Until October 1, 1924.
Desmond had sent him on a second run to Jimmy Harris’ place; he squeezed in through the woodbox opening, knowing roundheels Annie was there. She _was_
there, but not alone: a cop with his blue serge trousers down to his ankles was on the living room carpet pumping her. _He_ gasped, tripped and fell; the cop beat him silly, signet rings lacerating his face to shreds. He cleansed his Side 109
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The wounds himself, tried to get up the guts to break into Buff Rice’s place to see if the baby was okay, but couldn’t get up the nerve; he went home, hid Desmond’s burglary stash and told him the tables were turned: ripped tendons or not, the ringleader had to steal for the thief or he’d spill the beans to the Reverend.
There was only one thing he wanted, and then they’d be quits–one of Annie Harris’ negligees–and _he’d_ tell him when to pull the job.
_He_ staked the Harris house out, learning that Annie serviced Officer John Rokkas every Tuesday afternoon when the rest of the family worked at the Harris’ produce stall in Oakland. On a cold November Tuesday, _he_ picked the lock for Des; Des went in and came out twenty minutes later, beaten to a pulp.
_He_ stole Desmond’s booty and secreted it in a safe deposit box, establishing a parity of fear between the two Considine brothers. Desmond flunked out of Union Theological Seminary and became a big shot in the used-car racket. Mal went to Stanford, graduated and lollygagged through a year of law school, dreaming of back-alley adventure, prowling for loose women and never really enjoying the capture. When law school became excruciatingly boring, he joined the Los Angeles Police Department, not knowing how long he’d last as a cop–or if he even could last. Then he went home for Christmas, twenty-three years old and a rookie running scared in LA niggertown. He wore his uniform to Christmas dinner: Sam Browne belt, silver-plated whistle, .38 revolver. Car king Desmond, still bearing the scars of Officer John Rokkas’ beating, was terrified of his new persona. _He_ knew he’d be a policeman until the day he died.
Mal segued from his brother to Danny Upshaw, the black box canyon surrounding him, spent ammunition sliding under his feet. How good was he? What would he see? Would what he saw be worth today multiplied fifty times–Ellis Loew stalking grand jury chambers wrapped in the American flag?
“You’ve more stomach for this work than I expected.”
Dudley was right.
Mal picked up a handful of empty shells, hurled them at nothing and drove home to the Shangri-Lodge Motel.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mickey Cohen’s hideaway was SRO.
The Mick and Davey Goldman were working on a new nightclub routine, a
.12 gauge pump substituting for a floor mike. Johnny Stompanato was playing rummy with Morris Jahelka, going over plans for the Cohen-Dragna dope summit between hands. And Buzz was interviewing Mickey’s Teamster goons, taking down picket line scuttlebutt, a last-minute precaution before Mal Considine sent in his operative.
So far, boring Commie jive:
The De Haven cooze and Mort Ziffkin traded clichés about overthrowing the “studio autocracy”; Fritzie “Icepick” Kupferman had a Teamster file clerk tagged as a UAES plant–they’d been spoon-feeding him only what they wanted him to hear for weeks now, letting him run the lunch truck across from the Variety International line. Mo Jahelka had a hinky feeling: UAES pickets weren’t fighting back when shoved or verbally provoked–they seemed smug, like they were biding their time, even old lefty headbashers maintaining their frost. Moey seemed to think UAES had something up its sleeve. Buzz had padded the statements so Ellis Loew would think he was working harder than he was, feeling like a nice, tasty Christian in a lion’s den, waiting for the lion to get hungry and notice him.
Johnny Stomp Lion.
Mickey Lion.
Johnny had been giving him the flsheye ever since he walked in the door, ten days since he kiboshed the squeeze on Lucy Whitehall and bought the guinea sharpster off with five Mickey C-notes. “Hi, Buzz,” “Hi, Johnny,” nothing else.
He’d been with Audrey three times now, the one all-nighter at his place, two quick shots at Howard’s fuck pad in the Hollywood Hills. If Mickey had any kind of surveillance on Audrey it was Johnny; if he got wise, it was mortgage his life to the fucker or kill him, no middle ground. If Mickey got wise, it was the Big Adios, when crossed, the little guy got vicious: he’d found the trigger who bumped Hooky Rothman, gave him two hollow points in the kneecaps, an evening of agony with a Fritzie Kupferman coup de grace: an icepick in the ear, Fritzie making like Toscanini conducting Beethoven, little dips and swirls with his baton before he speared the poor bastard’s brain.