Puzzle pieces popped into place. I said, "Does Jack know you approached Woodard? Does he know that this sick s.h.i.t convinced you to leave him?"

Joi shook her head. "No. He thinks the marriage issue queered things, and wait, it gets sicker."

I sniffed Jack Webb's red roses. Joi shut the trash bin and smothered the smell.

"I overheard Jack and Parker talking a few times. Their plan was to shoot the scripts and air them on Dragnet, to soften the public up. Then they'd get up a public pet.i.tion to deport the b.u.ms and build the debtors' prisons and work farms. Now, dig this. Jack and Freddy Otash own a big construction firm under the table, and Parker's tight with that Cuban dictator, Fulgencio Batista. The plan was for the LAPD to sell the b.u.ms to Batista, so he could use them as slaves in his sugarcane fields, and Jack's construction firm would get the contract to build the debtors' prisons and work farms, and once they were built, the inmates would build the sets for all the movies Jack wanted to make. The only thing holding all this back was seed money. They needed a few quick million to get things going."

More pieces popped into place. I said, "The LAPD's tangling over money with the Sheriff's right now. Parker wants to get his hands on that seed dough."

Joi shivered. "William H. Parker is the devil with horns."

I said, "Freddy O's right up there."

"He is. He's got a big dirt dossier on all of Parker and the LAPD's enemies, and he's got this sick twist Harvey who does bug work and phone taps for him. Harvey's got this sick thing for me. He used to follow me around the set when I visited Jack."

Pieces PERCOLATINGLY popping into place-- "And Cal d.i.n.kins was--I mean is--tight with Jack and Freddy?"

"Yes. d.i.c.k, how do you know all--"

"And the LAPD dirt dossier is sort of like the big Hush-Hush master file that Freddy 0's supposedly got?"

"Yes, but it's all one file, and Parker and Otash decide who gets smeared, and it's all so ugly that I wish I didn't know about it, and . . . and. . . and. . ."

Joi ran out of breath and lit a cigarette. I said, "I need a tape recorder, and I need to get some license-plate information."

Joi squawked like a squad-car squawkbox. She popped out a parcel of penal-code numbers, Dragnet-style.

"I know how to do things like that. Jack taught me. And I've got a tape gizmo inside."

I pulled a pen from my pocket. Joi pulled some paper from her Girl Scout skirt. She leaned over. I used her back for a blotter and jotted down my vehicle dope.

She ran into the club. I bayed at the big bright moon.

Pieces PALPITATINGLY popping into place. A bonaroo blonde to rescue and redeem me.

Joi jumped into the alley. She handed me a tape rig and a scratch-pad sheet.

"I got the vehicle information and ran an employment crosscheck. The six registered owners are all members of the L.A. County Sheriff's Department."

I bayed at the moon. I grabbedJoi and kissed her. She kissed me back hard. I tasted tobacco and sweet vermouth on her tongue.

We broke the clinch. Joi said, "Be brave and stupid. I go for guys like that."

I drove back to Duarte. I hit the Larkcrest Motel at 5:33 A.M. The courtyard was deserted and dead quiet.

I hit Love Hut #9 and pulled my power pack off the mattress. I pulled the tape spool out of the pack and popped it in Joi's tape rig.

I sat on the bed. I hit the Play b.u.t.ton. I heard bits of the Wllshire-Ebell bash and my clash with the succubus. I heard tape hiss and f.u.c.k sounds and a real male and a fake female climax.

I heard voices.

Male voice: "Sweetie, that was . . . Jesus."

Female voice: "I could tell it's been a while for you."

Male voice: "Yeah, well. . . the old lady's the old lady, but I guess that doesn't count."

Female voice: "Look, it's been a while for me too. I've been out of circulation."

Male voice: "What do you mean? I thought you got bit roles at M-G-M and lived here in L.A."

Female voice: "Yeah, I do. It. . . was. . . well, just a figure of speech."

Male voice: "I'm glad Stompanato sets up these stag nights. We all work hard, and we need to blow off some steam from time to time."

Female voice: "You must be really busy. Didn't it say 'Captain' on that badge you showed me."

Male voice: "That's right, Sweetie. I'm a captain on the inspector's list."

Female voice: "Tell me what you do. I just love to hear men talk about their work."

Male voice: "Well, I run the West Hollywood Substation."

Female voice: "That's my old stomping grounds. I used to work at a call house on Havenhurst, and the West Hollywood deputies were good to all us girls."

Male voice: "Well, you know how it is. One hand washes the other."

Female voice: "I think I know what you mean, but tell me more."

Male voice: "Well, on the q.t., all the call houses in the county kick loose donations to the Sheriff's Annual Rodeo Fund, so the money gets laundered that way. See, Gene Biscailuz is a good guy. He's not like that p.r.i.c.k Bill Parker, and he knows a lot of deputies have drinking problems, so he shoots some of the rodeo money to a hospital where they can dry out. I've dried out there six or seven times myself. Pa.s.s me that bottle, will you, Sweetie?"

Female voice: "Tell me more."

I heard footsteps. I tossed the tap s.h.i.t out a back window. The door blew off its hinges and landed on my lap. Two men charged me and beat me blank with big black saps.

I woke up chained to a chair. I saw a dress rack and an arc light. I recognized the dark little room.

Trailer #36 on the Private h.e.l.l 36 set.

