U-turn, check the rearview, shit—a gray Plymouth cut off.

IAD or Narco? Goons keeping tabs?

Side streets-dawdling evasive—Lester’s set closed at 8:00 sharp. Lester Lake: tenant, informant. Snitch duty cheap-he owed me.

Fall ‘52:

A call from Harry Cohn, movie kingpin. My “Enforcer” tag intrigued him; he figured “Klein” made me a Jewboy. A shvartze crooner was banging his girlfriend-clip him for ten grand.

I said no.

Mickey Cohen said no.

Cohn called Jack Dragna.

I knew I’d get the job—no refusal rights. Mickey: a taste for light poon don’t rate death—but Jack insists.

I called Jack: this is petty shit, don’t set a standard. Muscle Lester Lake—don’t kill him.

Jack said you muscle him.

Jack said take the Vecchio brothers.

Jack said take the nigger someplace, cut his vocal cords—

Gulp—one split second—

“Or I’ll nail you for Trombino and Brancato. I’ll drag your whore sister’s name through the mud.”

I grabbed Lester Lake at his crib: get cut or get killed—you call it. Lester said, cut, fast, please. The Vecchios showed—Touch packed a scalpel. A few drinks to loosen things up-knockout drops for Lester.

Anesthesia—Lester moaned for Mama. I hustled a disbarred doctor over—surgery in exchange for no abortion charge. Lester healed up; Harry Cohn found a new girlfriend: Kim Novak.

Lester’s voice went baritone to tenor—he chased jig poon strictly now. Touch brought boyfriends to hear him.

Lester said he owed me. Our deal: a flop at my shine-only dive—reduced rent for good information. Success: he talked spook to the spooks and snitched bookies.

The club—a tiger-striped facade, a tiger-tux doorman. Inside: tiger-fur walls, tiger-garb drink girls. Lester Lake on stage, belting “Blue Moon.”

I grabbed a booth, grabbed a tigress—”Dave Klein to see Lester.” She zipped backstage-slot machines clanged out the doorway. Lester: mockhumble bows, bum applause.

House lights on, dig it: jungle bunnies sprawled in tiger-fur booths. Lester right there, holding a plate.

Chicken and waffles—popping grease. “Hello, Mr. Klein. I was gonna call you.”

“You’re short on the rent.”

He sat down. “Yeah, and you slumlords cut a man no slack. Could be worse, though. You could be a Jew slumlord.”

Eyes our way. “I always meet you in public. What do people figure we’re doing?”

“Nobody never asks, but I figure they figure you still collect bets for Jack Woods. I’m a betting man, so I’d say that’s it. And speaking of Jack, he was collecting your rents this afternoon, which made me want to call you before he leaned on me like he leaned on that poor sucker down the hall.”

“Help me out and I’ll let you slide.”

“You mean you asks, I answers.”

“No. First you get rid of that slop, then I ask and you answer.”

A tiger girl passed—Lester dumped his plate and swiped a shot glass. A gulp, a belch: “So ask.”

“Let’s start with burglars.”

“Okay, Leroy Coates, out on parole and spending money. Wayne Layne, boss pad creeper, pimping his wife to make the nut on his habit. Alfonzo Tyrell—”

“My guy’s white.”

“Yeah, but I keep to the dark side of town. Last time I heard of a white burglar was never.”

“Fair enough, but I’d call this guy a psycho. He cut up two Dobermans, stole nothing but silverware, then trashed some family-type belongings. Run with it.”

“Run with it nowheres. I know nothing ‘bout a crazy man like that, ‘cept you don’t have to be Einstein to figure he’s bent on that family. Wayne Layne shits in washing machines, and he’s as crazy a B&E man as I care to be acquainted with.”

“Okay, peepers then.”

“Say what?”

“Peeping Toms. Guys who get their kicks looking in windows. I’ve got peeper reports nailed at my burglary location and all over the Southside—hot-sheet motels and jazz clubs.”

“I’ll ask around, but you sure ain’t getting much for your month’s rent.”

