Brain jump:

Western and Adams—University Division. University Vice, hooker ID stashes there: alias files, john lists, arrest-detention reports. Lucille smiling whorish, Daddy’s blood on her claws—jump to her selling it for kicks.

Big jump—odds against it.

I rolled anyway—

Uny Station, brace the squad whip—that whore stuff, a mishmash:

Loose mug shots, report carbons. Names: whores, whore monikers, men detained/booked with whores. Three cabinets’ worth of paper in no discernable order.

Skimming through:

No “Kafesjian,” no Armenian names—an hour wasted—no surprisemost hookers got bailed out behind monikers. Punch line: if Lucille whored, if she got popped—she’d probably call Dan Wilhite to chill things. 114 detention reports, 18 white girls—no physical stats matched Lucille. A half-ass system—most cops let whore reports slide, the girls always repeated. John lists: no Luce, Lucille, Lucy white girl listed—no Armenian surnames.

More mugs—some with neckboard numbers and printing: real names, john names, dates. Shine girls, Mexicans, whites—99.9 percent skank. Goosebumps: Lucille-profile, full face-no neckboard, no printing.

Go, do it: recheck all paper. Three go-rounds—zero, zilch, buppkis. No clicks back to Lucille.

Just one mug strip.

Call it lost paperwork.

Say Dan Wilhite yanked the paper—the mugs got overlooked.

Guess burglar = peeper = Lucille K. john.

I wrote it up, a note to Junior:

Check all stationhouse john/prostie lists—try for information on Lucille’s tricks.

Goosebumps: that godawful family.

I hit the Bureau, dropped the note on Junior’s desk. Midnight: Ad Vice empty.

“Klein?”

Dan Wilhite across the hall. I called him over—my squadroom.

“So?”

“So, I’m sorry for the run-in with Kafesjian.”

“I’m not looking for apologies. I’ll say it again: so?”

“So it’s a tight situation, and I’m trying to be reasonable. I didn’t ask for this job, and I don’t want it.”

“I know, and your Sergeant Stemmons already apologized for your behavior. He also asked for a tally of perpetrators J.C. and his people have informed on, which I refused to give him. Don’t ask again, because all notations pertaining to the Kafesjians have been destroyed. So?”

“So it’s like that. And the question should be ‘So what does Exley want?’

Wilhite crowded up, hands on hips. “Tell me what you think this 459 is. I think it’s a dope mob warning. I think Narco is best suited to handle it, and I think you should tell Chief Exley that.”

“I don’t think so. I think the burglar’s hinked on the family, maybe Lucille specifically. It might be a window peeper who’s been working Darktown lately.”

“Or maybe it’s a crazy-man act. A rival mob using terror tactics.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. I’m not really a case man, but—”

“No, you’re a thug with a law degree—”

FROST/EASY/DON’T MOVE.

“—and I regret calling you into this mess. Now I’ve heard that that Fed probe is going to happen. I’ve heard Welles Noonan has auditors checking tax returns—my own and some of my men. That probably means that he knows about Narco and the Kafesjians. We’ve all taken gratuities, we’ve all got expensive items we can’t explain, so-”

Sweating on me, hot tobacco breath.

“—you do your duty to the Department. You’ve got your twenty in, I don’t and my men don’t. You can practice law and suck up to Mickey Cohen, and we can’t. You owe us, because you let Sanderline Johnson jump. Welles Noonan has got this Southside hard-on because you compromised his prizefight job. The heat on my men is because of you, so you square things. Now, J.C. and Tommy are crazy. They’ve never dealt with hostile police agencies, and if the Feds start pressing them they’ll go out of control. I want them quieted down. Stall this bullshit investigation of yours, feed Exley whatever you have to. Just get out of that family’s way.as quick as you can.”

Crowded, elbowed in. “I’ll try.”

“Do it. Make like it’s a paying job. Make like I think you pushed Johnson out the window.”

“Do you?”

“You’re greedy enough, but you’re not that stupid.”

Crowd him back, walk—my legs fluttered. A clerk’s slip on my desk: “P. Bondurant called. Said to call H. Hughes at Bel-Air Hotel.”

“…and my man Pete told me about your splendid performance vis-a-vis the Morton Diskant matter. Did you know that Diskant is a member of four organizations that have been classified as Communist fronts by the California State Attorney General’s Office?”

Howard Hughes: tall, lanky. A hotel suite, two flunkies: Bradley Milteer, lawyer; Harold John Miciak, goon.

7:00 A.M.—distracted, a plan brewing: frame some geek for the Kafesjian job.

“No, Mr. Hughes. I didn’t know that.”

“Well, you should. Pete told me your methods were rough, and you should know that Diskant’s record justified those methods. Among other things, I’m seeking to establish myself as an independent motion picture producer. I’m planning on producing a series of films depicting aerial warfare against the Communists, and a major theme of those films will be the end justifies the means.”

Milteer: “Lieutenant Klein is also an attorney. If he accepts your offer, you’ll receive an additional interpretation of the contractual aspects.”

“I haven’t practiced much law, Mr. Hughes. And I’m pretty busy right now.”

Miciak coughed. Tattooed hands—zoot gang stuff. “This ain—isn’t a lawyer job. Pete Bondurant’s got his plate full, so—”

Hughes, interrupting: “‘Surveillance’ sums this assignment up best, Lieutenant. Bradley, will you elaborate?”

Milteer, prissy: “Mr. Hughes has a young actress named Glenda Bledsoe signed to a full-service contract. She was living in one of his guest homes and was being groomed to play lead roles in his Air Force films. She infringed on her contract by moving out of the guest home and by leaving script sessions without asking permission. She’s currently playing the female lead in a non-union horror film shooting in Griffith Park. It’s called Attack of the Atomic Vampire, so you can imagine the quality of the production.”

Hughes, prissy: “Miss Bledsoe’s contract allows her to make one nonHughes film per year, so I cannot violate the contract for that. There is, however, a morality clause that we can utilize. If we can prove Miss Bledsoe to be an alcoholic, criminal, narcotics addict, Communist, lesbian, or nymphomaniac, we can violate her contract and get her blackballed from the film industry on that basis. Our one other avenue is to secure proof that she knowingly took part in publicizing non-Hughes performers outside of her work for this ridiculous monster film. Lieutenant, your job would be to surveil Glenda Bledsoe with an eye toward securing contract-violating information. Your fee would be three thousand dollars.”

“Have you explained the situation to her, Mr. Milteer?”

“Yes.”

“How did she react?”

“Her reply was ‘Fuck you.’ Your reply, Lieutenant?”

Close to “No”—freeze it—think:

Hush-Hush said Mickey C. bankrolled that movie.

“Guest home” meant “fuck pad” meant Howard Hughes left to choke his own chicken.

Think:

Glom some Bureau guys for tail work. Glom a slush fund: Kafesjian frame cash.

JEW HIM UP.

“Five thousand, Mr. Hughes. I can recommend cheaper help, but I can’t neglect my regular duties for any less than that.”

Hughes nodded; Milteer whipped out a cash roll. “All right, Lieutenant. This is a two-thousand-dollar retainer, and I’ll expect reports at least every other day. You can call me here at the Bel-Air. Now, is there anything else you need to know about Miss Bledsoe?”