I killed my lights, cracked the window. Close—I caught the proposition:

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I… I think fall is the best time in L.A., don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure. Listen, I just borrowed a really nice car. We could maybe make last call at the Orchid Room, then go someplace. I’ve got some time to kill before I pick my boy—I mean somebody up.”

“You don’t mince words.”

“I don’t mince period. Come on, say yes.”

“Nix, sweetie. You’re big and brusque, which I like, but the last big brusque guy I said yes to turned out to be a deputy sheriff.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Nix, nyet, nein and no. Besides, I heard Administrative Vice has been operating Fern Dell.”

Wrong—Ad Vice never popped fruits. Outside chance—gung-ho Junior, Vice cowboy.

Rock—”Thanks for the memories”—match flare, his cigarette lit. Prowling now—easy to track—I watched the tip glow queer to queer.

Time wheezed, a bum soundtrack: sex moans out in the woods. An hour, an hour ten—Rock walked back zipping his fly.

Zoom—the Vette peeled. I followed slow—no traffic-call the set his destination. A roadblock out of nowhere-baseball-bat men waved him through.

Truck headlights approaching—I backed up and watched.

Brake squeals—a big flatbed—picket clowns in back. A spotlight flashed—bright white blindness on the target.

Goons hit the truck swinging—nail-studded Louisville Sluggers. The windshield exploded—a man stumbled out belching glass. The driver ran—a nail shot took his nose off.

The bed gate crashed—goons went in close—ribcage work. Fats Medina dragged a guy by the hair—his scalp came off.

No screams—wrong—why no sound—

Back to Fern Dell, down to Glenda’s. No screams—weird—then my pulse quit banging my ears so I could hear.

Wait the boys out: “Rock,” “Touch”—the nance type, this eight-notch killer. Suspicious: 2:00 A.M., a B-movie siren set for hostess.

One courtyard light on—hers. I tapped the two-way, flipped bands to kill boredom. Dispatch calls—the Bureau frequency—voices.

Hurwitz fur-job talk—Robbery men. Make the voices: Dick Carlisle, Mike Breuning—Dudley Smith strongarms. No trace on the furs; Dud wanted fences braced hard. Crackle: station-to-station interference. Breuning: Dud pulled Johnny Duhamel off the Mobster Squad—a scary kick-ass ex-fighter. More static—I flipped dials—a liquor-store heist on La Brea.

The Vette hit the carport; the boys hit Glenda’s pad nuzzled up.

One ring—the door open and shut.

Figure access.

The courtyard proper—too risky. Nix the roof—no way to get up. Behind the bungalows—maybe a window to peep.

Risk it—worth it—juicy hearsay.

I walked over, counted back doors down—one, two, three—hers locked tight. One window-curtains cracked—eyes to the glass:

A dark bedroom, a connecting door ajar.

Press the glass, slide it up. Open—no shimmy, no squeak. Vault the sill: up and in.

Smells: cotton, stale perfume. Dark going gray—I saw a bed and bookshelves. Voices—hug the door—listen:

Glenda: “Well, there is a precedent.”

Touch: “Not a successful one, sweetie.”

Rockwell: “Marie ‘the Body’ McDonald. A from-nowhere career, then this kidnapping out of nowhere. The papers smelled publicity stunt quicksville. I think—”

Glenda: “It wasn’t realistic, that’s why. Her hair wasn’t even mussed. Remember, Mickey Cohen is bankrolling our movie. He’s hot for me, so the press will think gangland intrigue right off. Howard Hughes used to keep me, so we’ve got him for a supporting play—”

Touch: “ ‘Keep,’ what a euphemism.”

Rock: “What’s a euphemism?”

Touch: “Lucky you’re gorgeous, ‘cause you’d never make it on brains.”

