Communion. Confession. Requiescat en pace.”
Scoppettone gulped water, sputtered and licked his lips. “You a Catholic?”
Upshaw sat down in the opposite chair. “I’m nothing. My mother’s a Jehovah’s Witness and my father’s dead, which is what you’re gonna be when Jack D. finds out you’re clouting markets on your own. And as far as the eyeball witnesses go, they’ll testify. You’ll be no bail downtown and Jack’ll give you the go-by. You’re in dutch with Jack or you wouldn’t be pulling heists in the first place. Spill, Vincent. Feed me on your other jobs and the captain here will recommend honor farm.”
Scoppettone coughed; water dribbled off his chin. “Without them witnesses, you got no case.”
Upshaw leaned over the table; Mal wondered how much the speaker was distorting his voice. “You’re ixnay with Jack, Vinnie. At best, he lets you go on the Sun-Fax, at worst he has you whacked when you hit the penitentiary. And that’ll be Folsom. You’re a known mob associate, and that’s where they go. And the Sun-Fax is in Cohen territory. Mickey buys the gift baskets he greases judges with there, and he’ll make damn sure one of those judges hears your case.
In my opinion, you are just too stupid to live. Only a stupid shit would knock off a joint in Cohen territory. Are you looking to start a fucking war? You think Jack wants Mickey coming after him over a chump-change stickup?”
Dudley nudged Mal. “That lad is very, very good.”
Mal said, “In spades.” He pushed Dudley’s elbow aside and concentrated on Upshaw and his verbal style–wondering if he could run Commie argot as well as he did gangsterese. Vincent Scoppettone coughed again; static hit the speaker, then died out into words. “There ain’t gonna be no war. Jack and Mickey Side 75
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The been talkin’ about a truce, maybe going in on a piece of business together.”
Upshaw said, “You feel like talking about that?”
“You think I’m stupid?”
Upshaw laughed. Mal caught the phoniness, that Scoppettone didn’t interest him–that it was just a job. But it was a Class A phony laugh–and the kid knew how to squeeze his own tension into it.
“Vinnie, I already told you I think you’re stupid. You’ve got panic city written all over you, and I think you’re on the outs with Jack bad. Let me guess: you did something to piss Jack off, you got scared, you thought you’d hightail. You needed a stake, you heisted the Sun-Fax. Am I right?”
Scoppettone was sweating heavy now–it was rolling off his face. Upshaw said, “You know what else I think? One heist wouldn’t have done it. I think there’s other jobs we can make you for. I think I’m gonna check robbery reports all over the City and County, maybe Ventura County, maybe Orange and San Diego.
I’ll bet if I wire your mugs around I’ll come up with some other eyeball witnesses. Am I right?”
Scoppettone tried laughter–a long string of squeaky ha ha ha’s. Upshaw joined in and mimicked them until his prisoner shut up. Mal snapped: he’s wound tight as a steel spring on something else and shooting it to Vinnie because he’s the one here _and he probably doesn’t know he’s doing it_.
Squirming his arms, Scoppettone said, “Let’s talk dealsky. I got something sweet.”
“Tell me.”
“Heroin. Heroin very large. That truce I told you about, Jack and Mickey partners. Quality Mex brown, twenty-five pounds. All for niggertown, cut-rate to lowball the independents down there. The God’s truth. If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”
Upshaw aped Vinnie’s tone. “Then you’ve got wings stashed under your mattress, because the Mick and Dragna as partners is horseshit. Sherry’s was six months ago, Cohen lost a man and doesn’t forget stuff like that.”
“That wasn’t Jack, that was LAPD. Shooters out of Hollywood Station, a snuff kitty half the fuckin’ division kicked in for ’cause of fuckin’ Brenda.
Mickey Kike knows Jack didn’t do it.”
Upshaw yawned–broadly. “I’m bored, Vinnie. Niggers geezing heroin and Jack and Mickey as partners is a fucking snore. By the way, you read the papers?”
Scoppettone shook his head, spraying sweat. “What?”