My peeper sketch: zero IDs.

Dusk—more clubs open. More name tosses—zero results—I checked slot-machine traffic on reflex. A coin crew at the Rick Rack—white/s pic—Feds across the street, camera ready. Mickey slot men on film—Suicide Mickey.

Cop-issue Plymouths out thick—Feds, LAPD. Intermittent heebiejeebies—tails on me LAST NIGHT?

I stopped at a pay phone. Out of dimes—I used slugs.

Glenda—my place, her place—no answer. Jack Woods—no answer. Over to Bido Lito’s—toss names, toss shit—I got nothing but sneers back.

Two-drink minimum—I grabbed a stool and ordered two scotches. Voodoo eyes: wall-to-wall niggers.

I downed the juice fast—two drinks, no more. Scotch warm, this idea: wait for Tommy K. and shove him outside. Do you fuck your sister/does your father fuck your sister—brass knucks until he coughed up family dirt.

The barman had drink three ready—I said no. A combo setting up-I waved the sax man over. He agreed: twenty dollars for a Champ Dineen medley.

Lights down. Vibes/drums/sax/trumpet—go.

Themes—loud/fast, soft/slow. Soft—the barman talked mythic Champ Dineen.

Dig:

He came out of nowhere. He looked white—but rumor made his bloodlines mongrel. He played piano and bass sax, wrote jazz and cut a few sides. Handsome, jumbo hung: he fucked in whorehouse peek shows and never had his picture taken. Champ in love: three rich-girl sisters, their mother. Four mistresses—four children born—a rich cuckold daddy shot the Champ Man dead.

A drink on the bar—I bolted it. My mythic peeper-dig his story, just maybe:

Whorehouse peek equals Transom; family intrigue equals KAFESJIAN.

I ran outside—across the street to a phone bank. Jack Woods’ number, three rings—”Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Dave, don’t ask. I’m still looking for him.”

“Keep going, it’s not that.”

“What is it?”

“It’s another two grand if you want it. You know the all-night post office downtown?”

“Sure.”

“Box 5841. You break in and bring me the contents. Wait until three o’clock or so, you’ll get away clean.”

Jack whistled. “You’ve got Fed trouble, right? Some kind of seizure writ won’t do it, so—”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes. I like you in trouble, you’re generous. Call me tomorrow, all right?”

I hung up. My memory jolted—plate numbers. Jack’s work—those Junior shakedownees he spotted. I dug my notebook out and buzzed the DMV.

Slow—read the numbers off, wait. Cold air juked my booze rush and cleared my head—pusher shakedown victims—potential Junior/Tommy snitchers.

My readout:

Patrick Dennis Orchard, male caucasian—1704Ѕ S. Hi Point; Leroy George Carpenter, male negro—819 W. 71st Street, #114; Stephen NMI Wenzel, male caucasian, 1811 S. St. Andrews, #B.

Two white men—surprising. Think: Lester Lake shot me Tilly Hopewell’s address. There, grab it: 8491 South Trinity, 406.

Close by—I got there quick. A four-story walk-up-I parked curbside.

No lift—I walked up for real. 406—push the buzzer.

Spyhole clicks. “Who is it?”

“Police.”

Chain noise, the door open. Tilly: a thirtyish high yellow, maybe half white.

“Miss Hopewell?”

“Yes”—no coon drawl.

“It’s just a few questions.”

She walked backward-dead cowed. The front room: shabby, clean. “Are you from the Probation?”

I closed the door. “LAPD.”

Goosebumps: “Narco?”

“Administrative Vice.”

She whipped papers off the TV. “I’m clean. I had my Nalline test today. See?”

“I don’t care.”

“Then…”

“Let’s start with Tommy Kafesjian.”

Tilly backed up, brushed a chair, plunked down. “Say what, Mr. Police?”

“Say what shit, you’re not that kind of colored. Tommy Kafesjian.”

“I know Tommy.”

“And you’ve been intimate with him.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been intimate with Wardell Knox and Lester Lake.”

