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“Then leave him a note and have him call you at my place.”

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Don’t laugh. “I can’t.”

“You sound very strange.”

“I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

Silence–line crackle–Miciak hovered.

“David, do you. . .”

“Don’t say his name, and if it hasn’t been in the papers or on TV, figure no.”

“And when it’s yes, I know what to do.”

“You always know what to do.”

“And you’ll always push me for where I learned it.”

“I’m a detective.”

“No, you’re this man who implements things. And everything about me can’t be explained.”

“But I’ll–”

“But you’ll always try–so come over and try now.”

“I can’t. Glenda, tell me things. Distract me.”

Hear it–match flare, exhale. “Well, Herman Gerstein came by the set today and raised hell with Mickey. It seems that he’s seen rushes, and he’s afraid Sid Frizell’s making the movie too gory. Also, quote, ‘This vampire incest routine might get that goddamn goyishe Legion of Decency on our ass,’ unquote. To top that off, Touch told me that Rock gave him the crabs, and Sid’s been screening outtakes from this stag film he’s shooting down in Lynwood. Not the most attractive performers, but the crew seemed to enjoy it.”

I checked a window-dawn coming. “I should keep this line open.”

“Tonight then?”

“I’ll call you.”

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

I hung up, grabbed a chair and drifted someplace. Vampires there: Tommy, Pops chasing Meg with his fly down. Blank sleep, hands on me– “Yeah, he’s the boss at Ad Vice.”

“Lieutenant, wake up.”

Up thrashing.

Two prototype IA men, guns out.

“Sir, Junior Stemmons is dead.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Code 3 to Bido Lito’s– two cars–no explanation. Spooked: Jack said he’d lose the corpse.

Side streets, there:

Reporters, prowl cars, Plymouths–Feds snapping zoom-lens pix. Civilians milling Side 133

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around–no crowd ropes yet.

I parked and followed a morgue team. Feds talking-duck by, listen:

“…and their pictures weren’t in our Intelligence files. These were unknown, most likely out-of-town hoods seen servicing the coin machines here and at a dozen other Southside locations.”

“Frank–”

“Please, just listen. Yesterday, Noonan got an anonymous tip on a garage down here. We hit it, and we found slot machines up the wazoo. _But_–it was just a separate garage on a dirty little street, and we can’t trace the ownership to save our lives.”

Slot intrigue–fuck it–

I ran inside. Heavy brass: Exley, Dudley Smith, Inspector George Stemmons, Sr.

Lab men swarming, Dick Carlisle, Mike Breuning.

Voodoo eyes strafed me–Lester Lake’s savior. They flipped stiff fingers surreptitious–Breuning kissed his.

Flashbulb pops. Stemmons shouting, close to tears.

Morgue jockeys pushed a gurney in. I chased them–past the bandstand, back hallways–a slot room.

FUCK–

Junior dead–fetal-curled on the floor.

Junkie-tied–an arm tourniquet–rigor-locked teeth on a sash cord.

A spike bent off a mainline; bulging eyes. Short sleeves–needle tracks and vein scars exposed.

A bluesuit, gawking: “I checked his pockets. He had a key to the front door on him.”

A lab man: “The janitor got here early and found him. Jesus, this kind of grief right in the middle of the Fed thing.”

The coroner, mind reader: “It’s either a legitimate OD or a very skillful hotshot. Those marks are proof of the man’s addiction. My God, a Los Angeles police officer.”

Jack Woods–never.

Ray Pinker nudged me. “Dave, Chief Exley wants to see you out back.”

I double-timed it out to the lot. Exley was standing by Junior’s car. “Interpret this.”

“Interpret shit. It’s real or it’s the Kafesjians.”

“IA said they found you asleep at Stemmons’ apartment.”

“That’s right.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I drove over to Steve Wenzel’s place and saw J.C.’s car in front. Junior’s apartment was close, and I thought he might show up. What happened with Watts?”

“Five dead, and no eyewitnesses. It was dark when Tommy Kafesjian fired, is that correct?”

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“Yeah, he had some nigger kill the lights. Did you–”

“Wenzel was the only white victim, and the state of his body precluded an early ID. Apparently, the shotgun rounds provoked a reaction from a number of independently armed men inside the club. Bob Gallaudet and I went down there and mollified the press. We told them all the victims were Negroes and promised them passes to the Chavez Ravine evictions if they soft-pedaled the story. Of course they agreed.”