Joan werked. She logged evidence and ran circuits to the Alien Squad pen. She snagged file carbons and checked the Jap-arrest index. She ran into Lee Blanchard, outside the upstairs cot room. He stood by the file bank and flashed a shit-eating grin.
“We turned a habitué. Breuning and Carlisle grabbed him. They’ve got him in #3. Jack H. said you could watch.”
“Who is he?”
“His name’s Harold John Miciak. Breuning told me he’s a lulu.”
Joan stashed her carbons and walked to sweatbox row. #3 was spy-mirrored. A hall speaker spritzed sound. The hallway was SRO.
Jack Horrall. Sid Hudgens. Catbox Cal Lunceford. They played Mr. First Nighter and pressed their snouts up to the glass.
Joan joined them. Sid woo-woo’d her. Call-Me-Jack said, “Hi, Red.”
The sweatbox ran standard. Twelve by twelve, cork-baffled walls, floor-bolted table and chairs. Miciak sat and feigned nonchalance. Breuning and Carlisle hovered. They phone-booked dipshit’s shoulders and head.
The hall speaker spritzed. Breuning said, “Come on, give.” Carlisle said, “We can keep this up all day.” Miciak sustained swats. His forehead and cheekbones grew welts.
He was too thin. He looked used up. He sported a hairnet conk and shaved whitewalls. He wore a gone jacket with wide-wing lapels.
He raised his hands. “Feel free to desist. I always like to absorb some hurt before I grovel and spill. It reestablishes my white-man credentials.”
Breuning and Carlisle desisted. They hankie-wiped their brows. Breuning fed Miciak a cigarette. Carlisle lit it. Call-Me-Jack nudged Joan. Some floor show, huh?
Breuning straddled the spare chair. Carlisle sat on the table. Miciak blew smoke their way. Hudgens and Lunceford yukked.
Miciak cracked his knuckles. “You had some questions about that crib on 46th, right? You were seeking the lowdown from an informed perspective.”
Breuning said, “Come on, give.”
Carlisle said, “We’ll give you a lunch chit for Kwan’s Chinese Pagoda if you give good.”
Miciak picked his nose. “That’s a swell inducement.”
Breuning said, “Give. We’re not getting any younger here.”
Miciak scratched his balls. “I would call the 46th Street spot an arsenal of democracy and a monument to free-thinking egalitarianism. It’s what you might variously call a fuck joint, a blowhole, a jam-session crib, and a redoubt for thugs, goons, and the pro-Nazi crowd — but hep niggers, nigger jazz musicians, Mexicans, Mexicoons, and square-ass cops are welcome, too. Let me not tread lightly here. You’ve got jazz fiends, hopheads, boozehounds, terp men, bennie eaters, untold numbers of right-wing blowhards and Jew-haters, along with some name jazz guys. You’ve got coons like Wardell Gray, Dexter Gordon, and Charlie Parker — not to mention white cats like Stan Kenton, Art Pepper, and Bart Varsalona. You’ve got coon cops bringing in colored whores they popped for Pros-1 and fucking them upstairs. You’ve got mud-shark white girls who crave dark meat cavorting with shine smut-film actors with king-sized dicks, while the late Georgie Kapek takes pictures and peddles them for fifty cents apiece.”
Miciak stopped flat. Miciak mugged at the mirror. Miciak performed a smut-film trick. He stuck out his tongue and stretched it up to his nose.
The hallway crowd slack-jawed it. Joan lit a cigarette. Call-Me-Jack popped digitalis. The Sidster sucked his pocket flask.
Breuning said, “Don’t stop now.”
Carlisle said, “We’ll throw in free-drink coupons for Kwan’s.”
Miciak lit a cigarette. “Let us not euphemize or tread lightly here. You might call this exalted spot a lewd liaison lair. You’ve got divorced cops with no place to live paying the late Wendell Rice a buck a night to sleep on the floor. I would call the late Rice and Kapek the overlords of this hallowed joint. They’re selling confiscated Jap flags and crib sheets for the war-hire cop exams, not to mention confiscated Jap swords, daggers, and guns to these Mexican zoot punks out in Boyle Heights. The late Sensei Rice showed me a bayonet that must have been solid gold, all inlaid with this hammer-and-sickle design, made out of real rubies—”
Joan dropped her cigarette. It bounced off the mirror ledge and singed her skirt. She fretted her gold cuff links, and—
“—and you got this kid Link Rockwell. He’s on leave from the Navy, and he’s this jig preacher’s pal. He sells tickets to these sex shows upstairs — and you got lots of pro-Nazi, pro-Jap, and pro-Sinarquista talk, and lots of Sieg Heil, and hate tracts being passed around, and traffic cops fixing tickets for a buck a pop, and auto-theft cops selling hot cars and counterfeit license plates, and—”
Joan lit a fresh cigarette. Her hands shook. She looped back to the gold bayonet. She fretted one gold cuff link clean off.
Jack H. grabbed her arm and steered her down the hall. He was I-need-a-drink trembly and pre-heart-attack flush.
“It’s the guns, Red. It’s all bad, and the guns are the worst of it. Check the Alien Squad’s gun-confiscation roster and note all of Rice and Kapek’s filings. Cross-check that against the lab’s ballistics-comparison log, and pray that we’re not too far exposed and deep in the hole. Do it now, and I’ll owe you a very large favor.”
Kay was late. Joan hogged their regular booth at Dave’s Blue Room. She sipped her third scotch mist and chain-smoked. She respooled Japwerk and Jackwerk. It comprised a six-hour sprint.
She logged 161 guns. They ran the gamut. Revolvers/automatics/rifles/shotguns. Rice and Kapek seized them all. They were all missing.
Gone meant gone. They’re not in the lab vault. They’re not in the Central Station and/or DB vault. There’s no backup paperwerk. They haven’t been test-fired. There’s no ballistics-comp sheets.
She did the werk. Lee Blanchard kibitzed. He laid out THIS BIG SNAFU and the upshot.
Breuning and Carlisle hard-nosed Miciak. They took him to the Lyman’s sweat room and black-gloved him. He gave up relative bupkes. He refused to rat his other klubhaus confreres. He said that Rice and Kapek bought off a slew of Newton Street blues, and quashed reports of klubhaus misconduct. The haus thrived behind quasi-official approval. Local yokels ignored it. Preacher Mimms owned the property. He greased the yokels with fat Christmas baskets. They recruited saps for his back-to-Africa shuck. The klubhaus was protected and sacrosanct.
Breuning and Carlisle beat Miciak half-dead. Thad Brown halted it. He drove Miciak to Queen of Angels and pledged a waltz on two 459 warrants. Miciak was half-dead and relieved.
She werked. She reported to Jack Horrall. Call-Me-Jack pledged his large favor. It floored her. She got floored twice in one day. Miciak blabs. Wendell Rice shows off this gold bayonet. Pinch me, I’m—
There’s Kay. She’s wearing her houndstooth-huntress ensemble. The black beret clashes. The saddle shoes are pure Kay.
Joan said, “You’re late.”
Kay slid into the booth. “Ask me why I’m late.”
“Why are you late?”
“I’m late, because I ran into Jack Horrall. He told me the whole story three times, and to his credit, he never once mentioned your legs. I’m late, because I was looking for a certain item in sterling silver.”
Joan laughed. “He served drinks in his office. He said, ‘Don’t you dare cry,’ and ‘Quit blushing, you’ve earned it.’ ”