“It’s worth a try. She’s a social climber and she’s always wanted to marry well. I don’t know about a hebe, though.”
“Yes, lad, there is that. But you’ll broach the subject?”
“Sure.”
“Then it’s out of our hands. And along those lines–was it bad at the station last night?”
Now he gets to it. “It was very bad.”
“Do you think it will blow over?”
“I don’t know. What about Brownell and Helenowski? How bad did they get it?”
“Superficial contusions, lad. I’d say the payback went a bit further. Did you partake?”
“I got hit, hit back and got out. Is Loew afraid of prosecuting?”
“Only of losing friends if he does.”
“He made a friend today. Tell him he’s ahead of the game.”
o o o
Jack drove home, fell asleep on the couch. He slept through the afternoon, woke up to the _Mirror_ on his porch. On page four: “Yuletide Surprise for _Hope’s Harvest_ co-stars.”
No pix, but Morty Bendish got in the “Big V” shtick; “One of his many informants” made it sound like Jack Vincennes had minions prowling, their pockets stuffed with _his_ money–it was well known that the Big V financed his dope crusade with his own salary. Jack clipped the article, thumbed the rest of the paper for Helenowski, Brownell and the cop beaters.
Nothing.
Predictable: two cops with minor contusions was small potatoes, the punks hadn’t had time to glom a shyster. Jack got out his ledger.
Pages divided into three columns: date, cashier’s check number, amount of money. The amounts ranged from a C-note to two grand; the checks were made out to Donald and Marsha Scoggins of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. The bottom of the third column held a running total: $32,350. Jack got out his bankbook, checked the balance, decided his next payment would be five hundred flat. Five yards for Christmas. Big money until your Uncle Jack drops dead–and it’ll never be enough.
Every Christmas he ran it through–it started with the Morrows and he saw them at Christmastime; he was an orphan, he’d made the Scoggins kids orphans, Christmas was a notoriously shitty time for orphans. He forced himself through the story.
Late September 1947.
Old Chief Worton called him in. Welton Morrow’s daughter Karen was running with a high school crowd experimenting with dope–they got the shit from a sax player named Les Weiskopf. Morrow was a filthy-rich lawyer, a heavy contributor to LAPD fund drives; he wanted Weiskopf leaned on–with no publicity.
Jack knew Weiskopf: he sold Dilaudid, wore his hair in a jig conk, liked young gash. Worton told him a sergeantcy came with the job.
He found Weiskopf–in bed with a fifteen-year-old redhead. The girl skedaddled; Jack pistol-whipped Weiskopf, tossed his pad, found a trunk full of goofballs and bennies. He took it with him–he figured he’d sell the shit to Mickey Cohen. Welton Morrow offered him the security man gig; Jack accepted; Karen Morrow was hustled off to boarding school. The sergcantcy came through; Mickey C. wasn’t interested in the dope–only Big H flipped his switch. Jack kept the trunk–and dipped into it for bennies to keep him juiced on all-night stakeouts. Linda, wife number two, took off with one of his snitches: a trombone player who sold maryjane on the side. Jack hit the trunk for real, mixing goofballs, bennies, scotch, taking down half the names on the _down beat_ poll: THE MAN, jazzster’s public enemy number one. Then it was 10/24/47–
He was cramped in his car, staking the Malibu Rendezvous parking lot: eyes on two “H” pushers in a Packard sedan. Near midnight: he’d been drinking scotch, he blew a reefer on the way over, the bennies he’d been swallowing weren’t catching up with the booze. A tip on a midnight buy: the “H” men and a skinny shine, seven feet tall, a real geek.
The boogie showed at a quarter past twelve, walked to the Packard, palmed a package. Jack tripped getting out of the car; the geek started running; the “H” men got out with guns drawn. Jack stumbled up and drew his piece; the geek wheeled and fired; he saw two shapes closer in, tagged them as the nigger’s backup, squeezed off a clip. The shapes went down; the “H” men shot at the spook and at him; the spook nosedived a ’46 Studebaker.