Downtown--R&J--a run for Steve Wenzel's rap sheet and mugshots. Wenzel--two dope falls, b.u.t.t-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.

m.u.f.fled shouts--the window gla.s.s hummed.

I squinted; J.C. kept waving those papers. He moved closer--f.u.c.k--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 f.u.c.king 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 c.o.o.n 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.

n.i.g.g.e.r 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 n.i.g.g.e.rs--hard to move.

Reefer smoke close by--lantern-jaw Steve Wenzel pa.s.sing a stick.

Geeks between us.

Tommy behind him, hands in his coat.

Hands out--a sawed-off pump getting loose.

I yelled-- Some n.i.g.g.e.r 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, gla.s.s 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."

Sh.e.l.l 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_."

"f.u.c.k ... he's dirty past your wildest ... luck, he's shooting dope, he's shaking down pushers. He's a f.a.ggot, 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 n.i.g.g.e.rtown 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 Tommy 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 f.u.c.king 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 bypa.s.s 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 embarra.s.ses 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 pet.i.tion 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?"

"Yes. But don't cloak your self-serving motives in respect for the Department. Given what you are, it's pitifully transparent."

Change-up: "Has IAD been tailing me sporadically since the Johnson thing?"

"No. If you've been under surveillance, it's the Feds. I forgave you for _that_ murder, remember?"

X-ray eyes--the f.u.c.k made me blink.

"Clean yourself up, Lieutenant. You smell like blood."

I cruised by Wenzel's pad--J.C.'s car was parked outside. Call it: potential Tommy links snipped quick.

Sh.e.l.l-shock images: The Feds bag Junior live. He plea bargains: queer exposure quashed in exchange for Dave Klein nailed. Junior, evidence-prof savant--all my killings, all my payoffs itemized.