by Max Lockhart
"What are ya talking about?" asked Johnny, looking around at the rowdy crowd. He didn't think there were any kind of contacts in this crowd that a nice girl would want to make. At least, not without checking out the results of their blood test.
"You know, show business types, producers and directors, people like that. They come to these matches and they're always on the lookout for a new talent. Maybe I'll get discovered."
"Oh, Lordy!" exclaimed Johnny as he spotted the Blond Bombshell, who was dressed with one thing in mind, and it wasn't Roller Derby.
"Well, it's not impossible," said Dottie, her full lips rounding into a pout. "Lana Turner got discovered in a drugstore."
The Roller Derby star shot Johnny a look he could chin himself on, and he smiled weakly and scooted closer to Dottie.
"I mean, you don't have to be so negative about it," continued Dottie. "This is L.A. Anything can happen."
It sure could, thought Johnny as he wrapped his arm around Dottie's shoulders, and hugged her. A man could get raped by a six-foot blond Amazon.
Dottie dropped her chili dog, barely catching it before it landed chili side down on her pedal pushers. "Are you touched, or what?"
"No, no," said Johnny, nuzzling her ear and peering at the blonde out of one eye. "You just look good to me tonight." At least he could get his arms around her chest with room to spare.
Dottie patted the mass of curls that served as bangs and preened, spotting the blonde leering at Johnny in the process. She self-consciously straightened up to look taller and pulled her shoulders back to compete with the Roller Queen's historic proportions.
"Quit wiggling," said Johnny. "I could keep a grip on a greased pig easier than you."
Dottie arched her back to push her own attributes to their furthest limits. "I'm not wiggling," she hissed. "I just don't want to slump, that's all."
Johnny glanced down at Dottie's uplifted bosom, then at the Blond Bombshell who was doing a little back-bowing of her own. "God help me," he muttered.
His prayer was answered as the crowd roared and both women forgot their bosoms in the excitement of watching Joe Quinlan thunder around the oval. Nicky Whitehorse threw a bone-rattling block, freeing Joe who dipped past a swinging Silver City Indian. The announcer's voice rang out over the noise of the crowd.
And Quinlan gets by Baby Bob
Bluewater. Look out, Waylon!
Quinlan dumped another Indian on the hard wood. With quick, economic strides, he bore down on another waiting Silver City Indian defenseman. Johnny covered his ears as the crowd competed with the announcer's voice.
One more Silver Indian to go. Ten
seconds to go in the second period.
Can he do it?... seven...
six... five... four...
three... two... one...
Quinlan slammed back and forth into the huge defenseman, and Johnny was on his feet yelling. At the last second Quinlan seemed to hesitate. The bell went off and he was blasted against the rail. Johnny joined the crowd in one long, collective groan. Even the announcer sounded sympathetic.
A-w-w, too bad, folks. Wild Man Joe
Quinlan's bid falls a little short.
Indians 24... Thunderbolts 20... at
the end of the second period.
Johnny scooted to the edge of his seat. Quinlan was hanging on to the rail, his head down like he didn't have enough strength to raise it. Poor guy was probably trying to get his breath back from wherever that defenseman knocked it. He opened his mouth to yell something encouraging when the Roller Derby star looked up at someone in the crowd. Johnny turned his head in the same direction and froze. Mickey Gold was sitting in the row behind the scoreboard. And he was saluting Joe with his program.
"What the hell is going on?" said Johnny aloud.
"The Thunderbolts are losing," said Dottie helpfully.
"I know that! I mean, what's going on up there?" He saw Dottie's puzzled expression and waved his hand as if he were swatting a fly. "Forget it."
He half rose from his seat when he saw Nicky Whitehorse grab the rail next to Joe. "What the hell's wrong with you tonight, Quinlan? You should have blown right by that bum."
Damn good question, thought Johnny.
"You're skatin' like a damn sissy afraid he's going to fall down and go bang," continued Whitehorse.
"So I slipped up. I'm not goddamn perfect, you know," answered Joe.
