He felt like a fighter ready to dive. The Christmas geeks kept staring; the punk he’d thumped had on a nose splint–probably a phony some Jew lawyer told him to wear. The grand jury room door stood ajar; Jack walked over, looked in.
Six jurors at a table facing the witness stand; Ellis Loew hurling questions–Ed Exley in the box.
He didn’t play with his glasses; he didn’t hem and haw. His voice went an octave lower than normal–and stayed even. Skinny, not a cop type, he still had authority–and his timing was perfect. Loew pitched perfect outside sliders; Exley knew they were coming, but acted surprised. Whoever coached him did a fucking-A bang-up job.
Jack picked out details, sensed Exley reaching, a war hero-not a weak sister in a cellblock full of rowdies. Loew glossed over that; Exley’s answers hit smart: he was outnumbered, his keys were snatched, he was locked in a storeroom–and that was that. He was a man who knew who he was, knew the futility of cheap heroics.
Exley spieled: rat-offs on Brownell, Hufl Doherty. He called Dick Stensland the worst of the worst, didn’t blink snitching Bud White. Jack smiled when it hit him: everything is skewed toward our side. Krugman, Pratt, Tucker, pension safe–were set up– for his testimony. Stensland and White–heading for indictment city. What a fucking performance.
Loew called for a summation. Exley obliged: pap about justice. Loew excused him; the jurors almost swooned. Exley left the box limping–he’d probably jammed his legs asleep.
Jack met him outside. “You were good. Parker would’ve loved it.” Exley stretched his legs. “You think he’ll read the transcript?” “He’ll have it inside ten minutes, and Bud White’ll fuck you for this if it takes the rest of his life. He was called in to Thad Green after the show-up, and you can bet Green suspended him. You had better pray he cops a deal and stays on the Department, because that is one civilian you do not want on your case.”
“Is that why you didn’t tell Loew he brought most of the liquor?”
A clerk called, “John Vincennes, five minutes.”
Jack got up some nerve. “I’m snitching three old-timers who’ll be fishing in Oregon next week. Next to you, I’m clean. And smart.”
“We’re both doing the right thing. Only you hate yourself for it, and that’s not smart.”
Jack saw Ellis Loew and Karen down the hall. Loew walked up. “I told Joan you were testifying today, and she told Karen. I’m sorry, and I told Joan in confidence. _Jack, I’m sorry_. I told Karen she couldn’t watch in chambers, that she’ll have to listen over the speaker in my office. _Jack, I’m sorry_.”
“Jewboy, you sure know how to guarantee a witness.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bud nursed a highball.
Jukebox noise pounded him; he had the worst seat in the bar–a sofa back by the pay phones. His old football wounds throbbed–like his hard-on for Exley. No badge, no gun, indictments shooting his way–the fortyish redhead looked like the best thing he’d ever seen. He carried his drink over.
She smiled at him. The red looked fake–but she had a kind face. Bud smiled. “That an old-fashioned you’re drinking?”
“Yes, and my name’s Angela.”
“My name’s Bud.”
“Nobody was born with the name ‘Bud.”‘
“They stick you with a name like ‘Wendell,’ you look for an alias.”
Angela laughed. “What do you do, _Bud?_”
“I’m sorta between jobs right now.”
“Oh? Well, what _did_ you do?”
SUSPENDED! YOU DUMB FUCK LOOKING. A GIFT HORSE IN THE MOUTH! “I wouldn’t play ball with my boss. Angela, what do you say–”
“You mean like a union dispute or something? I’m in the United Federation of Teachers, and my ex-husband was a shop steward with the Teamsters. Is that what you–”
Bud felt a hand on his shoulder. “Lad, might I have a word with you?”
Dudley Smith. CALL IT I.A. RUNNING TAILS.
“This business, Lieutenant?”
“It is indeed. Say good night to your new friend and join me by those back tables. I’ve told the bartender to turn the music down so we can talk.”
A jump tune went soft; Smith walked off. A sailor had his hooks into Angela. Bud eased over to the lounges.