James Ellroy - L. A. Confidential

Now he ripped-down the spine, across the grain, leather and paper shredded to bits.

The phone, IAD direct. Buzz, buzz, "Internal Affairs, Kleckner."

"It's White. Put Exley on."

"White, you're in troub-" a new voice on the line. "This is Exley. White, where are you?"

"Arrowhead. I just read Lynn's diary and got the whole story on your old man, Atherton and Dieterling. «The whole fucking story». I'm running a suspect down, and when I find him it's your daddy on the six o'clock news."

"I'll make a deal with you. Just listen."

"Never."

Back to L.A., the old Spade routine: Chinatown, the Strip, the Biltmore, his third circuit since time went haywire. The chinks were starting to look like the Cowboy Rhythm Band, the El Rancho guys were growing slant eyes. Every known haunt triple-checked, three times everything-except for a single hit on his agent.

Bud drove to Nat Penzler Associates. The connecting door was open-Mr. Natsky was eating a sandwich. He took a bite, said, "Oh shit."

"Spade's been ditching out on his gig. He must be costing you money."

Penzler eased a hand behind his desk. "Caveman, if you knew the grief my clients cause me."

"You don't sound so concerned."

"Bad pennies always turn up."

"Do you know where he is?"

Penzler brought his hand up. "My guess is on the planet Pluto, hanging out with his pal Jack Daniels."

"What were you doing with your hand?"

"Scratching my balls. You want the job? It pays five yards a week, but you have to kick back ten percent to your agent."

"Where is he?"

"He is somewhere in the vicinity of nowhere I know. Check with me next week and write when you get brains."

"Like that, huh?"

"Caveman, if I knew would I withhold from a bruiser like you?" Bud kicked him out of his chair. Penzler hit the floor; the chair spun, tipped. Bud reached under the desk, pulled out a bundle wrapped with string. A foot on top, a jerk on the knot-clean black cowboy shirts.

Penzler stood up. "Lincoln Heights. The basement at Sammy Ling's, and you didn't get it from Natsky."

Ling's Chow Mein: a dive on Broadway up from Chinatown. Parking spaces in back; a rear entrance to the kitchen. No outside basement access, steam shooting from an underground vent. Bud circled the place, heard voices out the vent. Make the trapdoor in the kitchen.

He found a two-by-four in the lot, went in the back way. Two slants frying meat, an old geek skinning a duck. A fix on the trapdoor, easy: lift the pallet by the oven.

They spotted him. The young chinks jabbered; Papa-san waved them quiet. Bud held his shield out.

The old man rubbed fingers. "I pay! I pay I pay! You go!"

"Spade Cooley, Papa. You go downstairs and tell him Natsky brought the laundry. Chop-chop."

"Spade pay! You leave alone! I pay! I pay!"

The kids circled. Papa-san waved his cleaver.

"You go now! Go now! I pay!"

Bud fixed a line on the floor. Papa stepped over it.

Bud swung his stick-pops caught it waist-high. He crashed into the stove, his face hit a burner, his hair caught fire. The kids charged; Bud got their legs in one shot. They hit the floor tangled up-Bud smashed in their ribs. Pops doused his head in the sink, charged with his face scorched black.

A roundhouse to the knees-Papa went down glued to that cleaver. Bud stepped on his hand, cracked the fingers-Papa let go screaming. Bud dragged him to the oven, kicked the pallet loose. Yank the trapdoor, drag the old man downstairs.

Fumes: opium, steam. Bud kicked Papa-san quiet. Through the fumes: dope suckers on mattresses.

Bud kicked through them. All chinks-they grumbled, swatted, sucked back to dreamland. Smoke: in his face, up his nose, breathing hard so he took it down his lungs. Steam like a beacon: a sweat room at the back.

He kicked over to the door. Through a mist: naked Spade Cooley, three naked girls. Giggles, arms and legs cockeyed-an orgy on a slippery tile bench. Spade so tangled up in women that you couldn't shoot him clean.

