"You think he'll tumble?"

"I would, but then I'm a pig for it."

"Like your boss?"

"You can say his name-Howard Hughes. He's a busy guy--like you."

"He was a dumb f.u.c.k. If he didn't jump, I probably would have pushed him."

Pete tapped the dashboard--huge hands--they beat a drunk-tank brawler dead. The L.A. Sheriff's canned him; Howard Hughes found a soulmate.

"You been busy?"

"Sort of. I collect dope for _Hush-Hush_, I keep Mr. Hughes out of _Hush-Hush_. People try to sue _Hush-Hush_, I convince them otherwise. I scout p.u.s.s.y for Mr. Hughes, I listen to Mr. Hughes talk this crazy s.h.i.t about airplanes. Right now Mr. Hughes has got me tailing this actress who jilted him. Dig this: this cooze blows out of Mr. Hughes' number-one f.u.c.k pad, with a three-yard-a-week contract to boot, all to act in some horror cheapie. Mr. Hughes has got her signed to a seven-year slave contract, and he wants to get it violated on a morality clause. Can you feature this p.u.s.s.y pig preaching morality?"

"Yeah, and you love it because you're-"

"Because I'm a pig for the life, like you."

I laughed, yawned. "This could go on all night."

Pete lit a cigarette. "No, La Verne's impetuous. She'll get bored and honk the Commie's shvantz. Nice kid. She actually helped Turentine set up his microphones."

"How's Freddy doing?"

"He's busy. Tonight he compromises this Commie, next week he wires some f.a.g bathhouse for _Hush-Hush_. The trouble with Freddy T is he's a booze pig. He's got all these drunk-driving beefs, so the last time the judge stuck him with this service job teaching electronics to the inmates up at Chino. Klein, look."

La Verne at the bar door--two thumbs up. Pete signaled back. "That means Diskant's meeting her after he ditches his friends. See that blue Chevy, that's hers."

I pulled out--La Verne in front--right turns on Wilshire. Straight west--Sweetzer, north, the Strip. Curvy side streets, up into the hills--La Verne stopped by a stucco four-flat.

Ugly: floodlights, _pink_ stucco.

I parked a s.p.a.ce back--room for the Red.

La Verne wiggled up to her door. Pete sent out love taps on my siren.

Foyer lights on and off. Window lights on--the downstairs-left apartment. Party noise: the pad across from La Verne's.

Pete stretched. "You think Diskant's got the smarts to make this for an unmarked?"

La Verne opened her curtains, stripped to peignoir and garters. "No, he's only got one thing on his mind."

"You're right, 'cause he's a pig for it. I say one hour or less."

"Twenty says fifteen minutes."

"You're on."

We settled in, eyes on that window. Lull time, party noise: show tunes, voices. Bingo-a tan Ford. Pete said, "Forty-one minutes."

I slid him twenty. Diskant walked up, hit the door, buzzed. La Verne, window framed: b.u.mps and grinds.

Pete howled.

Diskant walked in.

Ten minutes ticking by slow.., lights off at La Verne's love shack. Hold for the photo man's signal: flashbulb pops out that front window.

Fifteen minutes ... twenty... twenty-five--a Sheriff's unit doubleparking.

Pete nudged me. "f.u.c.k. That party. 116.84 California Penal Code, Unlawfully Loud a.s.sembly. _f.u.c.k_."

Two deputies walking. Nightstick raps on the party-pad window.

No response.

"Klein, this is not f.u.c.king good."

_Rap rap rap_--La Verne's front window. Flashbulb pops--the bedroom window--big-time-bad-news improvisation.

Screams--our Commie hooker.

The deputies kicked the foyer door down--I chased the f.u.c.kers, badge out-- Across the lawn, up the steps. Topsy-turvy glimpses: the photo man dropping out a window sans camera. Through the lobby--party kids mingling--La Verne's door snapped clean. I pushed through, punks tossing drinks in the face.

"Police! Police officer!"

I jumped the doorway dripping Scotch--a deputy caught me. My badge in his face: "Intelligence Division! LAPD!"

The dips.h.i.t just gawked me. Bedroom shrieks-- I ran in-- Diskant and La Verne floor-tumbling--naked, flailing, gouging. A camera on the bed; a dumbf.u.c.k shouting: "Hey! You two stop that! We're the Sheriff's!"

Pete ran in--Dumbf.u.c.k grinned familiar-old-deputy-acquaintance recognition. Fast Pete: he hustled the clown out quicksville. La Verne vs. the pinko: kicks, sissy punches.

The camera on the bed: grab it, pop the film out, seal it. Hit the b.u.t.ton--flashbulb light in Diskant's eyes.

One blind Commie--La Verne tore free. I kicked him and punched him--he yelped, blinked and focused--ON THE FILM.

