Chimes. Kikey glanced over, reached under the register. Ed saw Vachss make heat, make like he was smoothing his trousers. Metal flashing waist-high.
People ate, talked. Waitresses circulated. Trash walked toward the register; White eyeballed Vachss. Metal flashed: under the table coming up.
Ed pulled White to the floor.
Kikey and Vincennes drew down.
Crossfire–six shots–the window went out, Kikey hit a stack of canned goods. Screams, panic runs, blind shots–Vachss firing wild toward the door. An old man went down coughing blood; White stood up shooting, a moving target–Vachss weaving back toward the kitchen. A spare on White’s waistband–Ed stumbled up, grabbed it.
Two triggers on Vachss. Ed fired–Vachss spun around grabbing his shoulder. White fired wide; Vachss tripped, crawled, stood up–his gun to a waitress’ head.
White walked toward him. Vincennes circled left; Ed circled right. Vachss blew the woman’s brains out point-blank.
White fired. Vincennes fired. Ed fired. No hits–the woman’s body toOk their shots. Vachss inched backward. White ran up; Vachss wiped brains off his face. White emptied his gun–all head shots.
Screams, a stampede to the door, a man bucking glass shards out the window. Ed ran to the counter, bolted it.
Kikey on the floor, blood gouting from chest wounds. Ed got right up in his face. “Give me Dudley. Give me Dudley for the Nite Owl.”
Sirens loud. Ed cupped an ear, bent down.
“Grand. Begorra, lad.”
Down closer. “Who took out the Nite Owl?”
Blood gurgles. “Me. Lee. Johnny Stomp. Deuce drove.”
“_Abe, give me Dudley_.”
“Grand, lad.”
Sirens brutal loud. Shouts, footsteps. “The Nite Owl. _Why?_”
Kikey coughed blood. “Dope. Picture books. Cathcart had go. Lunceford on posse what got dope and hung out Nite Owl. F.I.’s on Stomp so Deucey stole. Man said scare Patchett. Two birds one stone Duke and Mal. Mal wanted money ’cause he knew man on posse.”
“Give me Dudley. Say Dudley Smith was your partner.”
Vincennes squatted down. The restaurant boomed: millions of voices. Blood on the counter–Ed thought of David Mertens. A flash–the Dieterling studio school–a mile from Billy D.’s house. “Abe, he can’t hurt you now.”
Kikey started choking.
“Abe–”
“Can too hurt can too.”
Fading–Trash slammed his chest. “You fuck, give us something!”
Kikey mumbled, pulled a gold star off his neck. “Mitzvah. Johnny wants jail guys out. Q train. Dot got guns.”
Vincennes, looking crazed. “It’s a train, not a bus. It’s a crash-out. Davey G. knew about it, he was rambling. Exley, the cute train, the _Q train_. Cohen said the guys from the jail bid are on it.”
Ed grabbed at it, caught it. “YOU CALL.”
Trash ran out. Ed stood up, breathed chaos: cops, shattered glass, an ambulance backed through the window loading bodies. Bud White shouting orders, a little girl in a blood-spattered dress eating a doughnut.
Trash came back–more crazed. “The train left L.A. ten minutes ago. Thirty-two inmates in one car, and the phone on board’s out. I called Kleckner and told him to find Dot Rothstein. This was a set-up, Captain. Kleckner never left White that memo-this had to be Dudley.”
Ed shut his eyes.
“Exley–”
“All right, you and White go to the train. I’ll call the Sheriff’s and Highway Patrol and have them set up a diversion.”
White walked over, winked at Ed. He said, “Thanks for the push,” stepped on Kikey T.’s face until he quit breathing.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
A motorcycle escort met them, shot them out the Pomona Freeway. Half the stretch elevated: you could see the California Central tracks, a single train running north–a freight carrier, inmate cargo in the third car–barred windows, steel-reinforced doors. Surface streets outside Fontana– up to hills abutting the tracks–and a small standing army.
Nine prowl cars, sixteen men with gas masks and riot pumps. Sharpshooters in the hills, two machinegunners, three guys with smoke grenades. At the edge of the curve: a big buck deer on the tracks.
A deputy handed them shotguns, gas masks. “Your pal Kleckner called the command post, said that Rothstein woman was DOA at her apartment. She either hanged herself or somebody hanged her. Either way, we gotta assume she got the guns on. There’s four guards and six crewmen on board that train. We stand ready with smoke and call for the password–every prison chain’s got one. We hear the okay, we call a warning and wait. No okay, we go in.”