L. A. Confidential

Mrs. Ralphie blew a kiss and backed the car out, wheels over blinking reindeer.

Avenue 53-Code 2 no siren. A black-and-white just beat him; two blues and Dick Stensland got out and huddled.

Bud tapped his horn; Stensland came over. "Who's there, partner?"

Stensland pointed to a shack. "The one guy on the air, maybe more. It was maybe four spics, two white guys did our guys in. Brownell and Helenowski. Brownell's maybe got brain damage, Helenowski maybe lost an eye."

"Big maybes."

Stens reeked: Listerine, gin. "You want to quibble?"

Bud got out of the car. "No quibble. How many in custody?"

"Goose. We get the first collar."

"Then tell the blues to stay put."

Stens shook his head. "They're pals with Brownell. They want a piece."

"Nix, this is ours. We get them booked, we write it up and make the party by watch change. I got three cases: Walker Black, Jim Beam and Cutty."

"Exley's assistant watch commander. He's a nosebleed, and you can bet he don't approve of on-duty imbibing."

"Yeah, and Frieling's «the» watch boss, and he's a fucking drunk like you. So don't worry about Exley. And I got a report to write up first-so let's just do it."

Stens laughed. "Aggravated assault on a woman? What's that-six twenty-three point one in the California Penal Code? So I'm a fucking drunk and you're a fucking do-gooder."

"Yeah, and you're ranking. So now?"

Stens winked; Bud walked flank-up to the porch, gun out. The shack was curtained dark; Bud caught a radio ad: Felix the Cat Chevrolet. Dick kicked the door in.

Yells, a Mex man and woman hauling. Stens aimed head high; Bud blocked his shot. Down a hallway, Bud close in, Stens wheezing, knocking over furniture. The kitchen-the spics deadended at a window.

They turned, raised their hands: a pachuco punk, a pretty girl maybe six months pregnant.

The boy kissed the wall-a pro friskee. Bud searched him: Dinardo Sanchez ID, chump change. The girl boo-hooed; sirens scree'd outside. Bud turned Sanchez around, kicked him in the balls. "For ours, Pancho. And you got off easy."

Stens grabbed the girl. Bud said, "Go somewhere, sweetheart. Before my friend checks your green card."

"Green card" spooked her-»madre mia! Madre mia!» Stens shoved her to the door; Sanchez moaned. Bud saw blues swarm the driveway. "We'll let them take Pancho in."

Stens caught some breath. "We'll give him to Brownell's pals." Two rookie types walked in-Bud saw his out. "Cuff him and book him. APO and resisting arrest."

The rookies dragged Sanchez out. Stens said, "You and women. What's next? Kids and dogs?"

Mrs. Ralphie-all bruised up for Christmas. "I'm working on it. Come on, let's move that booze. Be nice and I'll let you have your own bottle."

CHAPTER TWO

Preston Exley yanked the drop-cloth. His guests oohed and ahhed; a city councilman clapped, spilled eggnog on a society matron. Ed Exley thought: this is not a typical policeman's Christmas Eve.

He checked his watch-8:46-he had to be at the station by midnight. Preston Exley pointed to the model.

It took up half his den: an amusement park filled with papier-mâché mountains, rocket ships, Wild West towns. Cartoon creatures at the gate: Moochie Mouse, Scooter Squirrel, Da

"Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Dream-a-Dreamland. Exley Construction will build it, in Pomona, California, and the opening date will be April 1953. It will be the most sophisticated amusement park in history, a self-contained universe where children of all ages can enjoy the message of fun and goodwill that is the hallmark of Raymond Dieterling, the father of modern animation. Dream-a-Dreamland will feature all your favorite Dieterling characters, and it will be a haven for the young and young at heart."

Ed stared at his father: fifty-seven coming off forty-five, a cop from a long line of cops holding forth in a Hancock Park mansion, politicos giving up their Christmas Eve at a snap of his fingers. The guests applauded; Preston pointed to a snowcapped mountain. "Paul's World, ladies and gentlemen. An exact-scale replica of a mountain in the Sierra Nevada. Paul's World will feature a thrilling toboggan ride and a ski lodge where Moochie, Scooter and Da

Wild applause. Preston nodded at Timmy Valburn-the actor who played Moochie Mouse on the «Dream-a-Dream Hour»-always nibbling cheese with his big buck teeth. Valburn nudged the man beside him; the man nudged back.

Art De Spain caught Ed's eye; Valburn kicked off a Moochie routine. Ed steered De Spain to the hallway. "This is a hell of a surprise, Art."

"Dieterling's a

"No, and I didn't know he knew Dieterling. Did he meet him back during the Atherton case? Wasn't Wee Willie We

De Spain smiled. "I was your dad's lowly adjutant then, and I don't think the two great men ever crossed paths. Preston just knows people. And by the way, did you spot the mouse man and his pal?"

Ed nodded. "Who is he?"

Laughter from the den; De Spain steered Ed to the study. "He's Billy Dieterling, Ray's son. He's a cameraman on «Badge of Honor», which lauds our beloved LAPD to millions of television viewers each week. Maybe Timmy spreads some cheese on his whatsis before he blows him."

Ed laughed. "Art, you're a pisser."

De Spain sprawled in a chair. "Eddie, ex-cop to cop, you say words like 'pisser' and you sound like a college professor. And you're not really an 'Eddie,' you're an 'Edmund."'

Ed squared his glasses. "I see avuncular advice coming. Stick in Patrol, because Parker made chief that way. Adniinistrate my way up because I have no command presence."

"You've got no sense of humor. And can't you get rid of those specs? Squint or something. Outside of Thad Green, I can't think of one Bureau guy who wears glasses."

"God, you miss the Department. I think that if you could give up Exley Construction and fifty thousand a year for a spot as an LAPD rookie, you would."

De Spain lit a cigar. "Only if your dad came with me."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. I was a lieutenant to Preston 's inspector, and I'm still a number two man. It'd be nice to be even with him."

"If you didn't know lumber, Exley Construction wouldn't exist."

"Thanks. And get rid of those glasses."

Ed picked up a framed photo: his brother Thomas in uniform-taken the day before he died. "If you were a rookie, I'd break you for insubordination."

"You would, too. What did you place on the lieutenant's exam?"

"First out of twenty-three applicants. I was the youngest applicant by eight years, with the shortest time in grade as a sergeant and the shortest amount of time on the Department."

"And you want the Detective Bureau."

Ed put the photo down. "Yes."

"Then, first you have to figure a year minimum for an opening to come up, then you have to realize that it will probably be a Patrol opening, then you have to realize that a transfer to the Bureau will take years and lots of ass kissing. You're twenty-nine now?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll be a lieutenant at thirty or thirty-one. Brass that young create resentment. Ed, all kidding aside. You're not one of the guys. You're not a strongarm type. «You're not Bureau». And Parker as Chief has set a precedent for Patrol officers to go all the way. Think about that."