a prostie, and she always ask for number 18, right next to where I found that nice silver. She said the girl likes 18 'cause she got a street view case the police show up."

  Think:

  Room 19, room 18: the peeper peeping Lucille's trick fucks. Room 19 jimmy marks--make some third party involved?

  Granny jiggled a tin can. "For Jehovah. Jehovah get ten percent of all rent money spent on this sinful premises tithed back to him. I gots the slot-machine gambleitis myself, and I kicks back ten percent of my winnings to Jehovah. You a handsome young police, so for one more dollar for Jehovah I give you more skinny on that slummin', thrill-seekin' white ho' Hay-soos showed me them pictures of."

  Fuck it, fork it--Moms fed the can. "I seen that girl at Bido Lito's, where I was indulgin' my one-arm-bandit gambleitis to tithe Jehovah. This other p0-lice, he was askin' people at the bar 'bout her. I tol' him what I tol' you: she jist a thrill-seekin', slummin' white ho'. Later on, after hours, I seen that girl in the pictures do this striptease with this bee-you-tiful mink coat. That other police, he saw it too, but he actin' cool, like he _not_ a po-lice, an' he didn' even stop her from makin' that disgraceful display, _or_ act like he was too hot and bothered."

  Think--don't jump yet. "Jesus, go get me that wino. Carlotta, what did that policeman look like?"

  Chasco breezed. Moms: "He had light brown hair done up with pomade, an' he maybe thirty years old. Nice-lookin', but not as high-steppin' as you, Mister Police."

  Jump: Darktown Junior lead number two. Reverse jump: Rock Rockwell at Fern Dell--some quiff said Ad Vice was working the Park. Junior copped to it--"a favor"-- he owed a pal working Hollywood Vice.

  _Rattle rattle_--I shoved Moms some change. "Listen, have you ever seen the man staying in this room?"

  "Praise Jehovah, I seen him from the back."

  "Have you ever seen him _with_ anyone else?"

  "Praise Jehovah, no I hasn't."

  "When was the last time you saw the girl in my photographs?"

  "Praise Jehovah, when she did that striptease at Bido's maybe four, five days ago."

  "When was the last time she brought a trick to this front room here?"

  "Praise Jehovah, maybe a week ago."

  "Where does she solicit her tricks?"

  "Praise Jehovah, I don't know."

  "Has she brought the same man more than once? Does she have regular tricks?"

  "Praise Jehovah, I has taught myself not to look at the faces of these sinners."

  Chasco walked a piss bum up. "I don't know, but I think maybe this guy's not so sharp with questions."

  "This guy": Mex, Filipino--grime-caked--a tough call. "What's your name, sahib?"

  Mumbles, hiccups--Jesus shushed him. "The cops call him Flame-O, 'cause sometimes he sets himself on fire when he's drunk."

  Flame-O flashed some scars--Moms took off going "Uggh." Jesus: "Look, I asked him 'bout that guy he rented the room for, an' I don't think he remembers so good. You still gonna drive me-"

  Back to room 19--my blinders on. Throw the lock, eyeball it-- zoom--a connecting door.

  Room 19 to room 18--Lucille's preferred fuck spot. Jamb-ledge jimmy marks--different than the front door marks.

  Think:

  Peeper hits or tries to hit Lucille's room.

  Peeper trashes his own room, leaves the silver, moves out panicked. Or: _different_ pry marks on peeper's front door. Say somebody else broke in. Make some third party involved?

  I rattled the connecting door--no answer. A shoulder push--slack, give, snap-I rode loose hinges into room 18.

  Just like 19--but no closet door. Something else: ripples on the wall above the bed.

  Up close: buckled wallpaper, paste spackling. A square indentation-- perforated drywall underneath. Peeled wallpaper--one thin strip, follow the line:

  The wall to the connecting door--a drop to the crack under the door.

  Odds on:

  A bug--planted and removed, the mike above the bed--the peeper voyeurs Lucille, basic electronics skill--

  I tore up the room--empty, zero, nothing. Number 19-dump it twice, closet swag: Jockey shorts tangling up a tape spool.

  Panic move-out validated.

  Moms and Jesus outside pitching tantrums.

  I shoved through them double time. Granny chucked her tin can at me.

  o o o

  The Bureau--Code 3--a lab stop, orders: test the sheet-swatch jizz for blood type. My office, my old chem kit-dust the spool.

  Smudges--no latent prints. Edgy now, I glommed a tape rig from the storeroom.

  Nightwatch lull--the squadroom stood quiet. I shut my door, pressed Play, killed the lights.

  Listen:

  Static, traffic boom, window shimmy. Outside noises: business at the Red Arrow Inn.

  Spook whores talking--ten minutes of pimp/trick rebop. I could SEE IT: hookers outside HER window. Silence, tape hiss, a door slamming. "In advance, sweet"--pause-"Yes, that means now"--Lucille.

  "Okay, okay"--a man. A pause, shoes dropped, mattress squeaks-- three minutes' worth. The tape almost out, groans--his climax. Silence, garbled words, Lucille: "Let's play a little game. Now I'll be the daughter and you'll be the daddy, and i
f you're reeeeal sweet we can go again no extra."

