He got inside. He smelled Ellen’s cigarette smoke and perfume. He made for the stairway. He squished all over the living room rug.
Mike and Dick squished toward him. They hit the stairway. Everybody went sssssshhh.
They scoped Tommy’s muddy footprints. They heard floorboard creaks and foot scuffs upstairs.
Mike winked. Dick did that slice-the-throat thing. Elmer gulped — mother dog, holy shit—
Ellen screamed.
Mike whooped. Dick whooped. They ran upstairs and raised a ruckus. They bumped each other off the walls and hit the landing. Elmer heard front-window glass shatter. Tommy pulled some human-fly stunt.
Elmer ran back out the door. There’s that black sky and sluice rain, there’s half a glimpse. There’s Human Fly Tommy, running northbound—
He’s two front yards up. He’s cutting toward the sidewalk. There’s no soaked grass and more traction there.
Elmer cut crossways and hit asphalt. His flapping raincoat slowed him down. He gained ground, lost ground, gained ground. He aimed at Tommy’s back and popped three rounds. Muzzle flash turned the rain red.
Tommy gained ground. Mike and Dick fired — back there, long-distance. Shots ricocheted off front porches.
Tommy ran east on 26th. Elmer caught a sideways look and emptied his clip. The flare messed with his eyes and made little halos.
Elmer ran east. He reloaded and sprinted. His raincoat slipped off. Window shades went up. He got some sight-in light.
He gained ground. His wind faltered. Something dropped from Tommy’s pants pocket. He stopped and aimed tight. He had him, he had him, something said DON’T. He squeezed three shots wide on purpose.
Tommy cut north. He’s a Human Fly. He’s a fleet-foot rape-o. Watch him vamoose.
Elmer heard Mike and Dick, way back there. Shots bounced off the street. Them dumbfucks blasted will-o’-the-wisps.
Elmer stopped and caught some breath. He walked east and checked the sidewalk.
Tommy dropped something. Elmer saw it and picked it up. Well, now. Tommy dropped a red leather address book.
Ellen said, “Swell New Year’s.”
Elmer said, “I had that same thought.”
“I guess you’re not much of a shot.”
“Come on. At night, in the rain?”
They drove through Hollywood. Ellen flopped at the Green Gables Apartments. It adjoined Paramount and lubed early cast calls. Ellen had a second marriage going. Two husbands and a kid at age twenty-seven. Her hubby was off with the Air Corps. She serviced Elmer’s clients out of ennui. She serviced Elmer, likewise.
Elmer hit Melrose, westbound. Call it Aquacade by Night. Muted streetlamps. The blackout and curb-high floodwater.
Ellen lit a cigarette. “He pulled out his pecker and waved it. That’s when I screamed.”
Elmer yocked. Ellen wagged a pinkie. Tommy Glennon — hung like a cashew.
Elmer yocked anew. Ellen groped his trouser pockets and extracted his roll. She peeled off a fifty and stuffed the roll back.
“That felt nice.”
“Not tonight. The weekend, maybe.”
“I’ve got late duty. My bodyguard gig with Hideo Ashida.”
Ellen said, “He’s cute, for a Jap. Do you think he’s queer?”
“Come on. He’s the best forensic chemist in this white man’s PD.”
Ellen tossed her cigarette. “Tell Jack Horrall thanks for the fifty, and tell him no more bait jobs for this little black duck.”
“Anything else?”
“Tell him I said you should go back in the Marines. There’s a war on, and you should be fighting it, like my husband.”
Elmer said, “Do you love me?”
Ellen said, “No. You’re just my wartime diversion.”
Ellen scrammed at the Gables. Elmer U-turned and booked east. This nutty brainstorm percolated. His short hairs prickled on overdrive.
Tommy G. lived at the Gordon Hotel. Breuning and Carlisle were too lazy to go toss it. The Gordon was straight up Melrose.
Let’s prowl Tommy’s room. Let’s sniff leads. Let’s get some buy-back on that fuckup. Let’s mess with Dudley Smith.
The Dudster gored his goat. Hey, Elmer — toast this guy. That don’t sit right. He ain’t no black-robe killer.
The goddamn rain. Backed-up sewers. Mud slides. No hot toddies, no swell women.
Elmer parked upside the Gordon and puddle-jumped in. The lobby was threadbare. A clerk dozed by the switchboard. He wore a green felt leprechaun hat.
Tommy rented 216. Elmer walked upstairs and braced the door. He caught zero voices and no radio warble. He pulled his piece and shoulder-popped the jamb.
No Tommy. No nobody. Just this flop. Just this twelve-by-twelve den of despair.
No bathroom. One closet. A milk-bottle pissoir by the bed. No chairs. One closet, one chest of drawers.
Elmer locked himself in. Thunder shook the whole building. Geeks yelled “Happy New Year!” out on Melrose.
He checked the closet. It contained nada. That meant Tommy lammed. He had a car or stole a car. He traded shots with three cops and vamoosed. Farewell, you rape-o cocksucker.
Elmer tossed the drawers. He caught some provocative shit.
A teach-yourself-Spanish book. A smut-photo book. Spicy donkey-show pix, à la Tijuana. Note the porkpie hat on El Burro.
Nazi armbands. Jap flags. One tattoo stencil. Note the excised parts:
Outlines for swastikas. Outlines for an “SQ” circumscribed by coiled snakes.
Elmer thumbed Tommy’s address book. More odd shit accrued. Look — there’s no addresses and no full names.
Look — a “J.S.” and a Hollywood exchange. “St. Vib’s” and a downtown exchange. It’s probably St. Vibiana’s catholic church.
Look — RE-8761. No names or initials. Republic’s a south-of-downtown exchange.
Look — MA-4993. That number’s familiar. He scoured his brain and snagged it.
Eddie Leng’s Kowloon. A Chinatown slop chute. It’s open-all-nite. It features tasty shark-fin soup.
Eddie Leng was a Four Families tong geek. Tommy G. was a known tong associate.
Plus: three more no name/no initial numbers.
Elmer grabbed the wall phone and roused the switchboard geek. Get me MA-6884, pronto.
The Detective Bureau. The Vice Squad night line. It was manned round the clock.
He got four rings and a pickup. He heard noisemaker squeal. The clerk came off blotto.
“Uh... yeah?”
“Rise and shine, dipshit. You got phone numbers to run.”
The clerk yawned. “That you, Elmer?”
“It’s me, so grab your pencil.”
“I got it here someplace.”
Elmer said, “HO-4612. The subscriber’s got the initials J.S.”
“Okay, I got—”
“The number for St. Vibiana’s Church, and the subscriber name for RE-8761.”
The clerk perked up. “I know that last number. It’s a hot-box pay phone, and them farkakte phone-probe Feds been looking at it. A lot of hinky City Hall guys make their hinky calls from there.”
Elmer said, “Don’t stop now.”
“Who’s stopping? I was just pausing.”
“Come on. Don’t string this—”
“It used to be a bookie’s hot-box, and the drift is it still is. It’s over on 11th and Broadway, by the Herald. That farkakte reporter Sid Hudgens stiffs his unkosher calls from it.”
Sid the Yid. Scandal scribe, putz provocateur. St. Vib’s — the papist hot spot. Eddie Leng’s eatery.
Tommy, what does this shit portend?