“What do you mean?”

“I called the DMV. Minear owns a white ‘49 Chrysler New Yorker sedan. I went by his place in Chapman Park on my way here. It was in his building’s garage, warm, and it looked just like the car at the Marmont.”

Buzz put an arm around Mal’s shoulders. “Gifts in a manger, and here’s another one. That crazy woman in the doorway ID’d Dudley from a picture I got. He’s the brogue man.”

Mal looked over at Delores. “Do you think Dudley copped Danny’s files?”

“No, I think he’d have faked a burglary. Coleman’s our killer, boss. All we gotta do now is find him.”

“Shit. Loftis and Claire won’t talk. I know it.”

Buzz took his arm away. “No, but I bet we could squeeze Chaz beauty. He was tight with Loftis back in ‘43, ‘44, and I know a good squeeze artist to help us. You give that lady a double-saw and I’ll go give him a call.”

Mal went for his billfold; Buzz walked into the house and found a phone by the kitchen door. He called Information, got the number he wanted and dialed it; Johnny Stompanato’s slick guinea baritone oiled on the line. “Talk to me.”

“It’s Meeks. You wanta make some money? Number-one muscle on a strongarm job, make sure my buddy don’t go crazy and hurt someone?”

Johnny Stomp said, “You’re a dead man. Mickey found out about you and Audrey. The neighbors saw you hustling her away, and I’m lucky he didn’t figure out I tipped you. Nice to know you, Meeks. I always thought you had style.”

Move over Danny Upshaw, fat man coming through. Buzz looked at Mal paying off the rat killer’s mother; he got an idea—or the idea got him. “Contract out?”

“Ten grand. Fifteen if they get you alive so Mickey can get his jollies.”

“Chump change. Johnny, you wanna make twenty grand for two hours’ work?”

“You slay me. Next you’ll be offering me a date with Lana Turner.”

“I mean it.”

“Where you gonna get that dough?”

“I’ll have it inside two weeks. Deal?”

“What makes you think you’ll live that long?”

“Ain’t you a gambler?”

“Oh shit. Deal.”

Buzz said, “I’ll call you back,” and hung up. Mal was standing beside him, shaking his head. “Mickey knows?”

“Yeah, Mickey knows. You got a couch?”

Mal gave Buzz a soft punch in the arm. “Lad, I think people are starting to get your number.”

“Say what?”

“I figured out something today.”

“What?”

“You killed Gene Niles.”

Mal’s take on Johnny Stompanato: two parts olive-oil charm, two parts hepcat, six parts plug-ugly. His take on the whole situation: Buzz was doomed, and his voice talking to Audrey on the phone said he knew it. Coleman arrested for four sex murders plus grand jury indictments added up to Stefan dropped on his doorstep like a Christmas bundle. The Herald and Mirror were playing up the Gordean killing, no suspects, puff pieces on the victim as a straight-arrow talent agent, no mention of the bank money—the catching officers probably got fat. The papers made UAES the instigators of the riot the Teamsters started; Buzz was impressed with his shot in the dark on Gene Niles and believed his promise not to spill on it. The fat man was going to brace Dudley’s niece while he and Stompanato braced Chaz Minear, and when they had Coleman placed, he’d call his newspaper contacts so they could be in on the capture: first interviews with Captain Malcolm E. Considine, captor of the Wolverine Monster. And then Dudley Smith.

They were sitting in Stompanato’s car, 8:00 A.M., a cop-crook stakeout. Mal knew his scenario; Buzz had filled Johnny in on his and had greased the doorman of Minear’s building. The man told him Chaz left for breakfast every morning at 8:10 or so, walked over Mariposa to the Wilshire Derby and returned with the newspaper around 9:30. Buzz gave him a C-note to be gone from 9:30 to 10:00; during that half hour they’d have a wide-open shot.

Mal watched the door; Stompanato gave himself a pocketknife manicure and hummed opera. At 8:09 a small man in tennis sweater and slacks walked out the entrance of the Conquistador Apartments; the doorman gave them the high sign. Stompanato sliced a cuticle and smiled; Mal jacked his plug-ugly quotient way up.

They waited.

At 9:30, the doorman tipped his cap, got into a car and drove off; at 9:33 Chaz Minear walked into the building holding a newspaper. Stompanato put his knife away; Mal said, “Now.”

They quick-marched into the lobby. Minear was checking his mail slot; Johnny Stomp strode ahead to the elevator and opened the door. Mal dawdled by a wall mirror, straightening his necktie, getting a reverse view of Minear grabbing letters, Stompanato keeping the elevator door open with his foot, smiling like a good neighbor. Little Chaz walked over and into the trap; Mal came up behind him, nudged Johnny’s foot away and let the door close.

Minear pushed the button for three. Mal saw his door key already in his hand, grabbed it and rabbit-punched him. Minear dropped his newspaper and mail and doubled over; Johnny pinned him to the wall, a hand on his neck. Minear went purply blue; it looked like his eyes were about to pop out. Mal talked to him, a mimic of Dudley Smith. “We know you killed Felix Gordean. We were his partners on the Loftis job, and you’re going to tell us allll about Reynolds and his son. Allll about it. Lad.”

The door slid open; Mal saw “311” on the key and an empty hallway. He walked out, located the apartment four doorways over, unlocked the door and stood back. Stompanato forced Minear inside and released his neck; Chaz fell down rasping for breath. Mal said, “You know what to ask him. Do it while I toss for the files.”

Minear coughed words; Johnny stepped on his neck. Mal took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and tossed.

The apartment had five rooms: living room, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, study. Mal hit the study first—it was the furthest from Stompanato and the nance. A radio went on, the dial skimming across jazz, commercial jingles and the news, stopping at an opera, a baritone and a soprano going at each other over a thunderous orchestra. Mal thought he heard Minear scream; the music was turned up.

Mal worked.

The study—desk, filing cabinets and a chest of drawers—yielded stacks of movie scripts, carbons of Minear’s political letters, correspondence to him, miscellaneous memoranda and a .32 revolver, the cylinder empty, a cordited barrel. The bedroom was pastel-appointed and filled with piles of books; there was a wardrobe closet crammed with expensive clothes and rows of shoes arrayed in trees. An antique cabinet featured drawers spilling propaganda tracts; there was nothing but more shoes under the bed.

The opera kept wailing; Mal checked his watch, saw 10:25, an hour down and two rooms clean. He gave the bathroom a cursory toss; the music stopped; Stompanato popped his head in the doorway. He said, “The pansy spilled. Tell Meeks he better stay alive to get me my money.”

The hard boy looked green at the gills. Mal said, “I’ll do the kitchen and talk to him.”

“Forget it. Loftis and Claire what’s her face got the files. Come on, you’ve gotta hear this.”

Mal followed Johnny into the living room. Chaz Minear was sitting prim and proper in a rattan chair; there were welts on his cheeks and blood had congealed below his nostrils. His tennis whites were still spotless, his eyes were unfocused, he was wearing an exhausted, almost slaphappy grin. Mal looked at Stompanato; Johnny said, “I poured half a pint of Beefeater’s into him.” He tapped the sap hooked into his belt. “In vino veritas, capiche?”

Danny Upshaw had said the same thing to him—the one time they drank together. Mal took a chair facing Minear. “Why did you kill Gordean? Tell me.”

Minear, an easy mid-Atlantic accent. “Pride.”

He sounded proud. Mal said, “What do you mean?”