o o o
Exley on the sidewalk, holding a tape recorder. Bud White on the porch–l.A. must have found him. Jack made it a threesome.
White walked over. Exley said, “I just spoke to Gallaudet. He said without hard evidence we can’t go to Loew. Mertens and Perkins are still out there, and Stompanato’s in Mexico with Lana Turner. If Mickey doesn’t give us anything good, then I’m going directly to Parker. Full disclosure on Dudley.”
From the doorway: “Are you coming in or aren’t you? You want to give me grief, give me indoor grief.”
Mickey Cohen in a robe and Jew beanie. “Last call to give grief! Are you coming?”
They walked up. Cohen closed the door, pointed to a small gold coffin. “My late canine heir, Mickey Cohen, Jr. Distract me from my real grief, you goyisher cop fucks. The service is today at Mount Sinai. I bribed the rabbi to give my beloved a human sendoff. The shmendriks at the mortuary think they’re burying a midget. Talk to me.”
Exley talked. “We came to tell you who’s been killing your franchise people.”
“What ‘franchise people’? Continue in this vein and I shall have to stand on the Fifth Amendment. And what is that tape doohickey you’re holding?”
“Johnny Stompanato, Lee Vachss and Abe Teitlebaum. They’re part of a gang, and they got the heroin you lost at your meeting with Jack Dragna back in ’50. They’ve been killing your franchise people, and they tried to have you and Davey Goldman killed at McNeil. They bombed your house and didn’t get you, but sooner or later they will.”
Cohen laughed outright. “Granted, those old pals have been vacant from my life and are not amenable to rejoining me. But they do not have the intelligence to fuck with the Mickster and succeed.”
White: “Davey Goldman was working with them. They crossed him when they tried to clip you two at McNeil.”
Mickey Cohen, livid. “No! Never in six thousand millenniums would Davey do that to me! Never! Sedition in the same league as Communism you are talking!”
Jack said, “We got proof. Davey had your cell bugged. That’s how word on the Englekling brothers and who knows what else got out.”
“Lies! Combine Davey with the others and you still do not have the voltage to fuck with me!”
Exley futzed with the recorder–tape spun. Whirr, whirr, “My God to be so nimble and so hung, like Heifetz on the fiddle with his shlong that dog is, and hung like–”
Cohen hit the roof. “No! No! No man on earth is capable of shtupping me like that!”
Exley pushed buttons. Start–“Lana, what a snatch she must have”–stop, start–a card game, a toilet flushing. Mickey kicked the coffin. “All right! I believe you!”
Jack: “Now you know why Davey wouldn’t let you put him in a rest home.”
Cohen wiped his face with his beanie. “Not even Hitler is capable of such things. Who could be so brainy and so ruthless?”
White said, “Dudley Smith.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ. Him I could believe. No . . . tell me in full view of my late beloved you are joking.”
“An LAPD captain? This is for real, Mick.”
“No, this I don’t believe. Give me proof, give me evidence.”
Exley said, “Mickey, you give us some.”
Cohen sat down on the coffin. “I think I know who tried to clip me and Davey in the pen. Coleman Stein, George Magdaleno and Sal Bonventre. They’re en route to San Quentin, a pickup chain from other jails. When they land, you could talk to them, ask them who put out the bid on me and Davey. I was going to clip them, but I couldn’t get a good rate, such gomfs these jailhouse killers are.”
Exley packed up his tape kit. “Thanks. When the bus gets in, we’ll be there.”
Cohen moaned. White said, “Kieckner left me a memo. Kikey and Lee Vachss are supposed to be meeting at the deli this morning. I say we brace them.”
Exley said, “Let’s do it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Abe’s Noshery: the tables full, Kikey T. at the cash register. White pressed up to the window. “Lee Vachss at a table on the right.” Ed put a hand on his holster–empty–his suicide play. Trashcan opened the door.