"Well . . . you're good, and in time you might be really good. And I don't doubt your killer instinct for a second. But your father was ruthless and likable. And you're not, so . .
Ed made fists. "So, Uncle Arthur? Cop who left the Department for money to cop who never would--what's your advice?"
De Spain ifinched. "So be a sycophant and suck up to the right men. Kiss William H. Parker's ass and pray to be in the right place at the right time."
"Like you and my father?"
"_Touché_, Sunny Jim."
Ed looked at his uniform: custom blues on a hanger. Razorcreased, sergeant's stripes, a single hashmark. De Spain said, "Gold bars soon, Eddie. And braid on your cap. And I wouldn't jerk your chain if I didn't care."
"I know."
"And you _are_ a goddamned war hero."
Ed changed the subject. "It's Christmas. You're thinking about Thomas."
"I keep thinking I could have told him something. He didn't even have his holster flap open."
"A purse snatcher with a gun? He couldn't have known." De Spain put out his cigar. "Thomas was a natural, and I always thought he should be telling me things. That's why I tend to spell things out for you."
"He's twelve years dead and I'll bury him as a policeman."
"I'll forget you said that."
"No, remember it. Remember it when I make the Bureau. And when Father offers toasts to Thomas and Mother, don't get maudlin, it ruins him for days."
De Spain stood up, flushing; Preston Exley walked in with snifters and a bottle.
Ed said, "Merry Christmas, Father. And congratulations."
Preston poured drinks. "Thank you. Exley Construction tops the Arroyo Seco Freeway job with a kingdom for a glorified rodent, and I'll never eat another piece of cheese. A toast, gentlemen. To the eternal rest of my son Thomas and my wife Marguerite, to the three of us assembled here."
The men drank; De Spain fixed refills. Ed offered his father's favorite toast: "To the solving of crimes that require absolute justice."
Three more shots downed. Ed said, "Father, I didn't know you knew Raymond Dieterling."
Preston smiled. "I've known him in a business sense for years. Art and I have kept the contract secret at Raymond's request--he wants to announce it on that infantile television program of his."
"Did you meet him during the Atherton case?"
"No, and of course I wasn't in the construction business then. Arthur, do you have a toast to propose?"
De Spain poured short ones. "To a Bureau assignment for our soon-to-be lieutenant."
Laughter, hear-hears. Preston said, "Joan Morrow was inquiring about your love life, Edmund. I think she's smitten."
"Do you see a debutante as a cop's wife?"
"No, but I could picture her married to a ranking policeman."
"Chief of Detectives?"
"No, I was thinking more along the lines of commander of the Patrol Division."
"Father, Thomas was going to be your chief of detectives, but he's dead. Don't deny me my opportunity. Don't make me live an old dream of yours."
Preston stared at his son. "Point taken, and I commend you for speaking up. And granted, that was my original dream. But the truth is that I don't think you have the eye for human weakness that makes a good detective."
His brother: a math brain crazed for pretty girls. "And Thomas did?"
"Yes."
"Father, I would have shot that purse snatcher the second he went for his pocket."
De Spain said, "Goddammit"; Preston shushed him. "That's all right. Edmund, a few questions before I return to my guests. One, would you be willing to plant corroborative evidence on a suspect you knew was guilty in order to ensure an indictment?"
"I'd have to--"
"Answer yes or no."
"I . . . no."
"Would you be willing to shoot hardened armed robbers in the back to offset the chance that they might utilize flaws in the legal system and go free?"
"I . . ."
"Yes or no, Edmund."
"No."
"And would you be willing to beat confessions out of suspects you knew to be guilty?"
"No."
"Would you be willing to rig crime scene evidence to support a prosecuting attorney's working hypothesis?"
"No."
Preston sighed. "Then for God's sake, stick to assignments where you won't have to make those choices. Use the superior inteffigence the good Lord gave you."
Ed looked at his uniform. "I'll use that intelligence as a detective."
Preston smiled. "Detective or not, you have qualities of persistence that Thomas lacked. You'll excel, my war hero."
The phone rang; De Spain picked it up. Ed thought of rigged Jap trenches--and couldn't meet Preston's eyes. Dc Spain said, "It's Lieutenant Frieling at the station. He said the jail's almost full, and two officers were assaulted earlier in the evening. Two suspects are in custody, with four more outstanding. He said you should clock in early."
Ed turned back to his father. Preston was down the hall, swapping jokes with Mayor Bowron in a Moochie Mouse hat.
CHAPTER THREE
Press clippings on his corkboard: "Dope Crusader Wounded in Shootout"; "Actor Mitchum Seized in Marijuana Shack Raid." _Hush-Hush_ articles, framed on his desk: "Hopheads Quake When Dope Scourge Cop Walks Tall"; "Actors Agree: _Badge of Honor_ Owes Authenticity to Hard-hitting Technical Advisor." The _Badge_ piece featured a photo: Sergeant Jack Vincennes with the show's star, Brett Chase. The piece did not feature dirt from the editor's private file: Brett Chase as a pedophile with three quashed sodomy beefs.
Jack Vincennes glanced around the Narco pen--deserted, dark--just the light in his cubicle. Ten minutes short of midnight; he'd prpmised Dudley Smith he'd type up an organized crime report for Intelligence Division; he'd promised Lieutenant Frieling a case of booze for the station party--Hush-Hush Sid Hudgens was supposed to come across with rum but hadn't called. Dudley's report: a favor shot his way because he typed a hundred words a minute; a favor returned tomorrow: a meet with Dud and Ellis Loew, Pacific Dining Car lunch--work on the line, work to earn him juice with the D.A.'s Office. Jack lit a cigarette, read.
Some report: eleven pages long, very verbal, very Dudley. The topic: L.A. mob activity with Mickey Cohen in stir. Jack edited, typed.
Cohen was at McNeil Island Federal Prison: three to seven, income tax evasion. Davey Goldman, Mickey's money man, was there: three to seven, down on six counts of federal tax fraud. Smith predicted possible skirmishing between Cohen minion Morris Jahelka and Jack "The Enforcer" Whalen; with Mafia overlord Jack Dragna deported, they loomed as the two men most likely to control loansharking, bookmaking, prostitution and the race wire racket. Smith stated that Jahelka was too ineffectual to require police surveillance; that John Stompanato and Abe Teitlebaum, key Cohen strongarms, seemed to have gone legitimate. Lee Vachss, contract trigger employed by Cohen, was working a religious racket--selling patent medicines guaranteed to induce mystical experiences.
Jack kept typing. Dud's take hit wrong: Johnny Stomp and Kikey Teitlebaum were pure bent--they could never go pure straight. He fed in a fresh sheet.
A new topic: the February '50 Cohen/Dragna truce meeting-- twenty-five pounds of heroin and a hundred and fifty grand allegedly stolen. Jack heard rumors: an ex-cop named Buzz Meeks heisted the summit, took off and was gunned down near San Bernardino--Cohen goons and rogue L.A. cops killed him, a Mickey contract: Meeks stole the Mick blind and fucked his woman. The horse was supposedly long gone unfound. Dudley's theory: Meeks buried the money and shit someplace unknown and was later killed by "person or persons unknown"--probably a Cohen gunman. Jack smiled: if LAPD was in on a Meeks hit, Dud would never implicate the Department--even in an interdepartmental report.