Mal said, “In spades.” He pushed Dudley’s elbow aside and concentrated on Upshaw and his verbal style–wondering if he could run Commie argot as well as he did gangsterese. Vincent Scoppettone coughed again; static hit the speaker, then died out into words. “There ain’t gonna be no war. Jack and Mickey been talkin’ about a truce, maybe going in on a piece of business together.”
Upshaw said, “You feel like talking about that?”
“You think I’m stupid?”
Upshaw laughed. Mal caught the phoniness, that Scoppettone didn’t interest him–that it was just a job. But it was a Class A phony laugh–and the kid knew how to squeeze his own tension into it.
“Vinnie, I already told you I think you’re stupid. You’ve got panic city written all over you, and I think you’re on the outs with Jack bad. Let me guess: you did something to piss Jack off, you got scared, you thought you’d hightail. You needed a stake, you heisted the Sun-Fax. Am I right?”
Scoppettone was sweating heavy now–it was rolling off his face. Upshaw said, “You know what else I think? One heist wouldn’t have done it. I think there’s other jobs we can make you for. I think I’m gonna check robbery reports all over the City and County, maybe Ventura County, maybe Orange and San Diego. I’ll bet if I wire your mugs around I’ll come up with some other eyeball witnesses. Am I right?”
Scoppettone tried laughter–a long string of squeaky ha ha ha’s. Upshaw joined in and mimicked them until his prisoner shut up. Mal snapped: he’s wound tight as a steel spring on something else and shooting it to Vinnie because he’s the one here and he probably doesn’t know he’s doing it.
Squirming his arms, Scoppettone said, “Let’s talk dealsky. I got something sweet.”
“Tell me.”
“Heroin. Heroin very large. That truce I told you about, Jack and Mickey partners. Quality Mex brown, twenty-five pounds. All for niggertown, cut-rate to lowball the independents down there. The God’s truth. If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”
Upshaw aped Vinnie’s tone. “Then you’ve got wings stashed under your mattress, because the Mick and Dragna as partners is horseshit. Sherry’s was six months ago, Cohen lost a man and doesn’t forget stuff like that.”
“That wasn’t Jack, that was LAPD. Shooters out of Hollywood Station, a snuff kitty half the fuckin’ division kicked in for ‘cause of fuckin’ Brenda. Mickey Kike knows Jack didn’t do it.”
Upshaw yawned–broadly. “I’m bored, Vinnie. Niggers geezing heroin and Jack and Mickey as partners is a fucking snore. By the way, you read the papers?”
Scoppettone shook his head, spraying sweat. “What?”
Upshaw pulled a rolled-up newspaper from his hip pocket. “This was in last Tuesday’s Herald. ‘Yesterday evening tragedy occurred at a convivial cocktail lounge in the Silverlake District. A gunman entered the friendly Moonmist Lounge, carrying a large-caliber pistol. He forced the bartender and three patrons to lie on the floor, ransacked the cash register and stole jewelry, wallets and purses belonging to his four victims. The bartender tried to apprehend the robber, and he pistol-whipped him senseless. The bartender died of head injuries this morning at Queen of Angels Hospital. The surviving robbery victims described the assailant as “an Italian-looking white man, late thirties, five-ten, one hundred and ninety pounds.”‘ Vinnie, that’s you.”
Scoppettone shrieked, “That ain’t me!” Mal craned his neck and squinted at the print on Upshaw’s newspaper, glomming a full page on last week’s fight card at the Olympic. He thought: pull out the stops, bluff him down, hit him once, don’t get carried away and you’re my boy–
“That ain’t fucking me!”
Upshaw leaned over the table, hard in Scoppettone’s face. “I don’t fucking care. You’re standing in a lineup tonight, and the three squarejohns from the Moonmist Lounge are gonna look you over. Three white bread types who think all wops are Al Capone. See, I don’t want you for the Sun-Fax, Vinnie, I want you for keeps.”
“I didn’t do it!”
“Prove it!”
“I can’t prove it!”
“Then you’ll take the fucking fall!”
Scoppettone was putting his whole body into his head, the only part of him not lashed down. He shook it; he twisted it; he thrust his chin back and forth like a ram trying to batter a fence. Mal got a flash: the kid had him nailed for a backup heist that night; the whole performance was orchestrated for the newspaper punch line. He elbowed Dudley and said, “Ours”; Dudley gave him the thumbs-up. Vinnie Scoppettone tried to jerk his chair off the floor; Danny Upshaw grabbed a handful of his hair and slapped his face–forehand, backhand, forehand, backhand–until he went limp and blubbered, “Deal. Deal. Deal.”