Meeks smiled: friendly guy, no harm meant. A finger on the trigger; a make on the skinny guy: Mal Lunceford, a Hollywood Station harness bull–he used to ogle the carhops at Scrivener’s Drive-in, puff out his chest to show off his pistol medals. The fat man, closer, said, “We got that airplane waiting.”
Meeks swung the shotgun around, triggered a spread. Fat Man caught buckshot and flew, covering Lunceford–knocking him backward. The wetbacks tore helter-skelter; Meeks ran into the room, heard the back window breaking, yanked the mattress. Sitting ducks: two men, three triple-aught rounds close in.
The two blew up; glass and blood covered three more men inching along the wall. Meeks leaped, hit the ground, fired at three sets of legs pressed together; his free hand flailed, caught a revolver off a dead man’s waistband.
Shrieks from the courtyard; running feet on gravel. Meeks dropped the shotgun, stumbled to the wall. Over to the men, tasting blood–point-blank head shots.
Thumps in the room; two rifles in grabbing range. Meeks yelled, “We got him!,” heard answering whoops, saw arms and legs coming out the window. He picked up the closest piece and let fly, full automatic: trapped targets, plaster chips exploding, dry wood igniting.
Over the bodies, into the room. The front door stood open; his pistols were still on the ledge. A strange thump sounded; Meeks saw a man spread prone–aiming from behind the mattress box.
He threw himself to the floor, kicked, missed. The man got off a shot-close; Meeks grabbed his switchblade, leaped, stabbed: the neck, the face, the man screaming, shooting–wide ricochets. Meeks slit his throat, crawled over and toed the door shut, grabbed the pistols and just plain breathed.
The fire spreading: cooking up bodies, fir pines; the front door his only way out. _How many more men standing trigger?_
Shots.
From the courtyard: heavy rounds knocking out wall chunks. Meeks caught one in the leg; a shot grazed his back. He hit the floor, the shots kept coming, the door went down–he was smack in the crossfire.
No more shots.
Meeks tucked his guns under his chest, spread himself deadman style. Seconds dragged; four men walked in holding rifles. Whispers: “Dead meat”–“Let’s be reeel careful”–“Crazy Okie fuck.” Through the doorway, Mal Lunceford not one of them, footsteps.
Kicks in his side, hard breathing, sneers. A foot went under him. A voice said, “Fat fucker.”
Meeks jerked the foot; the foot man tripped backward. Meeks spun around shooting–close range, all hits. Four men went down; Meeks got a topsy-turvy view: the courtyard, Ma! Lunceford turning tail. Then, behind him, “Hello, lad.”
Dudley Smith stepped through flames, dressed in a fire department greatcoat. Meeks saw his suitcase–ninety-four grand, dope–over by the mattress. “Dud, you came prepared.”
“Like the Boy Scouts, lad. And have you a valediction?”
Suicide: heisting a deal Dudley S. watchdogged. Meeks raised his guns; Smith shot first. Meeks died–thinking the El Serrano Motel looked just like the Alamo.
PART ONE
Bloody Christmas
CHAPTER ONE
Bud White in an unmarked, watching the “1951” on the City Hall Christmas tree blink. The back seat was packed with liquor for the station party; he’d scrounged merchants all day, avoiding Parker’s dictate: married men had the 24th and Christmas off, all duty rosters were bachelors only, the Central detective squad was detached to round up vagrants: the chief wanted local stumblebums chilled so they wouldn’t crash Mayor Bowron’s lawn party for underprivileged kids and snarf up all the cookies. Last Christmas, some crazy nigger whipped out his wang, pissed in a pitcher of lemonade earmarked for some orphanage brats and ordered Mrs. Bowron to “Strap on, bitch.” William H. Parker’s first yuletide as chief of the Los Angeles Police Department was spent transporting the mayor’s wife to Central Receiving for sedation, and now, a year later, _he_ was paying the price.
The back seat, booze-packed, had his spine jammed to Jell-O. Ed Exley, the assistant watch commander, was a straight arrow who might get uppity over a hundred cops juicing in the muster room. And Johnny Stompanato was twenty minutes late.
Bud turned on his two-way. A hum settled: shopliftings, a liquor store heist in Chinatown. The passenger door opened; Johnny Stompanato slid in.