Karen looked straight at him. “It’s your milieu, and you love it. And you care about those people.”
“I like them–and Miller’s a good friend.”
“Jack, you can’t fool me.”
“Karen, this is Hollywood. And ninety percent of Hollywood is moonshine.”
“Spoilsport. I’m gearing myself up to be reckless, so don’t put a damper on it.”
Daring him.
Jack tumbled; Karen leaned into the kiss. They probed, tasted, pulled back the same instant–Jack broke off the clinch dizzy.
Karen let her hands linger. “The neighbors are still on vacation. We could go feed the cats.”
“Yeah . . . sure.”
“Will you get me a brandy before we go?”
Jack walked to the food table. Deuce Perkins said, “Nice stuff, Vincennes. You got the same taste as me.”
A skinny cracker in a black cowboy shirt with pink piping. Boots put him close to six-six; his hands were enormous. “Perkins, your stuff sniffs fire hydrants.”
“Spade might not like you talkin’ to me that way. Not with that envelope you got in your pocket.”
Lee Vachss, Abe Teitlebaum watching them. “Not another word, Perkins.”
Deuce chewed a toothpick. “Your quiff know you get your jollies shakin’ down niggers?”
Jack pointed to the wall. “Roll up your sleeves, spread your legs.”
Perkins spat out his toothpick. “You ain’t that crazy.”
Johnny Stomp, Vachss, Teitlebaum–all in earshot. Jack said, “Kiss the wall, shitbird.”
Perkins leaned over the table, palms on the wall. Jack pulled up his sleeves–fresh tracks–emptied his pockets. Paydirt–a hypo syringe. A crowd forming up–Jack played to it. “Needle marks and that outfit are good for three years State. Hand up the guy who sold you the hypo and you skate.”
Deuce oozed sweat. Jack said, “Squeal in front of your friends and you stroll.”
Perkins licked his lips. “Barney Stinson. Orderly at Queen of Angels.”
Jack kicked his legs out from under him.
Perkins landed face first in the cold cuts; the table crashed to the floor.
The room let out one big breath.
Jack walked outside, groups breaking up to let him through. Karen by the car, shivering. “Did you have to do that?”
He’d sweated his shirt clean through. “Yeah, I did.”
“I wish I hadn’t seen it.”
“So do I.”
“I guess reading about things like that are one thing and seeing them is another. Would you try to–”
Jack put his arms around her. “I’ll keep that stuff separate from you.”
“But you’ll still tell me your stories?”
“No . . . yeah, sure.”
“I wish we could turn back the clock on tonight.”
“So do I. Look, do you want some dinner?”
“No. Do you still want to go see the cats?”
o o o
There were three cats–friendly guys who tried to take over the bed while they made love. Karen called the gray one Pavement, the tabby Tiger, the skinny one Ellis Loew. Jack resigned himself to the entourage–they made Karen giggle, he figured every laugh put Deuce Perkins further behind them. They made love, talked, played with the cats; Karen tried a cigarette–and coughed her lungs out. She begged for stories; Jack borrowed from the exploits of Officer Wendell White and spun gentler versions of his own cases: minimum strongarm, lots of sugar daddy–the bighearted Big V, protecting kids from the scourge of dope. At first the lies were hard–but Karen’s warmth made them easier and easier. Near dawn, the girl dozed off; he stayed wide awake, the cats driving him crazy. He kept wishing she’d wake up so he could tell her more stories; he got little jolts of worry: that he’d never remember all the phony parts, she’d catch him in whoppers, it would blow their deal sky high. Karen’s body grew warmer as she slept; Jack pressed closer to her. He fell asleep getting his stories straight.
CHAPTER TEN
A corridor forty feet long, both sides lined with benches: scuffed, dusty, just hauled up from some storage hole. Packed: men in plainclothes and uniform, most of them reading–newspapers screaming _Bloody Christmas_. Bud thought of him and Stens front page smeared: nailed by the spics and their lawyers. He’d gotten his call to appear at 4:00 A.M., pure I.A. scare tactics. Dick across the hall–back from the dry-out farm, into the jug. Six Internal Affairs interviews apiece–neither of them had snitched. A regular Christmas reunion, the gang’s all here–except Ed Exley.