I watched her.

Dish duty—a lilt to her hands—maybe background music. Smiling—a face almost mine, but gentle. I hit the horn—

Yes—a primp-her glasses, her hair. A smile—anxious.

I jogged up the steps; Meg had the door open. “I had a feeling you’d bring me a gift.”

“Why?”

“The last time you got in the papers you bought me a dress.”

“You’re the smart Klein. Go on, open it.”

“Was it terrible? They had this clip on TV”

“He was a dumb bunny. Come on, open it up.”

“David, we have to discuss some business.”

I nudged her inside. “Come on.”

Rip, tear—wrapping paper in shreds. A whoop, a mirror dash—green silk, a perfect fit.

“Does it work?”

A swirl—her glasses almost flew. “Zip me?”

Shape her in, tug the zipper. Perfect—Meg kissed me, checked the mirror.

“Jesus, you and Junior. He can’t stop admiring himself either.”

A swirl, a flash: prom date ‘35. The old man said take Sissy—the guys hounding her weren’t appropriate.

Meg sighed. “It’s beautiful. Just like everything you give me. And how is Junior Stemmons these days?”

“Thank you, you’re welcome, and Junior Stemmons is half smart. He’s not really suited for the Detective Bureau, and if his father didn’t swing me the command at Ad Vice I’d kick his ass back to a teaching job.”

“Not a forceful enough presence?”

“Right, with a hot-dog sensibility that makes it stand out worse, and itchy nerves like he’s raiding the dope vault at Narco. Where’s your husband?”

“Going over some blueprints for a building he’s designing. And while we’re on the subject...”

“Shit. Our buildings, right? Deadbeats? Skipouts?”

“We’re slumlords, so don’t act surprised. It’s the Compton place. Three units in arrears.”

“So advise me. You’re the real estate broker.”

“Two units are one month due, the other is two months behind. It takes ninety days to file an eviction notice, and that entails a court date. And you’re the attorney.”

“Fuck, I hate litigation. And will you sit down?”

She sprawled—a green chair, the green dress. Green against her hair—black—a shade darker than mine. “You’re a good litigator, but I know you’ll just send some goons down with fake papers.”

“It’s easier that way. I’ll send Jack Woods or one of Mickey’s guys.”

“Armed?”

“Yeah, and fucking dangerous. Now tell me you love the dress again. Tell me so I can go home and get some sleep.”

Counting points—our old routine. “One, I love the dress. Two, I love my big brother, even though he got all the looks and more of the brains. Three, by way of amenities, I quit smoking again, I’m bored with my job and my husband and I’m considering sleeping around before I turn forty and lose the rest of my looks. Four, if you knew any men who weren’t cops or thugs I’d ask you to fix me up.”

Points back: “I got the Hollywood looks, you got the real ones. Don’t sleep with Jack Woods, because people have this tendency to shoot at him, and the first time you and Jack tried shacking it didn’t last too long. I do know a few DAs, but they’d bore you.”

“Who do I have left? I flopped as a gangster consort.”

The room swayed—frazzled time. “I don’t know. Come on, walk me out.”

Green silk—Meg stroked it. “I was thinking of that logic class we took undergrad. You know, cause and effect.”

“Yeah?”

“I… well, a hoodlum dies in the papers, and I get a gift.”

Swaying bad. “Let it go.”

“Trombino and Brancato, then Jack Dragna. Honey, I can live with what we did.”

“You don’t love me the way I love you.”

Reporters at my door, wolfing take-out.

I parked out back, jimmied a bedroom window. Noise-newsmen gabbing my story. Lights off, crack that window: talk to defuse Meg’s bomb.

Straight: I’m a kraut, not a Jew—the old man’s handle got clipped at Ellis Island. ‘38—the LAPD; ‘42—the Marines. Pacific duty, back to the Department ‘45. Chief Horrall resigns; William Worton replaces him—a squeaky-clean Marine Corps major general. Semper Fi: he forms an exMarine goon squad. Espirit de Corps: we break strikes, beat uppity parolees back to prison.

Law school, freelance work—the GI Bill won’t cover USC. Repo man, Jack Woods’ collector—“the Enforcer.” Work for Mickey C: union disputes settled strongarm. Hollywood beckons—I’m tall, handsome.

Nix, but it leads to real work. I break up a squeeze on Liberace-two well-hung shines, blackmail pix. I’m in with Hollywood and Mickey C. I make the Bureau, make sergeant. I pass the bar, make lieutenant.

All true.

I topped my twenty last month—true. My Enforcer take bought slum pads—true. I shacked with Anita Ekberg and the redhead on “The Spade Cooley Show”—false.

Bullshit took over; talk moved to Chavez Ravine. I shut the window and tried to sleep.

No go.

Lift that window—no newsmen. TV: strictly test patterns. Turn it off, run the string out—MEG.

It was always there scary wrong—and we touched each other too long to say it. I kept the old man’s fists off her; she kept me from killing him. College together, the war, letters. Other men and other women fizzled.

Rowdy postwar years—“the Enforcer.” Meg—pal, repo sidekick. A fling with Jack Woods—I let it go. Study ate up my time-Meg ran wild solo. She met two hoods: Tony Trombino, Tony Brancato.

June ‘51—our parents dead in a car wreck.

The guts, the will—

A motel room—Franz and Hilda Klein fresh buried. Naked just to see. On each other—every taste half recoil.

Meg broke it off—no finish. Fumbles: our clothes, words, the lights off.

I still wanted it.

She didn’t.

She ran crazy with Trombino and Brancato.

The fucks messed with Jack Dragna—the Outfit’s number-one man in L.A. Jack showed me a picture: Meg—bruises, hickeys—Trombino/ Brancato verified.

Verified—they popped a mob dice game.

Jack said five grand, you clip them—I said yes.

I set it up-a shakedown run—”We’ll rob this bookie holding big.” August 6, 1648 North Ogden—the Two Tonys in a ‘49 Dodge. I slid in the backseat and blew their brains out.

“Mob Warfare” headlines—Dragna’s boss torpedo picked up quick. His alibi: Jack D.’s parish priest. Gangland unsolved—let the fucking wops kill each other.

I was paid—plus a tape bonus: a man raging at the scum who hurt his sister. Dragna’s voice-squelched out. My voice: “I will fucking kill them. I will fucking kill them for free.”

Mickey Cohen called. Jack said I owed the Outfit—the debt kosher for a few favors. Jack would call, I’d be paid—strictly business.

Hooked.

Called:

June 2, ‘53: I clipped a dope chemist in Vegas.

March 26, ‘55: I killed two jigs who raped a mob guy’s wife.

September ‘57, a rumor: Jack D.—heart disease bad.

I called him.

Jack said, “Come see me.”

We met at a beachfront motel—his fixing-to-die-fuck spot. Guinea heaven: booze, smut, whores next door.

I begged him: cancel my debt.

Jack said, “The whores do lez stuff.”

I choked him dead with a pillow.

Coroner’s verdict/mob consensus: heart attack.

Sam Giancana—my new caller. Mickey C. his front man: cop favors, clip jobs.

Meg sensed something. Lie away her part, take all the guilt. Sleep—restless, sweaty.

The phone-grab it—”Yes?”

“Dave? Dan Wilhite.”

Narco—the boss. “What is it, Captain?”

“It’s… shit, do you know J. C. Kafesjian?”

“I know who he is. I know what he is to the Department.”

Wilhite, low: “I’m at a crime scene. I can’t really talk and I’ve got nobody to send over, so I called you.”

Hit the lights. “Fill me in, I’ll go.”

“It’s, shit, it’s a burglary at J.C.’s house.”