Jack ate cement, prayed the rosary. A shot ripped his shoulder; a shot grazed his legs. He crawled under the car; a shitload of tires squealed; a shitload of people screamed. An ambulance showed up; a bull dyke Sheriff’s deputy loaded him on a gurney. Sirens, a hospital bed, a doctor and the dyke whispering about the dope in his system–blood test validated. Lots of drugged sleep, a newspaper on his lap: “Three Dead in Malibu Shootout–Heroic Cop Survives.”
The “H” guys escaped clean–the deaths pinned on them.
The spook was dead at the scene.
The shapes weren’t the nigger’s backup–they were Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins, tourists from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, the proud parents of Donald, seventeen, and Marsha, sixteen.
The doctors kept looking at him funny; the dyke turned out to be Dot Rothstein, Kikey Teitlebaum’s cousin, known associate of the legendary Dudley Smith.
A routine autopsy would show that the pills taken out of Mr. and Mrs. Scoggins came from Sergeant Jack Vincennes’ gun.
The kids saved him.
He sweated out a week at the hospital. Thad Green and Chief Worton visited; the Narco guys came by. Dudley Smith offered his patronage; he wondered just how much he knew. Sid Hudgens, chief writer for _Hush-Hush_ Magazine, stopped in with an offer: Jack to roust celebrated hopheads, _Hush-Hush_ to be in on the arrests–cash to discreetly change hands. He accepted– and wondered just how much Hudgens knew.
The kids demanded no autopsy: the family was Seventh-Day Adventist, autopsies were a sacrilege. Since the county coroner knew damn well who the shooters were, he shipped Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins back to Iowa to be cremated.
Sergeant Jack Vincennes skated–with newspaper honors.
His wounds healed.
He quit drinking.
He quit taking dope, dumped the trunk. He marked abstinent days on his calendar, worked his deal with Sid Hudgens, built his name as a local celebrity. He did favors for Dudley Smith; Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins torched his dreams; he figured booze and hop would put out the flames but get him killed in the process. Sid got him the “technical advisor” job with _Badge of Honor_–then just a radio show. Money started roffing in; spending it on clothes and women wasn’t the kick he thought it would be. Bars and dope shakedowns were awful temptations. Terrorizing hopheads helped a little–but not enough. He decided to pay the kids back.
His first check ran two hundred; he included a letter: “Anonymous Friend,” a spiel on the Scoggins tragedy. He called the bank a week later: the check had been cashed. He’d been financing his free ride ever since; unless Hudgens had 10/24/47 on paper he was safe.
Jack laid out his party clothes. The blazer was London Shop–he’d bought it with Sid’s payoff for the Bob Mitchum roust. The tassel loafers and gray flannels were proceeds from a _Hush-Hush_ exposé linking jazz musicians to the Communist Conspiracy–he squeezed some pinko stuff out of a bass player he popped for needle marks. He dressed, spritzed on Lucky Tiger, drove to Beverly Hills.
o o o
A backyard bash: a full acre covered by awnings. College kids parked cars; a buffet featured prime rib, smoked ham, turkey. Waiters carried hors d’oeuvres; a giant Christmas tree stood out in the open, getting drizzled on. Guests ate off paper plates; gas torches lit the lawn. Jack arrived on time and worked the crowd.
Welton Morrow showed him to his first audience: a group of Superior Court judges. Jack spun yarns: Charlie Parker trying to buy him off with a high-yellow hooker, how he cracked the Shapiro case: a queer Mickey Cohen stooge pushing amyl nitrite–his customers transvestite strippers at a fruit bar. The Big V to the rescue: Jack Vincennes single-handedly arresting a roomful of bruisers auditioning for a Rita Hayworth lookalike contest. A round of applause; Jack bowed, saw Joan Morrow by the Christmas tree–alone, maybe bored.
He walked over. Joan said, “Happy holidays, Jack.”
Pretty, built, thirty-one or two. No job and no husband taking its toll: she came off pouty most of the time. “Hi, Joan.”
“Hi, yourself. I read about you in the paper today. Those people you arrested.”