Cut him off: “What about Tommy fucking Lucille?”

“Say what? I didn’ hear nothin’ like that. I said ‘skin tight,’ not fuckin’ skin deep.”

“What about this Richie guy?”

“Shit, I tol’ you what I heard, no more, no less. You want me-”

“Keep asking around about him. He might connect to this peeper guy I’ve been chasing.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that Peepin’ Tom motherfucker, an’ I knows how to improvise off what a man tells me. So I been askin’ aroun’ ‘bout that, an’ I ain’t heard nothin’. Now, ‘bout that rent increase-”

“Ask around if the Kafesjians have been looking for a peeper themselves. I have a hunch that they know who the burglar is.”

“An’ I got a hunch slumlord Dave Klein gonna raise my rent.”

“No, and I’ll carry you to January. If Jack Woods comes around to collect, call me.”

“What about Mr. Smith’s boys in hot pursuit of ol’ Lester?”

“I’ll take care of it. Do you know Tilly Hopewell’s address?”

“Can my people dance? Have I strapped on at that love shack more than a few times myself?”

“Lester—”

“8491 South Trinity, apartment 406. Say, where you goin’?”

“The fights.”

“Moore and Ruiz?”

“That’s right.”

“Bet on the Mex. I used to climb Stevie Moore’s sister, an’ she tol’ me Stevie couldn’t take it to the breadbasket.”

I badged in ringside—late.

The sixth-round break-card girls strutting. Spectator chants: “Dodgers, no! Ruiz must go!” Boos, shouts: pachucos vs. Commies.

The bell—

Rockabye Reuben circling; Moore popping right-hand leads. Mid-ring clinch—Ruiz loose, the spook winded.

“Break! Break!”—the ref in and out.

Moore stalking slow—elbows up, open downstairs. Headhunter Reuben—near-miss hooks moving back.

Lazy Reuben, bored Reuben.

A snap guess: tank job.

Moore-no steam, no juice. Ruiz—lazy hooks, lazy right-hand leads.

Moore swarming and sucking in air; Reuben eating blockable shots—the coon wide open.

Ruiz—a lazy left hook.

Moore catching wind, his guard low.

Bullseye—the wrong man went down.

Pachuco cheers.

Pinko boos.

Reuben—this oh-fuck look—stalling the count. Dawdle time—he oozed over to a neutral corner slow.

Six, seven, eight—Moore up, wobbly.

Ruiz dawdling center ring. Moore backing up—shot to shit. Bomb range, Reuben bombs—wild misses. Ten, twelve, fourteen—real air whizzers.

Ruiz fake-gasping; fake-weary arms flopping dead.

Moore threw a bolo shot.

Rockabye Reuben staggered.

Moore-left/right bolos.

Reuben hit the canvas—eyes rolling, fake out. Seven, eight, nine, ten—Moore kissed Sammy Davis, Jr., at ringside.

Bleacher attack—get the Reds—spics tossing piss-filled beer cups. Placard shields—no help—the pachucos moved in swinging bike chains.

I hit an exit—coffee down the block, let things chill. Twenty minutes, back over—shitloads of prowl cars and Commies shackled up.

Back in—follow the liniment stench. Dressing rooms, Ruiz alone—wolfing a taco plate.

“Bravo, Reuben. The best tank job I’ve ever seen.”

“Hey, and the riot wasn’t so bad neither. Hey, Lieutenant, what did those back-pedal hooks tell you?”

I shut the door—noise down the hall—newsmen and Moore. “That you know how to entertain the chosen few.”

Chugging beer: “I hope Hogan Kid Bassey saw the fight, ‘cause the deal was Moore gets the bantam elimination shot and I move up to the feathers and fight him. I’ll kick his ass, too. Hey, Lieutenant, we ain’t talked since that night Sanderline jumped.”

“Call me Dave.”

“Hey, Lieutenant, a nigger and a Mexican jump out a six-story window the same time. Who hits the ground first?”

“I’ve heard it, but tell me anyway.”

“The nigger, ‘cause the Mexican’s got to stop on the way down and spray ‘Ramón y Kiki por vida’ on the wall.”

Ha, ha—polite.

“So, Lieutenant, I know you saw Will Shipstad watchdogging me at the ravine. Let me reassure you and Mr. Gallaudet that I’m grateful for this what you call public-relations gig you got me, ‘specially since it got my goddamn brother off another GTA bounce. So, yeah, I’m a Fed witness again, but Noonan just wants me to testify on some stale-bread bookie stuff, and I’d never snitch Mickey C. or your buddy Jack Woods.”

“I always figured you knew how to play.”

“You mean play to the chosen few?”

“Yeah. Business is business, so you fuck your own people to get next to the DA.”

Smiling nice: “I got a trouble-prone family, so I gotta figure they’re more important than Mexicans in general. Hey, I kiss a little ass, so that what you call them—slumlords?—like you and your sister can stay fat. You know, Dave, the fuckin’ Bureau of Land and Way’s been checking out these dumps in Lynwood. There’s supposed to be some what you call converted whorehouse that these hard boys want to dump my poor evicted hermanos into, so maybe you and your goddamn slumlord sister can buy in on the ground floor.”

Brains—fuck his bravado. “You know a lot about me.”

“Hey, Dave ‘the Enforcer’ Klein, people talk about you.”

Change-up: “Is Johnny Duhamel queer?”

“Are you nuts? He is the snatch hound to end all snatch hounds.”

“Seen him lately?”

“We keep in touch. Why?”

“Just checking up. He’s on the Hurwitz fur case, and it’s a big assignment for an inexperienced officer. Has he talked to you about it?”

Head shakes—half-ass wary. “No. Mostly he talks about this Mobster Squad job he’s got.”

“Anything specific?”

“No, he said he’s not supposed to talk about it. Hey, why you pumping me?”

“Why did you look so sad all of a sudden?”

Hooks, jabs—air whizzed. “I saw Johnny maybe a week ago. He said he’d been doing this bad stuff. He didn’t, how you say, elaborate, but he said he needed a penance beating. We put on gloves, and he let me punch him around. I remember he had these what you call blisters on his hands.”

Rubber-hose work—Johnny probably hates it. “Remember Sergeant Stemmons, Reuben?”

“Sure, your partner at the hotel. Nice haircut, but a punk if you ask me.”

“Have you seen him?”

“No.”

“Has Johnny mentioned him to you?”

“No. Hey, what’s this Johnny routine?”

I smiled. “Just routine.”

“Sure, subtle guy. Hey, what do you get when you cross a Mexican and a nigger?”

“I don’t know.”

“A thief who’s too lazy to steal!”

“That’s a riot.”

Fondling a Schlitz: “You ain’t laughing so hard, and I can tell you’re thinking: at the ravine Rockabye Reuben said we should talk.”

“So talk.”

Pure pachuco—he bit off the bottle cap and guzzled. “I heard Noonan talking to Will Shipstad about you. He hates you like a goddamn dog. He thinks you pushed Johnson out the window and fucked up some guy named Morton Diskant. He tried to get me to say I heard you toss Johnson, and he said he’s gonna take you down.”