Somebody, please: give me one last chance to know.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“…so Mr. Hughes is pissed. Some psycho chopped Harold Miciak, and he was hoping it’d be open and shut, but now the Malibu Sheriff’s are thinking it’s not that Wino Will-o-the-Wisp guy. They’re thinking somebody chopped Miciak and strangled him to make it look like the Wisp, and Miciak’s ex-wife is bothering Mr. Hughes to put private eyes on the job like he’s supposed to spend money on this thing. Then, on top of all that, Bradley Milteer finds out that you’re porking Glenda Bledsoe and that she’s been stealing from Mr. Hughes’ fuck pads, but you never reported it.”

Southbound—Pete’s car. Bonus armed: knucks and sap.

“I got you the Glenda gig. Mr. Hughes didn’t trust me on it, ‘cause he knows I’m susceptible to snatch. I figured, give the job to the old Enforcer, ‘cause he’s pretty stoical in the woman department.”

I stretched—neck kinks, jangly nerves. “I’m paying you seven grand for this.”

“Yeah, and you bought me a barbeque beef plate and a beer, which frankly Mr. Hughes never did. What I’m saying is that Mr. Hughes is pissed at you, which is grief you don’t need.”

Normandie south—Pete smoking—crack the window. Replay: my call to Noonan.

“You burned up potential Federal evidence. You’re lucky I haven’t revoked your immunity outright, and now you want this rather outsized favor.”

“PLEASE.”

“I like the tremor in your voice.”

“PLEASE. Lift the surveillance on the Kafesjians tomorrow. It’s my last full day before custody, and I want to see if I can learn a few things before I go in.”

“My guess is that this pertains to the Kafesjians looking for that Richie character, who may be Richard Herrick of that rather outré triplehomicide case you’re working.”

“You’re right.”

“Good. I appreciate candor, and I’ll do it if you formally depose your Richie information during your pre-grand-jury interviews.”

“I agree.”

“It’s settled, then. Go with God, Brother Klein.”

“Brother” Klein—Lutheran choirboy—fists/sap/knucks—

Pete nudged me. “Chick’s meeting Joan Crawford at the Lucky Nugget. She’ll be camouflaged up, and they’re gonna play pokerino or something, then head for the fuck spot from there. I’m gonna snap some pictures on the QT, then Chick’s gonna give me the high sign. We’ll tail them to the spot, let them get cozy and take it from there.”

Cold air, bouncing headlights. A billboard: “Dodger Stadium Is Your Dream! Support the Chavez Ravine Bill!”

Pete: “Seven grand for your thoughts.”

“I’m thinking Chick must have a money stash someplace.”

“If you’re thinking take it, it means we have to clip him.”

“It’s just a thought.”

“And as thoughts go, not bad. Jesus, you and some ex-carhop actress. Is she-”

“Yeah, she’s worth the trouble.”

“I wasn’t gonna ask you that.”

“I know.”

“Like that, huh?”

“Like that.”

Straight south—Gardena—Pete talking grapevine:

Fred Turentine, Hush-Hush bug man: scandal duty for off-the-books cash. Boozer Freddy, AWOL: from dry-out farms and his jail teaching gig. Fed heat, restless niggers—you couldn’t score good ribs or dark poon for shit.

Gardena—poker-palace row pulsing neon. The Lucky Nugget—Chick’s Caddy in the lot, top down.

We pulled up behind it—tail ready. Front-seat action—Joan Crawford and Chick necking hot.

Pete said, “Duck down, they’ll see you.”

I ducked and listened—car doors slammed. Back up—lovebirds on the stroll.

Pete got out. “Take a snooze or something. Don’t play the radio, you’ll run the battery down.”

Tracks inside: movie star, thug, shakedown man. I skimmed the radio dial: news, religious shit, bop.

Memory jog: rolling Gardena drunks back in high school. Bop to ballads, memory lane-zipping Meg’s prom gown too slow.

Fuck it—spare the battery—I turned the music off and dozed. Pete at the door: “Wake up, they’re leaving.”

