“Nosir, an’ not for maybe six, seven days.”

“Do you know what she uses the room for?”

“Nosir. My motto is ‘See no evil, hear no evil,’ an’ I adheres to that policy ‘cept when they be makin’ too much noise doin’ whatever it is they be doin’.”

“Does the girl ask for a front room with a street view?”

Shocked: “Yessir. How you know that?”

“Have you rented the room next to hers to a young white man? Did a bum request that particular room and register for him?”

Shut-my-mouth shocked—he dipped behind the counter and pulled out a rent card. “See, ‘John Smith,’ which in my opinion be an alias. See, he gots two days left on his rent. He am’ in right now, I seen him leave this morn—”

“Show me those rooms.”

He beelined outside, fumbling keys. Two doors opened quick—good and cop scared.

Separate bungalows—no connecting door.

I caught up. Easy now—frost him with a ten spot. “Watch the street. If that white guy shows up, stall him. Tell him you’ve got a plumber in his room, then come and get me.”

“Yessir, yessir”—genuflecting streetside—

Two doors—no mutual access. Side windows—the peeper could WATCH her. Hedges below, a loose-stone walk path.

Look:

A wire out HIS window.

Into HIS hedge, out, under the stones.

I grabbed it and pulled—

Stones flew—the wire jerked taut. Into HER room—under the carpet, yank—a spacklecovered mike snapped off the wall.

Walk the cord back:

HIS window—jam the ledge up-step in. Pull—thunk—a tape machine under the bed.

Empty reels.

Back outside, check the doors—no pry marks. Figure HE went in HER window.

I shut both doors and tossed HIS room.

The closet:

Soiled clothes, empty suitcase, record player.

The dresser: skivvies, jazz albums—Champ Dineen, Art Pepper. Title matchers—Tommy K.’s smashed wax duplicated.

The bathroom:

Razor, shaving cream, shampoo.

Pull the rug:

Girlie mags—Transom—three issues. Cheesecake, text: movie-star “confessions.”

No tape.

Dump the mattress, punch the pillow—a hard spot—tear, rip—

One tape spool—rig it up for a listen fast—

Nerves—I fumbled the goods, smeared potential prints. Spastic-handed—loop the tape/push Start.

Rustles, coughs. I shut my eyes and imagined it: lovers in bed.

Lucille: “You don’t get tired of these games?”

Unknown Man: “Hand me a cigarette”—pause—”No, I don’t tire of them. You certainly know how to-”

Sobs—distant—motel room walls shutting my man out.

Trick Man: “... and you know that father-daughter games have staying power. Really, given our age variance, it’s quite a natural bed game to play.”

A cultured voice-Tommy/J.C. antithetical.

Sobs, louder.

Lucille: “These places are filled with losers and lonesome creeps.”

No hink/no recognition/no surveillance fear.

Click—figure a radio—”... chanson d’amour, ratta-tat-tatta, play encore.” Blurred voices, click, Trick Man: “... of course, there was always that little dose you gave me.”

“Dose”: clap/syph?

I checked the reels—tape running out.

Sleepy voices jumbled—more than a trick stand. I shut my eyes—please, one more game.

Silent tape hiss—sleepy lovers. Hinge creak/”God!”—too close, too real—NOW Eyes open—a white man standing by the door.

Fucked up blurry vision—I drew down, aimed, fired. Two shots—the doorjamb splintered; one more-wood scraps exploding.

The man ran.

I ran out aiming.

Screams, shouts.

Zigzags—my man bucking traffic. I fired running—two shots went wide. Aiming straight—a clear shot—this jolt: if you kill him, you won’t know WHY?

Bolting traffic, sighting in on this white head bobbing. Horns, brakes—black faces on the sidewalk, my white speck disappearing.

I tripped, stumbled, ran. Losing him—black all around me.

Shouts.

Black faces scared.

My reflection in a window: this terrified geek.

I slowed down. Another window—black faces—follow their eyes:

A curbside roust—Feds and niggers. Welles Noonan, Will Shipstad, FBI muscle.

Grabbed, shoved—pinned to a doorway. Rabbit-punched—I dropped my piece.

Pinned—gray suit Fed gorillas. Welles Noonan sucker-punched me: spit in my face. His punch line: “That’s for Sanderline Johnson.”

Chapter Seventeen

The Moonglow—early for Lester. Jukebox tunes killed time.

Noonan, backed by music—replays still smelling his spittle:

Those Feds—cut-rate revenge. Back to Nat’s Nest—prowl cars responding to shots. I chased them off and bagged evidence: records, skin mags, tape rig, tape.

