Chase, watch for chasers. No tails—near-crack-ups making sure. Exley/ Hughes/Narco/the Feds: potential chasers, big resources.

Chasing evidence:

I staked the Red Arrow Inn—no Lucille, no peeper suspects. I checked 77th: no peeper FI cards found. Tn-State MO checks: zero. Lester Lake said scoop soon—“maybe.” Chasing secrets, chasing pictures—

Solo trick rousts—no new Lucille kickers confirmed. Western and Adams, points south—pressing for stories—I stayed high-octane juiced on that family.

Like Exley.

Call it lawyer style:

Disturbing the Kafesjians with a Federal narcotics probe in progress is certifiably insane. Edmund Exley is a certifiably brilliant detective with nationally recognized leadership skills. Narco was not present at Exley’s Fed probe briefing. Narco is the most autonomous LAPD division. Narco and the Kafesjian family go back autonomously twenty-odd years. Exley knows that the Fed probe will succeed. Exley wants the probe diverted from the rankand-file LAPD. Exley knows that heads must roll. Exley has convinced Chief Parker that the least damaging most judicious move is to sacrifice Narco to the Feds—they can be portrayed as rogue cops autonomously run amok without severely damaging the overall prestige of the Department.

I didn’t quite buy it—his hard-on for that family played too ugly.

Like mine, like Junior’s.

George Stemmons II—my worst pictures.

I chased him four days-call him plain gone. Ad Vice: straight no-shows. The pad I trashed: locked tight Darktown: no. His father’s house: no. Fern Dell: no. Fag bars: no, he didn’t have the guts to go that blatant. Longshot—Johnny Duhamel—his known haunts.

Personnel shot me his address. I checked it three days/nights running—no Johnny, no Junior. No way to catch Duhamel on duty—I couldn’t tip Dudley Smith. An instinct said Junior’s crush ran unrequited—Blond and Gorgeous didn ‘t play fruit Possible approach: Reuben Ruiz, Johnny’s pal. Gallaudet turned him: front man set to oil the spics out of Chavez Ravine.

I fed Bob a snow job: Ruiz knew a guy I needed to lean on. Gallaudet: he’s in training somewhere, check the Ravine in a few days—he’ll be there working the crowd.

Tapped out

Clay pigeon:

Junior nails Glenda dead—for Murder One. A nigger pimp victim—Gallaudet might not seek an indictment But: Howard Hughes snaps his fingers; Gas Chamber Bob jumps. Snap—pick the judge, stack the jury—Glenda green-room bound. Accessory charges pending: on me.

The upshot:

Neutralize Junior. Hush up his Kafesjian dealings—if Exley tumbles, he’ll rat Glenda to buy out My buyout—Duhamel—feed him to Dudley, the peak moment, work for Exley—Junior/Glenda insurance.

I paid Jack Woods two grand: find me Junior Stemmens. My skip trace—HER—a movie-set trailer late nights.

Miciak kept quiet—we both made his tail strictly freelance. I wrote Milteer fake reports—Glenda fed me fake details. The set—Mickey’s wino crew passed out We talked low, made love and danced around IT

I never said I knew; she never pressed me. Biographies, gaps: I hid Meg, she bypassed whoring

I never said I kill people. I never said Lucille K made me a voyeur.

She said I used people up.

She said I only bet on rigged games.

She said ranking cop/lawyer put some distance on white trash.

She said I never got burned.

I said three out of four—not bad.

Part Three. Darktown Red

Chapter Sixteen

Dirt roads, shacks. Hills trapping smog—Chavez Ravine.

Swamped—I parked long-distance and scanned it:

Geeks waving placards. Newsmen, bluesuits. Commie types chanting: “Justice, si! Dodgers, no!”

Friendly throngs—eyes on Reuben Ruiz, gladhander. Sheriff’s bulls, Agent Will Shipstad.

Ruiz—Fed witness?

