Orchard—skinny, pimples. Carpenter—purple suit, this coon fashion plate.

“Thanks, Officer.”

“Glad to oblige”—smile—”Glad to earn a few points with Chief Exley.”

“Did you run them for warrants?”

“Sure did. Leroy’s a child-support skip, and Pat’s a Kern County probation absconder.”

“If they cooperate, I’ll cut them loose.”

He winked. “Sure you will.”

I winked. “Check the jail roster tomorrow if you don’t believe me.”

Orchard smiled. Leroy said, “Say what?” Plainclothes—huh?—back out shrugging.

Showtime.

I reached under the table-bingo—a sap taped on. “I meant what I said, and this has got nothing to do with you. This is about a policeman named George Stemmons, Jr. He was observed rousting you two and a guy named Stephen Wenzel, and all I want is for you to tell me about it.”

Orchard—wet lips—snitch-eager.

Leroy—”Fuck you, ofay motherfuck, I know my rights.”

I sapped him—arms, legs—and dumped his chair. He hit the floor sideways—no bleats, no yelps—good stones.

Orchard, snitch frenzied: “Hey, I know that Junior cat!”

“And?”

“And he shook me down for my roll!”

“And?”

“And he stole my… my…”

“And he stole your felony narcotics. And?”

“And he was stoned out of his fucking gourd!”

“And?”

“And he was talking this ‘I’m a criminal mastermind’ rebop!”

“And?”

“And he boosted my shit! He popped these goofballs right out in the open by the Club Alabam!”

Tilly Hopewell confirmed. “And?”

“An-an-an—”

I sapped his chair. “AND?”

“An-an-an’ I know Steve Wenzel. St-St-Steve s-said i-Junior t-t-talked this crazy shit to him!”

Tilly confirmation ditto. I checked Leroy—too quiet—watch his fingers—

Waistband pokes, surreptitious.

I hauled his chair up and jerked his belt—H bindles popped out of his pants.

Improvise:

“Pat, I didn’t find these on Mr. Carpenter, I found them on you. Now, do you have anything else to say about Junior Stemmons, Steve Wenzel and yourself?”

Leroy—”Crazy, daddy-o!”—dig the ofay.

“AND, Mr. Orchard?”

“An-an-and St-Steve s-said he c-cut a d-deal w-w-with c-crazy Junior. J-Junior p-promised Steve this b-big money to buy this b-bulk horse. C-couple days ago, Steve, he told me this. He s-s-said J-Junior n-needed twenty-four hours to get the money.”

Leroy: “Sissy fink stool pigeon motherfucker.”

Craaazy Junior—KILL HIM, JACK.

Twirling my sap: “Possession of heroin with intent to sell. Conspiracy to distribute narcotics. Assault on a police officer, because you just took a swing at me. AND, Mr. Orch—”

“Okay! Okay! Okay!”

I sapped the table. “AND?”

“A-and c-crazy Junior, he made me go with him to the club Alabam. Y-y-you know that b-boxer cop?”

“Johnny Duhamel?”

“R-right, who w-won the G-Golden Gloves, i-i-Junior, he started bothering the-the-the-”

Tongue tied bad—uncuff him, cut him slack.

Leroy: “You afraid to let my hands free, Mr. Police?”

Orchard: “Fuck, that’s better.”

“AND?”

“And J-Junior, he was bugging the G-Golden Gloves guy.”

“What was Duhamel doing at the Club Alabam?”

“It looked like he was eyeballing these guys back by this curtained-off room they got there.”

“What guys? What were they doing?”

“It looked like they were filing numbers off these slot machines.”

“And?”

“Man, you keeping saying that!”

I sapped the table hard—it jumped off the floor. “AND why did Junior Stemmons take you to the Club Alabam?”

Orchard, hands up, begging: “Okay okay okay. Junior what’s-his-name was stoned out of his gourd. He buttonholed the Golden Gloves man and told him this crazy fantasy rebop that I had this big money to buy mink coats with. The boxer cop, he almost went nuts shushing Junior. They almost threw blows, and I saw these two other cops that I sorta knew by sight watching the whole thing sort of real interested.”

