Propped up in a straight-backed chair.

Feds.

“Jim, have this typed and see that Mr. Noonan gets a carbon.”

A sweat hole. Will Shipstad, two G-men. A table, chairs, a steno rig.

Shipstad: “He’s coming to. Jim, get Mr. Noonan.”

One Fed walked. I stretched—kinks and aches head to toe.

Shipstad: “You know me, Lieutenant. We met at the Embassy Hotel.”

“I remember.”

“This is my partner, Special Agent Milner. Do you know where you are?”

My Jap sword—wide screen/color.

“Do you want to see a doctor?”

“No.”

Milner—fat, cheap cologne. “Are you sure? You’re looking a little raggedy-ass.”

“No.”

Shipstad: “Witness that Mr. Klein refused medical attention. What about an attorney? Being one yourself, you know that we have the right to hold you for questioning.”

“I waive.”

“You’re sure?”

Johnny—Jesus God.

“I’m sure.”

“Bill, witness that Mr. Klein was offered and refused legal counsel.”

“Why am I here?”

Milner: “Look at yourself. The question should be where have you been?”

Shipstad: “We picked you up at 67th and Central. A short time prior to that, the Bido Lito’s club was arsoned. We had agents in the vicinity on general surveillance, and one of them heard a witness talking to LAPD detectives. The witness said he was walking by Bido Lito’s shortly after the club closed for the night and saw a broken front window. Seconds later the place caught fire. That certainly sounds like a firebombing to me.”

Milner: “Three people died in that fire. So far, we’re assuming it was the club’s two owners and the cleanup man. Lieutenant, do you know how to concoct a Molotov cocktail?”

Shipstad: “We’re not suggesting that you torched Bido Lito’s. Frankly, the condition we picked you up in suggests that you were incapable of lighting a cigarette. Lieutenant, look how this appears. Two nights ago, five people were killed at an after-hours club in Watts, and a somewhat reliable source told us that Ed Exley and Bob Gallaudet exerted a great deal of pressure to keep the details under wraps. Now, the following morning your colleague Sergeant George Stemmons, Jr., is found dead at Bido Lito’s. Chief Exley feeds the press a song and dance about a heart attack, when we’ve heard that it was most likely a self-inflicted heroin overdose. Now, forty-odd hours after that, Bido Lito’s is torched, and you drive by not long after in a state that indicates narcotic-induced intoxication. Lieutenant, do you see how all this appears?”

Kafesjian setup. Johnny D. gouting blood—

Milner: “Klein, are you with us?”

“Yes.”

“Do you routinely use narcotics?”

“No.”

“Oh, just occasionally?”

“Never.”

“How about submitting to a blood test?”

“How about releasing me on a prima facie evidence writ?”

Milner: “Hey, he went to law school.”

Shipstad: “Where were you coming from when we picked you up?”

“I refuse to answer.”

Milner: “Sure, on the grounds that it might incriminate you.”

“No, on the grounds of nonincriminating information disclosure as detailed in Indiana v. Harkness, Bodine, et al., 1943.”

“Hey, he went to law school. You got anything to add to that, hotshot?”

“Yeah, you’re a fat piece of shit and your wife fucks Rin-Tin-Tin.”

Cardiac red—fat shitbird. Shipstad: “Enough. Lieutenant, where were you?”

“Refuse to answer.”

“What happened to your service revolver?”

“Refuse to answer.”

“Can you explain the unkempt condition we found you in?”

“Refuse to answer.”

“Can you explain the blood on your shirt?”

Johnny begging—

“Refuse to answer.”

Milner: “Something getting to you, hotshot?”

Shipstad: “Where were you?”

“Refuse to answer.”

“Did you torch Bido Lito’s?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

“No.”

“Did the LAPD do it as revenge for Stemmons’ death?”

“No, you’re crazy.”

“Did Inspector George Stemmons, Sr., order the torch?”

“I don’t—no, you’re crazy.”

“Did you torch Bido Lito’s to avenge your partner’s death?”

“No”—getting light-headed.

Milner:”We don’t smell liquor on your breath.”

Shipstad: “Were you under the influence of narcotics when we found you?”

“No.”

“Do you use narcotics?”

“No”—speaker lights on the wall—listeners somewhere.

“Were you forcibly administered narcotics?”

“No”—a good guess—JOHNNY CO-STAR. The door opened—Welles Noonan stepped in.

Milner walked out. Noonan: “Good morning, Mr. Klein.”

Jack Kennedy hair—reeking of hairspray. “I said, ‘Good morning.’”

JOHNNY BEGGING.

“Klein, are you listening to me?”

“I heard you.”

“Good. I had a few questions before we release you.”

“Ask them.”

“I will. And I look forward to sparring with you. I remember that precedent you upbraided Special Agent Milner with, so I think we’d be evenly matched.”

“How do you get your hair to do that?”

“I’m not here to share my hairdressing secrets with you. Now, I’m going—”

“Cocksucker, you spit in my face.”

“Yes. And you were at the very least criminally negligent in the matter of Sanderline Johnson’s death. So far, these are-”

“Ten minutes or I call Jerry Geisler for habeas.”

“He’ll never find a judge.”

“Ten minutes or I engage Kanarek, Brown and Mattingly to file nuisance claims that entail immediate court appearances.”

“Mr. Klein, did you—”

“Call me ‘Lieutenant.’”

“Lieutenant, how well do you know the history of the Los Angeles Police Department?”

“Get to it, don’t lead me.”

“Very well. Who initiated what I’ll euphemistically describe as the ‘arrangement’ between the LAPD and Mr. J.C. Kafesjian?”

“What ‘arrangement’?”

“Come, Lieutenant. You know you despise them as much as we do.”

Lead him, cut him slack. “I think it was Chief Davis, the chief before Horrall. Why?”

“And this was circa 1936, ‘37?”

“Around then, I think. I joined the Department in ‘38.”

“Yes, and I hope that the fact that your pension is secure hasn’t given you a false sense of invulnerability. Ueutenant, Captain Daniel Wilhite is the liaison between the Kafesjian family and Narcotics Division, is he not?”

“Refuse to answer.”

“I understand, brother-officer loyalty. Has Wilhite operated the Kafesjians since the beginning of your arrangement?”

“The way I understand it, Chief Davis brought the Kafesjians in and operated them until Horrall took over as chief late in ‘39. Dan Wilhite didn’t join the Department until mid-’39, so he couldn’t have been their original operator, if he has fucking indeed ever been their operator.”

Fey aristocrat: “Oh, come, Lieutenant. You know Wilhite and the Kafesjians are near-ancient allies.”

“Refuse to comment. But keep asking me about the Kafesjians.”

“Yes, we’ve heard they’ve piqued your interest.”

JOHNNY BEGGING.

Shipstad: “You’re looking queasy. Do you want a drink of—”

Noonan: “Did you tell Mickey Cohen to remove his slot and vending machines? He was lax, you know. We’ve got pictures of his men servicing them.”

“Refuse to answer.”

“We’ve recently turned a major witness, you know.”

Don’t bite.

“A major witness.”

“Your clock’s ticking.”

“Yes, it is. Will, do you think Mr. Klein torched Bido Lito’s?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“He can’t or won’t account for his whereabouts.”

“Sir, I’m not so sure he knows himself.”

I stood up—my legs almost went. “I’ll take a cab back to my car.”

“Nonsense, Special Agent Shipstad will drive you. Will, I’m curious as to where the lieutenant has spent the past day or so.”

“Sir, my guess is either a hell of a woman or a run-in with a grizzly bear.”