“I know. But she’s as tough and smart and as ruthless as any mobster I’ve ever known. I’ve never interrogated anyone with more brains or guts.”
“In the past few years,” Bill said, “the Mafia’s turning up everywhere. When I was a cop, in the fifties, the Mafia didn’t even have a toehold in California. Now, Christ, they’re everywhere.”
“Back east,” I said, “the Mafia owns the politicians. That’s the real secret of their power. And that’s what they’re trying to do out here. They’re succeeding, too. Especially in Los Angeles. They’ve got crooked politicians and crooked lawyers in their pocket. It’s a hard combination to beat.”
“Does Shelly’s lawyer have mob connections?” he asked.
“I don’t know whether he’s connected or not,” I answered. “I do know, though, that he’s rich, and he’s got a Beverly Hills practice. I asked a friend of mine in Los Angeles to check him out for me. Just for the hell of it.”
“I’ll bet you a lunch that he’s connected.”
“No bet. But lunch is a good idea.” I looked at the clock behind the bar. “I’d better get back to the squad room. Some reporters are waiting for me.”
“And I’d better go home and go to bed.”
We walked out of the bar together, and shook hands on the sidewalk outside. During the last half hour, a light rain had started to fall. The sidewalk glistened; cars threw up plumes of mist as they passed.
“The next time there’s a poker game,” I said, turning up my collar, “I’ll call you. Try to make it.”
“I’ll make it. Thanks.”
We smiled at each other, nodded goodbye and hurried off in different directions, both of us hunched against the rain.