“Who clipped the slot guys?”
“Carlisle and Breuning. You want to hear a nice Dudley touch? He had them soak their buckshot in rat poison, then repack the shells.”
“Get back to Johnny.”
Chick stretched—his cuff chain rattled. “Dud had Johnny monitoring the slot guys—you know, watching them service the machines. He was doing that one night or something, and Dick Carlisle saw Junior come up to him and start talking this nutso rebop. Carlisle got this feeling that Johnny might be a plant, so he told Dudley, and Dud had Carlisle and Breuning keep this loose tail on him. Now, I don’t know who killed Stemmons—probably Tommy or J.C. Kafesj ian—but around the time Carlisle got hinky, J.C. told Dudley that Stemmons was acting crazy, shaking down pushers, shaking down him and Tommy and telling them he could monkey-wrench your burglary investigation. So, this nutty faggot Junior, he’s talking up his own Niggertown takeover stuff, and in my opinion Dud would have clipped him himself, if he hadn’t of OD’d or got snuffed by the Kafesjians.”
“Then what?”
“Then Dud got a tip that Johnny called you to set up a meet—and I didn’t tell him. So now he knew Johnny was a fucking traitor or decoy or something.”
The meet: Chick knew. Bob Gallaudet knew.
“Then what?”
“So Johnny told you to meet him at that pad in Lynwood. Dud used to own it years ago, so I guess Johnny just wanted to meet you someplace close to the bungalow where… you know.”
Change-up: “Phillip Herrick.”
“Who’s that?”
“He was murdered in Hancock Park last week. Dudley co-owned 4980 Spindrift with him.”
“So?”
Easy call: no Herrick knowledge.
“So Johnny told me to meet him there, and your little movie set was close by. What do you figure he wanted to show me?”
“Maybe the smut-movie setup.”
“Maybe, but you told me Sid Frizell wasn’t connected to any of Dudley’s plans.”
“He’s not, but Dud loves stag stuff, and when he got tight with Mickey, Mickey told him about this batshit horror movie he was bankrolling and how Sid Frizell wanted to shoot smut films, but he couldn’t find a spot. Dud told Mickey to tell Frizell to use one of the rooms in that court, so down the line Sid did, but feature I know for a fact that he doesn’t even know Dudley.”
SOMETHING—some CONNECTION—knifing me.
“Does Dudley own those bungalows?”
“Feature yes he does, through dummy partners. Feature he owns about twenty other abandoned dives, just bought dirt fucking cheap off the Lynwood City Council.”
“And?”
Leering at me ugly drunk: “And feature Dudley Liam Smith does not get his rocks off on girls, boys or Airedale terriers. Feature he likes to watch. Feature the mirror walls in that flop where you rousted me and feature he’s got a shitload of other flops just like it. Feature he’s got this idea to film these on-the-sly smut movies where the fuckers and fuckees don’t even know they’re being watched. Feature he’s got bids in with the Bureau of Land and Way to house the spics evicted from Chavez Ravine in those pads and that dump on Spindrift. Feature Dudley’s going to film all these taco benders fucking and sell the movies to geeks like himself who dig all that voyeuristic horseshit.”
Rumors:
Sid Frizell shooting LYNWOOD stag films.
LYNWOOD spic relocation maybe looming.
That SOMETHING—click:
Atomic Vampire.
Movie gore: incest/eye poking/blinding.
Kafesjian 459-dogs blinded.
Herrick 187—three victims eye socket blasted.
Ski Frizell—ex-con type.
Non-Dudley-connected—Chick convinced me.
Non-click: SOMETHING missing.
I said, “Dudley and Mickey.”
“You mean what’s the skinny on Dudley’s rackets thing?”
Shortwave sputter: “Chinatown, Chinatown, Chavez Ravine.”
“Right.”
“Well, feature the word ‘containment.’ That’s Dud’s big word, and what he wants to do is build up this empire on the Southside, maybe stretching into Lynwood, where he’s got all this property. He’ll only sell dope to niggers, and he’ll run whores and smut on the QT, and he’ll run all the coin hardware that Mickey so-called divested. His big deal is supposed to be district gambling, with Mickey as his front man. Feature he killed all of Mickey’s guys except me and Touch, and feature he tucking manipulated Mickey into cozying up to the Feds. The Mick’s a hero now, he’s a lovable shmuck, and Dud thinks he can buy up more Lynwood property and start so-called ‘containing’ the economy down there, then set Mickey up to front his district gambling franchise, all nice and legal.”
“District gambling won’t pass the State Legislature.”
“Well, feature Dudley thinks otherwise. Feature he’s got a political guy with very large juice in his pocket to make sure it does get passed.”
Gas Chamber Bob Gallaudet: district gambling supporter.
Tipped off to the Duhamel meet.
Goosebumps: my dry-ice burns started tickling.
“So Dud found out you were meeting Johnny. Breuning and Carlisle slugged you and doped you up, and Dud tortured Johnny before you sliced him. They got him to admit that Exley was running him as a decoy and that he had these fake bank accounts and this operations cash stashed in a safe at his house. Johnny said he kept trying to pull out of the deal because he knew the slot guys would probably get clipped and lots of other shit would hit the fan, but Exley kept sending him back to find out more.”
Radio hum: Tommy mobile, Lucille mobile.
Pete and Freddy dumbstruck—holy shit/mother dog!
“Why did Dudley make that movie? Why didn’t he just kill Johnny and me?”
“He said he wanted to compromise you and use you. He said he was going to offer you this job as liaison and bagman to the LAPD. He said he could use you to take Ed Exley down. He said you were probably a pretty good lawyer, and he said you could teach him things about property maintenance.”
Chick oozing brainwaves: kowtow to Dudley or die.
Pete oozing brainwaves: kill the wop and grab his money.
Freddy oozing brainwaves: Hush-Hush would love THIS.
Atomic Vampire—INCEST/GORE.
“Chick, what do you know about Sid Frizell?”
“Feature I know close to nothing.”
“Has he done time?”
“County time for child-support skips. He’s no hard-case penitentiary guy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
To Freddy: “Sid Frizell. He’s a tall, skinny guy about thirty-five. He’s got sort of an Okie drawl.”
“No bells. Am I supposed to know him?’
“I thought he might have taken your class at Chino.”
“No, I don’t think so. I mean, I’m a bug man, so I listen to how people talk. Sorry, but there were no Okie drawls in my class.”
SOMETHING MISSING.
I grabbed the phone and got an operator—Chino on the line.
A warden’s aide answered. Go, tell him:
Compile a roster for me—cons at Chino Richie Herrick concurrent. Messenger it down?—No, I’ll call you back for a verbal.
2:00 A.M.—custody looming. Radio sputter, pop/pop—Pete cracking his knuckles. Chick loopy drunk, scorched hair—my damage.
Smells—stale food, smoke. A view out the window: overflowing trashcans. My building—nine G’s a year net profit.
Think: snitches, deal-outs.
Last-ditch tries.
Welles Noonan—a Gallaudet rival.
Think trades: Glenda for Bob G. and Dudley.
The bedroom phone-shaky hands on the dial. MA 4-0218—Noonan.
“U.S. Attorney’s Office, Special Agent Shipstad.”
“It’s Klein.”
“Klein, this call didn’t happen.”—low, furtive.
“What?”
“Noonan got a film can special-delivery. It’s you chopping up some guy, and I know it’s a setup, but he doesn’t care. A note said copies go to the press if you testify for us, and Noonan said your immunity agreement is cancelled. He’s issued a Federal arrest warrant on you, and this call did not happen.”