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Chapter Forty-Four
6:16: J.C. and Madge at home.
6:21: Tommy prowling dope pads—Lincoln Heights.
6:27: Lucille prowling bars—Lincoln Heights.
6:34, all units: no Richie Herrick sightings.
6:41: Tommy eating di
3-B67, walkie-talkie: “I’m no lip reader, but I can tell Uncle Ace is telling Tommy how Lucille copped some white horse from him. Tommy’s goddamn fuming. Oops, he’s walking. 3-B67 to base, over and out.”
6:50: Tommy cruising Lincoln Heights—random zigzags.
6:54: Lucille walking—Lincoln Park-chatting up bums.
6:55, 6:56, 6:57, 6:58—Mike Breuning pictured dead a hundred ways.
NO—
Chapter Forty-Five
“…so I’ll cross Dudley. I won’t hand over Vecchio—and Dudley thinks I’m going to kill Breuning. We nail Breuning for the Duhamel killing, and I’ll eyewitness Tommy K. popping Steve Wenzel, which gives us a wedge on the Kafesjians. Breuning will fucking shit his pants when I ARREST him, then we’ll—”
“Klein, will you calm down—”
“Calm down shit, I’m a lawyer, you listen to me.”
“Klein—”
“No, you listen. Breuning snitches Dudley, then Gallaudet convenes a special County grand jury to hear evidence. We upstage the Feds on Narco and the Kafesjians tangential to Dudley, and I testify on the Duhamel killing and all conspiracies extant with the Kafesjians, Dan Wilhite, Narco, Smith, Mickey Cohen, my mob hits, all of it. I’m a cop, I’m an attorney, I’ll be the goat, I’ll testify when the trials start, the Feds’ll be fucked, you’ll look so good Welles Noonan’ll wither up and die and Gas Chamber Bob’ll ride the trials straight to the governorship and—”
“Klein—”
“Exley, PLEASE, let me do this. Dudley knows I’m a killer, and he thinks he’s operating me on Breuning. Now, if I bring Breuning in, he’ll punk out—without Dudley he’s got no guts. Exley, PLEASE.”
Tick tick tick tick tick—seconds/a minute—
“Do it.”
Phone-booth sweats-drenched—I cracked the door for a breeze.
“And no backup men at the Ranch Market—Breuning might spot them.”
“Agreed. Do it.”
Pay phone to pay phone—bug-fear precautions. Long distance—twenty dimes—Newton Station to Mel’s Drive I
Glenda talked a blue streak:
Touch told Mickey she drove to TJ. for a scrape. Dig her new stand-in—Rock Rockwell, full drag. Dig Fed witness Mickey on TV—blatant Vampire plugs.
Reckless Glenda—tell me everything.
She was carhopping now: roller skates, cowgirl outfits. A Fed fugitive—fuck it—she spilled a malt on the Fresno DA—and he loved it. Good tips, getting gooood on skates—really gooood tray dips. Stylish Glenda, strong Glenda—tell me ANYTHING.
Her blue streak dwindled; her tough-girl shtick tapped out hoarse. Scared Glenda-chain-smoking to tamp down her nerves.
I told her:
You scared me.
You cut me loose from this woman I had no business loving.
Chapter Forty-Six
Hollywood Ranch Market—Fountain and Vine.
Open-air entrance, parking lot. Cars, shoppers, box boys pushing carts.
8:02 P.M.—standing curbside. Sweaty, chafing—my bulletproof vest fit tight.
Breuning walking toward me-across-the-lot diagonal.
Packing a suitcase.
Fatter than fat—his vest bunched up at the hips.
Parking-lot lights: humdrum shoppers lit up. No backup types dawdling.
I cut over. Breuning clenched up-fat neck toady fuck.
“Show me the money.”
“Dud said you should hand up Vecchio first.”
“Just show me.”
He opened the bag—just a crack. Cash stacks—fifty grand easy.
“Satisfied?”
A box boy circled by, hands in his apron. A toupee, familiar—
Breuning eyeballed him—Say what?
Black-and-white-glossy familiar—slot surveillance pix—
Breuning fumbled his piece up—
His suitcase hit the ground.
I snagged my .45 on my vest.
The box boy shot through his apron two-handed—Breuning caught two clean head shots.
Screams.
A breeze-money flying.
I got my piece free; the box boy swung my way—two hands out.
Point blank: three shots slammed my vest and pitched me backward. Muzzle smoke in his eyes—I shot through it.
Point blank—no way to miss—a bloody toupee sheared clean, Jesus fuck—
Screams.
Shoppers grabbing money.
Breuning and the box boy tangled up dead.
Another “box boy”—braced against a car hood, aiming at me.
People ru
I threw myself prone. Shots—rifle loud.
Roof snipers.
That box boy blending in—human shields bobbing every which way.
Snipers—Exley backup.
Firing at the box boy—missing wide.
Bullhorn amplified: “Cease fire! Hostage!”
I stood up. “Hostage”: box boy dragging an old lady backward.
Elbows flailing, clawing at him—resisting mean.
Blade flash—he slit her throat down to the windpipe.
Bullhorn roar: “Get him!”
Rifle shots strafed the old lady—box boy hit the sidewalk hauling dead weight.
Run—
Straight across diagonal—his blind side.
“DON’T SHOOT, HE’S OURS!”—somebody/somewhere.
On him, his shield up-this mouth-gaping, neck-severed thing. I shot through her face and ripped them separate; I matched his face as one more Fed-photo dead man.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“The crime wave that has local authorities baffled continues. A scant hour ago four people were shot and killed at the picturesque Hollywood Ranch Market, two of them identified as Midwest-based criminals posing as market employees. An LAPD officer was also gu
My motel room, TV news. Call it for real:
Exley backup, Smith targets: Breuning and me. A Dudley charade: rogue cops slain, bag cash found. Movie time pending then: my rep even more trashable postmortem.
“... LAPD Chief of Detectives Edmund J. Exley spoke to reporters at the scene.”
Recap-my Newton check-in call:
“Tommy and Lucille are still cruising Lincoln Heights, and they still haven’t seen each other. And…uh… sir? Your pal Officer Riegle called in…and…uh…sir, he said to tell you he heard that Chief Exley issued an APB order on you ‘cause you left that shooting scene without telling anybody.”
Exley on camera: “At this time we are withholding the identities of the victims for legal reasons. I will neither confirm nor refute a rival television station’s speculation on the identity of the officer who was killed, and at this time I can only state that he was killed in the line of duty, while attempting to entrap a criminal with marked LAPD money.”
Flashback: that slot man eating that old lady’s brains.
I called El Segundo. Ring, ring—”Yeah, who’s this?”—Pete Bondurant.
“It’s me.”
“Hey, were you at the Ranch Market? Some news guy said Mike Breuning got it and one cop bugged out.”
“Does Chick know about Breuning?”
“Yeah, and it’s spooking him no end. Hey, were you there?”
“I’ll be over in an hour and tell you about it. Is Turentine there?”
“He’s here.”
“Have him set up a tape recorder and ask him if he’s got the equipment to monitor police calls. Tell him I want to tap into band 7 at Newton Street Station.”