Lightning, more rain–Bud ducked into the chapel. Parker’s soiree was set up: lectern, chairs, a table laid out with sandwiches. More lightning–Bud looked out the window, saw the casket hit the dirt. Ashes to fucking ashes–Stens got six months, scuttlebutt had Exicy and Inez a hot item: kill four jigs, get the girl.
The mourners headed up–Ellis Loew slipped, took a pratfall. Bud hit on the good stuff: Lynn, West Valley on the Kathy snuff. Let the bad shit go for now.
Into the chapel: raincoats and umbrellas dumped, a rush for seats. Parker and Exley stood by the lectern. Bud sprawled in a chair at the back.
Reporters, notepads. Front row seats: Loew, the widow Millard, Preston Exley–hot news for Dream-a-Dreamland.
Parker spoke into the mike. “This is a sad occasion, an occasion of mourning. We mourn a kind and good man and a dedicated policeman. We mark his passing with regret. The loss of Captain Russell A. Millard is the loss of Mrs. Millard, the Millard family and all of us here. It will be a hard loss to bear, but bear it we will. There is a passage I recall from somewhere in the annals of literature. That passage is ‘If there was no God, how could I be a Captain?’ It is God who will see us through our grief and our loss. The God who allowed Russ Millard to become a captain, His captain.”
Parker pulled out a small velvet case. “And life continues through our losses. The loss of one splendid policeman coincides with the emergence of another one. Edmund J. Exley, detective sergeant, has amassed a brilliant record in his ten years with the Los Angeles Police Department, three of those years given over to service in the United States Army. Ed Exley received the Distinguished Service Cross for gallantry in the Pacific Theater, and last week he evinced spectacular bravery in the line of duty. It is my honor to present him with the highest measure of honor this police department can bestow: our Medal of Valor.”
Exley stepped forward. Parker opened the case, took out a gold medallion hung from a blue satin ribbon and placed it around his neck. The men shook hands–Exley had tears in his eyes. Flashbulbs popped, reporters scribbled, no applause. Parker tapped the mike.
“The Medal of Valor is a very high expression of esteem, but not one with practical everyday applications. Spiritual ramifications aside, it does not reward the recipient with the challenge of good, hard police work. Today I am going to utilize a rarely used chief’s prerogative and reward Ed Exley with work. I am promoting him two entire ranks, to captain, and assigning him as the Los Angeles Police Department’s floating divisional commander, the assignment formerly held by our much loved colleague Russ Millard.”
Preston Exley stood up. Civilians stood up; the Bureau men stood on cue–Thad Green flashed them two thumbs. Scattered applause, lackluster. Ed Exley stood ramrod straight; Bud stayed sprawled in his chair. He took out his gun, kissed it, blew pretend smoke off the barrel.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
A gala lawn wedding, a Presbyterian service–old man Morrow called the shots and picked up the tab. June 19, 1953: the Big V ties the knot.
Miller Stanton best man; Joanie Loew–swacked on champagne punch–matron of honor. Dudley Smith the hit of the reception–stories, Gaelic songs. Parker and Green came at Ellis Loew’s request; boy captain Ed Exley showed up. The Morrows’ social circle pals rounded out the guest list–and swelled old Welton’s huge backyard to bursting.
Marriage vows for his close-out. Bad debts settled good: new calendar days, his “insurance policy deposition” stashed in fourteen different bank vaults. Scary vows: he pumped himself up at the altar.
Parker buried the Hudgens killing. Bracken and Patchett stalemated. Dudley called off his tail on White, bought his phony reports: no Lynn, White prowling bars at night. He staked Lynn’s place for a couple of days, it looked like she had a good thing going with Bud–who always was a sucker.
Like himself
The minister said the words; they said the words; Jack kissed his bride. Hugs, backsiaps–well wishers swept them away from each other. Parker drummed up some warmth; Ed Exley worked the crowd, no sign of his Mexican girl. Nicknames now: “Shotgun Ed,” “Triggerman Eddie.” “L.A.’s Greatest Hero” smiles on a bagman cop marrying up.