“Describe the two other cops.”

“Shit, mean looking. A heavyset blond guy, and this thin guy with glasses.”

Breuning and Carlisle—go from there:

Duhamel scoping slot work—Mobster Squad duty? Goons scoping him—suspected fur thief?

Orchard: “Man, I got no more ‘ands’ for you. Whatever you threaten me with, I’ll be feeding you bullshit from here on in.”

Work the spook: “Give, Leroy.”

“Give shit, I ain’t no stool pigeon.”

“No, you’re a small-time independent narcotics pusher.”

“Say what?”

“Say this heroin is a month’s pay for you.”

“An’ say I got a bail bondsman ready to stand my bail an’ a righteous Jew lawyer set to defend me. Say you book me, say I get my phone call. Say what, shit.”

I uncuffed him. “Did Tommy Kafesjian ever muscle you, Leroy?”

“Tommy K. don’t scare me.”

“Sure he does.”

“Horse pucky.”

“You’re either paying him protection, snitching for him or running from him.”

“Horse pucky.”

“Well, I don’t think snitching’s your style, but I think you’re looking over your shoulder a lot waiting for some Kafesjian guy to notice you.”

“Maybe that’s true. But maybe the Kafesjians ain’t gonna control the Southside traffic that much longer.”

“Did Junior Stemmons tell you that?”

“Maybe he did. But maybe it’s just loose talk pertainin’ to this big Southside Federal thing. And either way I ain’t no snitch.”

Tough monkey.

“Leroy, why don’t you tell me how Junior Stemmons muscled you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you two talked about.”

“Fuck your mother.”

“You know, if you cooperate with me, it might help bring the Kafesjians down.”

“Fuck you. I ain’t no snitch.”

“Leroy, were you acquainted with a maryjane pusher named Wardell Knox?”

“Fuck you, so what if I was.”

“He was murdered.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“You know, there’s quite a push to clear up these Negro homicides.”

“No shit, Dick Tracy.”

Tough and stupid.

I walked Orchard next door and cuffed him in tight. Back to Leroy—

“Give on you and Junior Stemmons, or I drive you down to 77th Street and tell Dudley Smith you killed Wardell Knox and molested a bunch of little white kids.”

Coup de grace—I laid the H on the table. “Go ahead, I never saw it.”

Leroy snatched his shit back. Zoooom—instant cooperation:

“All that Junior punk and me did was talk. Mostly he talked and I listened, ‘cause he shook me down for my roll and some shit, and I knew that wasn’t no crackerjack badge he showed me.”

“Did he mention Tommy Kafesjian?”

“Not Tommy specific.”

“Tommy’s sister Lucille?”

“Uh-uh.”

“A peeper spying on Lucille?”

“Uh-uh, he just said the Kafesjian family itself was going down, gonna get fucked up by the Federal business. He said LAPD Narco was gonna get neutralizized by the Feds, and he was gonna be the new Southside dope kingpin—”

KILL HIM.

—“this snotnose little twerpy cop flying on a snootful of shit. He said he had the goods on the Kafesjians, and access to his boss’s burglary investigation, which was full of dirty stuff to blackmail J.C. Kafesjian with—”

KILL HIM.

—“and he said he was gonna drive the Kafesjians out and steal their turf, and right about this time I’m biting my tongue to keep from laughing. Next he says he’s got stuff on these brothers working for Mickey Cohen. He said they’re gonna pull these sex shakedowns on movie stars—”

Junior’s FI cards—Vecchio stud service—

—“and the capper is little Junior says he’s gonna take over Mickey Cohen’s kingdom, which as I understand it ain’t such a hot kingdom no more.”

“And?”

“And I was just thinking the money and dope I lost was worth it to catch this crazy motherfucker’s act.”

Woods’ surveillance—Junior, Tommy and J.C. at Bido Lito’s. Overheard: he’d protect THEM from ME. Double-agent Junior—mercy-kill him.