“Aptly put, and the blood on his shirt suggests the latter. Do you know how I suggest we find out?”

“No, sir.”

“We monitor Southside homicide calls and see which ones Edmund Exley tries to obfuscate.”

“I like it, sir.”

“I thought you would. It’s empirically valid, since we both know that Dave here murdered Sanderline Johnson. I think it’s a family enterprise. Dave does the scut work, sister Meg invests the money. How’s this for an adage? ‘The family that slays together stays—’”

I jumped him—my legs caved—Shipstad pried me off. Thumbs on my carotid, hauled across the hallway blacking out—

Locked in, snapping back fast—wide awake quick. A four-by-six space—quilt walls—no chairs, no table. A wall speaker outlet and mirrored spyhole—adjoining-room access.

A padded cell/watching post—scope it out:

Scarred glass—some distortion. Audio squelch—I slapped the speaker—better. Check the mirror: Milner and Abe Voldrich next door.

Milner:”... what I’m saying is that either J.C. and Tommy will be indicted, or the publicity they get when we make the grand jury minutes available to the press will ruin them. Narco is going to be cut off at the knees, and I think Ed Exley knows it himself, because he has taken no measures to protect them or to sequester evidence. Abe, without Narco the Kafesjians are just a bunch of stupes running a marginally profitable dry-cleaning business.”

Voidrich: “I… am…not…an informant.”

Milner: “No, you’re a fifty-one-year-old Lithuanian refugee with a green card we can revoke at anytime. Abe, do you want to live behind the Iron Curtain? Do you know what the Commies would do to you?”

“I am not a snitch.”

“No, but you’d like to be. You’re letting hints drop. You told me you dried marijuana bales in one of the E-Z Kleen dryers.”

“Yes, and I told you J.C., Tommy and Madge didn’t know about it.”

Cigarette smoke—blurred faces.

Milner: “You know that J.C. and Tommy are scum. You always go to lengths to differentiate Madge from them. She’s a nice woman, and you’re an essentially decent man who fell in with bad people.”

Voldrich: “Madge is a very fine woman who for many reasons…well, she just needs Tommy and J.C.”

Milner: “Did Tommy clip a drunk driver who killed a Narco cop’s daughter?”

“I stand on that Fifth Amendment thing.”

“You and the whole goddamn world—they never should have broadcast the Kefauver hearings. Abe—”

“Agent Milner, please charge me or release me.”

“You got your phone call, and you elected to call your sister. If you’d called J.C., he would have found a smart lawyer to get you released on a writ. I think you want to do the right thing. Mr. Noonan explained the immunity agreement to you, and he’s promised you a Federal service reward. I think you want it. Mr. Noonan wants to take three major witnesses to the grand jury, one of them you. And the nice thing is that if all three of you testify, everyone who could conceivably hurt you will be indicted and convicted.”

“I am not an informant.”

“Abe, did Tommy and J.C. kill Sergeant George Stemmons, Jr.?”

“No”—hoarse.

“He died from a heroin overdose. Tommy and J.C. could have faked something like that.”

“No—I mean I don’t know.”

“Which one?”

“I mean no, I don’t think so.”

“Abe, you’re not exactly a poker face. Now, along those lines, we know that Tommy plays his horn at Bido Lito’s. Is he tight there?”

“Fifth Amendment.”

“That’s TV for you. Kids break a window, they plead the Fifth. Abe, how well did the Kafesjians know Junior Stemmons?”

“Fifth Amendment.”

“Stemmons and a Lieutenant David Klein were bothering them about a burglary that occurred at their house two weeks ago. What do you know about that?”

“Fifth Amendment.”

“Did they try to shake down the Kafesjians for money?”

“No—I mean Fifth Amendment.”

“Abe, you’re an open book. Come on, Stemmons was a junkie, and Klein’s as dirty as cops get.”

Voldrich coughed—the speaker caught static. “No. Fifth Amendment.”

Milner: “Let’s change the subject.”

“How about politics?”

“How about Mickey Cohen? Do you know him?”

“I have never met the man.”

“Maybe not, but you’re an old Southside hand. What do you know about Mickey’s coin racket down there?”

“I know buppkis. I know that slot machines play to a nickel-and-clime mentality, which explains their allure to stupid shvartzes.”

Milner: “Let’s change the subject.”

“How about the Dodgers? If I was a Mexican, I’d be happy to leave Chavez Ravine.”

“How about Dan Wilhite?”

“Fifth Amendment.”

“We’ve looked at his tax records, Abe. J.C. gave him twenty percent of the E-Z Kleen shop on Alvarado.”

“Fifth Amendment.”

“Abe, every man working Narco owns unaffordable items that we think J.C. gave them. We’ve audited their tax returns, and when we call them in to explain those items and say ‘Tell us where you got them and you’ll skate,’ J.C. will be sunk on twenty-four counts of bribery and suborning federal tax fraud.”

“Fifth Amendment.”

“Abe, I’ll give you some advice: always plead the Fifth across the board. Conversational answers interspersed with the Fifth simply serve to single out the responses that indicate guilty knowledge.”

Silence.

“Abe, you’re looking a little green at the gills.”

No answer.

“Abe, we heard Tommy’s been looking for a guy named Richie. We’ve got no last name, but we’ve heard that he and Tommy used to play jazz together and pull B&E’s.”

I pressed up to the glass—smoke, distortion—”Fifth Amendment.”

“Abe, you never won a dime at poker.”

Pressing up—squinting, ears cocked.

“You really do want to help us out, Abe. Once you admit it you’ll feel a lot better.”

Door clangs—I eased off the wall.

Two Feds flanking Welles Noonan. I hit first: “You want to turn me as a witness.”

Noonan patted his hair. “Yes, and my wife’s pulling for you. She saw your picture in the papers, and she’s quite smitten.”

“Quid pro quo?”

“You’re not desperate enough, but try me.”

“Richie Something. Tell me what you’ve got on him.”

“No, and I’ll have to upbraid Agent Milner for leaving that speaker on.”

“Noonan, we can deal on this.”

“No, you’re not ready to beg yet. Gentlemen, escort Mr. Klein to a taxi.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Bido Lito’s—daybreak.

Scorched rubble, the bandstand dead center. Ash heaps, shattered glass.

Sidewalk phones intact. One dime in my pockets—be there, please.

Six rings—”Hello?” sleepy-voiced.

“It’s me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m all right.”

“I didn’t ask you—David, where were you?”

Tingles—just hearing her.

“I can’t—look, were you questioned?”

“Yes, two Sheriff’s men. They said it was routine, that all the Hughes contract actresses were being questioned. They didn’t seem to know that Howard had me under surveillance, and I didn’t have to give an alibi for a specific time, because they couldn’t establish the time Miciak died. They—”

“Don’t say names.”

“Why? Where are you calling from?”

“A pay phone.”

“David, you sound frightened. Where were you?”

“I’ll tell you if—I mean when it’s over.”

“Is this the Kafesjian thing?”

“How did you know that?”

“I just did. There’s things you don’t tell me, so—”

“There’s things you don’t tell me.”

Silence.

“Glenda?”

“Yes, and there’s things that I won’t.”

“Talk to me, then.”

“Come over.”

“I can’t, I have to sleep.”

“What kind of things should I tell you?”

“I don’t know, good things.”

Soft, sleepy-voiced: “Well, when I was seeing H.H. I pumped him for some stock tips and bought low. Those stocks are rising now, so I think I’ll make a nice profit. When you stood me up night before last, I had dinner with Mickey. He’s still enamored of me, and he had me critique his acting style, something to do with his making an important speech soon. My car has a loose clutch, and I—”