“And he thinks he’ll get a district gambling franchise.”

“Feature that bill could pass.”

“Feature the AG’s office under Gas Chamber Bob Gallaudet? Feature him granting Mickey Cohen a franchise?”

Smirking: “Feature I don’t think you came here to see Mickey.”

Wet ground—the spaceship capsized—bums cheered. “I hope this movie makes money.”

“So does Mickey. Hey, where you going?”

“Lynwood.”

“Hot date?”

“Yeah, with a pretty-boy strongarm cop.”

“I’ll tell Touch—he’ll be jealous.”

Adrenaline-rain peaked it.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lynwood—wind, rain—streets running crisscross and diagonal. Dark—hard to see; Aviation and Hibiscus—that pay phone on the corner.

Tombstone laughs—Jack’s call reprised:

“He kicked natural or got snuffed by somebody else? Come on, let me redeem myself. Say Welles Noonan for that same ten?”

Stucco pads—quasi slums; empty bungalow courts. Spindrift—the 4900 block—I skimmed numbers.

24, 38, 74. 4980: a two-deck stucco dive, abandoned.

One light on-downstairs left, the door open.

I walked up.

An empty living room—cobwebs, dusty floor—Schoolboy Johnny standing there calm.

No jacket, empty holster—trust me.

Trust shit—watch his hands.

“Are you grieving for Junior, Johnny?”

“What do you know about Stemmons and me?”

“I know he made you for the fur heist. I know that other stuff doesn’t count.”

“Other stuff” made him blink. Ten feet apart—watch his hands.

“He had evidence on you, too. He felt terrible things for certain people, and he collected evidence on them to even things out.”

“We can work out a deal. I don’t care about the fur job.”

“You don’t know the half”—eye flickers craaaazy.

Footsteps behind me.

My hands pinned/my mouth cupped—smothered/my sleeves rolled up/stabbed.

Walking air—tunnel vision—peripheral grass. Tingles/flutters up my groin/toasty warm.

Side doorways, shoes, trouser legs flapping.

Elbow dipped, shoes on concrete, right turn—

A door opened—warm air, light. Mirrored walls, herringbone patterns up close. Somebody stretched me prone.

Light overhead—snowflake blurry.

Whir, click/click—cylinder noise, like a camera. Sliding on my knees—white wax paper under me.

Propped up.

Tape strips on my eyes—slapped sticky blind.

Somebody hit me.

Somebody poked me.

Somebody burned me-hot/cold sizzles on my neck.

Not so tingly/toasty warm—no flutters up my groin.

Somebody pulled the tape off—sticky red blood in my eyes.

Cylinder click-clicks.

Propped up on white wax paper. Something in my right hand, heavy and shiny: MY souvenir Jap sword.

Shoved, focused in:

Johnny Duhamel naked, holding MY gun.

Burned: hot/cold—my neck, my hands.

Burned raw—Johnny kneeling, glassy eyes, taunting me.

Burned—steam in my face-Johnny taunting me-blue slant eyes.

Get him, cut him—wild swings, misses.

Johnny weaving—grip down, swing two-handed.

Miss, hit, miss—pale skin ripped, tattoos gouting blood. Hit, rip, rip—an arm gone, socket spray. Johnny jabbering Jap singsong, blue slant eyes—

Miss, miss—Jap Johnny prone, twitching crazy. Sight in—this chest tattoo—split it, split him—

Miss, miss—wax paper shredding.

Hit, jerk down—spine snaps/blade drag/pull—red EVERYWHERE.

Gasping—hard to breathe-blood in my mouth.

Somebody stabbed me—I went tingly/toasty warm/flutters up my groin.

Fading out: flamethrower burns toasty nice, Jap surrender.

Floating toasty black. Tick tick somewhere—a clock—I counted seconds. Six thousand-drifting off—ten thou four hundred.

Jap zeros gliding, voices:

Meg: Pops never touched me—David, don’t hurt him. The peeper: Daddy, Daddy. Lucille: He’s my Daddy.

Jap zeros strafing Darktown. Tick tick—fourteen thousand odd.

Toasty black.

Blurry: gray herringbones, shoes.

Wall mirrors topsy-turvy; Jap zeros. I tried to wave—stupid—tapeddown arms wouldn’t let me.

A chair—taped in snug.

Projector clicks.

White light, a white screen.

Movie time—Pops and Meg?—don’t let him grope her.

I thrashed—futile-sticky tape, no give.

A white screen.

Cut to:

Johnny Duhamel naked.

Cut to:

Dave Klein swinging a sword.

Zooming in—the sword grip: SSGT D.D. Klein USMC Saipan 7/24/43.

Cut to:

Johnny begging—”Please”—mute sound.

Cut to:

Dave Klein thrashing—stabbing, missing.

Cut to:

A severed arm twitching on wax paper.

Cut to:

Dave Klein, gutting motions—Johnny D. coughing entrails.

Cut to:

Lens glass dripping red; a finger flicking spine chips off the surface.

I screamed—

A needle stab cut me off mute.

Fading in—moving—night—windshield blur.

Niggertown—South Central.

Chest pains, neck pains. Beard stubble, no holster.

Swerving.

Sirens whoop whoop.

Burn aches.

Disinfectant stink—somebody washed me.

Where/what/who—Johnny Duhamel begging.

No.

Not for real.

THEY made me do it.

Please—I didn’t like it.

Sirens, flames up ahead.

Chapter Thirty

Fire trucks, prowl cars. Beard stubble—say a day’s worth. Smoke, fire—Bido Lito ‘s flaming skyward.

A roadblock—swing right—I jumped the curb. Gray suit camera men right there—monsters.

Bumper crunch, this sign.’ “Self-Determination Is Yours With the Prophet Muhammed.”

Resting now—a nice soft dashboard. Fading out: “That’s Klein. Grab him.”

“I think he’s got a concussion.”

“He looks drugged to me.”

“I don’t think this is legal.”

“It’s dicey, but it’s legal. We found him blacked out near an arson homicide scene, and he’s a major suspect in our overall investigation. Mr. Noonan has a source in the Coroner’s Office. He told him that Klein’s partner died of a heroin overdose, and just look at this man’s condition.”

“Jim, for the written record in case this reaches litigation.”

“Shoot.”

“All right. It’s 3:40 A.M., November 19, 1958, and I am Special Agent Willis Shipstad. With me are Special Agents James Henstell and William Milner. We are at the downtown Federal Building with Lieutenant David Klein of the Los Angeles Police Department. Lieutenant Klein was picked up in a stuporous condition one hour ago at 67th Street and Central Avenue in South Los Angeles. He was unconscious and in a disheveled state. We brought him here to assure that he receives proper medical attention.”

“That’s a riot.”

“Jim, strike Bill’s comment. Resuming, Lieutenant Klein, whom our Intelligence records indicate to be forty-two years old, has sustained possible head injuries. His hands and neck have been burned, the scarring forensically consistent with burns caused by dry ice. There are bloodstains on his shirt and there is friction tape stuck to his jacket. He is unarmed. We properly parked his 1957 Plymouth police vehicle at the intersection where we found him. Prior to interrogation, Lieutenant Klein will be offered medical attention.”