“Address?”
“1684 South Tremaine. That’s just off—”
“I know where it is. Somebody called Wilshire dicks before they called you, right?”
“Right, J.C.’s wife. The whole family was out for the evening, but Madge, the wife, came home first. She found the house burgled and called Wilshire Station. J.C., Tommy and Lucille—that’s the other kid—came home and found the house full of detectives who didn’t know about our… uh… arrangement with the family. Apparently, it’s some goddamn nutso B&E and the Wilshire guys are making pests of themselves. J.C. called my wife, she called around and found me. Dave. .
“I’ll go.”
“Good. Take someone with you, and count it one in your column.”
I hung up and called for backup—Riegle, Jensen—no answer. Shit luck—Junior Stemmons—”Hello?”
“It’s me. I need you for an errand.”
“Is it a call-out?”
“No, it’s an errand for Dan Wilhite. It’s smooth J.C. Kafesjian’s feathers.”
Junior whistled. “I heard his kid’s a real psycho.”
“1684 South Tremaine. Wait for me outside, I’ll brief you.”
“I’ll be there. Hey, did you see the late news? Bob Gallaudet called us ‘exemplary officers,’ but Welles Noonan said we were ‘incompetent freeloaders.’ He said that ordering room-service booze for our witnesses contributed to Johnson’s suicide. He said—”
“Just be there.”
Code 3, do Wilhite solid—aid the LAPD’s sanctioned pusher. Narco/J.C. Kafesjian—twenty years connected—old Chief Davis brought him in. Weed, pills, H—Darktown trash as clientele. Snitch duty got J.C. the dope franchise. Wilhite played watchdog; J.C. ratted rival pushers, per our policy: keep narcotics isolated south of Slauson. His legit work: a drycleaning chain; his son’s work: muscle goon supreme.
Crosstown to the pad: a Moorish job lit up bright. Cars out front: Junior’s Ford, a prowl unit.
Flashlight beams and voices down the driveway. “Holy shit, holy shit”—Junior Stemmons.
I parked, walked over.
Light in my eyes. Junior: “That’s the lieutenant.” A stink: maybe blood rot.
Junior, two plainclothesmen. “Dave, this is Officer Nash and Sergeant Miller.”
“Gentlemen, Narco’s taking this over. You go back to the station. Sergeant Stemmons and I will file reports if it comes to that.”
Miller:” ‘Comes to that’? Do you smell that?”
Heavy, acidic. “Is this a homicide?”
Nash: “Not exactly. Sir, you wouldn’t believe the way that punk Tommy What’s-His-Name talked to us. Comes to—”
“Go back and tell the watch commander Dan Wilhite sent me over. Tell him it’s J.C. Kafesjian’s place, so it’s not your standard 459. If that doesn’t convince him, have him wake up Chief Exley.”
“Lieutenant—”
Grab a flashlight, chase the smell—back to a snipped chain-link fence. Fuck—two Dobermans—no eyes, throats slit, teeth gnashing chemicalsoaked washrags. Gutted—entrails, blood—blood dripping toward a jimmied back door.
Shouts inside—two men, two women. Junior: “I shooed the squadroom guys off. Some 459, huh?”
“Lay it out for me, I don’t want to question the family.”
“Well, they were all at a party. The wife had a headache, so she took a cab home first. She went out to let the dogs in and found them. She called Wilshire, and Nash and Miller caught the squeal. J.C., Tommy and the daughter—the two kids live here, too—came home and raised a ruckus when they found cops in the living room.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“Madge—that’s the wife-showed me the damage, then J.C. shut her up. Some heirloom-type silverware was stolen, and the damage was some strange stuff. Do you feature this? I have never worked a B&E job like this one.”
Yells, horn bleats.
“It’s not a job. And what do you mean ‘strange stuff’?”
“Nash and Miller tagged it. You’ll see.”