  Traffic noise, driveway noise, breath. Easy to imagine:

  That wall between them.

  Surveillance not enough.

  My peeper breathing hard--scared to bust down that wall.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Static garbled dreams: Lucille talking sex jive to me. The lab, my wake-up call--the jizz tested out 0+. Chills off a late phone stint: Hollywood Vice called Junior's queer roust story bullshit.

  "Horse pucky--whoever told you that lied through his teeth. We're too busy with the Will-o-the-Wisp to work fruits, and none of our guys have popped Fern Dell Park chicken in over a year."

  Coffee-half a cup-my nerves jangled.

  The buzzer--loud.

  I opened up--fuck--Bradley Milteer and Harold John Miciak.

  Stern looks--their cop colleague in a towel. Miciak scoped my Jap sword scar.

  "Come in, gentlemen."

  They shut the door behind them. Milteer: "We came for a progress report."

  I smiled--servile. "I have sources on the movie set accruing information on Miss Bledsoe."

  "You've been in Mr. Hughes' employ for a week, Lieutenant. Frankly, so far you haven't 'accrued' the results he hoped for."

  "I'm working on it."

  "Then please produce results. Are your normal police duties interfering with your work for Mr. Hughes?"

  "My police duties aren't quite normal."

  "Well, be that as it may, you are being paid to secure information on Miss Glenda Bledsoe. Now, Mr. Hughes seems to think that Miss Bledsoe has been pilfering foodstuffs from his actress domiciles. A criminal theft charge will violate her contract, so will you surveil her even more diligently?"

  Miciak flexed his hands--no gang tattoos.

  "I'll begin that surveillance immediately, Mr. Milteer."

  "Good. I expect results, Mr. Hughes expects results."

  Miciak--jailhouse eyes, cop-hater fuck.

  "First Flats or White Fence, Harold?"

  "Uh, what?"

  "Those tattoos Mr. Hughes made you burn off."

  "Listen, I'm clean."

  "Sure, Mr. Hughes had your record wiped."

  Milteer: "Lieutenant, _really_."

  The geek: "Where'd you get that scar, hotshot?"

  "A Jap sword."

  "What happened to the Jap?"

  "I stuck the sword up his ass."

  Milteer, rolled eyes oh-you-heathens: "Results, Mr. Klein. Harold, come."

  Harold walked. Fist signals back at me--pure White Fence.

  o o o

  Movie-set bustle:

  Wine call--Mickey C. doling out T-Bird to his "crew." "Director" Sid Frizell, "cameraman" Wylie Bullock--poke the head monster's eyes out with a stick or a knife? Glenda feeding extras sturgeon, read _her_ eyes: "Who's _that_ guy, I've seen him before."

  Rock Rockwell's trailer--tap the door.

  "It's open!"

  I walked in. Cozy: a mattress, one chair. Rockwell cranking push-ups on the floor. THE LOOK: cop, oh fuck.

  "It's not a roust, I'm friends with Touch."

  "Did I hear my name?"

  Touch stepped out of the bathroom. No fixtures--just TV sets stacked high. "David, you didn't see those."

  "See what?"

  Rockwell slid up on the mattress; Touch tossed him a towel. "Meg's my first customer. She told me she wants to put TV's in all your furnished vacancies so she can raise the rent. Oh, excuse me. Rock Rockwell, David Klein."

  No hello--Rock toweled off. Touch: "Dave, what's this about?"

  Eyes on Rockwell--Touch caught the drift. "He can keep police-type confidences."

  "I had some questions about activities in Fern Dell Park."

  Rockwell scratched the mattress--Touch sprawled beside him. "_Vice_-type activities?"

  I pulled the chair up. "Sort of, and it gets tricky because I think one of my men might be pulling shakedowns in Fern Dell."

  Touch tensed up.

  "What? What is it?"

  "David, what does this man of yours look like?"

  "Five-ten, one-sixty, long sandy hair. Sort of cute--you might like him."

  No laugh--Touch coiled toward Rockwell.

  "Come on, tell me. We go back--you know nothing you say leaves this room."

  "Well . . . since it sort of involves Mickey, and you're his friend..."

  Coax him: "Come on--like the magazine says: 'off the record.'"

  Touch stood up, threw a robe on, paced--"Last week, that guy, that policeman you just described to a T, he rousted me in Fern Dell. I told him who I was, _who I knew_, including Mickey Cohen, which _he_ was oblivious to. Look, I was cruising--you know what I am, David--Rock and I, we have this arrangement--"

  Rockwell--BAM!--out the door pulling on pants.

