Tough monkey.
"Leroy, why don't you tell me how Junior Stemmons muscled you."
"Fuck you."
"Why don't you tell me what you two talked about."
"Fuck your mother."
"You know, if you cooperate with me, it might help bring the Kafesjians down."
"Fuck you. I ain't no snitch."
"Leroy, were you acquainted with a maryjane pusher named Wardell Knox?"
"Fuck you, so what if I was."
"He was murdered."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"You know, there's quite a push to clear up these Negro homicides."
"No shit, Dick Tracy."
Tough and stupid.
I walked Orchard next door and cuffed him in tight. Back to Leroy--
"Give on you and Junior Stemmons, or I drive you down to 77th Street and tell Dudley Smith you killed Wardell Knox and molested a bunch of little white kids."
Coup de grace--I laid the H on the table. "Go ahead, I never saw it."
Leroy snatched his shit back. Zoooom--instant cooperation:
"All that Junior punk and me _did_ was talk. Mostly he talked and I listened, 'cause he shook me down for my roll and some shit, and I knew that wasn't no crackerjack badge he showed me."
"Did he mention Tommy Kafesjian?"
"Not Tommy specific."
"Tommy's sister Lucille?"
"Uh-uh."
"A peeper spying on Lucille?"
"Uh-uh, he just said the Kafesjian family itself was going down, gonna get fucked up by the Federal business. He said LAPD Narco was gonna get neutralizized by the Feds, and he was gonna be the new Southside dope kingpin--"
KILL HIM.
--"this snotnose little twerpy cop flying on a snootful of shit. He said he had the goods on the Kafesjians, and access to his boss's burglary investigation, which was full of dirty stuff to blackmail J.C. Kafesjian with--"
KILL HIM.
--"and he said he was gonna drive the Kafesjians out and steal their turf, and right about this time I'm biting my tongue to keep from laughing. Next he says he's got stuff on these brothers working for Mickey Cohen. He said they're gonna pull these sex shakedowns on movie stars--"
Junior's FI cards--Vecchio stud service--
--"and the capper is little Junior says he's gonna take over Mickey Cohen's kingdom, which as I understand it ain't such a hot kingdom no more."
"And?"
"And I was just thinking the money and dope I lost was worth it to catch this crazy motherfucker's act."
Woods' surveillance--Junior, Tommy and J.C. at Bido Lito's. Overheard: he'd protect THEM from ME. Double-agent Junior--mercy-kill him.
"Give me the dope back."
"Man, you said I could have it!"
"Give it to me."
"Fuck you, lying motherfucker!"
I sapped him down, broke his wrists, pried it free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
"Crazy motherfucker's act."
Junior's door--six padlocks--crazy new precautions. The dumbfuck used LAPD hardware--my master keys got me in.
Hit the lights--
Rice Krispies on the floor.
Piano wire strung ankle-high.
Closet doors nailed shut; mousetraps on the furniture.
CRAAAAZY.
Toss it slow now--the trunk distracted me last time--
I pried the closets open--nothing but food scraps inside.
Cornflakes and tacks on the kitchen floor.
Sink sludge--motor oil, glass shards; friction tape sealing the icebox. Peel it off--
Amyl nitrite poppers in an ice tray.
Reefer buds in a casserole dish.
Chocolate ice cream--plastic shoved down an open pint container. Dump it, yank--
One Minox spy camera--no film loaded in.
The hall--neck-high wires--duck. The bathroom--mousetraps, a medicine chest glued shut. Smash it open--K-Y jelly and two C-notes on a shelf.
A hamper--nailed tight--pry, pull--
Bloody hypos--spikes up-a booby trap. Dump them--a small steel strongbox underneath.
Locked--I banged it open on the wall.
Booty:
One B of A Hollywood branch passbook--balance $9,183.40.
Two safe-deposit-box keys, one instruction card. Fuck: "Box access requires password and/or visual okay."
Call it:
Evidence holes--Junior caution pre--complete CRAAAZY.
Logic:
Glenda/Klein dispositions stashed THERE--ditto the gun Georgie Ainge sold Glenda.
_Find the password_.
I tossed the bedroom--carpet glass spread thick--the trunk gone. The drawers--pure shit--paper scraps gibberish-scrawled.