Calls next:

Orders to Ray Pinker: dust both rooms, bring a sketch man—make the clerk face-detail the peeper. Mugshot checks later—pray for good eyes.

Jack Woods, glad tidings: he spotted Junior, tailed him for two hours and lost him. Busy Junior—three mndy pusher shakedowns—Jack glommed descriptions and plate numbers.

Jack, verbatim: “He looked fried to the gills and fucking insane. I checked his car out while he stopped for cigarettes. You know what I saw in the backseat? A hypodermic kit, six empty tuna-fish cans and three sawed-off shotguns. I don’t know what he’s got on you, but in my opinion you should clip him.”

The jukebox, unmistakable—Lester Lake’s “Harbor Lights”—and not on my dime.

Bingo—Lester himself, oozing fear. “Hello, Mr. Klein.”

“Sit down. Tell me about it.”

“Tell you about what?”

“The look on your face and why you played that goddamn song.”

Sitting down: “Just reassurance. Good to know Uncle Mickey keeps my tune in his Wurlitzers.”

“Mickey should pull his boxes before the Feds pull him. What is it? I haven’t seen you this spooked since the Harry Cohn thing.”

“Mr. Klein, you know a couple of Mr. Smith’s boys named Sergeant Breuning an’ Sergeant Carlisle?”

“What about them?”

“Well, they workin’ overtime at the Seven-Seven.”

“Come on, get to it.”

Breathless: “They goin’ aroun’ trying’ to solve colored-on-colored killins, word is to forestall all this potential good Federal investigation publicity. You remember you ask me ‘bout a maryjane pusher named Wardell Knox? You remember I tol’ you he got hisself killed by person or persons unknown?”

Tommy K. snitched Knox to Narco—Dan Wilhite told Junior. “I remember.”

“Then you should remember I tol’ you ol’ Wardell was a cunthound with a million fuckin’ enemies. He was fuckin’ a million different ladies, includin’ this high-yellow cooze Tilly Hopewell that I was also climbin’. Mr. Klein, I heard them Mr. Smith boys been lookin’ for me on account of some bogus rumor that I snuffed fuckin’ Wardell, and it looks to me like they be measurin’ me for a quick statistic. Now you want skinny on the fuckin’ Kafesjians and their fuckin’ known associates, so I got a real kneeslapper for you, which is that I just recently heard that crazy Tommy Kafesjian popped ol’ Wardell roun’ September, some kind of fuckin’ dope or sex grievance, ‘cause he was also climbin’ that fine Tilly Hopewell on occasion.”

Breathless/heaving.

“Look, I’ll talk to Breuning and Carlisle. They’ll lay off you.”

“Yeah, maybe thas’ true, ‘cause ol’ slumlord Dave Klein knows the right people. But Mr. Smith, he hates the colored man. An’ I don’ see you people pinnin’ the Wardell Knox job on Tommy the K., your righteous motherfuckin’ informant.”

“So do you want to change the world or waltz on this thing?”

“I wants you to give me an extra month’s free rent for all the fine skinny I gots on the fuckin’ Kafesjian family.”

“Harbor Lights” snapped on again. Lester: “And on that note, I heard the daughter’s a righteous semipro hooker. I heard Tommy and J.C. beat up Mama Kafesjian and her like batting practice. I heard Madge—that’s Mama—used to have a thing goin’ with Abe Voldrich, he’s this head guy in their dope operation, an’ he runs one of their dry-cleaning joints on the side. I heard Voldrich dries up big bushels of mary jane in them big dryers they got at their plants. I heard the way they keep things copacetic with rival pushers is kickbacks from little Mickey Mouse independents that they tolerates, but no righteous organizations would ever try to infringe on the Southside, ‘cause they knows the LAPD would come down hard just to keep them Armenian fucks happy. I heard the only humps they snitch to you people is the indies who won’t kick back no operatin’ tribute. I heard the family is fuckin’ skin tight, even though they don’t treat each other with so much fuckin’ respect. I heard that outside of Voldrich an’ this colored trim Tommy the K. goes for, the family only gots employees and customers, not no fuckin’ friends. I heard Tommy used to be pals with some white kid named Richie, I don’t know no last name, but I heard they blew these punk square horns together, like they pretended they had talent. That crazy-ass burglary you told me about—them chopped-up watchdogs an’ stolen silverware an’ shit—l heard jackshit ‘bout that. I also heard you thinkin’ ‘bout raisin’ the rent in my buildin’, so I—”