got it coming. But you can't bite the hand that feeds you, not when half the people in the Industry blow tea from time to time. Stick with the shvartzes-- those jazz guys make good copy.'
Jack eyeballed the set. Brett Chase in a hobnob: Billy Dieterling, Timmy Valburn--a regular fruit convention. Kikey T. and Johnny Stomp shmoozing--Deuce Perkins, Lee Vachss joining in. Pelts said, 'Seriously, Jack. Play the game.'
Jack pointed to the hard boys. 'Max, the game is my life. You see those guys over there?'
'Sure. What's that--'
'Max, that's what the Department calls a known criminal assembly. Perkins is an ex-con wheelman who fucks dogs, and Abe Teitlebaum's on parole. The tall guy with the mustache is Lee Vachss, and he's made for at least a dozen snuffs for Mickey C. The good-looking wop is Johnny Stompanato. I doubt if he's thirty years old, and he's got a racket sheet as long as your arm. I am empowered by the Los Angeles Police Department to roust those cocksuckers on general suspicion, and I'm derelict in my duty for not doing it. Because I'm _playing the game_.'
Pelts waved a cigar. 'So keep playing it--but pianissimo on the tough-guy stuff. And look, Miller's bird- dogging your quail. Jesus, you like them young.'
Rumors: Max and high school trim. 'Not as young as you.'
'Ha! Go, you fucking gonif. Your girl's looking for you.'
Karen by a wall poster: Brett Chase as Lieutenant Vance Vincent. Jack walked over; Karen's eyes lit up. 'God, this is so wonderful! Tell me who everyone is!'
Full-blast music--Cooley yodeling, Deuce Perkins banging his bass. Jack danced Karen across the floor--over to a corner crammed with arclights. A perfect spot--quiet, a scope on the whole gang.
Jack pointed out the players. 'Brett Chase you already know about. He's not dancing because he's queer. The old guy with the cigar is Max Pelts. He's the producer, and he directs most of the episodes. You danced with Miller, so you know him. The two guys in skivvies are Augie Luger and Hank Kraft--they're grips. The girl with the clipboard is Penny Fulweider, she couldn't quit working even if she wanted to--she's the script supervisor. You know how the sets on the show are so modernistic? Well, the blond guy across from the bandstand is David Mertens, the set designer. Sometimes you'd think he was drunk, but he's not-- he's got some rare kind of epilepsy, and he takes medicine for it. I heard he was in an accident and hit his head, that that started it. He's got these scars on his neck, so maybe that's it. Next to him there's Phil Shenkel, the assistant director, and the guy next to him is Jerry Marsalas, the male nurse who looks after Mertens. Terry Riegert, the actor who plays Captain Jeffries, is dancing with that tall redhead. The guys by the water cooler are Billy Dieterling, Chuck Maxwell and Dick Harwell, the camera crew, and the rest of the people are dates.'
Karen looked straight at him. 'It's your milieu, and you love it. And you care about those people.'
'I like them--and Miller's a good friend.'
'Jack, you can't fool me.'
'Karen, this is Hollywood. And ninety percent of Hollywood is moonshine.'
'Spoilsport. I'm gearing myself up to be reckless, so don't put a damper on it.'
Daring him.
Jack tumbled; Karen leaned into the kiss. They probed, tasted, pulled back the same instant--Jack broke off the clinch dizzy.
Karen let her hands linger. 'The neighbors are still on vacation. We could go feed the cats.'
'Yeah . . . sure.'
'Will you get me a brandy before we go?'
Jack walked to the food table. Deuce Perkins said, 'Nice stuff, Vincennes. You got the same taste as me.'
A skinny cracker in a black cowboy shirt with pink piping. Boots put him close to six-six; his hands were enormous. 'Perkins, your stuff sniffs fire hydrants.'
'Spade might not like you talkin' to me that way. Not with that envelope you got in your pocket.'
Lee Vachss, Abe Teitlebaum watching them. 'Not another word, Perkins.'