I dumped the mattress, the couch, the chairs--no rips, no stash holes. I pulled the TV apart--mousetraps snapped. That wall section I shot out--stuffed with Kotex.
No password. No H cards. No depositions. No Exley/no Duhamel files.
Snap, crackle, pop--Rice Krispies underfoot.
Phone _bbrinng_--
The hall extension--grab it.
"Uh, yeah?"
"It's me, Wenzel. Uh, Stemmons. . . look, man. . . I don't want any part of dealing with you."
I faked Junior's voice: "Meet me."
"No . . . I'll get your money back to you."
"Come on, let's talk about--"
"No, you're nuts!"--_click_, say it: Junior bought Wenzel's dope; Wenzel wised up later.
Bank books, box keys--mine now. I clipped the padlocks fumblehanded--kill him, Jack.
o o o
I drove to Tilly's place. Four flights up-knock--no answer.
Peep the spyhole, listen--light, TV laughs. A shoulder wedge snapped the door.
Tilly flipping channels--sprawled on the floor, hophead-dreamy.
Bindles on a chair--say a pound's worth.
Flip--Perry Como, boxing, Patti Page. Slack-face Tilly on cloud nine.
I crammed the door shut and bolted it. Tilly flipped stations, goofy-eyed: Lawrence Welk, Spade Cooley. I grabbed her, dragged her--
Clenching up, kicking--good. The bathroom, the shower, full-blast water--
Cold--soak her clothes, freeze her sober. Wet myself--fuck it.
Freezing her: big shivers, jumbo goosebumps. Teeth clicks trying to beg me--sweat her.
Hot water--fighting now--I let her hit, kick, squirm. Back to ice-cold-- "All right! All right!"--no dope slur.
I pulled her out, sat her down on the toilet.
"I think Steve Wenzel left you that dope for safekeeping. He was going to give it to that policeman Junior Stemmons we talked about the other night, and Junior already paid him for it. Now he wants to give Junior his money back because Junior's crazy and he's scared. _Now you tell me what you know about that_."
Tilly trembled--spastic shivers. I tossed her towels and tapped the heater.
She bundled up. "Are you going to tell the Probation?"
"Not if you cooperate with me."
"And what about that..."
"That shit in your front room that will get you a dime in some dyke farm if I decide to get ugly?"
Popping cold sweat now. "Yes."
"I won't touch it. And I know you want to geez, so the sooner you talk to me, the sooner you can."
Red coils, heat. Tilly: "Steve heard that Tommy Kafesjian's out to kill him. This seller man Pat Orchard, he knows Steve, and he was in jail this afternoon. This policeman strongarmed him--"
"That was me."
"I'm not surprised, but just let me tell you. Anyway, according to Steve, that policeman which I guess was you asked this Pat Orchard all these questions about this Junior policeman. You released him, and he went to Tommy Kafesjian and snitched that Junior man and Steve. He said that Steve sold Junior this big stash, and that the Junior policeman was talking up all this dope-kingpin jive. Steve said he moved out of his place, and he's going to try to give Junior his money back, 'cause he heard Tommy's out to get him."
"And Wenzel left his shit with you for safekeeping."
Antsy--squirming up her towels. "That's right."
"I cut Orchard loose no more than three hours ago. How did you learn all this so quickly?"
"Tommy came by here before Steve did. He told me, 'cause he knows I know Steve, and he thought I might know where he's hiding. I didn't tell him I talked to you the other night, and I said I don't know where Steve is, which is the truth. He left, then Steve came by and dropped his stash off. I told him, 'You run from that crazy Tommy and that crazy Junior.'"
Steve calls Junior--and gets me. "What else did you and Tommy talk about?"
Stifling coil heat--Tilly dripped sweat. "He wanted to do it to me, but I said no 'cause you told me he killed Wardell Knox."
"What else? The sooner I go, the sooner you can--"
"Tommy said he's looking for this guy spying on his sister, Lucille. He said he's going crazy looking for that spyer."
"What else did he tell you about him?"
"Nothing."
"Did he say his name was Richie?"
"No."
"Did he say he was a musician?"
"No."
"Did he say he had leads on where the guy was?"