“Let’s try Wardell Henry Knox. He sold mary jane and worked as a bartender at jazz joints, presumably down here.”

“Presumably, ‘cause white clubs wouldn’t hire him. And was is correct, ‘cause he got hisself snuffed a few months ago. Person or persons unknown, just in case you wants to know who did it.”

Jukebox blare close—jerk the cord—instant silence. “I know he was murdered.”

Indignant niggers mumbling—fuck them. Lester: “Mr. Klein, your questions are getting pretty far afield. I’ll guess a motive on Wardell, though.”

“I’m listening.”

“Pussy. Ol’ Wardell had hound blood. He was the righteous fuckin’ pussy hound supreme. If it moved, he’d poke it. He’d ream it, steam it, banana cream it. He must’ve had a million enemies. He’d fuck a woodpile on the off chance there was a snake inside. He liked to taste it and baste it, but he’d never waste it. He—”

“Enough, Jesus Christ.”

Lester winked. “Ask me something I might know something about.”

In close. “The Kafesjian family. You’ve got to know more than I do.”

Lester talked low. “I know they’re tight with your people. I know they only sell to Negroes and what you’d call anybody but square white folks, ‘cause that’s the way Chief Parker likes things. Pills, weed, horse, they are the number-one suppliers in Southside L.A. I know they lend money and take the vig out in snitch information, you know, independent pushers they can rat to the LAPD, ‘cause that is part of their bargain with your people. Now, I know J.C. and Tommy hire these inconspicuous-type Negro guys to move their stuff, with Tommy riding herd on them. And you want crazy?—try Tommy the K. He hangs out with the suedes at Bido Lito’s and gets up and plays this godawful tenor sax whenever they let him, which is frequently, ‘cause who wants to refuse a crazy man, even a little skinny twerp like Tommy? Tommy is craaazy. He is bad fuckin’ juju. He is the Kafesjian muscle guy, and I heard he is righteous good with a knife. I also heard he will do anything to ingratiate hisself with Narco. I heard he clipped this drunk driver who hit-and-ran this Narco guy’s daughter.”

Craaazy. “That’s all?”

“Ain’t it enough?”

“What about Tommy’s sister, Lucille? She’s a geek, she parades around naked at her pad.”

“I say say what and so what. Too bad Wardell’s dead, he’d probably want to poke her. Maybe she likes it dark, like her brother. I’d poke her myself, ‘cept last time I tried white stuff I got my neck sliced. You should know, you was there.”

Jukebox trills—Lester himself—somebody put the plug back in. “They let you put your own songs in there?”

“Chick and Touch Vecchio do. They’re more sentimental ‘bout that old neck-slicin’ time than slumlord Dave Klein. Long as they run the Southside slots and vending shit for Mr. Cohen, Lester Lake’s rendition of ‘Harbor Lights’ will be on that jukebox. Which gives me pause, ‘cause the past two weeks or so these new out-of-town-lookin’ guys been working the hardware, which might bode bad for ol’ Lester.”

“Those haaarbor lights”—pure schmaltz. “Mickey should watch it, the Feds might be checking out the machinery down here. And did anyone ever tell you you sound like a homo? Like Johnnie Ray out of work?”

Howling: “Yeah, my ladyfriends. I make them think I gots queer tendencies, then they works that much harder to set me straight. Touch V. comes in with his sissy boys, and I studies his mannerisms. He brings in this bottle-blond sissy, it was like getting a righteous college degree in fruitness.”

I yawned—tiger stripes spun crazy.

“Get some sleep, Mr. Klein. You look all bushed.”

Fuck sleep—that magnet was still pulling me.

I zigzagged east and south—no gray Plymouths on my ass. Western Avenue-peeper turf—whore motels, no addresses to work off. Western and Adams—whore heaven—girls jungled up by Cooper’s Donuts. Colored, Mex, a few white—slit-leg gowns, pedal pushers. Jump start: Lucille’s hip huggers, slashed and jizzed on.