Bad sleep, no sleep.

Meg’s call woke me up: get our late rent settled, no silk-dress talk. I said, “Sure, sure”—hung up and pitched Jack Woods: twenty percent on every rent dollar collected. He jewed me up to twenty-five-I agreed.

Work calls: Van Meter, Pete Bondurant, Fred Turentine. Three green lights: La Verne’s pad was bugged; a photo man was stashed in the bedroom. Diskant—tailed and overheard: drinks at Ollie Hammond’s Steakhouse, 6:00 P.M.

The bait stood ready: our Commie consort. Pete said Hush-Hush loved it: pinko politico trips on his dick.

I called Narco—Dan Wilhite was out—I left a message. Bad sleep, no sleep-the nightmare Kafesjians. Junior last night, comic relief: “I know you don’t think I rate the Bureau, but I’ll show you, I’ll really show you.”

5:00 P.M.—fuck sleep.

I cleaned up, checked the Herald—Chavez Ravine bumped my dead man off page one. Bob Gallaudet: “The Latin Americans who lose their dwellings will be handsomely compensated, and in the end a home for the L.A. Dodgers will serve as a point of pride for Angelenos of all races, creeds and colors.”

Knee-slapper stuff—it doused my Kafesjian hangover.

Ollie Hammond’s—stake the bar entrance, wait.

Morton Diskant in the door, six sharp.

La Verne Benson in at 6:03—tweed skirt, knee sox, cardigan.

6:14—Big Pete B., sliding the seat back.

“Diskant’s with his friends, La Verne’s two booths down. Two seconds in and she’s giving him these hot looks.”

“You think he’ll tumble?”

“I would, but then I’m a pig for it.”

“Like your boss?”

“You can say his name-Howard Hughes. He’s a busy guy—like you.”

“He was a dumb fuck. If he didn’t jump, I probably would have pushed him.”

Pete tapped the dashboard—huge hands—they beat a drunk-tank brawler dead. The L.A. Sheriff’s canned him; Howard Hughes found a soulmate.

“You been busy?”

“Sort of. I collect dope for Hush-Hush, I keep Mr. Hughes out of Hush-Hush. People try to sue Hush-Hush, I convince them otherwise. I scout pussy for Mr. Hughes, I listen to Mr. Hughes talk this crazy shit about airplanes. Right now Mr. Hughes has got me tailing this actress who jilted him. Dig this: this cooze blows out of Mr. Hughes’ number-one fuck pad, with a three-yard-a-week contract to boot, all to act in some horror cheapie. Mr. Hughes has got her signed to a seven-year slave contract, and he wants to get it violated on a morality clause. Can you feature this pussy pig preaching morality?”

“Yeah, and you love it because you’re-”

“Because I’m a pig for the life, like you.”

I laughed, yawned. “This could go on all night.”

Pete lit a cigarette. “No, La Verne’s impetuous. She’ll get bored and honk the Commie’s shvantz. Nice kid. She actually helped Turentine set up his microphones.”

“How’s Freddy doing?”

“He’s busy. Tonight he compromises this Commie, next week he wires some fag bathhouse for Hush-Hush. The trouble with Freddy T is he’s a booze pig. He’s got all these drunk-driving beefs, so the last time the judge stuck him with this service job teaching electronics to the inmates up at Chino. Klein, look.”

La Verne at the bar door—two thumbs up. Pete signaled back. “That means Diskant’s meeting her after he ditches his friends. See that blue Chevy, that’s hers.”

I pulled out—La Verne in front—right turns on Wilshire. Straight west—Sweetzer, north, the Strip. Curvy side streets, up into the hills—La Verne stopped by a stucco four-flat.

Ugly: floodlights, pink stucco.

I parked a space back—room for the Red.

La Verne wiggled up to her door. Pete sent out love taps on my siren.

Foyer lights on and off. Window lights on—the downstairs-left apartment. Party noise: the pad across from La Verne’s.

Pete stretched. “You think Diskant’s got the smarts to make this for an unmarked?”

La Verne opened her curtains, stripped to peignoir and garters. “No, he’s only got one thing on his mind.”

“You’re right, ‘cause he’s a pig for it. I say one hour or less.”

“Twenty says fifteen minutes.”

“You’re on.”

We settled in, eyes on that window. Lull time, party noise: show tunes, voices. Bingo-a tan Ford. Pete said, “Forty-one minutes.”

I slid him twenty. Diskant walked up, hit the door, buzzed. La Verne, window framed: bumps and grinds.

Pete howled.

Diskant walked in.

Ten minutes ticking by slow.., lights off at La Verne’s love shack. Hold for the photo man’s signal: flashbulb pops out that front window.

Fifteen minutes ... twenty... twenty-five—a Sheriff’s unit doubleparking.

Pete nudged me. “Fuck. That party. 116.84 California Penal Code, Unlawfully Loud Assembly. Fuck.”

Two deputies walking. Nightstick raps on the party-pad window.

No response.

“Klein, this is not fucking good.”

Rap rap rap—La Verne’s front window. Flashbulb pops—the bedroom window—big-time-bad-news improvisation.

Screams—our Commie hooker.

The deputies kicked the foyer door down—I chased the fuckers, badge out—

Across the lawn, up the steps. Topsy-turvy glimpses: the photo man dropping out a window sans camera. Through the lobby—party kids mingling—La Verne’s door snapped clean. I pushed through, punks tossing drinks in the face.

“Police! Police officer!”

I jumped the doorway dripping Scotch—a deputy caught me. My badge in his face: “Intelligence Division! LAPD!”

The dipshit just gawked me. Bedroom shrieks—

I ran in—

Diskant and La Verne floor-tumbling—naked, flailing, gouging. A camera on the bed; a dumbfuck shouting: “Hey! You two stop that! We’re the Sheriff’s!”

Pete ran in—Dumbfuck grinned familiar-old-deputy-acquaintance recognition. Fast Pete: he hustled the clown out quicksville. La Verne vs. the pinko: kicks, sissy punches.

The camera on the bed: grab it, pop the film out, seal it. Hit the button—flashbulb light in Diskant’s eyes.

One blind Commie—La Verne tore free. I kicked him and punched him—he yelped, blinked and focused—ON THE FILM.

Shakedown:

“This was supposed to be some kind of setup, but those policemen broke it up. You were heading for the scandal sheets, something like ‘Red Politician Blah Blah Blah.’ You come across and that won’t happen, because I sure would hate for your wife to see this film. Now, are you sure you want to be a city councilman?”

Sobs.

Brass knucks on. “Are you sure?”

More sobs.

Kidney shots—my knucks tore flab.

“Are you sure?”

Beet-red bawling: “Please don’t hurt me!”

Two more shots—Diskant belched foam.

“You drop out tomorrow. Now say yes, because I don’t like this.”

“Y-yes p-p-p—”

Fucked-up shitty stuff—I hit the living room quashing shakes. No cops, La Verne draped in a sheet.

Pete, dangling bug mikes: “I took care of the deputies, and Van Meter called on your two-way. You’re supposed to meet Exley at the Bureau right now.”

Downtown. Exley at his desk.

I pulled a chair up, slid him the film. “He’s pulling out, so we won’t have to go to Hush-Hush.”

“Did you enjoy the work?”

“Did you enjoy shooting those niggers?”

“The public has no idea what justice costs the men who perform it.”

“Which means?”

“Which means thank you.”

“Which means I have a favor coming.”

“You’ve been given one already, but ask anyway.”

“The fur robbery. Maybe it’s insurance fraud, maybe it’s not. Either way, I want to work cases.”

“No, I told you it’s Dudley Smith’s assignment.”