round up vagrants: the chief wanted local stumblebums chilled so they wouldn't crash Mayor Bowron's lawn party for underprivileged kids and snarf up all the cookies. Last Christmas, some crazy nigger whipped out his wang, pissed in a pitcher of lemonade earmarked for some orphanage brats and ordered Mrs. Bowron to 'Strap on, bitch.' William H. Parker's first yuletide as chief of the Los Angeles Police Department was spent transporting the mayor's wife to Central Receiving for sedation, and now, a year later, _he_ was paying the price.
The back seat, booze-packed, had his spine jammed to Jell-O. Ed Exley, the assistant watch commander, was a straight arrow who might get uppity over a hundred cops juicing in the muster room. And Johnny Stompanato was twenty minutes late.
Bud turned on his two-way. A hum settled: shopliftings, a liquor store heist in Chinatown. The passenger door opened; Johnny Stompanato slid in.
Bud turned on the dash light. Stompanato said, 'Holiday cheers. And where's Stensland? I've got stuff for both of you.'
Bud sized him up. Mickey Cohen's bodyguard was a month out of work--Mickey went up on a tax beef, Fed time, three to seven at McNeil Island. Johnny Stomp was back to home manicures and pressing his own pants. 'It's _Sergeant_ Stensland. He's rousting vags and the payoff's the same anyway.'
'Too bad. I like Dick's style. You know that, _Wendell_.'
Cute Johnny: guinea handsome, curls in a tight pompadour. Bud heard he was hung like a horse and padded his basket on top of it. 'Spill what you got.'
'Dick's better at the amenities than you, _Officer White_.'
'You got a hard-on for me, or you just want small talk?'
'I've got a hard-on for Lana Turner, you've got a hard-on for wife beaters. I also heard you're a real sweetheart with the ladies and you're not too selective as far as looks are concerned.'
Bud cracked his knuckles. 'And you fuck people up for a living, and all the money Mickey gives to charity won't make him no better than a dope pusher and a pimp. So my fucking complaints for hardnosing wife beaters don't make me you. _Capisce_, shitbird?'
Stompanato smiled--nervous; Bud looked out the window. A Salvation Army Santa palmed coins from his kettle, an eye on the liquor store across the street. Stomp said, 'Look, you want information and I need money. Mickey and Davey Goldman are doing time, and Mo Jahelka's looking after things while they're gone. Mo's diving for scraps, and he's got no work for me. Jack Whalen wouldn't hire me on a bet and there was no goddamn envelope from Mickey.'
'No envelope? Mickey went up flush. I heard he got back the junk that got clouted off his deal with Jack D.'
Stompanato shook his head. 'You heard wrong. Mickey got the heister, but that junk is nowhere and the guy got away with a hundred and fifty grand of Mickey's money. So, Officer White, _I_ need money. And if your snitch fund's still green, I'll get you some fucking-A collars.'
'Go legit, Johnny. Be a white man like me and Dick Stensland.'
Stomp snickered--it came off weak. 'A key thief for twenty or a shoplifter who beats his wife for thirty. Go for the quick thrill, I saw the guy boosting Ohrbach's on the way over.'
Bud took out a twenty and a ten; Stompanato grabbed them. 'Ralphie Kinnard. He's blond and fat, about forty. He's wearing a suede loafer jacket and gray flannels. I heard he's been beating up his wife and pimping her to cover his poker losses.'
Bud wrote it down. Stompanato said, 'Yuletide cheer, Wendell.'
Bud grabbed necktie and yanked; Stomp banged his head on the dashboard.
'Happy New Year, greaseball.'
o o o
Ohrbach's was packed--shoppers swarmed counters and garment racks. Bud elbowed up to floor 3, prime shoplifter turf: jewelry, decanter liquor.
Countertops strewn with watches; cash register lines thirty deep. Bud trawled for blond males, got sideswiped by housewives and kids. Then--a flash view--a blond guy in a suede loafer ducking into the men's room.