Glenda: “Cut it out, and listen. I’m wondering what the police will think. It’s not a kidnapping for ransom, because frankly nobody would pay good money to get Rock and I out of trouble. What I’m think—”

Touch: “The police will think revenge on Mickey or something, and Mickey won’t know a thing. The police love to bother Mickey. Bothering Mickey is a favorite activity of the Los Angeles Police Department. And you two will be good. Georgie Ainge will slap you around just a little bit more than a smidgin, for realism’s sake. The police will buy it, so just don’t worry. You’ll both be kidnap victims, and you’ll both get lots of publicity.”

Rock: “Method acting.”

Glenda: “It compromises Howard, the creep. He’d never violate the contract of a beautiful kidnap victim.”

Touch: “Tell true, sweetie. Was he hung?”

Glenda: “Hung like a cashew.”

They all howled. The real howler: fake kidnaps always bombed.

A doorway crack—I pressed up, squinted. Glenda—robe, wet hair: “He talked about airplanes to get himself excited. He called my breasts my propellers.”

More laughs—Glenda edged out of my light. Needle scratches, Sinatra—wait the tune out for one more look.

No luck—just “Ebb Tide” done very slow. Through the bedroom, out the window, thinking crazy: Don’t snitch her.

Monsters:

Charles Issler, confessor—front-page-hot female snuffs. “Hit me! Hit me!”—known to bite Homicide bulls who wouldn’t oblige.

Michael Joseph Krugman, confessor—the Jesus Christ 187. His motive-revenge-Jesus fucked his wife.

Swirling:

Beaucoup confessors—find a patsy in LAPD file print. Some INSTINCT working through—

Donald Fitzhugh—queer snuff confessor; Thomas Mark Janeway—kiddie molestations strictly. That INSTINCT THING worked me over—almost a taunt. The Wino Will-o-the-Wisp: strangler/mutilator/ stumblebum slayer. No hard candidates—

I woke up. THAT INSTINCT big:

The Kafesjians knew who trashed their pad—if I framed some geek they’d fuck things up.

Sweaty sheets/sweaty files/that rap sheet I glommed late:

George Sidney Ainge, aka “Georgie.” White male, DOB 11/28/22. Pimp convictions ‘48, ‘53-fourteen months County time total. Gun sale rousts ‘56, ‘7, ‘8—no convictions. Last known address 1219 S. Dunsmuir, L.A. Vehicle: ‘51 Caddy Eldo, QUR 288.

Touch to Glenda: “Georgie Ainge will slap you around just a little bit more than a smidgin.”

I shaved, showered, dressed. Glenda smiled, saying stall things for now.

The Bureau, an Exley memo waiting: “Kafesjian/459—report in full.” 8:00, no daywatch men in yet—no potential Georgie Ainge skinny.

Coffee—overdue. Some DA called—that botched bookie raid—I shitted him lawyer to lawyer. Junior walking: up the side stairs, furtive. I whistled—long and shrill.

He walked over. I shut the door, shut my voice in: “Never hang up on me or get cute like that again. One more time and I’m submitting a transfer request that will ruin you in the Bureau so fast—”

“Dave—”

“Dave shit. Stemmons, you fucking toe the line. You obey my orders, you do what I tell you to do. Now, did you check the stationhouse files for paper on Lucille Kafesjian?”

“N-no listings, I ch-checked all around”—nervous, hinky.

Change-up: “Have you been hotdogging queers in Fern Dell Park?”

“W-what?”

“Some quiff said Ad Vice was operating the park, which we both know is bullshit. I repeat, were you—”

Hands up—placating me. “Okay, okay, guilty. I owed a favor to this old student of mine at the Academy. He’s working Hollywood Vice and he’s swamped, the squad boss has him detached to that wino-killing job. I just made a few collars and let him do the booking. Look, I’m sorry if I didn’t go by the rules.”

“Learn the fucking rules.”

“Sure, Dave, sorry.”

Shaky, sweaty—I gave him a handkerchief. “Have you heard of a pimp named Georgie Ainge? He sells guns on the side.”