The job: take down a bookie mill, let the press in—get some ink to compete with the fight probe.

Some fruit sweating a sodomy beef snitched: fourteen phones, a race wire. Exley’s memo said show some force, squeeze the witnesses at the hotel later—find out what the Feds had planned.

In person: “If things get untoward, don’t let the reporters take pictures. You’re an attorney, Lieutenant. Remember how clean Bob Gallaudet likes his cases.”

I hate Exley.

Exley thinks I bought law school with bribe money.

I said four men, shotguns, Junior Stemmons as co-boss. Exley: “Jackets and ties; this will end up on TV And no stray bullets—you’re working for me, not Mickey Cohen.”

Someday I’ll shove a bribe list down his throat.

Junior set it up. Perfect: a Niggertown street cordoned off; bluesuits guarding the alley. Reporters, prowl cars, four jackets and ties packing twelve-gauge pumps.

Sergeant George Stemmons, Jr., snapping quick draws.

Hubbub: porch-loafing jigs, voodoo eyes. My eyes on the target—closed curtains, a packed driveway—make a full shift inside working bets. A cinderblock shack—figure a steel plate door.

I whistled; Junior walked over twirling his piece.

“Keep it out, you might need it.”

“No, I’ve got a riot gun in the car. We go in the door, we-”

“We don’t go in the door, it’s plated. We start banging on the door, they burn their paper. You still hunt birds?”

“Sure. Dave, what—”

“You got ammo in your car? Single-aught birdshot?”

Junior smiled. “That big window. I shoot it out, the curtain takes the pellets, we go in.”

“Right, so you tell the others. And tell those clowns with the cameras to roll it, Chief Exley’s compliments.”

Junior ran back, dumped shells, reloaded. Cameras ready; whistles, applause: wine-guzzling loafers.

Hands up, count it down—

Eight: Junior spreads the word.

Six: the men flanked.

Three: Junior window-aiming.

One: “Now!”

Glass exploded ka-BOOM, loud loud loud; recoil knocked Junior flat. Cops too shocked to yell “TRIPLE AUGHT!”

Window curtains in rags.

Screams.

Run up, jump the sill. Chaos: blood spray, bet slip/cash confetti. Phone tables dumped, a stampede: out the back door bookie fistfights.

A nigger coughing glass.

A pachuco minus some fingers.

“Wrong Load” Stemmons: “Police! Stop or we’ll shoot!”

Grab him, shout: “This was shots fired inside, a fucking criminal altercation. We went in the window because we figured the door wouldn’t go down. You talk nice to the news guys and tell them I owe them one. You get the men together and make fucking-A sure they know the drill. Do you understand me?”

Junior shook free. Foot thumps—window-storming plainclothesmen. Cover noise: I pulled my spare piece. Two ceiling shots, a wipe—evidence.

Toss the gun. More chaos: suspects kicked prone, cuffed.

Moans, shouts, shotgun wadding/blood stink.

I “discovered” the gun. Reporters ran in; Junior spieled them. Out to the porch, fresh air.

“You owe me eleven hundred, Counselor.”

Make the voice: Jack Woods. Mixed bag—bookie/strongarm/contract trigger.

I walked over. “Did you catch the show?”

“I was just driving up—and you should put that kid Stemmons on a leash.”

“His daddy’s an inspector. I’m the kid’s mentor, so I’ve got a captain’s job as a lieutenant. Did you have a bet down?”

“That’s right.”

“Slumming?”

“I’m in the business myself, so I spread my own bets around for good will. Dave, you owe me eleven hundred.”

“How do you know you won?”

“The race was fixed.”

Jabber—newsmen, the locals. “I’ll get it out of the evidence vault.”

“C’est Ia guerre. And by the way, how’s your sister?”

“Meg’s fine.”

“Say hi for me.”

Sirens; black & whites pulling up.

“Jack, get out of here.”

“Good seeing you, Dave.”

Book the fuckers—Newton Street Station.

Rap sheet checks: nine outstanding warrants total. Missing Fingers came up a sweetheart: rape, ADW, flimflam. Shock pale, maybe dying—a medic fed him coffee and aspirin.

I booked the plant gun, bet slips and money—minus Jack Woods’ eleven hundred. Junior, press relations: the lieutenant owes you a story.

Two hours of pure shitwork.

4:30—back to the Bureau. Messages waiting: Meg said drop by; Welles Noonan said the guard gig, six sharp. Exley: “Report in detail.”

Details—type them out, more shitwork:

4701 Naomi Avenue, 1400 hours. Set to raid a bookmaker’s drop, Sgt. George Stemmons, Jr., and I heard shots fired inside the premises. We did not inform the other officers for fear of creating a panic. I ordered a shotgun round directed at the front window; Sgt. Stemmons misled the other men with a “birdshot assault” cover story. A .38 revolver was found; we arrested six bookmakers. The suspects were booked at Newton Station; the wounded received adequate first aid and hospital treatment. R&I revealed numerous extant warrants on the six, who will be remanded to the Hall of Justice Jail and arraigned on felony charges 614.5 and 859.3 of the California Penal Code. All six men will be subsequently interrogated on the shots fired and their bookmaking associations. I will conduct the interrogations myself—as Division Commander I must personally guarantee the veracity of all proferred statements. Press coverage of this occurrence will be minimal: reporters at the scene were unprepared for the rapid transpiring of events.

Sign it: Lieutenant David D. Klein, Badge 1091, Commander, Administrative Vice.

Carbons to: Junior, Chief Exley.

The phone—

“Ad Vice, Klein.”

“Davey? Got a minute for an old gonif buddy?”

“Mickey, Jesus Christ.”

“I know, I’m supposed to call you at home. Uh…Davey…a favor for Sam G.?”

G. for Giancana. “I guess. What?”

“You know that croupier guy you’re watchdogging?”

“Yeah.”

“Well… the radiator’s loose in his bedroom.”

Rockabye Reuben Ruiz: “This is the tits. I could get used to this.”

The Embassy Hotel: parlor, bedrooms, TV. Nine floors up, suite service: food and booze.

Ruiz belting Scotch, haif-assed restless. Sanderline Johnson watching cartoons, slack-jawed.

Junior practicing quick draws.

Try some talk. “Hey, Reuben.”

Popping mock jabs: “Hey, Lieutenant.”

“Hey, Reuben. Did Mickey C. try to infringe on your contract?”

“He what you call strongly suggested my manager let him buy in. He sent the Vecchio brothers out to talk to him, then he punked out when Luis told them, ‘Hey, kill me, ‘cause I ain’t signin’ no release form.’ You want my opinion? Mickey ain’t got the stones for strongarm no more.”

“But you’ve got the cojones to snitch.”

Jabs, hooks. “I got a brother deserted the army, maybe lookin’ at Federal time. I got three bouts coming up at the Olympic, which Welles Noonan can fuck up with subpoenas. My family’s what you call from a long line of thieves, what you call trouble prone, so I sorta like making friends in what you might call the law-enforcement community.”

“Do you think Noonan has good stuff on Mickey?”

“No, Lieutenant, I don’t.”

“Call me Dave.”

“I’ll call you Lieutenant, ‘cause I got enough friends in the lawenforcement community.”

“Such as?”

“Such as Noonan and his FBI buddy Shipstad. Hey, you know Schoolboy Johnny Duhamel?”