Bud shoved over and in. Two geezers stood at urinals; gray flannels hit the toilet stall floor. Bud squatted, looked in--bingo on hands fondling jewelry. The oldsters zipped up and walked out; Bud rapped on the stall. 'Come on, it's St. Nick.'
The door flew open; a fist flew out. Bud caught it flush, hit a sink, tripped. Cufflinks in his face, Kinnard speedballing. Bud got up and chased.
Through the door, shoppers blocking him; Kinnard ducking out a side exit. Bud chased--over, down the fire escape. The lot was clean: no cars hauling, no Raiphie. Bud ran to his prowler, hit the two-way. '4A31 to dispatcher, requesting.'
Static, then: 'Roger, 4A31.'
'Last known address. White male, first name Ralph, last name Kinnard. I guess that's K-I-N-N-A-R-D. Move it, huh?'
The man rogered; Bud threw jabs: bam-bam-bam-bam-bam. The radio crackled: '4A3 1, roger your request.'
'4A31, roger.'
'Positive on Kinnard, Ralph Thomas, white male, DOB--'
'Just the goddamn address, I told you--'
The dispatcher blew a raspberry. 'For your Christmas stocking, shitbird. The address is 1486 Evergreen, and I hope you--'
Bud flipped off the box, headed east to City Terrace. Up to forty, hard on the horn, Evergreen in five minutes flat. The 12, 1300 blocks whizzed by; 1400--vet's prefabs--leaped out.
He parked, followed curb plates to 1486--a stucco job with a neon Santa sled on the roof. Lights inside; a prewar Ford in the driveway. Through a plate-glass window: Ralphie Kinnard browbeating a woman in a bathrobe.
The woman was puff-faced, thirty-fivish. She backed away from Kinnard; her robe fell open. Her breasts were bruised, her ribs lacerated.
Bud walked back for his cuffs, saw the two-way light blinking and rogered. '4A31 responding.'
'Roger, 4A31, on an APO. Two patrolmen assaulted outside a tavern at 1990 Riverside, six suspects at large. They've been ID'd from their license plates and other units have been alerted.'
Bud got tingles. 'Bad for ours?'
'That's a roger. Go to 5314 Avenue 53, Lincoln Heights. Apprehend Dinardo, D-I-N-A-R-D-O, Sanchez, age twentyone, male Mexican.'
'Roger, and you send a prowler to 1486 Evergreen. White male suspect in custody. I won't be there, but they'll see him. Tell them I'll write it up.'
'Book at Hollenbeck Station?'
Bud rogered, grabbed his cuffs. Back to the house and an outside circuit box--switches tapped until the lights popped off. Santa's sled stayed lit; Bud grabbed an outlet cord and yanked. The display hit the ground: exploding reindeer.
Kinnard ran out, tripped over Rudolph. Bud cuffed his wrists, bounced his face oh the pavement. Ralphie yelped and chewed gravel; Bud launched his wife beater spiel. 'You'll be out in a year and a half, and I'll know when. I'll find out who your parole officer is and get cozy with him, I'll visit you and say hi. You touch her again I'm gonna know, and I'm gonna get you violated on a kiddie raper beef. You know what they do to kiddie rapers up at Quentin? Huh? The Pope a fuckin' guinea?'
Lights went on--Kinnard's wife was futzing with the fuse box. She said, 'Can I go to my mother's?'
Bud emptied Ralphie's pockets--keys, a cash roll. 'Take the car and get yourself fixed up.'
Kinnard spat teeth. Mrs. Ralphie grabbed the keys and peeled a ten-spot. Bud said, 'Merry Christmas, huh?'
Mrs. Ralphie blew a kiss and backed the car out, wheels over blinking reindeer.
o o o
Avenue 53--Code 2 no siren. A black-and-white just beat him; two blues and Dick Stensland got out and
