“Grand. Tell me, lad, how did you feel after you gunned down those two pachucos who killed your partner?”
“I felt angry.”
“Did you weep, later?”
“No.”
“Ahhh, grand.”
“When do we start, Dudley?”
“Tomorrow, lad. There’ll be four of us. Two fine young protégés of mine from the bureau, and us. As of now, John is out. As of now, I am your commanding officer. During the war, we in the O.S.S. had a word we used to describe our activities: clandestine. Isn’t that a grand word? It means ‘in secret.’ That’s what our investigation is going to be–in secret. Just the four of us. I can get hold of anything, any file we need from within the department or any other police agency. The case is all ours, the glory all ours, the plaudits all ours, the commendations and advancements to be earned, all ours–once we get an airtight case and a confession from this monster Eddie Engels.”
“And then?”
“Then we go to the grand jury, lad, and let the people of our grand Republic of California decide the fate of handsome Eddie, which, of course, will be to send the dirty son-of-a-whore to the gas chamber.”
“He’s as good as in the little green room right now, Dudley.”
“Indeed he is, lad. Now you listen. Our command post will be at the Havana Hotel, downtown at Eighth and Olive. I’ve already rented us a room, number sixteen. You be there tomorrow morning at eight sharp. Wear civvies. Get a good night’s sleep. Say your prayers. Thank God that you’re free, white, twenty-one and a splendid young copper. You go home now. John will be miffed at not being in on this, and I want to soft-pedal his pride. Now, shoo.”
I got up and stretched my legs. I stuck out my hand to Dudley Smith. “Thanks, Dudley,” I said. “This means a lot to me.”
Smith shook my hand firmly. “I know it does, lad. I can tell we are going to be grand friends. God bless you. When you say your prayers, send one up for old Dudley.”
“I will.”
Smith laughed. “No, you won’t,” he said, “you’ll go out and find yourself some grand piece of tail and show her your badge and tell her you’re the next chief of police. Ha-ha-ha! I know you, lad. Now go and leave me to placate old John.”
I walked back to my car feeling touched by madness and wonder. Mad, wonderful laughter trailed after me as I drove off,
Mad laughter filled my sleep that night. Nagging doubts tore at me in the form of Wacky Walker and Dudley Smith twirling nightsticks and shouting obscene poetry at each other. Reuben Ramos watched, honking on his sax and offering cryptic comments like a hophead Greek chorus. Captain Bill Beckworth was there too, offering his two cents’ worth–“Caution, Freddy. Improve my putting stroke and I’ll make you the king of Wilshire Division. All the pussy and wonder you can stomach! I’ll bring back Walker from the dead and make him a nobel laureate. Trust me!”
I woke up with a headache and the certainty that Dudley Smith was going to screw me out of all the plaudits to be earned from the Eddie Engels case. He was the ranking officer, the decision maker, the one who would file with the district attorney’s office when Engels was arrested. I needed an insurance policy, and I knew exactly who to call.
I took my time dressing and eating breakfast. I fried Night Train a pound of hamburger. He wolfed it down greedily and licked the inside of his dish. I threw him a soup bone as dessert. He gnawed it while I called Information and got the number of the office of the district attorney, city of Los Angeles. It was still early. I hoped someone would be there.
I dialed. “District attorney’s office,” a woman’s singsong voice answered.
“Good morning,” I said, “may I speak to Miss Lorna Weinberg, please?”
“Your name please, sir?”
“Officer Fred Underhill.”
“One moment, Officer. I’ll ring.”
Lorna Weinberg came on the line a moment later, sounding harried. “Hello,” she said.
“Hello, Miss Weinberg. Do you remember me?”