A lie–Perkins’ rap sheet said different. “So maybe I’m confused. I know you guys are tight with Lee Vachss, and I heard him and Deuce are tight.”
Kikey laughed–too stagy. “What a yuck. Johnny, I think Wendell here is really confused.”
Stomp said, “Oil and water, those two. Tight? What a howl.”
_Standing up for Vachss for no reason_. “You guys are the howl. I figured you’d ask me what the grief was right off.”
Kikey pushed his plate aside. “It occur to you we just don’t care?”
“Yeah, but you guys love to shmooz and milk the grapevine.”
“So shmooz.”
A rumor: Kikey beat a guy to death for calling him a yid. “I’ll shmooz, it’s a nice day and I got nothing better to do than hobnob with a greasy wop and a fat yid.”
Abe ho-ho-ho’d, cuffed his arm oh-you-kid. “You’re a pisser. So what do you want Deuce for?”
Bud cuffed him back hard–“None of your fucking business, Jewboy”–throw a change-up to Johnny. “What are you doing now that Mickey’s out?”
Tap, tap, tap—-a pinky ring on a bottle of Schlitz. “Nothing you’d be interested in. I got things contained, so don’t you worry. What are _you_ doing?”
“I’m on the Nite Owl reopening.”
Johnny tap-tapped too hard–his bottle almost tipped. Kikey, working on pale. “You don’t think Deuce Perkins . .
Stompanato: “Come on, Abe. Deuce for the Nite Owl, what a howl.”
Bud said, “I gotta piss,” walked to the bathroom. He closed the door, counted to ten, opened it a crack. The shitbirds spieling full blast–Abe wiping his face with a napkin. Let the pieces fit in.
Hink: Deuce for the Nite Owl.
Jack V. spotted Vachss, Stomp, Kikey and Perkins at a party–maybe a year pre–Nite Owl.
A Mobster Squad roust, a snitch off Joe Sifakis: _three-man_ trigger gangs clipping Cohen franchise hoods, maverick hoods. The Victory Motel buzzing hard.
Bud grabbed the piece, dropped it, grabbed it.
“Contain.”
Dudley’s favorite big word–“containment.”
His motel pitch: “containing,” “profit dispensation,” “obstreperous Italian you’ve dealt with in the past”–Johnny Stomp an old snitch who hated him. Dud hot for his “full disclosure”; the Lamar Hinton roust–a shakedown for Nite Owl information, Dot Rothstein there, Kikey Teitlebaum’s cousin–
Bud washed his face, walked back calm. Stomp said, “Have a good one?”
“Yeah, and you’re right. I want Deuce for some old warrants, but I got a hunch on the Nite Owl.”
Calm Johnny: “Oh, yeah?”
Calm Kikey: “Some new shvoogies, right? All I know’s what I read in the papers.”
Bud: “Maybe, but if it wasn’t some new niggers, then that purple car by the Nite Owl was a plant. Take care, guys. If you see Deuce, tell him to call me at the Bureau.”
Calm Johnny tap-tap-tapped.
Calm Kikey coughed, popped sweat.
Calm Bud, not so calm: out to the car, around the corner to a pay phone. The P.C. Bell police number, one long fucking wait.
“Uh, yes, who’s requesting?”
“Sergeant White, LAPD. It’s a trace job.”
“For when, Sergeant?”
“_For now_. It’s a homicide priority, private lines and pay phones at a restaurant. _It’s now_.”
“One second, please.”
Transfer click-click-clicks–a new woman. “Sergeant, what exactly do you need?”
No Calm Bud. “Abe’s Noshery at Pico and Veteran. All calls out on all phones for the next fifteen goddamn minutes. Lady, don’t hump me on this.”
“We can’t initiate actual traces, Officer.”
“Just who the calls are to, goddamn it.”
“Well, if it _is_ a homicide priority. What is your number now?”
Bud read off the phone. “GRanite 48112.”
Harumph. “Fifteen minutes then. And next time allow us more operating leeway.”
Bud hung up–Dudley Dudley Dudley Dudley Dudley–hard time cut off by _brrrinnngg_. He grabbed the phone, fumbled it, cradled it. “Yeah?”
“Two calls. One to DUnkirk 32758–a Miss Dot Rothstein holds that number. The second to AXminster 46811, the residence of a Mr. Dudley L. Smith.”
Bud dropped the receiver. The clerk babbled from someplace safe and calm that he’d never see again–no Lynn, no safety in a badge.
Captain Dudley Liam Smith for the Nite Owl.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Jack Vincennes confessed.
He confessed to knocking up a girl at the St. Anatole’s Orphan Home, to killing Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins. He confessed to tank-jobbing Bill McPherson with a hot little nigger girl, to planting dope on Charlie Parker, to shaking down hopheads for _Hush-Hush_ Magazine. He tried to jerk out of bed and raise his hands to form the Stations of the Cross. He babbled something like hub rachmones, Mickey, and bump bump bump bump the cute train. He confessed to beating up junkies, to running bag for Ellis Loew. He begged his wife to forgive him for fucking whores who looked like women in dirty picture books. He confessed that he loved dope and was unfit to love Jesus.