“Give me the dope back.”

“Man, you said I could have it!”

“Give it to me.”

“Fuck you, lying motherfucker!”

I sapped him down, broke his wrists, pried it free.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Crazy motherfucker’s act.”

Junior’s door—six padlocks—crazy new precautions. The dumbfuck used LAPD hardware—my master keys got me in.

Hit the lights—

Rice Krispies on the floor.

Piano wire strung ankle-high.

Closet doors nailed shut; mousetraps on the furniture.

CRAAAAZY.

Toss it slow now—the trunk distracted me last time—

I pried the closets open—nothing but food scraps inside.

Cornflakes and tacks on the kitchen floor.

Sink sludge—motor oil, glass shards; friction tape sealing the icebox. Peel it off—

Amyl nitrite poppers in an ice tray.

Reefer buds in a casserole dish.

Chocolate ice cream—plastic shoved down an open pint container. Dump it, yank—

One Minox spy camera—no film loaded in.

The hall—neck-high wires—duck. The bathroom—mousetraps, a medicine chest glued shut. Smash it open—K-Y jelly and two C-notes on a shelf.

A hamper—nailed tight—pry, pull—

Bloody hypos—spikes up-a booby trap. Dump them—a small steel strongbox underneath.

Locked—I banged it open on the wall.

Booty:

One B of A Hollywood branch passbook—balance $9,183.40.

Two safe-deposit-box keys, one instruction card. Fuck: “Box access requires password and/or visual okay.”

Call it:

Evidence holes—Junior caution pre—complete CRAAAZY.

Logic:

Glenda/Klein dispositions stashed THERE—ditto the gun Georgie Ainge sold Glenda.

Find the password.

I tossed the bedroom—carpet glass spread thick—the trunk gone. The drawers—pure shit—paper scraps gibberish-scrawled.

I dumped the mattress, the couch, the chairs—no rips, no stash holes. I pulled the TV apart—mousetraps snapped. That wall section I shot out—stuffed with Kotex.

No password. No H cards. No depositions. No Exley/no Duhamel files.

Snap, crackle, pop—Rice Krispies underfoot.

Phone bbrinng—

The hall extension—grab it.

“Uh, yeah?”

“It’s me, Wenzel. Uh, Stemmons…look, man…I don’t want any part of dealing with you.”

I faked Junior’s voice: “Meet me.”

“No… I’ll get your money back to you.”

“Come on, let’s talk about—”

“No, you’re nuts!”—click, say it: Junior bought Wenzel’s dope; Wenzel wised up later.

Bank books, box keys—mine now. I clipped the padlocks fumblehanded—kill him, Jack.

I drove to Tilly’s place. Four flights up-knock—no answer.

Peep the spyhole, listen—light, TV laughs. A shoulder wedge snapped the door.

Tilly flipping channels—sprawled on the floor, hophead-dreamy.

Bindles on a chair—say a pound’s worth.

Flip—Perry Como, boxing, Patti Page. Slack-face Tilly on cloud nine.

I crammed the door shut and bolted it. Tilly flipped stations, goofy-eyed: Lawrence Welk, Spade Cooley. I grabbed her, dragged her—

Clenching up, kicking—good. The bathroom, the shower, full-blast water—

Cold—soak her clothes, freeze her sober. Wet myself—fuck it.

Freezing her: big shivers, jumbo goosebumps. Teeth clicks trying to beg me—sweat her.

Hot water—fighting now—I let her hit, kick, squirm. Back to ice-cold—“All right! All right!”—no dope slur.

I pulled her out, sat her down on the toilet.

“I think Steve Wenzel left you that dope for safekeeping. He was going to give it to that policeman Junior Stemmons we talked about the other night, and Junior already paid him for it. Now he wants to give Junior his money back because Junior’s crazy and he’s scared. Now you tell me what you know about that.”

Tilly trembled—spastic shivers. I tossed her towels and tapped the heater.

She bundled up. “Are you going to tell the Probation?”

“Not if you cooperate with me.”

“And what about that...”

“That shit in your front room that will get you a dime in some dyke farm if I decide to get ugly?”

Popping cold sweat now. “Yes.”

“I won’t touch it. And I know you want to geez, so the sooner you talk to me, the sooner you can.”

Red coils, heat. Tilly: “Steve heard that Tommy Kafesjian’s out to kill him. This seller man Pat Orchard, he knows Steve, and he was in jail this afternoon. This policeman strongarmed him—”

“That was me.”

“I’m not surprised, but just let me tell you. Anyway, according to Steve, that policeman which I guess was you asked this Pat Orchard all these questions about this Junior policeman. You released him, and he went to Tommy Kafesjian and snitched that Junior man and Steve. He said that Steve sold Junior this big stash, and that the Junior policeman was talking up all this dope-kingpin jive. Steve said he moved out of his place, and he’s going to try to give Junior his money back, ‘cause he heard Tommy’s out to get him.”

“And Wenzel left his shit with you for safekeeping.”

Antsy—squirming up her towels. “That’s right.”

“I cut Orchard loose no more than three hours ago. How did you learn all this so quickly?”

“Tommy came by here before Steve did. He told me, ‘cause he knows I know Steve, and he thought I might know where he’s hiding. I didn’t tell him I talked to you the other night, and I said I don’t know where Steve is, which is the truth. He left, then Steve came by and dropped his stash off. I told him, ‘You run from that crazy Tommy and that crazy Junior.’”

Steve calls Junior—and gets me. “What else did you and Tommy talk about?”

Stifling coil heat—Tilly dripped sweat. “He wanted to do it to me, but I said no ‘cause you told me he killed Wardell Knox.”

“What else? The sooner I go, the sooner you can—”

“Tommy said he’s looking for this guy spying on his sister, Lucille. He said he’s going crazy looking for that spyer.”

“What else did he tell you about him?”

“Nothing.”

“Did he say his name was Richie?”

“No.”

“Did he say he was a musician?”

“No.”

“Did he say he had leads on where the guy was?”

“No. He said the spyer was like a f-ing phantom, and he didn’t know where he was.”

“Did he mention a different man, someone spying on the spyer?”

“No.”

“Did he mention any name on the spyer?”

“No.”

“Champ Dineen?”

“Do you think I’m stupid? Champ Dineen was this music writer who died years ago.”

“What else did Tommy say about Lucille?”

“Nothing.”

“Did he mention the name Joseph Arden?”

“No. Please, I need to—”

“Did Tommy say he was screwing Lucille?”

“Mister, you got an evil curiosity about that girl.”

Fast: out to the front room, back with the dope.

“Mister, that belongs to Steve.”

I cracked the window, looked down—a crap game in the alley dead below.

“Mister…”

I tossed a bindle out-dice-blanket bullseye. “What else did Tommy say about Lucille?”

“Nothing. Mister, please!”

Shouts downstairs-dope from heaven.

Two more bindles out—”Mister, I need that!”—four, five—alleyway roars.

“TOMMY AND LUCILLE”—six, seven, eight.

Nine, ten—”It’s wrong to be thinking what you’re thinking. Would you be doing that with your own sister?!”

Crap-game reveries—praise Jesus.

Eleven, twelve—I threw them at Tilly.

Downtown—R&J—a run for Steve Wenzel’s rap sheet and mugshots. Wenzel—two dope falls, butt-ugly: lantern-jaw white trash. No KAs/ known haunts listed—I shifted to THEM.

A run by their house—lights on, cars out front. I parked, window reconned.

Down the driveway—dark—I watched for new dogs. Hop the fence, peep around—Madge cooking, no Lucille. Dark rooms, the den—J.C., Tommy and Abe Voldrich.