"No. He said the spyer was like a f-ing phantom, and he didn't know where he was."
"Did he mention a different man, someone spying on the spyer?"
"No."
"Did he mention _any_ name on the spyer?"
"No."
"Champ Dineen?"
"Do you think I'm stupid? Champ Dineen was this music writer who died years ago."
"What else did Tommy say about Lucille?"
"Nothing."
"Did he mention the name Joseph Arden?"
"No. Please, I need to--"
"Did Tommy say _he_ was screwing Lucille?"
"Mister, you got an evil curiosity about that girl."
Fast: out to the front room, back with the dope.
"Mister, that belongs to Steve."
I cracked the window, looked down--a crap game in the alley dead below.
"Mister . . ."
I tossed a bindle out-dice-blanket bullseye. "What else did Tommy say about Lucille?"
"_Nothing_. Mister, please!"
Shouts downstairs-dope from heaven.
Two more bindles out--"Mister, I need that!"--four, five--alleyway roars.
"TOMMY AND LUCILLE"--six, seven, eight.
Nine, ten--"It's wrong to be thinking what you're thinking. Would you be doing that with your own sister?!"
Crap-game reveries--praise Jesus.
Eleven, twelve--I threw them at Tilly.
o o o
Downtown--R&J--a run for Steve Wenzel's rap sheet and mugshots. Wenzel--two dope falls, butt-ugly: lantern-jaw white trash. No KAs/ known haunts listed--I shifted to THEM.
A run by their house--lights on, cars out front. I parked, window reconned.
Down the driveway--dark--I watched for new dogs. Hop the fence, peep around--Madge cooking, no Lucille. Dark rooms, the den--J.C., Tommy and Abe Voldrich.
I squatted down. Closed windows--no sound. Eyeball it:
J.C. waving papers; Tommy giggling. Voldrich--read his hands--be calm.
Muffled shouts--the window glass hummed.
I squinted; J.C. kept waving those papers. He moved closer--fuck--Ad Vice forms.
No way to read the fine print.
Probably Klein-to-Exley stuff--peeper leads. Stolen, leaked--maybe Junior, maybe Wilhite.
"Tommy going crazy chasing that spyer."
I circuited back to my car. Peep surveillance--_my_ eyes on _her_ window. Forty minutes down--there-Lucille nonchalant naked. Her lights went out too fucking soon--I scoped the front door still hungry to watch.
Ten minutes, fifteen.
Slam--the three men ran out-over to separate cars. Tommy's Merc crunched off the sidewalk dragging sparks.
J.C. and Voldrich headed northbound.
Tommy--dead south.
Follow _him_--
La Brea south, Slauson east--this purple coon coach. Way east, Central Avenue south.
Peeper turf.
Light traffic--lay back, tail that jig rig. Way south--Watts-east.
Tommy, brake lights on--Avalon and 103--after-hours-party-club row.
Nigger Heaven:
Two tenements wood-plank-linked--three stories up, open windows, fire-escape access.
Tommy parked. I cruised by, backed up, watched him:
He walked over to the right-side building.
He climbed up the fire escape and stepped on the plank.
Tommy creeping--wobbly wood, rope holds.
Tommy crouching.
Tommy peeping the left-side window.
Big-time-hinky wrong: Tommy just plain looking.
I bolted my car, bolted the left-side steps. No lobby lookout--sprint.
Three floors up--bouncers at the door. Looks: who's this cop know? Instant bouncer-doormen--I walked in.
Mock-zebra walls, party geeks--white, colored. Music, party noise.
I scanned the room--no peeper-sketch look-alikes, no Tommy.
Check the window--no Tommy on the plank.
Geeks packed tight--white hepcats/snazzy niggers--hard to move.
Reefer smoke close by--lantern-jaw Steve Wenzel passing a stick.
Geeks between us.
Tommy behind him, hands in his coat.
Hands out--a sawed-off pump getting loose.
I yelled--
Some nigger hit a switch--the room went black.
Shotgun roar--full auto--one long blast. Spatter spray/random pistol shots/screams--muzzle flash lit up Steve Wenzel, faceless.
Screams.
I ripped through them out the window.