Deuce chewed a toothpick. 'Your quiff know you get your jollies shakin' down niggers?'
Jack pointed to the wall. 'Roll up your sleeves, spread your legs.'
Perkins spat out his toothpick. 'You ain't that crazy.'
Johnny Stomp, Vachss, Teitlebaum--all in earshot. Jack said, 'Kiss the wall, shitbird.'
Perkins leaned over the table, palms on the wall. Jack pulled up his sleeves--fresh tracks--emptied his pockets. Paydirt--a hypo syringe. A crowd forming up--Jack played to it. 'Needle marks and that outfit are good for three years State. Hand up the guy who sold you the hypo and you skate.'
Deuce oozed sweat. Jack said, 'Squeal in front of your friends and you stroll.'
Perkins licked his lips. 'Barney Stinson. Orderly at Queen of Angels.'
Jack kicked his legs out from under him.
Perkins landed face first in the cold cuts; the table crashed to the floor.
The room let out one big breath.
Jack walked outside, groups breaking up to let him through. Karen by the car, shivering. 'Did you have to do that?'
He'd sweated his shirt clean through. 'Yeah, I did.'
'I wish I hadn't seen it.'
'So do I.'
'I guess reading about things like that are one thing and seeing them is another. Would you try to--'
Jack put his arms around her. 'I'll keep that stuff separate from you.'
'But you'll still tell me your stories?'
'No . . . yeah, sure.'
'I wish we could turn back the clock on tonight.'
'So do I. Look, do you want some dinner?'
'No. Do you still want to go see the cats?'
o o o
There were three cats--friendly guys who tried to take over the bed while they made love. Karen called the gray one Pavement, the tabby Tiger, the skinny one Ellis Loew. Jack resigned himself to the entourage--they made Karen giggle, he figured every laugh put Deuce Perkins further behind them. They made love, talked, played with the cats; Karen tried a cigarette--and coughed her lungs out. She begged for stories; Jack borrowed from the exploits of Officer Wendell White and spun gentler versions of his own cases: minimum strongarm, lots of sugar daddy--the bighearted Big V, protecting kids from the scourge of dope. At first the lies were hard--but Karen's warmth made them easier and easier. Near dawn, the girl dozed off; he stayed wide awake, the cats driving him crazy. He kept wishing she'd wake up so he could tell her more stories; he got little jolts of worry: that he'd never remember all the phony parts, she'd catch him in whoppers, it would blow their deal sky high. Karen's body grew warmer as she slept; Jack pressed closer to her. He fell asleep getting his stories straight.
CHAPTER TEN
A corridor forty feet long, both sides lined with benches: scuffed, dusty, just hauled up from some storage hole. Packed: men in plainclothes and uniform, most of them reading--newspapers screaming _Bloody Christmas_. Bud thought of him and Stens front page smeared: nailed by the spics and their lawyers. He'd gotten his call to appear at 4:00 A.M., pure I.A. scare tactics. Dick across the hall--back from the dry-out farm, into the jug. Six Internal Affairs interviews apiece--neither of them had snitched. A regular Christmas reunion, the gang's all here-- except Ed Exley.
Time dragged, traffic flowed: interrogation room grillings. Elmer Lentz dropped a bomb: the radio said the grand jury requested a presentation--all the officers at Central Station 12/25/5 1 were to stand a show-up tomorrow, prisoners would be there to ID the roughnecks. Chief Parker's door opened; Thad Green stepped outside. 'Officer White, please.'
Bud walked over; Green pointed him in. A small room: Parker's desk, chairs facing it. No wall mementoes, a gray-tinted mirrors--maybe a two-way. The chief behind his desk, in uniform, four gold stars on his shoulders. Dudley Smith in the middle chair; Green back in the chair nearest Parker. Bud took the hot seat--a spot where all three men could see him. Parker said, 'Officer, you know Deputy Chief Green, and I'm sure you know of Lieutenant
