Audrey looked at Tommy Sifakis, belly-crawling over to the curb.
“Mobile. Did Mickey send you to do that?”
“No. I was wonderin’ why you didn’t seem surprised. Now I know.”
“You care to tell me about it?”
“No.”
“But you’ve done work for Mickey?”
Buzz saw Lucy Whitehall sit down on the couch and grab a stolen radio for something to hold. Her face was blotchy red and rivers of mascara were running down her cheeks. “I certainly have. Mickey disapprove of Mr. Sifakis there?”
Audrey laughed. “He knows trash when he sees it, I’ll give him that.
What’s your name?”
“Turner Meeks.”
“_Buzz_ Meeks?”
“That’s right. Miss Anders, have you got a place for Miss Whitehall to stay?”
“Yes. But what–”
“Mickey still hang out New Year’s at Breneman’s Ham ‘n’ Eggs?”
“Yes.”
“You get Lucy to pack a grip, then. I’ll run you over there.”
Audrey flushed. Buzz wondered how much of her smarts Mickey put up with before he jerked the chain; if she ever did the tassel trick for him. She went over and knelt beside Lucy Whitehall, smoothing her hair, prying the radio out of her grasp. Buzz got his car and backed it up on the gravel front yard, one eye on the Greek, still moaning low. Neighbor people were peering out their windows, spread venetian blinds all around the cul-desac. Audrey led Lucy out of the house a few minutes later, one arm around her shoulders, one hand carrying a cardboard suitcase. On the way to the car, she stopped to give Tommy Sifakis a kick in the balls.
o
o
o
Buzz took Laurel Canyon back to Hollywood–more time to figure out the play if Johnny Stompanato turned up at his boss’s side. Lucy Whitehall mumbled litanies on Tommy Sifakis as a nice guy with rough edges, Audrey cooing “There, there,” feeding her cigarettes to shut her up.
It was coming on as a three-horse parlay: a grand from Gelfman, whatever Mickey slipped him if he got sentimental over Lucy and a shakedown or favor pried out of Johnny Stomp. Play it soft with the Mick–he hadn’t seen him since he quit the Department and their percentage deal. Since then the man had survived a pipe bomb explosion, two IRS audits, his right-hand goon Hooky Rothman stubbing his face on the business end of an Ithaca .12 gauge and the shootout outside Sherry’s–chalk that one up to Jack Dragna or shooters from the LAPD, revenge for the cop heads that rolled over the Brenda Allen job. Mickey Side 14
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The had half of bookmaking, loan-sharking, the race wire and the dope action in LA; he owned the West Hollywood Sheriff’s and the few City high brass who didn’t want to see him crucified. And Johnny Stomp had stuck with him through all of it: guinea factotum to a Jew prince. Play them both _very_ soft.
Laurel Canyon ended just north of the Strip; Buzz took side streets over to Hollywood and Vine, dawdling at stoplights. He could feel Audrey Anders eyeing him from the back seat, probably trying to get a take on him and the Mick. Pulling up in front of Breneman’s, he said, “You and Lucy stay here. I got to talk to Mickey in private.”
Lucy dry-sobbed and fumbled with her pack of cigarettes; Audrey reached for the door handle. “I’m going, too.”
“No, you’re not.”
Audrey flushed; Buzz turned to Lucy. “Sweetheart, this is about them pictures of you and that big old dog. Tommy was tryin’ to squeeze Mr. Gelfman, and if you go inside looking distraught, Mickey just might kill him and get all of us in heaps of trouble. Tommy’s got them rough edges, but the two of you just might be able to work things–”
Lucy bawled and made him stop; Audrey’s look said he was lower than the dog. Buzz headed into Breneman’s at a trot. The restaurant was crowded, the radio crew for “Tom Breneman’s Breakfast in Hollywood” packing up equipment and hustling it toward a side exit. Mickey Cohen was sitting in a wraparound booth, Johnny Stompanato and another muscle boy sandwiching him. A third man sat alone at an adjoining table, eyes constantly circling, a newspaper folded open on the seat beside him–obviously camouflaging a monster piece.