Shakedown: "This was supposed to be some kind of setup, but those policemen broke it up. You were heading for the scandal sheets, something like 'Red Politician Blah Blah Blah.' You come across and that won't happen, because I sure would hate for your wife to see this film. Now, are you sure you want to be a city councilman?"

Sobs.

Bra.s.s knucks on. "Are you sure?"

More sobs.

Kidney shots--my knucks tore flab.

"_Are you sure?_"

Beet-red bawling: "Please don't hurt me!"

Two more shots--Diskant belched foam.

"You drop out tomorrow. Now say yes, because I don't like this."

"Y-yes p-p-p--"

f.u.c.ked-up s.h.i.tty stuff--I hit the living room quashing shakes. No cops, La Verne draped in a sheet.

Pete, dangling bug mikes: "I took care of the deputies, and Van Meter called on your two-way. You're supposed to meet Exley at the Bureau right now."

Downtown. Exley at his desk.

I pulled a chair up, slid him the film. "He's pulling out, so we won't have to go to _Hush-Hush_."

"Did you enjoy the work?"

"Did you enjoy shooting those n.i.g.g.e.rs?"

"The public has no idea what justice costs the men who perform it."

"Which means?"

"Which means thank you."

"Which means I have a favor coming."

"You've been given one already, but ask anyway."

"The fur robbery. Maybe it's insurance fraud, maybe it's not. Either way, I want to work cases."

"No, I told you it's Dudley Smith's a.s.signment."

"Yeah, you and Dud are such good buddies. And what's with this 'already' favor?"

"Besides no reprimand or interdepartmental charges on Sanderline Johnson?"

"Chief, come on."

"I destroyed the autopsy report on Johnson. The coroner noted a non sequitur bruise with imbedded paint fragments on his forehead, as if he banged his head against a windowsill before he jumped. I'm not saying that you're culpable; but other people, notably Welles Noonan, might. I had the file destroyed. And I have a case for you. I'm detaching you from Ad Vice immediately to start working on it."

Weak knees: "What case?"

"The Kafesjian burglary. I read the Wilshire Squad occurrence report, and I've decided I want a major investigation. I'm fully aware of the family's LAPD history, and I don't care what Captain Wilhite wants. You and Sergeant Stemmons are detached as of now. Shake the family, shake their known a.s.sociates. J.C. employs a runner named Abe Voldrich, so lean on him while you're at it. I want a full forensic and the files checked for similar B&Es. Start tomorrow--with a show of force."

I stood up. "This is f.u.c.king insane. Lean on our sanctioned Southside dope kingpin when the U.S. Attorney just might be planning a rackets probe down there. Some pervo kills two dogs and jacks off on some-"

Exley, standing/crowding: "Do it. Detach canva.s.sing officers from Wilshire Patrol and bring in the Crime Lab. Stemmons lacks field experience, but use him anyway. Show of force. And don't make me regret the favors I've done you."

CHAPTER SIX

SHOW OF FORCE.

8:00 A.M., 1684 South Tremaine. Personnel: lab crew, print team, four bluesuits.

The blues deployed: house-to-house witness checks, trashcan checks. Traffic cops standing by to shoo the press off.

Show of force--Exley's wild hair up the a.s.s.

Show of force-short-shrift it.

A compromise with Dan Wilhite--one edgy phone call. I said Exley pure had me; he called the job crazy--J.C. and the Department: twenty years of two-way profit. I owed Dan; he owed me--favors backlogged. Wilhite, scared: "I retire in three months. My dealings with the family won't stand up to outside-agency scrutiny. Dave... can you ... play it easy?"

I said, "My a.s.s first, yours second."

He said, "I'll call J.C. and jerk his leash."

8:04--showtirne.

Black & whites, a lab van. Patrolmen, tech men. Gawkers galore, little kids.

The driveway--I walked the lab guys back. Ray Pinker: "I called Animal Control. They told me they got no dead dog reports from this address. You think the people planted them in some pet cemetery?"

Garbage day--trashcans lined up in the alley. "Maybe, but check those cans behind the back fence. I don't think Old Man Kafesjian's so sentimental."

"I heard he was a real sweetheart. We find the dogs, then what?"

"Take tissue samples for a make on what they were poisoned with. If they're still chewing on washcloths, get me a make on the chemical--it smelled like chloroform. I need ten minutes to talk up J.C., then I want you to come inside and bag fibers in the kitchen, living room and dining room. Send the print guys in then, and tell them just the downstairs--I don't think our burglar went upstairs. He jerked off on some pedal pushers, so if Pops didn't throw them out you can test the s.e.m.e.n for blood type."

"Jesus."

"Yeah, Jesus. Listen, if he did dump them, they're probably in those garbage cans. Pastel-colored pedal pushers ripped at the crotch, not everyday stuff. And Ray? I want a nice fat summary report on all this."

"Don't s.h.i.t a s.h.i.tter. You want me to pad it, say it."

"Pad it. I don't know what Exley wants, so let's give him something to chew on."