I flashed the yard—foamy meat scraps-call the dogs poisoned. Junior: “He fed them that meat, then mutilated them. He got blood on himself, then trailed it into the house.”
Follow it:
Back-door pry marks. A laundry porch—bloody towels discarded—the burglar cleaned up.
The kitchen door intact—he slipped the latch. No more blood, the sink evidence tagged: “Broken Whiskey Bottles.” Cabinet-drawers theft tagged: “Antique Silverware.”
Them:
“You whore, to let strange policemen into our home!”
“Daddy, please don’t!”
“We always call Dan when we need help!”
A dining room table, photo scraps piled on top: “Family Pictures.” Sax bleats upstairs.
Walk the pad.
Too-thick carpets, velvet sofas, flocked wallpaper. Window air coolers—Jesus statues perched beside them. A rug tagged: “Broken Records/Album Covers”—The Legendary Champ Dineen: Sooo Slow Moods; Straight Life: The Art Pepper Quartet; The Champ Plays the Duke.
LPs by a hi-fi—stacked neat.
Junior walked in. “Like I told you, huh? Some damage.”
“Who’s making that noise?”
“The horn? That’s Tommy Kafesjian.”
“Go up and make nice. Apologize for the intrusion, offer to call Animal Control for the dogs. Ask him if he wants an investigation. Be nice, do you understand?”
“Dave, he’s a criminal.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be brown-nosing his old man even worse.”
“DADDY, DON’T!”—booming through closed doors.
“J.C., LEAVE THE GIRL ALONE!”
Spooky—Junior ran upstairs.
“THAT’S RIGHT, GET OUT”—a side door slamming—”Daddy” in my face.
J.C. close up: a greasy fat man getting old. Burly, pockmarked, bloody facial scratches.
“I’m Dave Klein. Dan Wilhite sent me over to square things.”
Squinting: “What’s so important he couldn’t come himself?”
“We can do this any way you want, Mr. Kafesjian. If you want an investigatlon, you’ve got It. You want us to dust for prints, maybe get you a name, you’ve got it. If you want payback, Dan will support you in anything within reason, if you follow—”
“I follow what you mean and I clean my own house. I deal with Captain Dan strictly, not strangers in my parlor.”
Two women snuck by. Soft brunettes—nongrease types. The daughter waved—silver nails, blood drops.
“You see my girls, now forget them. They are not for you to know.”
“Any idea who did it?”
“Not for you to talk about. Not for you to mention business rivals who might want to hurt me and mine.”
“Rivals in the dry-cleaning biz?”
“Not for you to make jokes! Look! Look!”
A door tag: “Mutilated Clothing.” “Look! Look! Look!”—J.C. yanked the knob—”Look! Look! Look!”
Look: a small closet. Spread-legged, crotch-ripped pedal pushers tacked across the walls.
Stained—smell it—semen.
“Now it is not to laugh. I buy Lucille and Madge so many nice clothes that they must keep some down in the parlor. Perverted degenerate wants to hurt Lucille’s pretty things. You look.”
Tijuana whore stuff: “Pretty.”
“Not so funny now, Dan Wilhite’s errand boy. Now you don’t laugh.”
“Call Dan. Tell him what you want done.”
“I clean my own house!”
“Nice threads. Your daughter working her way through college?”
Fists clenching/veins popping/face-rips trickling—this fat greasy fuck pressing close.
Shouts upstairs.
I ran up. A room off the hall—scope the damage:
Tommy K. up against the wall. Reefers on the floor, tough guy Junior frisking him. Jazz posters, Nazi flags, a sax on the bed.
I laughed.
Tommy smiled nice—this skinny nongreaser.
Junior: “He flaunted that maryjane. He ridiculed the Department.”
“Sergeant, apologize to Mr. Kafesjian.”
Half pout, half shriek: “Dave… God… I’m sorry.”
Tommy lit up a stick and blew smoke in Junior’s face.
J.C., downstairs: “Go home now! I clean my own house!”