“You said ‘they.’ You mean the Kafesjians?”

“I mean it’s a figure of goddamn speech. You got set up ‘cause you were born for it, all the shit you pulled and walked on. You got set up, but feature I didn’t do it.”

Pete: “I didn’t know you knew the Kafesjians. I thought you were strictly a Mickey guy.”

“Fuck you. You’re a chump change pimp for Howard Hughes. I fucked your mother. My dog fucked your mother.”

Pete laughed.

Chick—broken fingers, shock pale: “Feature I been roughhoused before. Feature I gave you a free introductory answer, but from here on in you get shit.”

Blood flecks on the floor—Johnny begging.

“You said ‘they.’ You mean the Kafesjians? Give me some details I can use.”

“You mean feed to the Feds? I know you rolled over for Welles Noonan.”

This greaseball thug—sweating off Joan Crawford’s perfume.

“Hand the fuckers up. Give me details.”

“Detail this”—one smashed middle finger twirling. “Suck on this, you kraut cocksuck—”

I grabbed his hand—a wall socket close-jam that fuck-you finger in—

Sparks/smoke—Chick convulsing—live-wire jolts shaking me.

Pete shook me: “STOP IT, YOU’LL KlLL HIM!”

Chick shook free: juiced-up hip-hops on his knees, going green.

Fast:

Pete tossed him on the bed. Pillows, sheets, blankets—one mummified geek inside seconds.

Hip-hops sputtering out, his green tinge fading.

Johnny Duhamel begging—IN THIS ROOM.

I grabbed the magnum and popped the cylinder. Six rounds—I dumped five.

Pete nodded: I think he’s okay.

Show the gun, show the cylinder—spin it, lock it.

Chick—read his eyes—”You wouldn’t.”

I aimed point blank—my gun, his head. “You said ‘they.’ Did you mean the Kafesjian family?”

No response.

I pulled the trigger—click—empty chamber.

“How’d you get in with the Kafesjians? I didn’t know you knew them.”

No response.

I pulled the trigger—click—empty chamber.

“I know you gave Jack Woods the contract on Abe Voldrich, and Jack said Mickey ordered it. I don’t believe that, so you tell me who really did.”

Chick, raspy: “Fuck you.”

I pulled the trigger—twice——empty chambers.

Pete whooped: “Mother dog!”

Rainbow Chick turning gray/green/blue.

Cock the hammer, eeeaase the trigger sooo slooow…

“Okay, okay PLEASE!”

I pulled the gun back. Chick coughed, spat phlegm and talked:

“I got this order to recruit a hit on Abe Voldrich. Feature they figured I was too well known on the Southside to do it myself, so I thought, ‘Dave Klein, he could get burned by this Federal biz,’ and ‘Jack Woods, he does a job for a price, he’s Dave’s buddy, he’d want to spare Dave grief,’ so I talked him into it that way, not that he didn’t jew me up on the ticket..”

Raspy working on hoarse: “So, feature—I talked to Voldrich. The Feds cut him loose to take care of some stuff for a day or so, and I wanted to know what he knew before I had Jack clip him. Now, now, now”—snitch fever—“you just listen.”

Pete popping his knuckles—loud, like hammer clicks.

Chick, thrashing his blankets: “Voldrich said the Feds were hot to turn you as a witness. He said he overheard Welles Noonan and this FBI man Shipstad talking. They said they bugged your pad, and they’ve got a tape with you talking this amorphous stuff about your mob hits, and Glenda Bledsoe saying she snuffed some nigger pimp named Dwight Gilette. Feature, Davey: Noonan told Shipstad he was going to offer you immunity, get a shitload of information, then violate the agreement unless you testify against Glenda on the murder charge. Shipstad tried to talk Noonan out of crossing you, but Noonan hates you so bad he said he’d never agree.”

Feature:

The bed spinning.

The room spinning.

The gun spinning—

“Who are ‘they’?”

“Davey, please. I just did you this all-time solid.”

