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  "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."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  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 exMarine goon squad. Espirit 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.

  o o o

  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_."

  o o o

  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 do
pe franchise. Wilhite played watchdog; J.C. ratted rival pushers, per our policy: keep narcotics isolated south of Slauson. His legit work: a drycleaning 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 chain-link fence. Fuck--two Dobermans--no eyes, throats slit, teeth gnashing chemicalsoaked 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 investigatlon, 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 maryjane. 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!"

  CHAPTER FIVE

  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.

  o o o

  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."

&nb
sp; "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.