  "It's the way our kind of people have to be to get along, and this. . . oh shit, this _policeman_ said he'd seen me installing slots and coin hardware on the Southside a while back, and he said that Fed probe would happen and he'd snitch me to it if I didn't cooperate with him, so all right, _we_ both know how to do business, David, but _this policeman_ was acting so hopped-up and crazy that I _knew he didn't_ so I listened. He said, 'You must know Darktown pretty well,' I said yes, I got the impression he was messed up on Bennies or goofballs _or both_, and _then_ he started rambling about--and I quote you, David--this 'gorgeous'--he actually used the word 'gorgeous'--other policeman working the Mobster Squad--"

  "Gorgeous" Johnny Duhamel. My head throbbed--queer lilt synchronized--

  "_This policeman, he just kept rambling_. He wouldn't tell me details, he just ... kept rambling. He told me this crazy story about a whore in a mink coat stripping and how the gorgeous Mobster Squad cop got panicky and made her stop. David, here's where it gets strange and funny and sort of . . . well.. . incestuous, because the crazy policeman saw that the fur-coat spiel made me just a tad suspicious. He came on strong, and he found a gun on me and threatened me with a concealment charge, and I said the fur thing spooked me because Johnny Duhamel, that sort-offamous ex-boxer, he tried to sell Mickey a bulk load of hot furs, which Mickey refused. The crazy cop, he laughed and laughed and started muttering 'Gorgeous Johnny,' and then he just sort of warned me off and walked away, and David, that policeman, he is one of us, if you catch my drift, dear heart, and I only told you all this because our mutual friend Mickey played just a tad of a supporting role."

  Touch--hands in his robe, out with a piece-bet he almost shoved it up Junior's ass.

  Think:

  Junior shakes down a guy at Bido Lito's.

  Hobnobs with Johnny Duhamel--Bido Lito's.

  Scopes out Lucille's fur strip--Bido Lito's.

  More:

  Junior--Kafesjian work fluffed off.

  Fern Dell Park shakedowns--faggot Junior--Touch knew the turf-- call it a maybe.

  Touch: "I don't want you to tell Mickey what I told you. Duhamel just approached Mickey because he's Mickey. Mickey doesn't know anything about that extortionist policeman of yours, I just know it. Dave, are you listening to me?"

  "I heard you."

  "You won't tell Mickey?"

  "No, I won't tell him."

  "You look like you've seen a ghost."

  "Lots of them."

  o o o

  Ghost chaser--

  The Observatory lot--phone work.

  Dime one: Jack Woods--set to bird-dog Junior post--trick sweep. Two: Ad Vice/Sid Riegle/confirmation: everything set, Junior told to stick at University Station. Orders: walk over to Robbery, skim the fur-heist file. Riegle: sure, I'll call you back.

  _Tick tick tick_--my pulse outran my watch. Eleven minutes, Sid with stale news:

  No suspects, fences leaned on--no furs surfacing. Three to five men, a truck, solid knowhow: electronics and toolworking. Dud Smith ruled out fraud--no profit motive-Sol Hurwitz packed low payoff-rate insurance. Sid--"Why the interest?"--cut him off, work dime three--a Personnel clerk who owed me.

  My off
er: your debt wiped for a file check: Officer John Duhamel. He agreed; I asked one question: did Duhamel possess technical expertise?

  I held the line--twenty long minutes. Results: Duhamel, cum laude grad--engineering--USC, '56. Straight-A average--rah, rah, fellow Trojan.

  Duhamel--possible fur thief. Possible partners: Reuben Ruiz and his brothers--Reuben and Johnny fought amateur together. Nix it on instinct: Ruiz boosted pads, ditto his brothers--the family topped out at auto theft. More likely:

  Dudley co-opts Johnny to the fur heist; Johnny gloms some solo leads and gloms some furs. Smart into dumb--he offers Mickey Cohen the goods--the kid doesn't know Mickey's scuffling.

  _My_ scuffle--rat him to Dud?--think it through. _Tick tick tick_--not yet--too circumstantial. My priority: sort Junior and Johnny out, ease Junior off Glenda.

  Ghost chaser.

  Glenda.

  Results.

  Time before the trick sweep--tail her.

  o o o

  The park road--wait her out.

  Her routine: drive home at 2:00, pilfer later. Time to kill, time to think--

  Easy: my "crush" stretched me too thin--catch her stealing and snitch her--TODAY. Kicks: get her a Commie lawyer enraged at big money--Morton Diskant, just the ticket. Arraignment, trial--Glenda pays cunthound Morty off in trade. "Guilty," State time, Dave Klein there with flowers when they boot her.

  Play the radio, drift.

  Bop--maybe queer cops prowling Darktown--too jangly, too frantic. Skim the dial, ballads--"Tennessee Waltz"--Meg. '51, that song, the Two Tonys--Jack Woods probably knew the whole story. Him and Meg back on; I dumped a witness and she got suspicious--and Jack wouldn't shit her. She'd know, she'd be scared, she'd forgive me. Her and Jack--I wasn't jealous--call him dangerous and safe--safer than me.

  Back to bop--jangly good now--think:

  Lucille on tape: "I'll be the daughter and you'll be the daddy." Lucille, nude: fleshy like this boot camp whore I had. Big-band tunes, the war, schoolgirl Glenda--_close her out_--

  Noon, 1:00, 1:30--I snoozed and woke up cramped. Stomach growls, a piss in the weeds. Early: her Vette zooming by with the top down.

  I rolled--a brown Chevy cut between us--weird familiar. Squint, make the driver: Harold John Miciak.