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Morning and dark reality came too quickly.
Lorna had dozed off, nuzzled into my shoulder, but I had remained awake, savoring the feel of her next to me, but unable to stop thinking of Eddie Engels and Dudley Smith and shotguns and justice and my career in the new light of the woman I loved.
At four-thirty by the luminous dial of Lorna’s bedside alarm clock I gently slid out of her embrace, kissed her neck and went into the living room to dress.
When I put on my shoulder holster and fingered my leather encased .38 service revolver I went chilly all over. Justice, I kept thinking as I drove up to the Sunset Strip, justice. Justice, not wonder. Not this time.
I barely had time to get coffee before meeting the others at Sunset and Horn.
Mike Breuning was already there, parked directly in front of the entranceway to Engels’s courtyard. He waved at me as I parked across the street. I walked over and we shook hands through the driver’s side window. Mike’s badge was pinned to the lapel of his coat, and there was a pump shotgun beside him on the seat.
“Morning, Fred,” he said, “nice day for it.”
“Yeah. Where are Dudley and Dick?”
“They’re taking a walk around the block. Engels is alone; Dick tailed him all night. I’m glad for that.”
“So am I.”
“Are you a little nervous?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Well, don’t be. Dudley has this thing all worked out.” Breuning craned his head out the window. “Here they come now,” he said. “Pin your badge to your coat.”
I did, as Dudley Smith and Dick Carlisle crossed the street in our direction.
“Freddy, lad,” Dudley hailed. “Top of the morning!”
“Good morning, skipper, good morning, Dick,” I said.
“Underhill,” Carlisle said, blank-faced.
“Well, lad, are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then. Grand. Mike?”
“Ready, Dudley.”
“Dick?”
“Ready, boss.”
Dudley reached into the backseat of Breuning’s car and handed Carlisle a double-barreled 12-gauge. Mike squeezed out his passenger door holding the Ithaca pump. I unholstered my service revolver and Dudley pulled out a .45 automatic from his waistband.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said.
We walked rapidly into the courtyard, our weapons pointing to the ground. My heart was beating very fast and I kept stealing sidelong glances at Dudley. His tiny brown eyes were glazed over with something that went far beyond acting. This was the real Dudley Smith.
As we came to Engels’s front door I whispered to him, “Let me go in first. I’ve been here before; I know where the bedroom is.”
Dudley nodded assent and motioned Breuning and me to the front. “Kick it in,” he hissed.
Mike raised his shotgun to chest level and I held my .38 above my head as we raised right feet in unison and simultaneously kicked the smooth surface. The lock gave way and the door burst inward. I ran straight for the bedroom, my gun in front of me, Smith, Breuning and Carlisle close behind. The bedroom door was open, and in the darkness I could glimpse a shape on the bed.
I flicked on the overhead light, and just as Eddie Engels stirred to life I placed the muzzle of my gun at his temple and whispered, “Police officers! Don’t make a move or you’re dead.”
Engels, his eyes wide with terror, started to scream. Dick Carlisle jumped from behind me onto the bed and twisted his head into his pillow and started to strangle him with it. Breuning was right behind, stripping off the blue silk sheets and yanking Engels’s hands behind his back.
“Goddamnit, Freddy, think! Sit on his legs!” Dudley shouted.
I threw myself onto the twisting form and put all my weight on the lower half of Engels’s body as Mike managed to apply his handcuffs. Carlisle was still twisting the pillow-encased head of Eddie Engels.
“Stop it, Dick,” Dudley screamed, “or you’ll kill him!”
Carlisle let go and Engels went inert. We all got off the bed and looked at one another in shock. Dudley had gone red-faced in anger. He bent over and ripped open Engels’s purple silk pajama top, placed an ear to his chest and started to laugh. “Ha-ha-ha! He’s still alive, lads, thanks to old Dudley. He’ll be all right. Let’s get him the hell out of here. Now.”