Now he ripped–down the spine, across the grain, leather and paper shredded to bits.
The phone, IAD direct. Buzz, buzz, “Internal Affairs, Kleckner.”
“It’s White. Put Exley on.”
“White, you’re in troub–” a new voice on the line. “This is Exley. White, where are you?”
“Arrowhead. I just read Lynn’s diary and got the whole story on your old man, Atherton and Dieterling. _The whole fucking story_. I’m running a suspect down, and when I find him it’s your daddy on the six o’clock news.”
“I’ll make a deal with you. Just listen.”
“Never.”
o o o
Back to L.A., the old Spade routine: Chinatown, the Strip, the Biltmore, his third circuit since time went haywire. The chinks were starting to look like the Cowboy Rhythm Band, the El Rancho guys were growing slant eyes. Every known haunt triple-checked, three times everything–except for a single hit on his agent.
Bud drove to Nat Penzler Associates. The connecting door was open–Mr. Natsky was eating a sandwich. He took a bite, said, “Oh shit.”
“Spade’s been ditching out on his gig. He must be costing you money.”
Penzler eased a hand behind his desk. “Caveman, if you knew the grief my clients cause me.”
“You don’t sound so concerned.”
“Bad pennies always turn up.”
“Do you know where he is?”
Penzler brought his hand up. “My guess is on the planet Pluto, hanging out with his pal Jack Daniels.”
“What were you doing with your hand?”
“Scratching my balls. You want the job? It pays five yards a week, but you have to kick back ten percent to your agent.”
“Where is he?”
“He is somewhere in the vicinity of nowhere I know. Check with me next week and write when you get brains.”
“Like that, huh?”
“Caveman, if I knew would I withhold from a bruiser like you?” Bud kicked him out of his chair. Penzler hit the floor; the chair spun, tipped. Bud reached under the desk, pulled out a bundle wrapped with string. A foot on top, a jerk on the knot–clean black cowboy shirts.
Penzler stood up. “Lincoln Heights. The basement at Sammy Ling’s, and you didn’t get it from Natsky.”
o o o
Ling’s Chow Mein: a dive on Broadway up from Chinatown. Parking spaces in back; a rear entrance to the kitchen. No outside basement access, steam shooting from an underground vent. Bud circled the place, heard voices out the vent. Make the trapdoor in the kitchen.
He found a two-by-four in the lot, went in the back way. Two slants frying meat, an old geek skinning a duck. A fix on the trapdoor, easy: lift the pallet by the oven.
They spotted him. The young chinks jabbered; Papa-san waved them quiet. Bud held his shield out.
The old man rubbed fingers. “I pay! I pay I pay! You go!”
“Spade Cooley, Papa. You go downstairs and tell him Natsky brought the laundry. Chop-chop.”
“Spade pay! You leave alone! I pay! I pay!”
The kids circled. Papa-san waved his cleaver.
“You go now! Go now! I pay!”
Bud fixed a line on the floor. Papa stepped over it.
Bud swung his stick–pops caught it waist-high. He crashed into the stove, his face hit a burner, his hair caught fire. The kids charged; Bud got their legs in one shot. They hit the floor tangled up-Bud smashed in their ribs. Pops doused his head in the sink, charged with his face scorched black.
A roundhouse to the knees–Papa went down glued to that cleaver. Bud stepped on his hand, cracked the fingers–Papa let go screaming. Bud dragged him to the oven, kicked the pallet loose. Yank the trapdoor, drag the old man downstairs.
Fumes: opium, steam. Bud kicked Papa-san quiet. Through the fumes: dope suckers on mattresses.
Bud kicked through them. All chinks–they grumbled, swatted, sucked back to dreamland. Smoke: in his face, up his nose, breathing hard so he took it down his lungs. Steam like a beacon: a sweat room at the back.
He kicked over to the door. Through a mist: naked Spade Cooley, three naked girls. Giggles, arms and legs cockeyed–an orgy on a slippery tile bench. Spade so tangled up in women that you couldn’t shoot him clean.