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Breuning eyes narrowed. “Another goose. And that’s old Mex stuff, pretty far afield. I know Doc Layman tagged the back wounds as zoot stick, but don’t you think he could be wrong? As far as I’m concerned, it just doesn’t play.”
A Dudley Smith stooge patronizing Norton Layman, MD, PhD. Da
“Then I don’t think it’s a real lead. I think our guy just read about the damn sticks or eyeballed one of the zoot riots and got a kick out of them. He’s a fucking psycho, there’s no reason to those guys.”
Something about Breuning’s take on the sticks was off; Da
Breuning stared at Da
Niles cracked a grin. “Okay. One, I don’t like the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department and their good buddy Mickey Kike, and I’ve got a County pal who says you’re not the goody two shoes you pretend to be. Two, I’ve been doing a little work on my own, and I talked to a couple of Quentin parolees who said no way was Marty Goines a queer—and I believe them. And three, I think you personally fucked me by not calling in Tamarind Street, and I don’t like that.”
No Bordoni. No Bordoni. No fucking Bordoni. Da
Two hard stares locked; Niles glancing down at his notebook. “Paul Arthur Koenig and Lester George Mazmanian. And four, I don’t like you.”
The bluff called. Da
Shortell’s voice, admiring. “My pleasure, skipper.”
Ted Krugman.
Ted Krugman.
Theodore Michael Krugman.
Teddy Krugman, Red Commie Pinko Subversive Stagehand.
Friends with Jukey Rosensweig of Young Actors Against Fascism and Bill Wilhite, a cell boss with the Brooklyn CP; ex-lover of Do
Pictures.
Do
Parked on Gower just north of Sunset, Da
The scene was pandemonium divided into two snakelike strips of bodies: UAES, Teamsters, ba
Da
He marched, three abreast with Al and Jerry—pros who knew their stuff; signs came at him: FISCAL JUSTICE NOW!; END THE STUDIO AUTOCRACY!; NEGOTIATE FAIR WAGES! Teamster elbows dug into UAES rib cages; the bad guys winced, didn’t elbow back, kept marching and yelling. It was Man Camera with something like Sound-O-Vision thrown in; Da
Himself, coming back: “The side that’s paying me a fucking buck an hour to picket, pal!”
Jerry, grabbing his arm as UAESers stood aside and watched: “That’s not good enough—”
He broke free and kept walking and shouting per the scenario; per the scenario the picket boss came over and issued him a warning about team play, hauling Al and Jerry over, making them all shake hands like kids in a schoolyard, a bunch of anemic lefties scoping it out. All three of them played it sullen; the picket boss hotfooted it to the lunch truck; Da