Go--toss that insane hovel one more time-- I drove over, unlocked six padlocks to get in. Lights on, new horror: Shotgun sh.e.l.ls in the oven.

Cherry bombs crammed down a toaster.

Razor blades choking a heat duct.

Do it: Bag the spy camera.

Bag the gibberish notes.

Dump the furniture again--four chairs in--loose st.i.tching. Rip, reach-- Cash tucked away--$56.

Gilette 187 carbons--Homicide-pilfered.

A new Glenda/Klein report--more detail:

PRIOR TO HER FATAL SHOOTING AND STABBING OF GILETTE, MISS BLEDSOE FIRED TWO NON-WOUNDING SHOTS WITH THE AFOREMENTIONED .32 REVOLVER THAT SHE HAD PURCHASED FROM GEORGE AINGE. (SEE BALLISTICS REPORT -- 114-55 ATTACHED TO THE HIGHLAND PARK SQUAD CASE FILE FOR DETAILS ON THE EXPENDED ROUNDS TAKEN FROM GILETTE'S BODY AND FOUND EMBEDDED IN HIS LIVING ROOM WALLS.) THAT REVOLVER IS NOW SAFE IN MY POSSESSION, LEFT WITH ME BY AINGE PRIOR TO HIS DEPARTURE FROM LOS ANGELES. I HAVE TEST FIRED SIX ROUNDS FROM IT, AND BALLISTICS a.n.a.lYSIS OF THE ROUNDS INDICATES THAT THEY ARE IDENTICAL TO THE ROUNDS TAKEN FROM BOTH GILETTE'S BODY AND THE GILETTE PREMISES. IT IS PLASTIC WRAPPED AND THE SMOOTH PEARL GRIPS SUSTAINED RIGHT AND LEFT THUMB PRINTS WHICH MATCH TO ELEVEN COMPARISON POINTS THE PRINTS ON FILE FROM GLENDA BLEDSOE'S 1946 JUVENILE SHOPLIFTING ARREST

I ripped it up, flushed it.

"Safe"/"wrapped"/powdered = safety-box-stashed.

I tapped the walls--no hollow spots.

I unzipped cushions--mousetraps set with Cheez Whiz snapped at me.

I yanked a loose floorboard--an electric dashboard Jesus glowed up iridescent.

I laughed-- 99% CRAAAZY Junior--1% sane. Sane evidence-methodical, logical, concise, succinct, plausible--a.s.sume death provisions rigged--willing the concise, logical, plausible, succinct evidence to its most logical, potentially vindictive heir: Howard f.u.c.king Hughes.

Laughing--hard to breathe--Rice Krispies popping on the floor. Voices next door--why's that nice Mr. Stemmons laughing so CRAAAZY?

I grabbed the phone, fumbled it, dialed.

"h.e.l.lo? Dav--"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Where are you? What happened with Doug?"

Ancelet--skewed time-ancient stuff. "I'll tell you when I see you."

"Then come over now."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I'm waiting someplace. There's an off chance the guy who lives here might show up."

"Then leave him a note and have him call you at my place."

Don't laugh. "I can't."

"You sound very strange."

"I'll tell you about it when I see you."

Silence--line crackle--Miciak hovered.

"David, do you. . ."

"Don't say his name, and if it hasn't been in the papers or on TV, figure no."

"And when it's yes, I know what to do."

"You always know what to do."

"And you'll always push me for where I learned it."

"I'm a detective."

"No, you're this man who implements things. And everything about me can't be explained."

"But I'll--"

"But you'll always try--so come over and try now."

"I can't. Glenda, tell me things. Distract me."

Hear it--match flare, exhale. "Well, Herman Gerstein came by the set today and raised h.e.l.l with Mickey. It seems that he's seen rushes, and he's afraid Sid Frizell's making the movie too gory. Also, quote, 'This vampire incest routine might get that G.o.dd.a.m.n goyishe Legion of Decency on our a.s.s,' unquote. To top that off, Touch told me that Rock gave him the crabs, and Sid's been screening outtakes from this stag film he's shooting down in Lynwood. Not the most attractive performers, but the crew seemed to enjoy it."

I checked a window-dawn coming. "I should keep this line open."

"Tonight then?"

"I'll call you."

"Be careful."

"Always."

