Linkage clicking in—no surprises yet.

“And?”

“And somehow Stemmons found out that Exley was what you call operating Johnny, and he pulled this wild queer number on him, and it disgusted Johnny, but he didn’t beat that puto faggot silly, ‘cause Stemmons was this hotshot evidence teacher cop who could screw Johnny on this gig he was fuckin’ embroiled in with Exley.”

Popping punches, popping sweat—little moves synced to his story.

“And?”

“And you cops always pull that ‘and’ bit to keep people talking.”

“Then let’s try ‘so.’”

“So I guess it was about this time that Johnny got tangled up in the fur job. He said he had inside help, and he just hired on me and my brothers to do the hauling work. He was doing these other so-called bad things, and I figured it was strongarm shit on the Mobster Squad, but Johnny said it was lots worse, like so bad he was afraid to tell his good buddy Exley about it. Fucking Stemmons, he was talking all this criminal-mastermind noise up to Johnny, and I don’t know, but somehow he found out about Johnny and the fur heist.”

Ruiz shit-eater-grinning—punched out, winded.

“When did Johnny tell you all this?”

“After the fur heist, when we put on gloves and he told me to give him this penance beating.”

“And around that time Stemmons tried to horn in on Johnny’s part of the fur job.”

“Right.”

“Come on, Reuben. Right, and?”

“And Johnny told me the fur job was an Exley setup from the gate. It was part of his what you call cover, and Exley was in with that guy Sol Hurwitz. Hurwitz was some kind of gone-bust gambler, and fuckin’ richkid Exley, he bought all the furs and told Johnny how to stage the heist.”

AUDACIOUS.

Links missing.

Exley’s heist/Dudley Smith’s investigation—why did Exley assign someone that good?

Linkage chronology—pure guesswork:

Johnny offers Mickey Cohen hot fur.

Dud gloms the Cohen lead and scares Mickey shitless.

Exley intercedes.

Exley operates Mickey—toward what end?

Mickey, skewed behavior—movie mogul, Darktown bungler—he still won’t pull his Southside slots.

Chick Vecchio—Mickey linked.

Chick—finger man—Kafesjian movie time.

Mickey and Chick—linked to:

THEM/Narco/Dan Wilhite.

Links:

Missing/hidden/obscured/twisted CRAAAZY—

Reuben—punched out, grinning: “So, I guess all this is just between us witness buddies.”

“That’s right.”

“Is Johnny dead?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad he never got married. Mea fucking culpa, I could of dropped a nice mink coat on his widow.”

Crash noise—another shack went down.

Stone’s throw: Chavez Ravine to Silverlake. Over to Jack Woods’ place—his car outside.

Powder blue gleaming: Jack’s baby.

The front door stood ajar—I knocked first.

“I’m in the shower! It’s open!”

I walked in—brazen Jack—phones and bet slips in plain view. A wall photo: Jack, Meg and me-the Mocambo, ‘49.

“You remember that night? Meg got plowed on brandy alexanders.”

Meg sat between us—hard to tell whose girl.

“You’re cruising down memory lane pretty steep, partner.”

I turned around. “You clipped a guy for Mickey a couple of days before. You were flush, so you picked up the tab.”

Jack cinched his robe. “Is this the pot calling the kettle black?”

“Did you pop Abe Voldrich?”

“Yeah, I did. Do you care?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then you just came by to rehash old times.”

“It’s about Meg, but I wouldn’t mind an explanation.”

Jack lit a cigarette. “Chick Vecchio bought the hit for Mickey. He said Narco and Dan Wilhite wanted it. Voldrich was the Kafesjian family’s bagman to the LAPD. Chick said it was Mickey’s idea, that the Feds had turned Voldrich as a witness, and Mickey wanted his connections to the Kafesjians snipped. Ten grand, partner. My consolation prize for that hump Stemmons dying on me.”

“I’m not so sure I buy it.”

“So what? Business is business, and Mickey and those Armenians have got lots of stuff going down in Niggertown.”

“Something’s missing. Mickey doesn’t clip people anymore, and he hasn’t got ten grand liquid to save his life.”

“So it was the Kafesjians direct, or Dan Wilhite through Chick. Look, what do you care who-”

“Wilhite doesn’t know Chick personally, I’d bet on it.”

My sister’s lover—bored. “Look, Chick played on you and me as friends. He said Voldrich could spill to the Feds on you, so did I want to make ten G’s and help a buddy out. Now, you want to tell me how you made me for the job?”

Links: obscured/hidden/fucked with—

“Dave—”

“The Feds saw a car like yours near Voldrich’s place. They didn’t get any plate numbers, or you’d have heard from them by now.”

“So it was just an educated guess.”

“You’re the only clip guy I know with a powder-blue car.”

“So what about Meg?”

“First you tell me how it stands with you two.”

“It stands that she’s thinking about leaving her husband and getting a place with me.”

“A phone drop? Some crap-game pad?”

“We ruined her for squarejohn guys years ago, so don’t act like she doesn’t know the score.”

That photo-a woman, two killers.

“The Feds have got me by the shorts. I’m going into custody day after tomorrow, and if they try to screw me on my immunity deal Meg might get hurt. I want you to tell her to pull our money out of the bank, and I want you to stash her some place safe until I call you.”

“Okay.”

“Just ‘okay’?”

“Okay, send postcards from wherever the Feds hide you, and I’ve had a hunch that you were screwed for a couple of weeks now.”

That picture—

Jack smiled. “Meg said she’s doing this title search for you, and every time you talk on the phone you sound less like a strongarm guy.”

“And more like a lawyer?”

“No, more like a guy trying to buy his way out.”

“Look after her.”

“Write when you can, Counselor.”

A pay-phone call to Homicide. Shit news—no trace on Richie Herrick’s Chino file. A message—meet Pete Bondurant—8:00, the Smokehouse, Burbank.

The Vecchio job—looming ugly.

Time to kill. Stone’s throw: Silverlake to Griffith Park. I drove up the east road to the Observatory.

Smog clearing, a view: Hollywood, points south. Coin telescopes mounted by the entrance: 180-degree swivels.

Time to kill, pocket change-I aimed one at the set.

Glass blur asphalt, hills. Parked cars, up, over: the spaceship.

Crank the lens, squint—people.

Sid Frizell and Wylie Bullock talking: maybe their standard gore shtick. Blur, twist the lens: winos sleeping in the weeds.

Look:

A trailer door embrace: Touch and Rock Rockwell. Over right: Mickey C. spieling extras. Metal glare—Glenda’s trailer, Glenda.

Sitting on the steps, her legs jammed up. Her vampire gown getting ratty—faded, threadbare.

Glass blur, sun streaks. People walking by-dark obstructions. Hard to see, easy to imagine:

Her breath catching low guiding me in.

Sweat matting her hair a shade darker.

Touching her scars—her eyes implicit: horror gave me the will—and I won’t tell you how.

Sun spots, eyestrain. Twist the scope—a wino fistfight—pratfalls, gouging.

The lens clicked off—my time was up. My eyes hurt—I closed them and just stood there. Images hit me rapid-fire:

Dave Klein, strikebreaker—teeth on my truncheon.

Dave Klein, bet enforcer—baseball bat work.

Dave Klein, killer—hung over from cordite and blood stench.

Meg Klein, sobbing: “I don’t want you to love me that way.”

Joan Herrick: “Long history of insanity both our families.”