I crawled the plank, glass and brains in my hair.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Harbor Freeway northbound, two-way squawk:
"Code 3 all units vicinity 103rd and Avalon multiple homicides 10342 South AvaIon third floor ambulances responding repeat all units multiple 187s 10342 South Avalon see the building superintendent--"
Breathing blood--my raincoat cleaned me up--clean, but still smellingit.
"Repeat all units four dead 10342 South Avalon Code 3 ambulances responding."
Shell shock worse than Saipan--the road blurred.
"Traffic units vicinity 103 and Avalon Code 3 see Sergeant Disbrow Code 3 urgent."
6th Street off-ramp, down to Mike Lyman's--Exley's late dinner spot. I palmed a waiter: get the Chief _now_.
Happy people all around me--gargoyles.
"Lieutenant, this way please!"
I followed the waiter. A booth at the back--Exley standing, Bob Gallaudet sprawled--what's this?
Exley: "Klein, what is it?"
Bar seats close--I gestured him over. Bob-feelers perking, out of earshot.
"Klein, what _is_ it?"
"You remember that pickup order you issued this morning?"
"Yes. Three men to be detained at Wilshire Station. You owe me an explanation on it, so start--"
"One of the men was an indie pusher named Steve Wenzel, and half an hour ago Tommy Kafesjian shotgunned him at one of those sanctioned after-hours pads in Watts. I was there, Four dead so far."
"_Explain this to me_."
"It all pertains to Junior Stemmons."
"_Explain it_."
"Fuck ... he's dirty past your wildest ... luck, he's shooting dope, he's shaking down pushers. He's a faggot, he's extorting queers in Fern Dell Park, I think he's leaking my 459 reports to you to the Kafesjians, he's driving around Niggertown like a crazy man, talking up how he's the new--"
Restraining me: "And you've been trying to take care of it yourself."
I pulled loose. "That's right. Junior bought Wenzel's stash, to quote unquote 'set himself up as the new Southside dope kingpin.' One of the other men on that pickup order, _who I questioned extensively about Stemmons and Wenzel_, snitched both of them to To
mmy K. I tailed Tommy down to Watts, and I was there when he took out Wenzel."
Pure patrician frost: "I'll send an LAD team down to seal those homicides. It was Wenzel and innocent bystanders?"
"Right."
"Then I'll make sure _his_ ID is kept away from the press, which will prevent that pickup order from coming back to haunt us."
"You don't want the Feds getting ahold of this, so you'd better drop a blanket on the press right now."
"Klein, you know that you can't approach--"
"I won't go near Tommy Kafesjian--yet--even though I saw him kill a man, even though you won't tell me why you're using me to operate that family."
No rebuke, no comeback.
"Where's Stemmons now?"
"I don't know"--KILL HIM, JACK.
"Do you think they'll. . ."
"I don't _think_ they'll clip him. They might put Dan Wilhite on it, but I don't think they'd clip an LAPD man."
"I want a detailed confidential report on this within twenty-four hours."
I crowded him--Bob G. watching. "_Nothing on paper_, are you fucking insane? And while I've got you, you should know that Junior's queer for Johnny Duhamel. Next time you see Dudley, tell him he's got a fruit heartthrob working for him."
Exley blinked--simple loose talk shivved him. "There must be a reason why you didn't tell me these things about Stemmons before."
"You don't inspire friendly talks."
"No, but you're much too smart to bypass authority when it can get you what you want."
"Then help me get a bank writ. Junior has some dope stashed in safedeposit boxes. Help me get it out before it embarrasses the Department."
"Altruistic of you to be so concerned, but you're the lawyer, bank writs are Fed business and Welles Noonan is the U.S. Attorney here."
"You could petition a Federal judge."
"No."
"No, _and?_"
"_No_, and right now I want you to go by that man Wenzel's place and toss it for evidence on his dealings with Junior Stemmons. If you find any, destroy it. _That_ would be a service to the Department."
"Chief, let _me_ take care of Stemmons."
"No. I'm going to call out every man in IAD. I'm going to wrap that Watts shootout up, find Stemmons and sequester him where the Feds can't find him."
Junior ratting Glenda--wide screen/VistaVision/3-D--
"Will you quash _anything_ incriminating that comes out on me and mine?"