"Did they tell you they were making their own movie?"

"No! They said 'strongarm spot'! That's all they said!"

"Who developed their film? Did someone on Mickey's movie crew help them out?"

"No! Frizell and his guys are f.u.c.king clowns! They don't know anybody except me!"

"Who's been running you?"

"No, Davey, please!"

I put the gun to the mattress--next to his head. "Who are THEY?"

"NO! I CAN'T! I WON'T!"

I pulled the trigger--_click_/_click_/_roar_--muzzle flash set his hair on fire.

This scream.

This huge hand snuffing flames out--stretching huge to quash that scream.

A whisper: "We'll stash him at one of your buildings. You do what you have to do, and I'll watchdog him. We'll work an angle on his money, and sooner or later he'll spill."

Smoke. Mattress debris settling.

Chick torched half-bald.

EVERYTHING SPINNING.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Back to L.A.--Pete's car solo-- pay-phone stops en route.

I broke it to Glenda: you're nailed for Dwight Gilette. She said, "Oh, s.h.i.t" and hatched a plan: she'd bus it to Fresno, hide out with an old carhop pal. Phone-tap panic hit me--I spieled her through the checkout procedure. Glenda pulled wires and checked diodes--no tap on her line.

Her goodbye: "We're too good-looking to lose."

Jack Woods--three no-answers--Meg ditto. A booth outside the Bureau, luck--Jack just walked in. I told him the Feds f.u.c.ked me: grab Meg, grab our money, GO.

"Okay, Dave"--no goodbye.

I ran up to Ad Vice. A clerk's slip on my desk: "Call Meg. Important."

My In box, my Out box--no new Herrick field reports. I checked my desk--the Kafesjian/Herrick case file was gone.

The phone rang-- "Yeah?"

"Boss, it's Riegle."

"Yeah?"

"Come on, you a.s.signed me to a stakeout, remember? The storage locker place, you told me-"

"Yeah, I remember. Is this routine, or something good?"

Miffed: "I got you twelve hours of DMV-certified squarejohns and one interesting bit."

"So tell me."

"_So_, a guy went in, then ran back to his car looking spooked. _So_, I got his plate number and checked him out, and I thought he looked sort of familiar. _So_, Richard Carlisle, you know him? He's LAPD, and I think he works for Dudley Smith."

Soft clicks.

"Boss, are you--"

I cradled the phone down, soft clicks building: d.i.c.k Carlisle--fur-job detective.

d.i.c.k Carlisle-Mike Breuning's partner.

1 1/51--Breuning dead-ends a juvie B&E. Obvious perps: Tommy K., Richie Herrick.

My Kafesjian/Herrick case file--missing.

I walked down the hall to Personnel. File request slips on the clerk's desk--for Division COs only.

I braced the clerk: Michael Breuning, Richard Carlisle-get me their folders. "Yes, sir," ten minutes, folders out--"not to leave the room."

Carlisle--Previous Employment--no clicks.

Breuning--movie click--Wilshire Film Processing, developing technician--'37--'39--pre-LAPD.

Click--soft, circ.u.mstantial.

1:00 A.M.--back to Ad Vice. Stray thoughts: Pete guarding Chick at my El Segundo vacant.

Chick: "THEY."

Afraid to say "Kafesjian."

Afraid to snitch they/THEM/who?

That message slip: "Call Meg. Important."

Circ.u.mstantial--p.r.i.c.kles up my short hairs.

Meg at Jack's--worth a try. Three rings--Jack, edgy: "Yes?"

"It's me."

Background noise: high heels tapping. Jack said, "She's here. She's taking it pretty well, maybe just a little bit nervous."

"You're leaving tomorrow?"

"Right. We'll hit the banks early, withdraw the cash and get bank drafts. Then we're going to drive down to Del Mar, open some new accounts and find a place. You want to talk to her?"

_Tap tap_--Meg pacing--high heels made her stocking seams bunch. "No. Tell her it's just goodbye for now, and ask her what the message was."