I jogged into it—”Hey, hey! No, no! Don’t drive us back to Mexico!” Badge out—blues eased me through.

Heckier hubbub:

Ruiz, fighting tonight—be there to cheer his opponent. The fascist Bureau of Land and Way: plans to relocate the spics to Lynwood slum pads. “Hey, hey! No, no! Justice, sI! Dodgers, no!”

Ruiz blasting bullhorn Spanish:

Move out early! Your relocation dough means Easy Street! New homes soon available! Enjoy the new Dodger Stadium YOU helped create!

Noise war—Reuben’s bullhorn won. Deputies tossed tickets—spics genuflected, grabbed. I snatched one: Ruiz vs. Stevie Moore, Olympic Auditorium.

Chants, jabber—Ruiz saw me and bucked fans.

I shoved close. Reuben cupped a shout: “We should yak! Say my dressing room after my bout?”

I nodded yes—”Scum! Dodger pawn!”—no way to talk.

A quick run—the Bureau, my office.

A message from Lester Lake—meet me 8:00 tonight—Moonglow Lounge. Exley skirted Ad Vice-I gestured him over.

“I had a few questions.”

“Ask them, as long as they’re not ‘What do you want?’”

“Let’s try ‘Why just two men on a case you’re so hot to clear?’”

“No. Next question, and don’t ask” ‘Why me?’”

“Let’s try ‘What’s in it for me?’

Exley smiled. “If you clear the case I’ll exercise a rarely used chief of detective’s prerogative and jump you to captain without a civil-service listing. I’ll rotate Dudley Smith into Ad Vice and give you the Robbery Division command.”

Jig heaven—don’t swoon.

“Is something wrong, Lieutenant? I would have expected you to express your gratitude.”

“Thanks, Ed. That’s a dandy carrot you just dangled.”

“Given what you are, I’d say it is. Now I’m busy, so ask your next question.”

“Lucille Kafesjian’s the key to this thing. I’ve got a hunch that the family knows damn well who the burglar is, and I want to bring her in for questioning.”

“No, not yet.”

Change-up: “Give me the Hurwitz fur job. Take it away from Dudley.”

“No, and no emphatically, and don’t ask me again. Now, let’s wrap this up.”

“Okay, then let me lean on Tommy Kafesjian.”

“Explain ‘lean on,’ Lieutenant.”

“Lean on. Muscle. I fuck Tommy up, he tells us what we want to know. You know, outré police methods, like the time you shot those unarmed niggers.”

“No direct approach on the family. Other than that, you have carte blanche.”

Carte blanche shitwork, overdue: big tucking distractions.

Simple:

Lucille pix/tape rig/motel list—haul them southbound and ask questions:

Have you rented to her?

Has a man requested a room adjoining hers?

Have wino/bums rented rooms here by proxy?

Bad odds—call the Red Arrow her sole trick pad.

Southbound—Central Avenue all the way. Police intrigue, big-time:

IA cars trailing Fed cars—discreet. Bum rousts—Vag cops spread thick. Prostie wagons prowling for whores.

Feds:

License-plate checks outside bars and nightclubs.

Kibitzing a sidewalk crap game.

Staking out a swanky coon whorehouse.

Crew-cut gray suit Feds Darktown rife.

I stopped at 77th Street Station and borrowed a tape rig. Sweat box row was packed: jig-on-jig 187 “clearance.” Feds outside with cameras—snapping cop IDs.

Shitwork now:

Tick Tock Motel, Lucky Time Motel—no to all my questions. Darnell’s Motel, De Luxe Motel—straight nos. Handsome Dan’s Motel, Cyril’s Lodge—No City. Hibiscus Inn, Purple Roof Lodge—NO.

Nat’s Nest—81st and Normandie. “Kleen Rooms Always”—brace the clerk.

“Yessir, I know this girl. She’s a short-timer rental, an’ she always ask for the same room.”

I gripped the counter. “Is she registered now?”