f.u.c.ked up blurry vision--I drew down, aimed, fired. Two shots--the doorjamb splintered; one more-wood sc.r.a.ps exploding.

The man ran.

I ran out aiming.

Screams, shouts.

Zigzags--my man bucking traffic. I fired running--two shots went wide. Aiming straight--a clear shot--this jolt: if you kill him, you won't know WHY?

Bolting traffic, sighting in on this white head bobbing. Horns, brakes--black faces on the sidewalk, my white speck disappearing.

I tripped, stumbled, ran. Losing him--black all around me.

Shouts.

Black faces scared.

My reflection in a window: this terrified geek.

I slowed down. Another window--black faces--follow their eyes: A curbside roust--Feds and n.i.g.g.e.rs. Welles Noonan, Will Shipstad, FBI muscle.

Grabbed, shoved--pinned to a doorway. Rabbit-punched--I dropped my piece.

Pinned--gray suit Fed gorillas. Welles Noonan sucker-punched me: spit in my face. His punch line: "That's for Sanderline Johnson."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Moonglow--early for Lester. Jukebox tunes killed time.

Noonan, backed by music--replays still smelling his spittle: Those Feds--cut-rate revenge. Back to Nat's Nest--prowl cars responding to shots. I chased them off and bagged evidence: records, skin mags, tape rig, tape.

Calls next: Orders to Ray Pinker: dust both rooms, bring a sketch man--make the clerk face-detail the peeper. Mugshot checks later--pray for good eyes.

Jack Woods, glad tidings: he spotted Junior, tailed him for two hours and lost him. Busy Junior--three mndy pusher shakedowns-- Jack glommed descriptions and plate numbers.

Jack, verbatim: "He looked fried to the gills and f.u.c.king insane. I checked his car out while he stopped for cigarettes. You know what I saw in the backseat? A hypodermic kit, six empty tuna-fish cans and three sawed-off shotguns. I don't know what he's got on you, but in my opinion you should clip him."

The jukebox, unmistakable--Lester Lake's "Harbor Lights"--and not on my dime.

Bingo--Lester himself, oozing fear. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Klein."

"Sit down. Tell me about it."

"Tell you about what?"

"The look on your face and why you played that G.o.dd.a.m.n song."

Sitting down: "Just rea.s.surance. Good to know Uncle Mickey keeps my tune in his Wurlitzers."

"Mickey should pull his boxes before the Feds pull him. What is it? I haven't seen you this spooked since the Harry Cohn thing."

"Mr. Klein, you know a couple of Mr. Smith's boys named Sergeant Breuning an' Sergeant Carlisle?"

"What about them?"

"Well, they workin' overtime at the Seven-Seven."

"Come on, get to it."

Breathless: "They goin' aroun' trying' to solve colored-on-colored killins, word is to forestall all this potential good Federal investigation publicity. You remember you ask me 'bout a maryjane pusher named Wardell Knox? You remember I tol' you he got hisself killed by person or persons unknown?"

Tommy K. snitched Knox to Narco--Dan Wilhite told Junior. "I remember."

"Then you should remember I tol' you ol' Wardell was a c.u.n.thound with a million f.u.c.kin' enemies. He was f.u.c.kin' a million different ladies, includin' this high-yellow cooze Tilly Hopewell that I was also climbin'. Mr. Klein, I heard them Mr. Smith boys been lookin' for me on account of some bogus rumor that I snuffed f.u.c.kin' Wardell, and it looks to me like they be measurin' me for a quick statistic. Now you want skinny on the f.u.c.kin' Kafesjians and their f.u.c.kin' known a.s.sociates, so I got a real kneeslapper for you, which is that I just recently heard that crazy Tommy Kafesjian popped ol' Wardell roun' September, some kind of f.u.c.kin' dope or s.e.x grievance, 'cause he was also climbin' that fine Tilly Hopewell on occasion."

Breathless/heaving.

"Look, I'll talk to Breuning and Carlisle. They'll lay off you."

"Yeah, maybe thas' true, 'cause ol' slumlord Dave Klein knows the right people. But Mr. Smith, he hates the colored man. An' I don' see you people pinnin' the Wardell Knox job on Tommy the K., your righteous motherf.u.c.kin' informant."

"So do you want to change the world or waltz on this thing?"

"I wants you to give me an extra month's free rent for all the fine skinny I gots on the f.u.c.kin' Kafesjian family."

"Harbor Lights" snapped on again. Lester: "And on that note, I heard the daughter's a righteous semipro hooker. I heard Tommy and J.C. beat up Mama Kafesjian and her like batting practice. I heard Madge--that's Mama--used to have a thing goin' with Abe Voldrich, he's this head guy in their dope operation, an' he runs one of their dry-cleaning joints on the side. I heard Voldrich dries up big bushels of mary jane in them big dryers they got at their plants. I heard the way they keep things copacetic with rival pushers is kickbacks from little Mickey Mouse independents that they tolerates, but no righteous organizations would ever try to infringe on the Southside, 'cause they knows the LAPD would come down hard just to keep them Armenian f.u.c.ks happy. I heard the only humps they snitch to you people is the indies who won't kick back no operatin' tribute. I heard the family is f.u.c.kin' skin tight, even though they don't treat each other with so much f.u.c.kin' respect. I heard that outside of Voldrich an' this colored trim Tommy the K. goes for, the family only gots employees and customers, not no f.u.c.kin' friends. I heard Tommy used to be pals with some white kid named Richie, I don't know no last name, but I heard they blew these punk square horns together, like they pretended they had talent. That crazy-a.s.s burglary you told me about-- them chopped-up watchdogs an' stolen silverware an' s.h.i.t--l heard jacks.h.i.t 'bout that. I also heard you thinkin' 'bout raisin' the rent in my buildin', so I--"

Cut him off: "What about Tommy f.u.c.king Lucille?"

