Or the jigs really were guilty.
Or it was some other bunch of boogies riding around, blasting the air in Griffith Park, killing six people at the Nite Owl. Their 1948–50 Ford/Chevy/Merc was never located because the purple paint job was homemade, never listed on a DMV form.
Brainwork from a guy who never thought he had much of a brain–and he didn’t make a shine gang for the snuffs, because–
The Englekling brothers sold their printshop mid-’54, then dropped off the face of the earth. Two years ago, he issued a “Whereabouts” bulletin: no results, no positive results on the cadaver bulletins he’d been tracking statewide: zilch on the brothers, no stiffs that might be the real Duke Cathcart. And– six months ago, following up in San Berdoo, he got a hot lead.
He found a San Berdoo townie who’d seen Susan Nancy Lefferts with a man matching Duke Cathcart’s description–two weeks before the Nite Owl killings. He showed him some Cathcart mugshots; the man said, “Close, but no cigar.” The Nite Owl forensic had Susan Nancy “flailing” to touch the man sitting at the next table: Duke Cathcart, really the impersonator, supposedly unknown to her. Why were they sitting at _different tables?_ The kicker: he tried to interview Sue Lefferts’ mother, a chance to run the boyfriend by her. She refused to talk to him.
Why?
Bud packed up: mementoes, ten pounds of paper. Stalemates for now–no new whore leads, the Nite Owl dead until he braced Mickey Cohen. Out to the elevator–adios, Homicide.
Ed Exley walked by staring.
He knows about Inez and me.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Stakeout: Hank’s Ranch Market, 52nd and Central. A sign above the door: “Welfare Checks Cashed.” January 3, relief day–check-cashers shooting craps on the sidewalk. Surveillance Squad 5 got a tip-some anonymous ginch said her boyfriend and his buddy were going to take the market off, she was pissed at the boyfriend for porking her sister. Jack in the point car, watching the door, Sergeant John Petievich parked on 52–scowling like he wanted to kill something.
Lunch: Fritos, straight vodka. Jack yawned, stretched, cut odds: Aragon vs. Pimentel, what Ellis Loew wanted–he was supposed to meet him at a political soiree tonight. The vodka burned his stomach; he had to piss wicked bad.
Horn toots–his signal. Petievich pointed to the sidewalk. Two white men entered the market.
Jack walked across the street. Petievich walked over. A frame on the doorway, a look in. The robbers at the checkstand, backs to the door–guns out, spare hands full of money.
No proprietor. No customers. A squint down the far aisle– blood and brains on the wall. SILENCER. BACK DOOR MAN. Jack shot the heisters in the back.
Petievich screamed; back door footsteps; Jack fired blind, chased. Bottles broke over his head: blind shots, silencer rounds–no noise, muffled thwaps. Down the far aisle, two dead winos, a door closing. Petievich fired, blew the door off–a man sprinted across the alley. Jack emptied his piece; the man vaulted a fence. Shouts from the sidewalk; crapshooters cheering. Jack reloaded, jumped the fence, hit a backyard. A Doberman jumped at him, snarling, snapping teeth in his face–Jack shot him point-blank. The dog belched blood; Jack heard shots, saw the fence explode.
Two bluesuits hit the yard running. Jack dropped his gun; they fired anyway–wide–blowing out fence pickets. Jack put his hands up. “Police officer! Police officer! Policeman!”
They came up slow, frisked him–peach-fuzz rookies. The taller kid found his ID. “Hey, Vincennes. You used to be some kind of hotshot, didn’t you?”
Jack cold-cocked him–a knee to the nuts. The kid went dqwn; the other kid gawked.
Jack went looking for a place to drink.
o o o
He found a juke joint, ordered a line of shots. Two drinks killed his shakes; two more made him a toastmaster.
To the men I just killed: sorry, I’m really better at shooting unarmed civilians. I’m being squeezed into retirement, so I thought I’d 86 a couple of real bad guys before I capped my twenty.
To my wife: you thought you married a hero, but you grew up and learned you were wrong. Now you want to go to law school and be a lawyer like Daddy and Ellis. No sweat on the money: Daddy bought the house, Daddy upgrades your marriage, Daddy will pay for tuition. When you read the paper and see that your husband drilled two evil robbers, you’ll think they’re the first notches on his gun. Wrong–in ’47 dope crusader Jack blasted two innocent people, the big secret he almost wants to spill just to get some life kicking back into his marriage.