“You don’t understand. His name is all over our paperwork a thousand goddamn times.”
Claire held Mal’s arms. “Just tell me you’ll try to keep him from being hurt too badly. Tell me yes and I’ll make my calls, and you won’t have to go to trial tomorrow.”
Mal saw himself doctoring transcripts, shuffling names and realigning graphs to point to other Commies, going mano a mano: his editorial skill versus Dudley Smith’s memory. “Do it. Have Loftis here at 8:00 and tell him it’s going to be ugly.”
Claire took her hands away. “It won’t be any worse than your precious grand jury.”
“Don’t go noble on me, because I know who you are.”
“Don’t cheat me, because I’ll use my friends to ruin you.” A deal with a real red devil: the continuance buying him time to un-nail a subversive, nail a killer and nail himself as a hero. And just maybe cross Claire De Haven. “I won’t cheat you.”
“I’ll have to trust you. And can I ask you something? Off the record?”
“What?”
“Your opinion of this grand jury.”
Mal said, “It’s a goddamn waste and a goddamn shame.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Mickey Cohen was pitching a tantrum; Johnny Stompanato was fueling it; Buzz was watching–scared shitless.
They were at the Mick’s hideaway, surrounded by muscle. After the bomb under the house went off, Mickey sent Lavonne back east and moved into the Samo Canyon bungalow, wondering who the fuck wanted him dead. Jack D. called to say it wasn’t him– Mickey believed it. Brenda Allen was still in jail, the City cops had settled into a slow burn and cop bombers played like science fiction. Mickey decided it was the Commies. Some Pinko ordnance expert got word he was fronting the Teamsters, popped his cork and planted the bomb that destroyed thirty-four of his custom suits. It was a Commie plot–it couldn’t be anything else.
Buzz kept watching, waiting by the phone for a call from Mal Considine. Davey Goldman and Mo Jahelka were prowling the grounds; a bunch of goons were oiling the shotguns stashed in the fake panel between the living room and bedroom. Mickey had started squawking half an hour ago, topics ranging from Audrey not giving him any to passive resistance on the picket line and how he was going to fix the UAES’s red wagon. Comedy time until Johnny Stomp showed up and started talking his conspiracy.
The guinea Adonis brought bad news: when Petey Skouras blew to Frisco he took a week’s worth of receipts with him– Audrey told him when he picked up the Southside front’s cash take. Buzz horned in on the conversation, thinking the lioness couldn’t be stupid enough to try to play Petey’s splitsville for a profit–Petey himself had to have done it–his bonus atop the thousand-dollar beating. Johnny’s news got worse: he took a baseball bat to a guy on the welcher list, who told him Petey was no skimmer, Petey would never protect a girlfriend’s brother because Petey liked boys–young darky stuff–a habit he picked up in a U.S. army stockade in Alabama. Mickey went around the twist then, spraying spit like a rabid dog, spitting obscenities in Yiddish, making his Jew strongarms squirm. Johnny had to know that his story contradicted Buzz’s story; the fact that he wouldn’t give him an even eyeball clinched it. When Mickey stopped ranting and started thinking, he’d snap to that, too–then he’d start asking questions and it would be another convoluted epic to explain the lie, something along the lines of Skouras protecting his boyfriend’s brother, how he didn’t want poor Greek Petey smeared as taking it Greek. Mickey would believe him– probably.
Buzz got out his notepad and wrote a memo to Mal and Ellis Loew–abbreviated skinny from three triggermen moonlighting as picket goons. Their consensus: UAES still biding its time, the Teamster rank and file on fire to whomp some ass, the only new wrinkle a suspicious-looking van parked on Gower, a man with a movie camera in the back. The man, a studious bird with Trotsky glasses, was seen talking to Norm Kostenz, the UAES picket boss. Conclusion: UAES wanted the Teamsters to rumble, so they could capture the ass-whomping on film.