"Yeah. Business is business, so you f.u.c.k your own people to get next to the DA."

Smiling nice: "I got a trouble-p.r.o.ne family, so I gotta figure they're more important than Mexicans in general. Hey, I kiss a little a.s.s, so that what you call them--slumlords?--like you and your sister can stay fat. You know, _Dave_, the f.u.c.kin' Bureau of Land and Way's been checking out these dumps in Lynwood. There's supposed to be some what you call converted wh.o.r.ehouse that these hard boys want to dump my poor evicted _hermanos_ into, so maybe you and your G.o.dd.a.m.n slumlord sister can buy in on the ground floor."

Brains--f.u.c.k his bravado. "You know a lot about me."

"Hey, Dave 'the Enforcer' Klein, people talk about you."

Change-up: "Is Johnny Duhamel queer?"

"Are you nuts? He is the s.n.a.t.c.h hound to end all s.n.a.t.c.h hounds."

"Seen him lately?"

"We keep in touch. Why?"

"Just checking up. He's on the Hurwitz fur case, and it's a big a.s.signment for an inexperienced officer. Has he talked to you about it?"

Head shakes--half-a.s.s wary. "No. Mostly he talks about this Mobster Squad job he's got."

"Anything specific?"

"No, he said he's not supposed to talk about it. Hey, why you pumping me?"

"Why did you look so sad all of a sudden?"

Hooks, jabs--air whizzed. "I saw Johnny maybe a week ago. He said he'd been doing this bad stuff. He didn't, how you say, elaborate, but he said he needed a penance beating. We put on gloves, and he let me punch him around. I remember he had these what you call blisters on his hands."

Rubber-hose work--Johnny probably hates it. "Remember Sergeant Stemmons, Reuben?"

"Sure, your partner at the hotel. Nice haircut, but a punk if you ask me."

"Have you seen him?"

"No."

"Has Johnny mentioned him to you?"

"No. Hey, what's this Johnny routine?"

I smiled. "Just routine."

"Sure, subtle guy. Hey, what do you get when you cross a Mexican and a n.i.g.g.e.r?"

"I don't know."

"A thief who's too lazy to steal!"

"That's a riot."

Fondling a Schlitz: "You ain't laughing so hard, and I can tell you're thinking: at the ravine Rockabye Reuben said we should talk."

"So talk."

Pure pachuco--he bit off the bottle cap and guzzled. "I heard Noonan talking to Will Shipstad about you. He hates you like a G.o.dd.a.m.n dog. He thinks you pushed Johnson out the window and f.u.c.ked up some guy named Morton Diskant. He tried to get me to say I heard you toss Johnson, and he said he's gonna take you down."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Forensics--at my living room desk.

Dust the magazines, tape rig, spools--smudges and four identical latents. I rolled my own prints to compare--it confirmed my own fumble-hand f.u.c.k-up.

The phone rang-- "Yes?"

"Ray Pinker, Dave."

"You're finished?"

"Finished is right. First, no viable suspect latents, and we dusted every touch surface in both rooms. We took elimination sets off the clerk, who's also the owner, the janitor and the chambermaid, all Negroes. We got _their_ prints in the rooms and nothing else."

"f.u.c.k."

"Succinctly put. We also bagged the male clothing and tested some s.e.m.e.n-stained shorts. It's O positive again, with the same cell breakdown--your burglar or whatever is quite a motel hopper."

"s.h.i.t."

"Succinct, but we had better luck on the sketch reconstruction. The clerk and the artist worked up a portrait, and it's waiting for you at the Bureau. Now--"

"What about mug shots? Did you tell the clerk we'll need him for a viewing?"

Ray sighed--half p.i.s.sed. "Dave, the man took off for Fresno. He implied that your behavior disturbed him. I offered him an LAPD reimburs.e.m.e.nt for the door you shot out, but he said it wouldn't cover the aggravation. He also said don't go looking for him, because he is gone, no forwarding. I didn't press for him to stay, because he said he'd complain about that door you destroyed."

"s.h.i.t. Ray, did you check--"

"Dave, I'm way ahead of you. I asked the other employees if they had seen the tenant of that room. They both said no, and I believed them."

s.h.i.t. f.u.c.k.

Half pouty: "Lots of trouble for a one-shot 459, Dave."

