“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just pull out and set you up with an attorney. But the best you can hope for is a violated contract and no criminal charges.”

“And the worst?”

“Howard Hughes is Howard Hughes. One word to the DA gets you indicted for grand theft.”

“Mickey said you’re friends with the new DA.”

“Yeah, he used to study my crib sheets in law school, and Hughes put two hundred grand in his slush fund.”

“David—”

“It’s Dave.”

“I like David better.”

“No, my sister calls me that.”

“So?”

“Let it rest.”

The phone rang—Glenda picked up. “Hello? ... Yes, Mickey, I know I’m late.... No, I’ve got a cold.... Yes, but Sid and Wylie can shoot around my scenes.... No, I’ll try to come in this afternoon.... Yes, I won’t forget our dinner…No—goodbye, Mickey.”

She hung up. I said, “M.H. took off, but Mickey won’t.”

“Well, he’s lonely. Four of his men have disappeared, and I think he knows they’re dead. Business was business, but I think he misses them more than anything else.”

“He’s still got Chick and Touch.”

A breeze-Glenda shivered. “I don’t know why they stay. Mickey has this scheme to have them seduce famous people. It’s so un-Mickey it’s pathetic.”

“Pathetic”—Junior’s notes confirmed. Glenda—shivers, goosebumps.

I grabbed her raincoat and held it out—she stood up smiling.

Touching her.

She slid the coat on; I pulled it back and touched her scars. Glenda: this slow turn around to kiss me.

Day/night/morning—the phone off the hook, the radio low. Talk, music—soft ballads lulled Glenda sleepy. Losing her brought it ALL back.

She slept hard, stirred hungry. Yawns, smiles-open eyes caught me scared. Kisses kept her from asking; the whole no-payoff feel kept me breathless.

Pressed hard together—no thoughts. Her breath peaking—no thoughts. Inside her when her eyes said don’t hold back—no queers, no peepers, no dope-peddler-daughter whores taunting me.

Chapter Fifteen

“…and they are out there, within our jurisdiction, superseding our jurisdiction. So far as we know, there are seventeen Federal agents and three Deputy U.S. Attorneys backstopping Welles Noonan. Noonan has not requested an LAPD liaison, so we must fully assume that this is a hostile investigation aimed at discrediting us.”

Chief William H. Parker speaking. Standing by: Bob Gallaudet, Ed Exley. Seated: all stationhouse commanders and Detective Division COs. Missing: Dan Wilhite, Dudley Smith—Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle pinch-hitting.

Eerie—no Narco men. Odd—no Dudley.

Exley at the mike: “The chief and I view this ‘investigation’ as conceived for political gain. Federal agents are not city policemen and certainly not conversant with the realities of maintaining order in Negro-inhabited sectors. Welles Noonan wishes to discredit both the Department and our colleague Mr. Gallaudet, and Chief Parker and I have agreed on measures to limit his success. I will be briefing each of you division heads individually, but before I commence I’ll hit some key points you should all be aware of.”

I yawned—bed-bruised, exhausted. Exley: “Division commanders should tell their men, both plainclothes and uniform: muscle and/or palm your informants and tell them not to cooperate with any Federal agents they might encounter. Along those lines, I want Southside club and bar owners visited. ‘Visited’ is a euphemism, gentlemen. ‘Visited’ means that the station COs at Newton, University and 77th Street should send intimidating plainclothesmen around to tell the owners that since we overlook certain infractions of theirs, they should overlook speaking candidly to the Feds. The Central Vagrant Squad will follow a parallel line: they will round up local derelicts to insure their silence vis-à-vis enforcement measures that quasi-liberals like Noonan might consider overzealous. The 77th Squad is to politely muscle white swells out of the area—we want no well-connected people federally entrapped. Robbery and Homicide Division detectives are currently sifting through recent Negro-on-Negro unsolved homicides, with an eye toward presenting indictment-ready evidence to Mr. Gallaudet—we want to counter Noonan’s charge that we let colored 187s lie doggo. And finally, I think it’s safe to say that the Feds might raid the slot and vending-machine locations controlled by Mickey Cohen. We will let them do this, and we will let Cohen take the fall. Central Vice has destroyed all the coin-hardware complaints that we’ve ignored, and we can always say that we didn’t know those machines existed.”

Implied: Mickey didn’t yank his Southside coin. Warn him—again—tell Jack Woods to pull his Niggertown book.

Parker walked out; Exley coughed—crypto-embarrassed. “The chief has never liked white women fraternizing with Negroes, and he’s hardnosed the club owners down there who encourage it. Sergeant Breuning, Sergeant Carlisle—you men make sure that those club owners don’t talk to the Feds.”

Smirks—Dudley’s boys loved strongarm. Exley: “That’s all for now. Gentlemen, please wait outside my office, I’ll be down to brief you individually. Lieutenant Klein, please remain seated.”

Gavel bangs—meeting adjourned. A big exit; Gallaudet slipped me a note.

Exley walked over. Brusque: “I want you to stay on the Kafesjian burglary. I’m thinking of stepping it up, and I want a detailed report on the trick sweep.”

“Why wasn’t Narco represented at this meeting?”

“Don’t question my measures.”

“One last time: the Kafesjians are prime Fed meat. They’re twenty years dirty with the Department. Rattling their cage is suicidal.”

“One last time: don’t question my motives. One last time: you and Sergeant Stemmons stay on the case full priority.”

“Was there any specific reason why you wanted Stemmons on this job?”

“No, he just seemed like the logical choice.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he works closely with you at Ad Vice, and he had excellent ratings as an evidence teacher.”

Deadpan—a tough read. “I can’t believe this personal-involvement routine. Not from you.”

“Make it personal yourself.”

Tight reins-don’t laugh. “It’s getting there.”

“Good. Now what about the family’s known associates?”

“I’ve got my best snitch looking into it. I spoke to a man named Abe Voldrich, but I don’t think he knows anything about the burglary.”

“He’s a longtime Kafesjlan KA. Maybe he has some family background information.”

“Yeah, but what do you want—a burglary suspect or family dirt?”

No retort—he walked. I checked Gallaudet’s note:

Four days—chase evidence, get chased back. Sprint, get chased harder—pictures I couldn’t outrun.

I told Mickey to pull his machines—he shrugged the whole Fed business off Shit-for-brains Mickey—Jack Woods yanked his biz in record time. Chase Exley with paper: Kafesjian 459 PC, record detail. Covered: the peeper tape and Q&A—those two Lucille tricks.

Exley said keep going Small talk: how’s Stemmons handling the job?

I said just fine. Mental pictures: beefcake Johnny Duhamel, lipstick on cigarette butts.

Exley said keep going; I fed Bob Gallaudet information on the sly. Politics: he didn’t want Welles Noonan reaping juice off the Kafesjians.