“Sure. He fought in the Gloves, turned pro, then quit.”

“You lose your first pro fight, you better quit. I told him that, ‘cause Johnny and me are old friends, and Johnny is now Officer Schoolboy Johnny Duhamel, on the fuckin’ LAPD, on the righteous Mobster Squad, no less. He’s tight with the-what you call him?—legendary?—Captain Dudley Smith. So I got enough fuck—”

“Ruiz, watch your language.”

Junior—pissed. Johnson goosed the TV—Mickey Mouse ran from Donald Duck.

Junior killed the volume. “I knew Johnny Duhamel when I taught at the Academy. He was in my evidence class, and he was a damn good student. I don’t like it when criminals get familiar with policemen. Comprende, pendejo?”

“Pendejo, huh? So I’m the stupido, and you’re this punk cowboy, playin’ with your gun like that sissy mouse on fuckin’ television.”

Necktie pull, signal Junior: FREEZE IT.

He froze-fumbling his gun.

Ruiz: “I can always use another friend, Dave. There something you want to know?”

I boosted the TV Johnson stared, rapt—Daisy Duck vamping Donald. Ruiz: “Hey, Dave. You wangle this job to pump me?”

Huddle close, semi-private. “You want to make another friend, then give. What’s Noonan have?”

“He’s got what you call aspirations.”

“I know that. Give.”

“Well ... I heard Shipstad and this other FBI guy talking. They said Noonan’s maybe afraid the fight probe’s too limited. Anyway, he’s thinking over this backup plan.”

“And?”

“And it’s like a general L.A. rackets thing, mostly Southside stuff. Dope, slots, you know, illegal vending machines and that kind of shit. I heard Shipstad say something about the LAPD don’t investigate colored on colored homicides, and like all this ties to Noonan making the new DA—what’s his name?”

“Bob Gallaudet.”

“Right, Bob Gallaudet. Anyway, it all ties to making him look bad so Noonan can run against him for attorney general.”

Darktown, the coin biz—Mickey C.’s last going stuff. “What about Johnson?”

Snickers. “Look at that mulatto wetbrain. Can you believe he used to be forty-three, zero and two?”

“Reuben, give.”

“Okay, give he’s close to a fuckin’ idiot, but he’s got this great memory. He can memorize card decks, so some made guys gave him a job at the Lucky Nugget down in Gardena. He’s good at memorizing conversations, and some guys weren’t so what you call discreet talking around him. I heard Noonan’s gonna make him do these memory tricks on the stand, which—”

“I get the picture.”

“Good. I quit my own trouble-prone ways, but I sure got a troubleprone family. I shouldn’t of told you what I did, so since you’re my friend I’m sure this ain’t getting back to the Federal guys, right, Dave?”

“Right. Now eat your dinner and get some rest, okay?”

Midnight—lights out. I took Johnson; Junior took Ruiz—my suggestion.

Johnson, bedtime reading: “God’s Secret Power Can Be Yours.” I pulled a chair up and watched his lips: glom the inside track to Jesus, fight the Jew-Communist conspiracy to mongrelize Christian America. Send your contribution to Post Office Box blah, blah, blah.

“Sanderline, let me ask you something.”

“Uh, yessir.”

“Do you believe that pamphlet you’re reading?”

“Uh, yessir. Right here it says this woman who came back to life said Jesus guarantees all gold-star contributors a new car every year in heaven.”

JESUS FUCK.

“Sanderline, did you catch a few in your last couple of fights?”

“Uh, no. I stopped Bobby Calderon on cuts and lost a split decision to Ramon Sanchez. Sir, do you think Mr. Noonan will get us a hot lunch at the grand jury?”

Handcuffs out. “Put these on while I take a piss.”

Johnson stood up—yawning, stretching. Check the heater—thick pipes—nix ballast.

Open window—nine-floor drop-this geek half-breed smiling.

“Sir, what do you think Jesus drives himself?”

I banged his head against the wall, threw him out the window screaming.

LAPD Homicide said suicide, case closed.

The DA: suicide probable.

Confirmation—Junior, Ruiz—Sanderline Johnson, crazy man.

Listen:

I watched him read, dozed off, woke up—Johnson announced he could fly. He went out the window before I could voice my disbelief.

Questioning: Feds, LAPD, DA’s men. Basics: Johnson crash-landed on a parked De Soto, DOA, no witnesses. Bob Gallaudet seemed pleased: a rival’s political progress scotched. Ed Exley: report to my office, 10:00 A.M.

Welles Noonan: incompetent disgrace of a policeman; pitiful excuse for an attorney. Suspicious—my old nickname—“the Enforcer.”

No mention: 187 PC—felonious homicide.

No mention: outside-agency investigations.

No mention: interdepartmental charges.

I drove home, showered, changed—no reporters hovering yet. Downtown, a dress for Meg—I do it every time I kill a man.

10:00 A.M.

Waiting: Exley, Gallaudet, Walt Van Meter—the boss, Intelligence Division. Coffee, pastry—fuck me.

I sat down. Exley: “Lieutenant, you know Mr. Gallaudet and Captain Van Meter.”

Gallaudet, all smiles: “It’s been ‘Bob’ and ‘Dave’ since law school, and I won’t fake any outrage over last night. Did you see the Mirror, Dave?”

“No.”

“‘Federal Witness Plummets to Death,’ with a sidebar: ‘Suicide Pronouncement: “Hallelujah, I Can Fly!” ‘You like it?”

“It’s a pisser.”

Exley, cold: “The lieutenant and I will discuss that later. In a sense it ties in to what we have here, so let’s get to it.”

Bob sipped coffee. “Political intrigue. Walt, you tell him.”

Van Meter coughed. “Well… Intelligence has done some political operations before, and we’ve got our eye on a target now—a pinko lawyer who has habitually bad-mouthed the Department and Mr. Gallaudet.”

Exley: “Keep going.”

“Well, Mr. Gallaudet should be elected to a regular term next week. He’s an ex-policeman himself, and he speaks our language. He’s got the support of the Department and some of the City Council, but—”

Bob cut in. “Morton Diskant. He’s neck and neck with Tom Bethune for Fifth District city councilman, and he’s been ragging me for weeks. You know, how I’ve only been a prosecutor for five years and how I cashed in when Ellis Loew resigned as DA. I’ve heard he’s gotten cozy with Welles Noonan, who just might be on my dance card in ‘60, and Bethune is our kind of guy. It’s a very close race. Diskant’s been talking Bethune and I up as right-wing shitheads, and the district’s twenty-five percent Negro, lots of them registered voters. You take it from there.”

Play a hunch. “Diskant’s been riling the spooks up with Chavez Ravine, something like ‘Vote for me so your Mexican brothers won’t get evicted from their shantytown shacks to make room for a ruling-class ballpark.’ It’s five—four in favor on the Council, and they take a final vote sometime in November after the election. Bethune’s an interim incumbent, like Bob, and if he loses he has to leave office before the vote goes down. Diskant gets in, it’s a deadlock. We’re all civilized white men who know the Dodgers are good for business, so let’s get to it.”

Exley, smiling: “I met Bob in ‘53, when he was a DA’s Bureau sergeant. He passed the bar and registered as a Republican the same day. Now the pundits tell us we’ll only have him as DA for two years. Attorney General in ‘60, then what? Will you stop at Governor?”

Laughs all around. Van Meter: “I met Bob when he was a patrolman and I was a sergeant. Now it’s ‘Walt’ and ‘Mr. Gallaudet.’”

“I’m still ‘Bob.’ And you used to call me ‘son.’”