"Say what? I didn' hear nothin' like that. I said 'skin tight,' not f.u.c.kin' skin deep."

"What about this Richie guy?"

"s.h.i.t, I tol' you what I heard, no more, no less. You want me-"

"Keep asking around about him. He might connect to this peeper guy I've been chasing."

"Yeah, you mentioned that Peepin' Tom motherf.u.c.ker, an' I knows how to improvise off what a man tells me. So I been askin' aroun' 'bout that, an' I ain't heard nothin'. Now, 'bout that rent increase-"

"Ask around if the Kafesjians have been looking for a peeper themselves. I have a hunch that they know who the burglar is."

"An' I got a hunch slumlord Dave Klein gonna raise my rent."

"No, and I'll carry you to January. If Jack Woods comes around to collect, call me."

"What about Mr. Smith's boys in hot pursuit of ol' Lester?"

"I'll take care of it. Do you know Tilly Hopewell's address?"

"Can my people dance? Have I strapped on at that love shack more than a few times myself?"

"Lester--"

"8491 South Trinity, apartment 406. Say, where you goin'?"

"The fights."

"Moore and Ruiz?"

"That's right."

"Bet on the Mex. I used to climb Stevie Moore's sister, an' she tol' me Stevie couldn't take it to the breadbasket."

I badged in ringside--late.

The sixth-round break-card girls strutting. Spectator chants: "Dodgers, no! Ruiz must go!" Boos, shouts: pachucos vs. Commies.

The bell-- Rockabye Reuben circling; Moore popping right-hand leads. Mid-ring clinch--Ruiz loose, the spook winded.

"Break! Break!"--the ref in and out.

Moore stalking slow--elbows up, open downstairs. Headhunter Reuben--near-miss hooks moving back.

Lazy Reuben, bored Reuben.

A snap guess: tank job.

Moore-no steam, no juice. Ruiz--lazy hooks, lazy right-hand leads.

Moore swarming and sucking in air; Reuben eating blockable shots-- the c.o.o.n wide open.

Ruiz--a lazy left hook.

Moore catching wind, his guard low.

Bullseye--the wrong man went down.

Pachuco cheers.

Pinko boos.

Reuben--this oh-f.u.c.k look--stalling the count. Dawdle time--he oozed over to a neutral corner slow.

Six, seven, eight--Moore up, wobbly.

Ruiz dawdling center ring. Moore backing up--shot to s.h.i.t. Bomb range, Reuben bombs--wild misses. Ten, twelve, fourteen--real air whizzers.

Ruiz fake-gasping; fake-weary arms flopping dead.

Moore threw a bolo shot.

Rockabye Reuben staggered.

Moore-left/right bolos.

Reuben hit the canvas--eyes rolling, fake out. Seven, eight, nine, ten-- Moore kissed Sammy Davis, Jr., at ringside.

Bleacher attack--get the Reds--spics tossing p.i.s.s-filled beer cups. Placard shields--no help--the pachucos moved in swinging bike chains.

I hit an exit--coffee down the block, let things chill. Twenty minutes, back over--s.h.i.tloads of prowl cars and Commies shackled up.

Back in--follow the liniment stench. Dressing rooms, Ruiz alone-- wolfing a taco plate.

"Bravo, Reuben. The best tank job I've ever seen."

"Hey, and the riot wasn't so bad neither. Hey, Lieutenant, what did those back-pedal hooks tell you?"

I shut the door--noise down the hall--newsmen and Moore. "That you know how to entertain the chosen few."

Chugging beer: "I hope Hogan Kid Ba.s.sey saw the fight, 'cause the deal was Moore gets the bantam elimination shot and I move up to the feathers and fight him. I'll kick his a.s.s, too. Hey, Lieutenant, we ain't talked since that night Sanderline jumped."

"Call me Dave."

"Hey, Lieutenant, a n.i.g.g.e.r and a Mexican jump out a six-story window the same time. Who hits the ground first?"

"I've heard it, but tell me anyway."

"The n.i.g.g.e.r, 'cause the Mexican's got to stop on the way down and spray '_Ramon y Kiki por vida_' on the wall."

Ha, ha--polite.

"So, Lieutenant, I know you saw Will Shipstad watchd.o.g.g.i.ng me at the ravine. Let me rea.s.sure you and Mr. Gallaudet that I'm grateful for this what you call public-relations gig you got me, 'specially since it got my G.o.dd.a.m.n brother off another GTA bounce. So, yeah, I'm a Fed witness again, but Noonan just wants me to testify on some stale-bread bookie stuff, and I'd never snitch Mickey C. or your buddy Jack Woods."

"I always figured you knew how to play."

"You mean play to the chosen few?"