“That’s true, and I’m not the kind of colored who thinks it’s all a big sin, either.”

“Wardell’s dead.”

“I know that.”

“Tommy killed him.”

“Tommy’s evil, but I’m not saying he killed Wardell. And if he did, he’s LAPD protected, so I’m not giving away anything you don’t already know.”

“You’re a smart girl, Tilly.”

“You mean for colored I’m smart.”

“Smart’s smart. Now give me a motive for Tommy killing Wardell. Was it bad blood over you?”

Sitting prim—this junkie schoolmarm. “Tommy and Wardell could never get that fired up over a woman. I’m not saying Tommy killed him, but if he killed him, it’s because Wardell was behind on some kind of dope payment. Which doesn’t mean anything to you, considering the Christmas baskets Mr. J.C. Kafesjian sends downtown.”

Change-up: “Do you like Lester Lake?”

“Of course I do.”

“You don’t want to see him get popped for a murder he didn’t commit, do you?”

“No, but who says that’s going to happen? Any plain fool can tell Lester’s not the kind of man who could kill anybody.”

“Come on, you know things don’t work that way.”

Getting antsy—raw off that dope cure. “Why do you care so much about Lester?”

“We help each other out.”

“You mean you’re the slum man Lester snitches for? You want to help him out, fix his bathtub.”

Change-up: “Johnny Duhamel.”

“Now I’ll say ‘say what’ for real. Johnny who?”

Name toss: “Leroy Carpenter… Stephen Wenzel… Patrick Orchard… Let’s try a policeman named George Stemmons, Jr.”

Cigarettes on a tray close by—Tilly reached trembly.

Kick it over, set her off—

“That Junior is trash! Steve Wenzel’s my friend, and that Junior trash stole his bankroll and his speedballs and called him a white nigger! That Junior talked this crazy talk to him! I saw that crazy Junior man popping goofballs right out in the open by this club!”

Flash it—my bankroll. “What crazy talk? Come on, you’re just off the cure, you know you can use a fix. Come on, what crazy talk?”

“I don’t know! Steve just said crazy nonsense!”

“What else did he tell you about Junior?”

“Nothing else! He just said what I told you!”

“Patrick Orchard, Leroy Carpenter. Do you know them?”

“No! I just know Steve! And I don’t want a snitch jacket!”

Twenty, forty, sixty—I dropped cash on her lap. “Tommy and his sister Lucille. Anything ugly. Tommy will never know you told me.”

Dope eyes now—fuck fear. “Tommy said that sometimes Lucille whores. He said that a man in Stan Kenton’s band recommended her to this Beverly Hills call-girl man. Doug something…Doug Ancelet? Tommy said that Lucille worked for that man for a while like several years ago, but he fired her because she gave these tricks of hers the gonorrhea.”

Recoil: Glenda, ex—Ancelet girl. My peeper tape—the trick to Lucille—“that little dose you gave me.”

Tilly: dope eyes, new money.

Carpenter/Wenzel/Orchard—I swung an address circuit south/ northwest. Nobody home—circuit south, crack the wind wings-cold air cleared my head.

Make Junior dead or dead soon—faggot-smear him postmortem. Leak queer dirt to Hush-Hush—taint his Glenda dirt. Retoss his pad, dump evidence-pump his shakedown victims. Work Kafesjian 459—and tie in Junior dirty. Question mark: his Exley file.

Brain circuits:

Exley proffers my Kafesjian payoff: Robbery Division CO. It’s a shiv to Dudley Smith, the fur-job boss—the perp his “protégé” Johnny Duhamel.

Johnny and Junior—heist partners?

My instinct: unlikely.

Reflex instinct: hand Johnny up to Dud-deflect Exley’s shiv, curry Dud’s favor.

South, hit the gas: talk had Smith working 77th. Over—newsmen outside-a captain grandstanding:

Ignore Negro-victim 187s—never!

Watch for zealous justice soon!

Door guards kept reporters out: civilians verboten, zealotry wrapped.