Bud flipped a wall switch. The steam died, the mist fizzled. Spade looked over. Bud took his gun out.

KILL HIM.

Cooley moved first: a shield, two girls pressed tight. Bud moved in-yanking arms, legs, nails raking his face. The girls slipped, stumbled, tumbled out the door. Spade said, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph."

Smoke inside him, brewing up his very own dreamland. Last rites, stretch the moment. "Kathy Janeway, Jane Mildred Hamsher, Lynette Ellen Kendrick, Sharon-"

Cooley yelled, "GODDAMN YOU IT'S PERKINS!"

The moment snapped-Bud saw his gun half-triggered. Colors swirled around him; Cooley talked rapid fire. "I saw Deuce with that last girlie, that Kendrick. I know'd he liked to hurt hooers, and when that last girlie turned up dead on the TV I asked him 'bout it. Deuce, he like to scared me to death, so's I took off on this here toot. Mister, you gotta believe me."

Color flashes: Deuce Perkins, plain vicious. One color blinking- turquoise, Spade's hands. "Those rings, where'd you get them?"

Cooley pulled a towel over his lap. "Deuce, he makes them. He brings a hobby kit with him on the road. He's been crackin' all these vague-type jokes for years, how they protects his hands for his intimate-type work, and now I know what he means."

"Opium. Can he get it?"

"That cracker shitbird steals my shit! Mister, you gotta believe me!"

Starting to. "My killing dates put you in the right place to do the jobs. Just you. Your booking records show different goddamn guys traveling with you, so how do you-"

"Deuce, he's been my road manager since '49, he always travels with me. Mister, you gotta believe me!"

"«Where is he?»"

"I don't know!"

"Girlfriends, buddies, other perverts. «Give»."

"That miserable sumbitch got no friends I know of 'cept that wop shitbird Johnny Stompanato. Mister, you gotta believe-"

"I believe you. You believe I'll kill you if you scare him away from me?"

"Praise Jesus, I believe."

Bud walked into the smoke. The chinks were still on the nod, Papa was just barely breathing.

R &I on Perkins:

No California beefs, clean on his Alabama parole-he'd spent '44-'46 on a chain gang for animal sodomy. Transient musician, no known address listed. K.A. confirmation on Johnny Stompanato-ditto Lee Vachss and Abe Teitlebaum-mob punks all. Bud hung up, remembered a talk with Jack Vincennes-he'd rousted Deuce at a «Badge of Honor» party- Johnny, Teitlebaum and Vachss were there with him.

Kid gloves: Johnny used to be his snitch, Johnny hated him, feared him.

Bud called the DMV, got Stomp's phone number-ten rings, no answer. Two more no-answers: the Cowboy Rhythm Band at the Biltmore, the El Rancho. Kikey Teitlebaum's deli next- Kikey and Johnny were tight.

A run out Pico, shaking off fumes. A keen edge settling in: get Perkins alone, kill him. Then Exley.

Bud parked, looked in the window. A slow afternoon, pay dirt-Johnny Stomp, Kikey T. at a table.

He walked in. They spotted him, whispered. Years since he'd seen them-Abe was fatter, Stomp still guinea slick.

Kikey waved. Bud grabbed a chair, carried it over. Stomp said, "Wendell White. How's tricks, «paesano?»"

"Tricky. How's tricks with Lana Turner?"

"Trickier. Who told you?"

"Mickey C."

Teitlebaum laughed. "Must have a hole like the Third Street Tunnel. Johnny's leaving for Acapulco with her tonight, and me, I shack with Sadie five-fingers. White, what brings you here? I ain't seen you since Dick Stens used to work for me."

"I'm looking for Deuce Perkins."

Johnny tap-tapped the table. "So talk to Spade Cooley."

"Spade don't know where he is."

"So why ask me? Mickey tell you Deuce and me are close?" No ritual question: what do you want him for? And fat-mouth Kikey too quiet. "Spade said you and him were acquaintances."