TOASTMASTER POLICEMAN VOTED SPECIAL PENSION

The scene was sad, touching, ant.i.thetical to recent police headlines: Narcotics officers indicted on graft charges. That scene: a grossly injured Los Angeles policeman fighting for his life in a hospital bed.

Dudley L. Smith, Captain, LAPD. Dublin born, Los Angeles raised, a World War II OSS spymaster. 53 years old, thirty years a policeman. A wife, five daughters. Numerous commendations for bravery, LAPD toastmaster, lay chaplain. Dudley L. Smith: stabbed in an altercation with a robber five weeks ago--now fighting for his life.

He's winning that fight so far: he lost an eye, he's paralyzed, he's sustained brain damage, he'll probably never walk again. When he's lucid he charms nurses with his brogue and jokes that he'll do advertis.e.m.e.nts like the eye patch man who hucksters Hathaway Shirts. He's not lucid most of the time, and that's a heartbreaker.

The LAPD will not release details on the altercation that earned Dudley Smith his wounds; they know he would prefer to spare the family of the robber he killed the ignominy of public recognition. That's a heartbreaker, as is the fact that Dudley Smith will require intensive sanitarium care for the rest of his life.

His police pension and savings won't cover it. He's too proud to accept police charity contributions. He's a legendary policeman, much beloved, a cop who has killed eight men in the line of duty. Knowing these things, LAPD Chief of Detectives Edmund Exley asked the Los Angeles City Council to exercise a rarely used option and vote him a special pension: an amount to sustain his care in a comprehensively equipped sanitarium indefinitely.

The City Council agreed and voted in Dudley Smith's pension unanimously. Chief Exley told reporters: "It's important that Captam Smith remains contained and receives the care he deserves. He'll be safe and secure, and he'll be able to live out his days free of the taxing problems of police work."

Dudley L. Smith, hero. May those days stretch long and peacefully.

PART FIVE

HUSHABYE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Take-out cartons, newspaper stacks--Pete's hole-up a month in.

A tract house outside San Diego. Safe--his ex-wife was touring Europe for six weeks. Rent pirate Pete: two grand a week.

Newspapers--the story dispersed: My confession quashed by legal injunction.

Dudley half-dead.

The Fed probe blitzed.

Narco destroyed--Exley triumphant.

Time to think.

Phone time--outside conduit Pete reporting in: Warrants out on me--State and Fed--nine indictments total. "They've got you on Miciak, tax charges, two State and three Federal conspiracy statutes. There's national APBs out on you, plus Fed bulletins up the wazoo. You can keep the house until January 27th, but that's it."

Pete--January 13: "Glenda's still in Fresno. The Feds have got her under surveillance, but I think I can sneak her down for a visit before you take off."

January 14: "I called Jack Woods. He said Meg's okay, and I checked with a Fed guy I know. He said Noonan's not going to file tax charges on her--he's too busy cooking up some new probe gig to give a s.h.i.t."

January 15.

January 16.

January 17.

Tired, sludgy--c.h.i.n.k take-out five weeks straight.

January 18: "Dave, I can't get you a pa.s.sport. I've got no legit contacts, and I heard the mob fronts aren't selling them, 'cause they figure you're buying."

January 19--blind run fever.

Nightmares--EVERYTHING swirling.

January 20: "Glenda thinks they lifted the surveillance on her. She's going to bring your money down in a couple of days."

January 21--Pete, f.u.c.king scared: "Mr. Hughes found out I've been hiding you. He's p.i.s.sed that Glenda skated on Miciak and. . . s.h.i.t, you know, you and her. He wants some personal payback, and he said he won't turn you in if you cooperate. Dave, I'll try to go easy."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

On my knees--woozy. Shock waves up my spine--one punch in.

The backyard--Howard Hughes watching.

I stood up groggy--loose teeth, split lips. Left-right/left-right/leftright--my nose somewhere down my throat. Propped up--eyebrow flaps shredded loose, shading my eyes.

Howard Hughes in a business suit and wing tips.

Kicked p.r.o.ne--"No, use your fists."

Jerked upright--left hook/left hook--spitting gums, no nose, hard to breathe. Left hook/left hook--bones cracking.

No legs, no face--signet ring rips jaw to hairline.

"A few more."

"He can't take any more."

"Don't contradict me."

No legs, no face. Eyes to the sun--burning red--please don't blind me. Left-right/left-right--"Leave him for the doctor."

Fading somewhere--don't take my eyes.

Spinning, falling Music.

Darkness/light/pain-arm jabs, crazy bliss. Light = sight--don't take my eyes.

Spinning, falling--EVERYTHING synced to bop. Champ Dineen riffs-- Lucille and Richie waved down from heaven.

Sweating--cold swipes at my face. Somebody's face--an old man.

Needle jabs eating up pain.

Arm pops = craaaazy bliss.

EVERYTHING--spinning, falling Cheek rubs half blissed--thick beard stubble.

Time--light into dark, light into dark, light into dark.

A man wearing gla.s.ses--maybe a dream. Voices--dreamy, half real.

Music.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Four days sedated.

The doctor, walking out: "I left you some morphine Syrettes. You're healing up nicely, but you'll need to get some bones set within a month or so. Oh, and a friend of yours left you a package."

Numb throbs chin to forehead. Fresh newspapers-check the dates-- January 22 to 25.

Mirror check: My nose--smashed flat.

My jaw--bent sideways.

No eyebrows--scar tissue instead.

A raised hairline--scalp cuts ripped me balding.

Two new ears.

One eye squinty, one eye normal.

Dark brown hair gone pure gray inside a week.

Call it: A new face.

Healing--bruises fading, sutures out.

I checked the package: One blank pa.s.sport.

One .38 revolver, silencer fitted.

A note, unsigned:

Klein--

IA found you, and I've decided to let you go. You served me very well and you deserve the chance I'm giving you.