“Something’s off here. You’re not the one the Kafesjians would send to pump Abe Voldrich. Now, who set me up to kill Johnny Duhamel?”

“Davey, please.”

Everything spinning—

“Please, Davey…”

I hit him—gun-butt shots—his blankets caught the brunt. I pulled them down—ribcage work—the bed spun.

“Who set me up?”

No snitch.

“What’s with Mickey? Why are those out-of-town guys working his slots with the Feds right there?”

No snitch.

“You’re in with the Kafesjians? You’re tight with them? You fucking tell me what you know about Tommy chasing a guy named Richie Herrick.”

No snitch—ribcage work—my pistol grips shattered. Pete flashed me a signal: EASY.

I spun the cylinder again. “Is Sid Frizell shooting smut films here?”

No answer.

I pulled the trigger—click—empty chamber.

Chick balled up, quaking—

Pull the trigger—click—empty chamber.

Quaking/snitch-begging eyes: “They said they needed a strongarm place, so I said take this place, Sid and his crew were editing their stag stuff, so this place was empty.”

“Did they tell you they were making their own movie?”

“No! They said ‘strongarm spot’! That’s all they said!”

“Who developed their film? Did someone on Mickey’s movie crew help them out?”

“No! Frizell and his guys are fucking clowns! They don’t know anybody except me!”

“Who’s been running you?”

“No, Davey, please!”

I put the gun to the mattress—next to his head. “Who are THEY?”

“NO! I CAN’T! I WON’T!”

I pulled the trigger—click/click/roar—muzzle flash set his hair on fire.

This scream.

This huge hand snuffing flames out—stretching huge to quash that scream.

A whisper:

“We’ll stash him at one of your buildings. You do what you have to do, and I’ll watchdog him. We’ll work an angle on his money, and sooner or later he’ll spill.”

Smoke. Mattress debris settling.

Chick torched half-bald.

EVERYTHING SPINNING.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Back to L.A.—Pete’s car solo—pay-phone stops en route.

I broke it to Glenda: you’re nailed for Dwight Gilette. She said, “Oh, shit” and hatched a plan: she’d bus it to Fresno, hide out with an old carhop pal. Phone-tap panic hit me—I spieled her through the checkout procedure. Glenda pulled wires and checked diodes—no tap on her line.

Her goodbye: “We’re too good-looking to lose.”

Jack Woods—three no-answers—Meg ditto. A booth outside the Bureau, luck—Jack just walked in. I told him the Feds fucked me: grab Meg, grab our money, GO.

“Okay, Dave”—no goodbye.

I ran up to Ad Vice. A clerk’s slip on my desk: “Call Meg. Important.”

My In box, my Out box—no new Herrick field reports. I checked my desk—the Kafesjian/Herrick case file was gone.

The phone rang—

“Yeah?”

“Boss, it’s Riegle.”

“Yeah?”

“Come on, you assigned me to a stakeout, remember? The storage locker place, you told me-”

“Yeah, I remember. Is this routine, or something good?”

Miffed: “I got you twelve hours of DMV-certified squarejohns and one interesting bit.”

“So tell me.”

“So, a guy went in, then ran back to his car looking spooked. So, I got his plate number and checked him out, and I thought he looked sort of familiar. So, Richard Carlisle, you know him? He’s LAPD, and I think he works for Dudley Smith.”

Soft clicks.

“Boss, are you—”

I cradled the phone down, soft clicks building:

Dick Carlisle—fur-job detective.

Dick Carlisle-Mike Breuning’s partner.

1 1/51—Breuning dead-ends a juvie B&E. Obvious perps: Tommy K., Richie Herrick.

My Kafesjian/Herrick case file—missing.

I walked down the hall to Personnel. File request slips on the clerk’s desk—for Division COs only.

I braced the clerk:

Michael Breuning, Richard Carlisle-get me their folders. “Yes, sir,” ten minutes, folders out—“not to leave the room.”