“Straight strongarm, with dirt on Chick himself—in case he runs to Sam Giancana. Chick’s Outfit, and the Outfit doesn’t like this kind of extortion.”

“So you want to catch him at it. I bring my camera, we go from there.”

“Right. If we don’t have to wait too long.”

Knuckle pops—

“Pete, come on.”

“I need two days.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck nothing, Chick’s set to bed down Joan fucking Crawford. Now that is worth waiting for.”

Movie stars/movie time-Johnny begging.

“All right. Two days.”

“There’s that condition, Klein.”

“What?”

“If it looks like Chick’s thinking revenge, then we clip him.”

“Agreed.”

Walking air—tunnel vision—peripheral grass.

Side doorways.

Mirrored walls.

Gray herringbones—a coat?

I drove down to Lynwood—crowding the speed limit.

Aviation and Hibiscus first—that pay phone. Feed the slot, use it:

PC Bell said outgoing booth calls weren’t tallied.

Sid Riegle said his suicide queries yielded zero.

4980 Spindrift—still abandoned. The downstairs-left unit—unlocked.

Four empty rooms—like Johnny never showed up there.

Rainy that night, sunny now. I made street circuits—nothing clicked. Vacant bungalow courts—whole blocks of them.

Treading air that night—like I was carried. Grass, side doorways, a right turn.

Maybe: a courtyard right-side room—movie time.

Wet that night, sunny now—maybe dried footprints on grass.

GO—

Six blocks—thirty-odd courts. Epidemic crabgrass—weedy dry, no footprints. Right-side doors—boarded/nailed/locked——dusty, no fresh entry marks.

Johnny laughed: “Why Lynwood, Dave?”

More street circuits—empty courtyards forever.

Fuck.

Downtown to Central Records. Their burglary file vault-crime sheets back to ‘50.

Agent Milner:

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

Tommy’s rap sheet—undoubtedly expunged. Richie Something—maybe not.

GO—

Male adults—four cabinets’ worth—no “Richard”-derivation Caucasians. Juvie—seven Richards—five Negro, two white—porkers topping out 250.

“Unsolved”—adult/juvie—hodgepodge stuff. ‘50 and up, bad typing—I got eyestrain. Tilt—11/6/51:

Music Man Murray’s, 983 N. Weyburn, Westwood Village. Trumpets stolen and recovered: traced to unnamed juvies. No arrests, two kid suspects—”Tommy,” “Richie”—no surnames. The detective assigned: Sgt. M.D. Breuning, West L.A. Squad.

Three more cabinets—no Tommy/Richie extant.

Easy to extrapolate:

Strongarm Breuning works a chump 459. He blows the job and gets nudged: Tommy’s J.C. Kafesjian’s son.

Do it—eat dirt.

I called Robbery first—”Breuning’s out.” 77th ditto-try the Victory Motel.

“Mobster Squad, Carlisle.”

“Sergeant, it’s Dave Klein.”

Breath flutters—”Yeah, what is it?”

“Look, I’m sorry about that trouble with Lester Lake.”

“Sure. You side with a nigger over two... Shit, all right, he was your snitch. Look, you want Dudley? He’s out.”

“Is Breuning in?”

“He’s with Dud. What is it?”

“It’s an old juvie 459 Breuning worked. November ‘51. Have Mike call me, all right?”

“Mike? Sure, Dave”—slam/dial tone.

Tapping out.

My best move now—tail THEM.

My worst move-they’d spot me.

My best nightmare: THEY approach ME. Movie time explained: threats, offers—at least I’d know WHY.

Darktown by default—go, let things happen.

Familiar now—synced to music in my head. Familiar faces staring back: black, sullen. Slow cruising, two-way-radio sputter:

County calls—no Johnny John Doe talk. No Miciak, no Bido’s—halfass comforting.

I tapped the glove box—no candy—just dope stashed and forgotten. Hiss, crackle-a gang fight at Jordan High.

North—a run by THEIR house—Fed surveillance thick. Sax noiseWill Shipstad wearing earplugs.

Radio hum—my soundtrack for Johnny begging. North on instinct overdrive: Chavez Ravine.

Feds thick—I stuck to the car. Check the view:

Eviction papers tacked door to door. A face-off: Commie geeks and pachucos. Earthmovers, dump trucks—LAPD guards standing by.

More:

The main drag cordoned off: Reuben Ruiz dancing a samba. Fans pressing close, wet-eyed women. Fed bodyguards—disgusted.

Two-way boom:

“Code 3 all units vicinity 249 South ARDEN repeat 249 South ARDEN multiple homicides 249 South ARDEN Detective units Roger your locations 249 South ARDEN on-call Homicide units that vicinity Roger your locations!”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Rolling Code 3.

South Arden/Joseph Arden/street name/trick name. A Hancock Park address—affluent—a strong maybe.

“Request animal disposal unit 249 South Arden. Be advised all units now standing.”

I hit the mike: “4-ADAM-31 to Bureau base urgent. Over.”

“Roger, 4-A-31.”

“Urgent. Repeat urgent. Lieutenant D.D. Klein seeking Chief Exley. Over.”

“Roger, 4-A-31.”

Makeshift code: “Urgent. Advise Chief Exley homicides at 249 South Arden likely major case connected. Request permission to seal under IA autonomy. Urgent that you find Chief Exley. Over.”

“Roger, 4-A-31. State your location.”

“3rd and Mariposa westbound. Over.”

Dead air, speeding—

“4-A-31, please Roger.”

“Roger, this is 4-A-31.”

“4-A-31, assume command 249 South Arden IA autonomy. Over.”

“4-A-3 1, Roger, over.”

3rd westbound—siren earaches. Arden Boulevard—right turn, right there:

A big Tudor house swamped—prowl cars, morgue cars.

Civilian cliques on the sidewalk—nervous.

Ice cream trucks, kids.

I jammed in curbside. Two brass hats on the porch, looking queasy.

I ran up. One lieutenant, one captain—green. A hedge behind them dripping vomit.

“Ed Exley wants this sealed: no press, no downtown Homicide. I’m in charge, and IA’s bagging the evidence.”

Nods—queasy—nobody said, “Who are you?”

“Who found them?”

The captain: “Their mailman called it in. He had a special-delivery package, and he wanted to leave it at the side door. The dogs didn’t bark like they usually do, and he saw blood on a window.”

“He ID’d them?”

“Right. It’s a father and two daughters. Phillip Herrick, Laura and Christine. The mother’s dead—the mailman said she killed herself earlier this year. Hold your nose when you—”

In—smell it—blood. Flashbulbs, gray suits—I pushed through.

The entrance foyer floor: two dead shepherds belly-up, dripping mouth foam. Tools nearby—spade/shears/pitchfork—bloody.

Meat scraps/drool/puke trails.

Stabbed and cut and forked—entrail piles soaking a throw rug.

I squatted down and pried their jaws loose—tech men gasped.

Washrags in their mouths—stelfactiznide-chloride-soaked.

Match it up—Kafesjian 459.

Walk/look/think—plainclothesmen gave me room:

The front hallway—broken records/tossed covers. Christmas jazz wax-confirm the Mom-peeper letters.

The dining room:

Booze bottles and portraits smashed—another K.-job match. Family pictures: a dad and two daughters.

Mom to peeper: “Your sisters.”

Suicide talk/suicide confirmation.

A tech stampede-follow it—the den.

Three dead on the floor: one male, two female.

Details:

Their eyes shot out—powder-black cheeks, exit spatter.

Ripped cushions on a chair—bullet mufflers.