The Caddy rolled, ragtop up. Pete pulled out—not too close.

East, north-cool air woke me up. Easy tailwork—collusion—Pete drove nonchalant. One arm out her window, oblivious: Joan fucking Crawford.

Due north—Compton, LYNWOOD—spooky turf.

Chick out front: left turn, right turn—Spindrift Drive.

48, 4900—curb plates pulsing weird/nuts/strange. 4980—Johnny D.—”Why meet there?”

Hard to breathe-I rolled the window down.

Left turn, right turn.

Empty courtyards.

Dry-ice chills: hot and cold.

Pete: “Jesus, I never made you for such a fresh-air fiend.”

Chick stopped—brake-light taps, signallike.

Memory lane:

Needle stabbed.

Toasty-warm tingly doped up.

Chick and Joanie, walking love-draped:

Into a vacant courtyard, up the RIGHT side walkway.

Then:

Carried, treading air.

RIGHT turn—a skanky room—MOVIE TIME.

Now:

Sucking air—hard to breathe-Johnny replays zinging me.

Pete pulled up curbside. “Chick passed me a note. He knows some guys making smut films here, so he thought Joanie’d like that angle. Movie stars never fail to fucking amaze me.”

Memory clicks—brutal late:

Glenda said Sid Frizell was shooting stag films.

“At some abandoned dive.”

“Down in LYNWOOD.”

“Hey, Klein, are you okay?”

Weapon check: .45, sap, knucks. “Let’s go.”

Pete loaded his camera. “It’s all set. We go in on ‘Baby, it’s so good.’”

Ready: knuck teeth scraped my law-school ring.

Pete: “Now.”

We ran in: stucco cubes, walkways, grass.

Place it then and now: Movie time, Johnny begging: “PLEASE DON’T KlLLME.”

Sex grunts—a right-side shack midway down. Tiptoes up, listen:

Smut moans, Chick: “Baby, it’s so gooood.”

Pete camera ready.

Looks, nods, kicks—we snapped the door clean.

Pitch black half a second.

Flashbulb pops: Joan Crawford gobbling Chick V. tonsil-deep.

Speedo:

Bulb blips—Joanie running out the door bare-ass, shrieking.

Chick pawing at a wall switch—the lights on.

A magnum on the nightstand—I grabbed it and scoped the room:

Mirrored walls.

Linoleum floor—maroon dots-dried blood.

Chick on the bed, zipping his fly.

Knucks/gun butt—quick—

I bashed his face, racked his nuts, cracked his arms. Bone jar up my hands—Chick balled himself tight.

A shadow on the bed—Pete restraining me. “Ease off. I gave Crawford some clothes and some money. We’ve got time to do this right.”

Chick doubled up, quaking, good cause: two giant fists flexing straight at him.

Canned shtick—Pete gleeful:

“The left one’s the hospital, the right one’s death. The right one steals your life while the left steals your breath. These hands are bad juju and the bad boogaloo, they’re the teeth of the demon as he slides down the flue.”

Chick stood up—bloody, trembly. “I am Outfit. I am a made guy. Feature you are both dead for this.”

Pete: “Dave, ask the man a question.”

I said, “You set me up. I told you I was meeting a ‘pretty-boy strongarm cop’ in Lynwood. Now, for starters you tell me who you told and how they got that home-movie idea.”

“Feature I will tell you nothing.”

Pete grabbed him by the neck. Flick: two hundred pounds airborne. Chick hit the far wall—mirror glass shattered.

Rag doll Chick—this “huh?” look.

Pete right there—stomp, stomp—fingers cracking under his heels. Chick showed balls: no audible grief.

I knelt down. “You set me up with the Kafesjians.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Chick, we go back. This doesn’t have to be ugly.”

“Feature you are ugly.”

“You fingered me to the Kafesjians. Cop to it and go from there.”

“I didn’t clue nobody you were meeting that cop you told me about. So you got set up, what the fuck, they set you up. Feature I knew they set you up, but feature it was after the goddamn fact.”