L. A. Confidential

"So why ask me? Mickey tell you Deuce and me are close?" No ritual question: what do you want him for? And fat-mouth Kikey too quiet. "Spade said you and him were acquaintances."

"Acquaintances is right. We go back, «paesano», so I'll tell you I haven't seen Deuce in years."

Change-up pitch. "You ain't my «paesano», you wop cocksucker." Joh

"Nix. Deuce is too meshugeneh for me. He's just a guy to say hi to once in a blue fucking moon."

A lie-Perkins' rap sheet said different. "So maybe I'm confused. I know you guys are tight with Lee Vachss, and I heard him and Deuce are tight."

Kikey laughed-too stagy. "What a yuck. Joh

Stomp said, "Oil and water, those two. Tight? What a howl."

«Standing up for Vachss for no reason». "You guys are the howl. I figured you'd ask me what the grief was right off."

Kikey pushed his plate aside. "It occur to you we just don't care?"

"Yeah, but you guys love to shmooz and milk the grapevine."

"So shmooz."

A rumor: Kikey beat a guy to death for calling him a yid. "I'll shmooz, it's a nice day and I got nothing better to do than hobnob with a greasy wop and a fat yid."

Abe ho-ho-ho'd, cuffed his arm oh-you-kid. "You're a pisser. So what do you want Deuce for?"

Bud cuffed him back hard-"None of your fucking business, Jewboy"-throw a change-up to Joh

Tap, tap, tap--a pinky ring on a bottle of Schlitz. "Nothing you'd be interested in. I got things contained, so don't you worry. What are «you» doing?"

"I'm on the Nite Owl reopening."

Joh

Stompanato: "Come on, Abe. Deuce for the Nite Owl, what a howl."

Bud said, "I gotta piss," walked to the bathroom. He closed the door, counted to ten, opened it a crack. The shitbirds spieling full blast-Abe wiping his face with a napkin. Let the pieces fit in.

Hink: Deuce for the Nite Owl.

Jack V. spotted Vachss, Stomp, Kikey and Perkins at a party-maybe a year pre-Nite Owl.

A Mobster Squad roust, a snitch off Joe Sifakis: «three-man» trigger gangs clipping Cohen franchise hoods, maverick hoods. The Victory Motel buzzing hard.

Bud grabbed the piece, dropped it, grabbed it.

"Contain."

Dudley's favorite big word-"containment."

His motel pitch: "containing," "profit dispensation," "obstreperous Italian you've dealt with in the past"-Joh

Bud washed his face, walked back calm. Stomp said, "Have a good one?"

"Yeah, and you're right. I want Deuce for some old warrants, but I got a hunch on the Nite Owl."

Calm Joh

Calm Kikey: "Some new shvoogies, right? All I know's what I read in the papers."

Bud: "Maybe, but if it wasn't some new niggers, then that purple car by the Nite Owl was a plant. Take care, guys. If you see Deuce, tell him to call me at the Bureau."

Calm Joh

Calm Kikey coughed, popped sweat.

Calm Bud, not so calm: out to the car, around the corner to a pay phone. The P.C. Bell police number, one long fucking wait.

"Uh, yes, who's requesting?"

"Sergeant White, LAPD. It's a trace job."

"For when, Sergeant?"

"«For now». It's a homicide priority, private lines and pay phones at a restaurant. «It's now»."

"One second, please."

Transfer click-click-clicks-a new woman. "Sergeant, what exactly do you need?"

No Calm Bud. "Abe's Noshery at Pico and Veteran. All calls out on all phones for the next fifteen goddamn minutes. Lady, don't hump me on this."

"We can't initiate actual traces, Officer."

"Just who the calls are to, goddamn it."

"Well, if it «is» a homicide priority. What is your number now?"

Bud read off the phone. "GRanite 48112."

Harumph. "Fifteen minutes then. And next time allow us more operating leeway."

Bud hung up-Dudley Dudley Dudley Dudley Dudley-hard time cut off by «brrri

"Two calls. One to DUnkirk 32758-a Miss Dot Rothstein holds that number. The second to AXminster 46811, the residence of a Mr. Dudley L. Smith."

Bud dropped the receiver. The clerk babbled from someplace safe and calm that he'd never see again-no Ly

Captain Dudley Liam Smith for the Nite Owl.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Jack Vince

He confessed to knocking up a girl at the St. Anatole's Orphan Home, to killing Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins. He confessed to tank-jobbing Bill McPherson with a hot little nigger girl, to planting dope on Charlie Parker, to shaking down hopheads for «Hush-Hush» Magazine. He tried to jerk out of bed and raise his hands to form the Stations of the Cross. He babbled something like hub rachmones, Mickey, and bump bump bump bump the cute train. He confessed to beating up junkies, to ru

Karen Vince

A nurse swabbed Vince

Ed crumpled it, tossed it. Vince

Burned like Exley father and son-Bud White holding the torch.

He couldn't look at Karen.

"Captain, I've got something."

Fisk in the hallway. Ed walked over, led him away from the door. "What is it?"

"Nort Layman completed the autopsy. Patchett's cause of death was five.30-30 slugs fired from two different rifles. Ray Pinker ran ballistics tests and came up with a match to an old Riverside County bulletin. May of '55, unsolved with no leads, I checked. Two men gu

All coming down to the heroin. "That's all you've got?"

"No. Bud White tore up a dope den in Chinatown and beat three Chinamen half to death. He came in asking questions, badged them and went crazy. One of them ID'd his perso

Ed almost laughed. "No, no pickup order."

"Sir?"

"I said no, so cut it off there. And you and Kleckner do this for me. Contact Miller Stanton, Max Pelts, Timmy Valburn and Billy Dieterling. Have them come to my office tonight at 8:00 for questioning. Tell them I'm the investigating officer, and if they want no publicity, then bring no lawyers. And get me Homicide's file on the old Loren Atherton case. Seal it, Sergeant. I don't want you to look at it."

"Sir…"

Ed turned away. Karen in the doorway, dry-eyed. "Do you think Jack did those things?"