_Tap, tap_, low voices. Footsteps, Jack: "Meg said she's got a partial trace on that building in Lynwood."

"And?"

"She found some property evaluation reports in that storage bas.e.m.e.nt at the City Hall. What she's got is a 1937 report listing Phillip Herrick and a Dudley L. Smith as bidders on 4980 Spindrift. Hey, you think that's _the_ Dudley Smith?"

Sweaty hands--I dropped the phone.

Say it: Ed Exley vs. Dudley Smith.

CHAPTER FORTY

EMERGENCY COMMAND #'s--my desk card. Chief of Detectives (Home)--dial it.

Exley, 1:00 A.M. alert: "Yes? Who is this?"

"It's Klein. I just figured out you're working Dudley Smith."

"Come over now. My address is 432 South McCadden."

A trellised Tudor--lights on, the door ajar. I walked in uninvited.

A showroom living room, catalog perfect. Exley in a suit and knotted tie--2:00 f.u.c.king A.M.

"How did you find out?"

"I beat you to a bank writ and hit Junior Stemmons' vault boxes. He had notes on you operating Duhamel, and Reuben Ruiz filled in some blank spots on the fur heist. I found out that Dudley and Phillip Herrick went in on some property together back in '37. Herrick and J.C. Kafesjian came to L.A. a few years before, and I'm betting Dudley was the one who set J.C. up with the LAPD."

Standing there, arms crossed. "Continue."

"It fits. My Kafesjian and Herrick files were stolen, and Richie's prison records are missing. Dudley could have s.n.a.t.c.hed them both easily. He loves developing proteges, so you shoved Johnny Duhamel in his face."

"Continue."

Shock him: "I killed Johnny. Dudley doped me up, provoked me and filmed it. A f.u.c.king _movie_ exists. I think he's waiting to use me for something."

Exley "shock"--one neck vein pulsing. "When you said Duhamel was dead, I knew it had to be Dudley, but this film business surprises me."

"Surprise _me_. Give me your end of it."

He pulled chairs up. "Give me your take on Dudley Smith."

"He's brilliant and obsessed with order. He's cruel. It's occurred to me a few times that he's capable of anything."

"Beyond your wildest imaginings."

Scalp p.r.i.c.kles. "And?"

"And he's been trying to set himself up to control the L.A. rackets for years."

"_And?_"

"And, in 1950 he acquired some heroin stolen from a Mickey Cohen-- Jack Dragna truce meeting. He enlisted a chemist, who spent years developing compounds with it, in order to produce the drug more cheaply. His design was to accrue profit through selling it, to utilize it to keep Negro criminal elements sedated and then branch out into other rackets. His ultimate goal was something along the lines of 'contained' organized crime. He wanted to perpetuate illegal enterprises within specific vice zones, most notably South Los Angeles."

"Get to specifics."

Slow--tantalizing me: "In '53 Dudley became involved in an attempt to take over a p.o.r.nography racket. A meet was set up at the Nite Owl Coffee Shop. Dudley sent three men in with shotguns. A robbery was faked, and six people were killed. Dudley was instrumental in attempting to frame three Negro thugs for the murders. They escaped from jail and hid out, and as you know, I shot and killed them, along with the man who was hiding them."

The room swirled-- "The case was a.s.sumed closed. As you also know, a man came forth later and gave the men I killed a valid Nite Owl alibi, which prompted a reopening. I know you know most of the story, but let two facts suffice: the actual gunmen were killed during the reopened investigation, and they left not one shred of evidence pointing to Dudley Liam Smith."

Swirling--grab for threads: Dudley--s.m.u.t fiend?--MOVIE TIME. Sid Frizell shooting stag films in that courtyard--no connection to Smith.

"Dud's got new takeover plans going--strictly n.i.g.g.e.rtown."

"Bravo, Lieutenant."

"He's running Mickey Cohen?"

"Continue."