Fisk nodded, walked down to booth 5. Ed checked the #1 look-in.
Chester Yorkin wising off at the mirror: making faces, flipping the bird. Skinny, a pompadour flopped over his eyes oozing grease. Welts on his arms–maybe old needle marks.
Ed opened the door. Yorkin said, “Hey, I know you. I read about you.”
Tracks confirmed–scar tissue on the welts. “I’ve been in the news.”
Giggle, giggle. “This is an old one, _kemo sabe_. Something like you saying, ‘I never hit suspects ’cause that’s the cop lowered to the level of the criminal.’ You wanta hear my answer? I never snitch, ’cause cops are all cocksuckers who get their cookies off making guys talk.”
“You through?”–Bud White’s stock line.
“No. Your father takes it up the ass from Moochie Mouse.”
Scared, but he did it–an elbow to the windpipe. Yorkin gasped; Ed got behind him, cuffed him, shoved him to the floor.
Scared, but steady hands: look, Dad, no fear.
Yorkin backed into a corner.
Scared, another Bad Bud move: a chair, a roundhouse swing, the chair smashed to the wall just above the suspect’s head. Yorkin tried to squirm away; Ed kicked him back to his corner. Slow now: don’t let your voice break, don’t let your eyes go soft behind your glasses. “_Everything_. I want to know about the smut and the other shit you push through Fleur-de-Lis. _Everything_. You start with those tracks on your arms and why a smart man like Patchett trusts a junkie like you. And you know one thing right now–Patchett is finished and I’m the only one who can cut you a deal. _Do you understand me?_”
Yorkin bobbed his head yes yes yes. “Test pilot! I flew for him! Test pilot!”
Ed unlocked his cuffs. “Say that again.”
Yorkin rubbed his neck. “Guinea pig.”
“What?”
“I let him test horse on me. Here and there, a little at a time.”
“Start over. Slowly.”
Yorkin coughed. “Pierce got this heroin stolen off this Cohen– Jack Dragna deal years ago. This guy Buzz Meeks left some with these guys Pete and Bar Englekling, just a sample, and they gave it to their father, who was some kind of chemistry hotshot. He taught Pierce in college, and he laid the shit off to him and died, a heart attack or something. This other guy, I don’t know his name so don’t ask me, he killed Meeks or something like that. He got the rest of the shit, like eighteen pounds’ worth. Pierce has been developing compounds with the stuff for years. He wants to make the cheapest and the safest and the best. I just . . . I just take some test pops.”
Astounding lines crossing. “You were making deliveries for Fleur-de-Lis five years ago, right?”
“Right, yeah, sure.”
“You and Lamar Hinton.”
“I ain’t seen Lamar in years, you can’t pin Lamar’s shit on me!”
Ed grabbed the spare chair, brandished it. “I don’t want to. Give me an answer on this, and if I like it I’ll owe you a solid. It’s a test and you’re a test pilot, so you should do well. Who shot at Jack Vincennes outside the Hollywood drop back in ’53?”
Yorkin cringed. “Me. Pierce told me to clip him. I shouldn’t of done it by the drop. I fucked up and Pierce got pissed.”
Patchett nailed: attempted murder on a police officer. “What did he do to you for that?”
“He tested me bad. He gave me all these bad compounds he said he had to eliminate. He made me take these bad fucking flights.”
“So you hate him for it.”
“Man, Pierce ain’t like regular people. I hate him, but I dig him too.”
Ed pushed the chair away. “Do you remember the Nite Owl shootings?”
“Sure, years ago. What’s that got to do–”
“Never mind, and here’s the important thing. If you fill this in for me, I’ll give you a written immunity statement and put you up in protective custody until Patchett’s down. Smut, Chester. You remember those orgy books Fleur-de-Lis was running five years ago?”
Yorkin bobbed his head yes.
“The ink blood on the pictures, do you remember that?”
Yorkin smiled–snitching eager now. “I know that story good. Pierce is going down for real?”