White Jazz Part 53

Phone-booth sweats-drenched--I cracked the door for a breeze.

"And no backup men at the Ranch Market--Breuning might spot them."

"Agreed. Do it."

Pay phone to pay phone--bug-fear precautions. Long distance--twenty dimes--Newton Station to Mel's Drive Inn, Fresno.

Glenda talked a blue streak: Touch told Mickey she drove to TJ. for a sc.r.a.pe. Dig her new stand-in-- Rock Rockwell, full drag. Dig Fed witness Mickey on TV--blatant Vampire plugs.

Reckless Glenda--tell me everything.

She was carhopping now: roller skates, cowgirl outfits. A Fed fugitive-- f.u.c.k it--she spilled a malt on the Fresno DA--and he loved it. Good tips, getting gooood on skates--really gooood tray dips. Stylish Glenda, strong Glenda--tell me ANYTHING.

Her blue streak dwindled; her tough-girl shtick tapped out hoa.r.s.e. Scared Glenda-chain-smoking to tamp down her nerves.

I told her: You scared me.

You cut me loose from this woman I had no business loving.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Hollywood Ranch Market-- Fountain and Vine.

Open-air entrance, parking lot. Cars, shoppers, box boys pushing carts.

8:02 P.M.--standing curbside. Sweaty, chafing--my bulletproof vest fit tight.

Breuning walking toward me-across-the-lot diagonal.

Packing a suitcase.

Fatter than fat--_his_ vest bunched up at the hips.

Parking-lot lights: humdrum shoppers lit up. No backup types dawdling.

I cut over. Breuning clenched up-fat neck toady f.u.c.k.

"Show me the money."

"Dud said you should hand up Vecchio first."

"Just show me."

He opened the bag--just a crack. Cash stacks--fifty grand easy.

"Satisfied?"

A box boy circled by, hands in his ap.r.o.n. A toupee, familiar-- Breuning eyeballed him--Say what?

Black-and-white-glossy familiar--slot surveillance pix-- Breuning fumbled his piece up-- His suitcase hit the ground.

I snagged my .45 on my vest.

The box boy shot through his ap.r.o.n two-handed--Breuning caught two clean head shots.

Screams.

A breeze-money flying.

I got my piece free; the box boy swung my way--two hands out.

Point blank: three shots slammed my vest and pitched me backward. Muzzle smoke in his eyes--I shot through it.

Point blank--no way to miss--a b.l.o.o.d.y toupee sheared clean, Jesus f.u.c.k-- Screams.

Shoppers grabbing money.

Breuning and the box boy tangled up dead.

Another "box boy"--braced against a car hood, aiming at me.

People running/milling/huddling/eating pavement.

I threw myself p.r.o.ne. Shots--rifle loud.

Roof snipers.

That box boy blending in--human shields bobbing every which way.

Snipers--Exley backup.

Firing at the box boy--missing wide.

Bullhorn amplified: "Cease fire! Hostage!"

I stood up. "Hostage": box boy dragging an old lady backward.

Elbows flailing, clawing at him--resisting mean.

Blade flash--he slit her throat down to the windpipe.

Bullhorn roar: "Get him!"

Rifle shots strafed the old lady--box boy hit the sidewalk hauling dead weight.

Run-- Straight across diagonal--his blind side.

"DON'T SHOOT, HE'S OURS!"--somebody/somewhere.

On him, his shield up-this mouth-gaping, neck-severed thing. I shot through her face and ripped them separate; I matched his face as one more Fed-photo dead man.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

"The crime wave that has local authorities baffled continues. A scant hour ago four people were shot and killed at the picturesque Hollywood Ranch Market, two of them identified as Midwest-based criminals posing as market employees. An LAPD officer was also gunned down, as was an innocent woman taken hostage by one of the criminals. Thousands of dollars dropped from a suitcase were scattered in the ensuing pandemonium, and when calculating in the gangland slayings in Watts earlier today that also left four dead, the City of the Angels begins to seem like the City of the Devils."

My motel room, TV news. Call it for _real_: Exley backup, Smith targets: Breuning and me. A Dudley charade: rogue cops slain, bag cash found. Movie time pending then: my rep even more trashable postmortem.

"... LAPD Chief of Detectives Edmund J. Exley spoke to reporters at the scene."

Recap-my Newton check-in call: "Tommy and Lucille are still cruising Lincoln Heights, and they still haven't seen each other. And. . . uh.. . sir? Your pal Officer Riegle called in. . . and. . . uh. . . sir, he said to tell you he heard that Chief Exley issued an APB order on you 'cause you left that shooting scene without telling anybody."

Exley on camera: "At this time we are withholding the ident.i.ties of the victims for legal reasons. I will neither confirm nor refute a rival television station's speculation on the ident.i.ty of the officer who was killed, and at this time I can only state that he was killed in the line of duty, while attempting to entrap a criminal with marked LAPD money."

Flashback: that slot man eating that old lady's brains.

I called El Segundo. Ring, ring--"Yeah, who's this?"--Pete Bondurant.

"It's me."

"Hey, were you at the Ranch Market? Some news guy said Mike Breuning got it and one cop bugged out."

"Does Chick know about Breuning?"

"Yeah, and it's spooking him no end. Hey, _were you there?_"

"I'll be over in an hour and tell you about it. Is Turentine there?"

"He's here."

"Have him set up a tape recorder and ask him if he's got the equipment to monitor police calls. Tell him I want to tap into band 7 at Newton Street Station."

"Suppose he doesn't have the stuff?"

"Then tell him to get it."

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The stash pad--my low-rent unit.

Pete, Freddy T.; Chick Vecchio cuffed to a heat pipe. A tape rig and shortwave set--with band 7 pickup.

Mobile units calling in to Newton. Broadcasting base to cars: Exley himself.

Incoming: Tommy and Lucille cruising separate--Lincoln Heights, Chinatown, moving south.

The point man at the K. house: "I heard it out the boom mike. It sounded to me like J.C. just slapped the p.i.s.s out of Madge. To top it off, there's Fed cars driving by on the QT every hour or so."

Unit 3-B71: "Lucille's walking around Chinatown asking questions. She's looking sorta distraught, and that last joint she went into--the Kowloon--it looked like a dope front to me."

Pete--wolfing spareribs.

Fred--nursing a highball.

Chick--purple bruises, half his scalp scorched.

Fred poured himself a refill. "The Kafesjians and you. I don't get it."

"It's a long story."

"Sure, and I wouldn't mind listening to something other than these G.o.dd.a.m.n radio calls."

Pete said, "Don't tell him s.h.i.t, it'll end up in _Hush-Hush_."

"I'm just thinking twelve mobile tail cars and Ed Exley monitoring calls himself means it's some kind of big deal, which maybe Dave should elaborate on. Like for instance, who are these Tommy and Lucille chumps looking for?"