I hung up, grabbed a chair and drifted someplace. Vampires there: Tommy, Pops chasing Meg with his fly down. Blank sleep, hands on me-- "Yeah, he's the boss at Ad Vice."

"Lieutenant, wake up."

Up thrashing.

Two prototype IA men, guns out.

"Sir, Junior Stemmons is dead."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Code 3 to Bido Lito's-- two cars--no explanation. Spooked: Jack said he'd lose the corpse.

Side streets, there: Reporters, prowl cars, Plymouths--Feds snapping zoom-lens pix. Civilians milling around--no crowd ropes yet.

I parked and followed a morgue team. Feds talking-duck by, listen: "...and their pictures weren't in our Intelligence files. These were unknown, most likely out-of-town hoods seen servicing the coin machines here and at a dozen other Southside locations."

"Frank--"

"Please, just listen. Yesterday, Noonan got an anonymous tip on a garage down here. We hit it, and we found slot machines up the wazoo. _But_--it was just a separate garage on a dirty little street, and we can't trace the ownership to save our lives."

Slot intrigue--f.u.c.k it-- I ran inside. Heavy bra.s.s: Exley, Dudley Smith, Inspector George Stemmons, Sr. Lab men swarming, d.i.c.k Carlisle, Mike Breuning.

Voodoo eyes strafed me--Lester Lake's savior. They flipped stiff fingers surrept.i.tious--Breuning kissed his.

Flashbulb pops. Stemmons shouting, close to tears.

Morgue jockeys pushed a gurney in. I chased them--past the bandstand, back hallways--a slot room.

f.u.c.k-- Junior dead--fetal-curled on the floor.

Junkie-tied--an arm tourniquet--rigor-locked teeth on a sash cord.

A spike bent off a mainline; bulging eyes. Short sleeves--needle tracks and vein scars exposed.

A bluesuit, gawking: "I checked his pockets. He had a key to the front door on him."

A lab man: "The janitor got here early and found him. Jesus, this kind of grief right in the middle of the Fed thing."

The coroner, mind reader: "It's either a legitimate OD or a very skillful hotshot. Those marks are proof of the man's addiction. My G.o.d, a Los Angeles police officer."

Jack Woods--never.

Ray Pinker nudged me. "Dave, Chief Exley wants to see you out back."

I double-timed it out to the lot. Exley was standing by Junior's car. "Interpret this."

"Interpret s.h.i.t. It's real or it's the Kafesjians."

"IA said they found you asleep at Stemmons' apartment."

"That's right."

"What were you doing there?"

"I drove over to Steve Wenzel's place and saw J.C.'s car in front. Junior's apartment was close, and I thought he might show up. What happened with Watts?"

"Five dead, and no eyewitnesses. It was dark when Tommy Kafesjian fired, is that correct?"

"Yeah, he had some n.i.g.g.e.r kill the lights. Did you--"

"Wenzel was the only white victim, and the state of his body precluded an early ID. Apparently, the shotgun rounds provoked a reaction from a number of independently armed men inside the club. Bob Gallaudet and I went down there and mollified the press. We told them all the victims were Negroes and promised them pa.s.ses to the Chavez Ravine evictions if they soft-pedaled the story. Of course they agreed."

"Yeah, but you can bet the Feds were monitoring our radio calls."

"They were there taking pictures, but so far as they know it was just some sort of glorified Negro altercation."

"And since they're charging us with giving shine killings the go-by, you sent a dozen Homicide d.i.c.ks over for appearances."

"Correct, and Bob and I spoke to an influential Negro minister. He has political aspirations, and he promised to talk to the victims' loved ones. While he's at it, he's going to urge them not to talk to the Feds."

Junior's car--grime-streaked windows, filthy. "What did you find here?"

"Narcotics, canned food and h.o.m.os.e.xual literature. IA's impounding it."

Noise inside the club. Check the window: Stemmons, Sr., kicking chairs. "What about Junior?"

"We'll tell the press it was accidental death. IA will investigate, very discreetly."

"And steer clear of the Kafesjians."

"They'll be dealt with in time. Do you think Narco could have done this?"

Stemmons sobbing.

"Klein--"

"No. Sure, they could rig a hotshot, but I don't think it's them. I'm leaning toward a legit OD."