Jack kept typing. Dud’s take hit wrong: Johnny Stomp and Kikey Teitlebaum were pure bent–they could never go pure straight. He fed in a fresh sheet.
A new topic: the February ’50 Cohen/Dragna truce meeting– twenty-five pounds of heroin and a hundred and fifty grand allegedly stolen. Jack heard rumors: an ex-cop named Buzz Meeks heisted the summit, took off and was gunned down near San Bernardino–Cohen goons and rogue L.A. cops killed him, a Mickey contract: Meeks stole the Mick blind and fucked his woman. The horse was supposedly long gone unfound. Dudley’s theory: Meeks buried the money and shit someplace unknown and was later killed by “person or persons unknown”–probably a Cohen gunman. Jack smiled: if LAPD was in on a Meeks hit, Dud would never implicate the Department–even in an interdepartmental report.
Next, Smith’s summary: with Mickey C. gone, mob action was at a lull; the LAPD should stay alert for new faces looking to crash Cohen’s old rackets; prostitution was sticking over the county line–with Sheriff’s Department sanction. Jack signed the last page “Respectfully, Lieutenant D. L. Smith.”
The phone rang. “Narcotics, Vincennes.”
“It’s me. You hungry?”
Jack kiboshed a temper fit–easy–what Hudgens just might have on him. “Sid, you’re late. And the party’s already on.”
“I got better than booze, I got cash.”
“Talk.”
“Talk this: Tammy Reynolds, co-star of _Hope’s Harvest_, opens tomorrow citywide. A guy I know just sold her some reefer, a guaranteed felony pinch. She’s tripping the light fantastic at 2245 Maravilla, Hollywood Hills. You pinch, I do you up feature in the next issue. Because it’s Christmas, I leak my notes to Morty Bendish at the _Mirror_, so you make the dailies, too. Plus fifty cash and your rum. Am I fucking Santa Claus?”
“Pictures?”
“In spades. Wear the blue blazer, it goes with your eyes.”
“A hundred, Sid. I need two patrolmen at twenty apiece and a dime for the watch commander at Hollywood Station. And you set it up.”
“Jack! It’s Christmas!”
“No, it’s felony possession of marijuana.”
“Shit. Half an hour?”
“Twenty-five minutes.”
“I’m there, you fucking extortionist.”
Jack hung up, made an X mark on his calendar. Another day, no booze, no hop–four years, two months running.
o o o
His stage was waiting–Maravilla cordoned off, two bluesuits by Sid Hudgens’ Packard, their black-and-white up on the sidewalk. The street was dark and still; Sid had an ardight set up. They had a view of the Boulevard–Grauman’s Chinese included–great for an establishing shot. Jack parked, walked over.
Sid greeted him with cash. “She’s sitting in the dark, goofing on the Christmas tree. The door looks flimsy.”
Jack drew his .38. “Have the boys put the booze in my trunk. You want Grauman’s in the background?”
“I like it! Jackie, you’re the best in the West!”
Jack scoped him: scarecrow skinny, somewhere between thirty-five and fifty–keeper of inside dirt supreme. He either knew about 10/24/47 or he didn’t; if he did, their arrangement was lifetime stuff. “Sid, when I bring her out the door, I do not want that goddamned baby spot in my eyes. Tell your camera guy that.”
“Consider him told.”
“Good, now count twenty on down.”
Hudgens ticked numbers; Jack walked up and kicked the door in. The arclight snapped on, a living room caught flush: Christmas tree, two kids necking in their undies. Jack shouted “Police!”; the lovebirds froze; light on a fat bag of weed on the couch.
The girl started bawling; the boy reached for his trousers. Jack put a foot on his chest. “The hands, slow.”
The boy pressed his wrists together; Jack cuffed him onehanded. The blues stormed in and gathered up evidence; Jack matched a name to the punk: Rock Rockwell, RKO ingenue. The girl ran; Jack grabbed her. Two suspects by the neck–out the door, down the steps.
Hudgens yelled, “Grauman’s while we’ve still got the light!”
Jack framed them: half-naked pretties in their BVDs. Flashbulbs popped; Hudgens yelled, “Cut! Wrap it!”
The blues took over: Rockwell and the girl hauled bawling to their prowler. Window lights popped on; rubberneckers opened doors. Jack went back to the house.
A maryjane haze–four years later the shit still smelled good. Hudgens was opening drawers, pulling out dildoes, spiked dog collars. Jack found the phone, checked the address book for pushers–goose egg. A calling card fell out: “Fleur-de-Lis. Twenty-four Hours a Day–Whatever You Desire.”