"Yeah, just don't ask me why."

_Click_--my ear stung.

Go, keep dusting: Smudges off the alb.u.m covers--grooved records themselves wouldn't take prints. Champ Dineen on my hi-fi: _Sooo Slow Moods, The Champ Plays the Duke_.

Background music--I skimmed Transom.

Piano/sax/ba.s.s--soft. Cheesecake pix, innuendo: blond siren M.M. craves she-man R.H.--she'll do anything to turn him around. Nympho J.M.--gigantically endowed--seeks double-digit males at Easton's Gym. Ten inches and up, please--J.M. packs a ruler to make sure. Recent conquests: B-movie hulk F.T; gagster M.B.; laconic cowboy star G.C.

Breathy sax, heartbeat ba.s.s.

Stories--traveling-salesman gems. Pix: big-t.i.t slatterns drooping out of lingerie. Piano trills--gorgeous.

One issue down, Dineen percolating. _Transom_, June '58: M.M. and baseball M.M. hot--her J.D.M. torch pushed her toward hitters. The sw.a.n.k Plaza Hotel--ten-day/ten-night homestand.

Alto sax riffs--Glenda/Lucille/Meg, swirling.

Ads: d.i.c.k enlargers, home law school. "Mood Indigo" a Ia Dineen--low bra.s.s.

A daddy/daughter story--a straight-dialogue intro. Photos: this s.k.a.n.k brunette, bikini-clad.

"Well .. . you look like my daddy."

"Look? Well, yeah, I'm old enough. I guess a game is a game, right? I can be the daddy because I fit the part."

"Well, like the song says, 'My heart belongs to Daddy.'"

Skim the text: Orphan Loretta l.u.s.ts for a daddy. The evil Terry deflowered her--she crawls for him, she hates it. She sells herself to older men--a preacher kills her. Accompanying pix: the s.k.a.n.k sash-cord-strangled.

Champ Dineen roaring--think it through: Loretta equals Lucille; Terry equals Tommy. "Orphan" Loretta--non sequitur. Lucille l.u.s.ts for Daddy J.C.--hard to buy her hot for that greasy s.h.i.tbird.

Call the dialogue voyeured.

Call the peeper "author."

_Transom_, July '58--strictly movie-star raunch. Check the masthead--a Valley address--hit it tomorrow.

The phone rang--cut the volume--catch it.

"Glen--"

"Yes. Are you psychic or just hoping?"

"I don't know, maybe both. Look, I'll come up to the set."

"No. Sid Frizell's shooting some night scenes."

"We'll go to a hotel. We can't use your place or my place--it's too risky."

_That_ laugh. "I read it in the _Times_ today. Howard Hughes and his entourage left for Chicago for some Defense Department meeting. David, the Hollywood Hills 'actress domicile' is available, and I have a key."

Past midnight--call it safe. "Half an hour?"

"Yes. Miss you."

I put the phone down and cranked the volume. Ellington/Dineen-- "Cottontail." Memory lane--'42--the Marine Corps. Meg--that tune-- dancing at the El Cortez Sky Room.

Raw now--sixteen years gone bad. The phone right there--do it.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"I'm glad I got you, but I figured you'd be out after Stemmons."

"I had to get some sleep. Look, slavedriver--"

"Kill him, Jack."

"Okay by me. Ten?"

"Ten. Clip him and buy me some time."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The hills--a big Spanish off Mulholland.

Lights on, Glenda's car out front. Twenty-odd rooms-- f.u.c.k pad supreme.

I parked, beams on a '55 Chevy. Bad familiar: Harold John Miciak's.

Be sure, tweak the high beams--Hughes Aircraft decals on the back fender.

Late-night quiet--big dark houses, just one lit.

I got out and listened. Voices--his, hers--m.u.f.fled low.

Up, try the front door--locked. Voices--his edgy, hers calm. Circuit the house, listen: Miciak:"... you could do worse. Look, you come across for me, you pretend it's Klein. I seen him come see you in Griffith Park, and as far as that goes, you can still give it to him--I'm not possessive and I got no partners. Mr. Hughes, he's never gonna know, just you come across for me and get that money I want from Klein. I know he's got it, 'cause he's connected with some mob guys. Mr. Hughes, he told me so hisself."

Glenda: "How do I know there's just you?"