Fred O and Johnny Stompanato stomped in front of me. They tapped black leather saps on their knees. I heard voices outside.

Jack Webb and Ida Lupino.

My head hurt. I felt woozy. My teeth felt loose. I saw tooth marks on the two saps.

Otash said, "Why'd you ditch out on Viv Woodard?"

Stomp said, "Why did you steal her car?"

Otash said, "Where's the bug apparatus?"

Stomp said, "What did you and that Commie cooze discuss?"

I played it brave and stupid. I said, "Bah fungoo," with full Italian inflection.

Stomp sapped me. I spat two teeth on his Sy Devore suit. Fred O flashed a newspaper. I caught a headline: PROMINENT LAWYER A SUICIDE.

Otash dropped the paper. "Our vice guys caught Woodard with his pants down. He bailed out and drank some Drno. The kid they caught him with gave Hush-Hush a statement. The story's going on the May cover, unless you convince the widow to sit on everything she might know about a certain police agency."

I said, "f.u.c.k you, Fritz."

Otash sapped me. I spat two teeth on his Sy Devore suit. Otash sapped me again.

"Woodard's dead, d.i.c.k. You're not much use to us anymore, and you just might prove to be a liability. You killed a valuable buddy of ours, and brave and stupid guys like you are always better off dead."

"Brave" and "stupid" clicked with "dead" and cleared my clogged head. I screamed like a scared little baby.

Otash clamped down on my arms. Johnny Stomp rolled up my shirtsleeves. Harvey Glatman and the nut-ward guy popped in my periphery.

Somebody stuck a spike in my arm. I whooshed into ecstasy and darkness.

Light and dark came and went. Hypodermic needles slipped in and out of my arms.

I went wonderful places. I returned to Private h.e.l.l 36. I f.u.c.ked the mermaid from the Chicken of the Sea tuna can.

Harvey Glatman photographed my arms. Ida Lupino shot me up and shot my needle tracks with 3-D film. My bladder burst. Somebody said, "Oh, s.h.i.t."

I flew to Mars. The succubus siphoned my python and gave birth to trident-tailed twins. I apologized to her husband. He condemned my cowardice and deplored the damage I did. Howard dove for my dong. Linda Sidwell jumped on Jack Webb. Joi Lansing saw the Lupino loop and left me for the Schvantz.

I heard voices or ventriloquistic voodoo.

"We've got to move the master file tonight. Stash it someplace safe at your studio."

"Yeah, boss."

"Dump Contino someplace."

"Levant scares me."

"You never know what he knows."

"He's a hophead. Those guys c.r.a.p out all the time, and n.o.body thinks twice."

"Torture him and find out what he knows, then kill him."

I flew to Pluto. I asked Mickey Mouse why they named a planet after his dog.

"You've got to move him or move the f.u.c.king trailer. He's starting to smell, and our location permit expired."

I flew to Neptune. I flew back to Private h.e.l.l 36. Joe Friday said, "Hitch the trailer." A spike went in my arm. I flew to Venus. It looked like Las Vegas. I wondered how that could be so.

White.

White plastic. White Naugahyde. Maybe white leather. Tucked and tufted. Sticky. Stuck against my cheek.

White.

Stiff-starched. Mummifyingly tight.

I blinked. I yawned. I tried to rub my eyes. My hands didn't move. My arms didn't move. I had myself in a bear hug.

A big bug bounced my way. He bopped over white tucks and tufts. He got close. I tried to swat him. I couldn't break the bear hug.

I rolled away. I slid on sticky white webs. I saw white-webbed walls and a white-webbed ceiling.

My head hurt. My body throbbed. My white world wiggled and wobbled.

It hit me.

Padded cell/straitjacket/voices or ventriloquistic voodoo: "Torture him. "/ "Kill him. "/ "Dump Contino someplace."

I remembered Mars and the mermaid. I remembered my trident-tailed twins. I remembered the hypo hits that hopped me up on Big H. I diagnosed my dilemma.

I was hooked on Horse.

I shook. I shuddered. I shivered. I decided to probe my prognosis.

I rubbed my cheek against white rubber. I felt a sticky two-day stubble. I couldn't be a junkie yet.

I still hurt. I still throbbed. My white world still wiggled and wobbled. I was still mummified and dope-doctored.

I scanned my white world. I saw a small black square cut into one wall about a foot above floor level.

I rolled up to it. Heat hit me. I saw metal grates set six inches in. I tried to jam my a.s.s and my rear restraint straps up against them. I couldn't get close.

I rolled over and faced the wall. I bit at white plastic. I snapped three times and got a good tooth hold. I burrowed, bit and spat, burrowed, bit and spat, burrowed, bit and spat. I chewed a big hole around the grates and slammed my a.s.s against them.

Heat.

It warmed me and singed me and scorched my a.s.s. I bit the floor to staunch my pain and stifle incipient screams. I smelled toasted white cotton and burning flesh.

I slammed my a.s.s in tighter. The pain accelerated. I felt little a.s.s hairs sizzle. I bit down harder and almost choked on a chunk of white plastic.

My armiock went limp. My bear hug broke. I rolled away from the grates and rolled out of my straitjacket.

I stood up. I stumbled and fell. My circulation started to circulate. I crawled to a waffle-webbed white door.

I crouched. I rubbed my a.s.s. I counted the waffle webs on the walls to stay calm. The door opened at 4,806.