Nicky punched Joe's shoulder. "You better be tonight. We need the Wild Man. Get the lead out and get in the game, man. This is our chance to win a little pride back," he said, and skated angrily off.
Johnny got up and took three steps to the rail. "You'll get them next period, champ." You better, or I'm gonna want to know what you got going with Mickey Gold, he added silently.
Joe's eyes narrowed. "You seem pretty sure about me, kid."
Johnny tucked his hands in his pockets. "Sure enough to put a C-note down on you." He saw that desperate look in Quinlan's eyes and turned up the heat. "Cleary told me when the chips are down, you can always put your last dollar on Joe Quinlan."
Like hell, he thought as he sat back down. Even if Cleary had said that, Johnny Betts had too much moxie to bet a nickel on somebody as close to doing some straightjacket time as Joe Quinlan. And to think that Cleary was rubbing noses with a killer just to help the crazy bastard.
He watched the pack set up in preparation for starting the period. Johnny shook his head in amazement. What a way to make a living. The Thunderbolts and the Indians looked as if they had already gone fifteen rounds with a meat grinder. He saw Nicky Whitehorse, winded and bleeding, nudge Quinlan, and he edged forward on his seat to listen.
"This is it, Joseph. Last chance to make up for all the lost years," said the big Sioux.
Last chance to play it straight, champ, thought Johnny as he looked over his shoulder at Mickey Gold. The mobster wore a grin like the cat that ate the canary, and Johnny knew his suspicions were right. Gold had something set up with Quinlan. Question was: would Joe Quinlan go through with the deal?
Turning back to the oval, Johnny saw Quinlan glance at the scoreboard, then at his teammates, then finally up at Mickey Gold. What's it going to be, champ? he wondered, and watched for a long moment until Joe Quinlan's lips spread into a wild, defiant grin.
"Let's cream these guys. Show 'em who's got guts," said Joe, and Johnny sank back in his seat and let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. Then he started worrying. Joe Quinlan might have guts, but he wouldn't after Mickey Gold got hold of him.
The announcer's voice rang out in the auditorium.
Hold on to your hats, ladies
and gentlemen. This one's for all the
marbles.
It sure is, thought Johnny. And Mickey Gold is going to be left holding the bag. The bell rang and he and the crowd sat back to watch as the teams jockeyed for position.
Joe sped around the oval in full heat of battle, took out one Silver City Indian with a tremendous blow, then tomahawked another one into the rail. Johnny ducked as the player's helmet flew by him and took out a spectator three rows back. The player himself crashed through the railing and did a midair somersault to land with a dull thud at Dottie's feet. She squealed and clutched her hands to her bosom. Johnny leaned over to check for signs of life, saw the Indian was still breathing but out for the count, and turned his attention back to the match.
Joe came off a turn, ducked under a swinging Indian and dumped him with a leg whip. The player did a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn on his back, slid under the railing, and knocked himself cold hitting the concrete floor of the auditorium.
The crowd began counting down the last seconds of the match as Joe came out of the last banked turn doing forty-five, and blasted past the last two Indians, dumping them both as he rocketed by. The two players landed spread-eagle on the wooden track. One climbed back to his feet on rubbery legs that promptly tangled together and dropped him across the chest of the other player, who los
t all interest in returning to the game.
Johnny twisted around as the bell rang and the crowd went wild to check the scoreboard.
Thunderbolts 51—Silver City Indians 50
He saw Mickey Gold tearing up his program and glaring down at the oval track. Johnny discovered he could read lips after all, because he had no trouble figuring out what Gold was screaming even though he couldn't hear a word over the roar of the crowd.
"Quinlan, you're a dead man!"
EIGHT
Cleary ran his hand over the front of his jacket. Good tailoring counted when you packed a gun and a wire. A bulge where there shouldn't be one, and Snake Eyes Tucci would bite his ass. Or have Ralphie do it, which might be worse. Tucci and Ralphie were equally poisonous, but the latter was more likely to add a few annoying improvisations, like ripping off arms and legs.
He leaned one hand on the doorbell and the other on the sparkling plate-glass wall, just a little annoying habit of his own, he thought with satisfaction as he smeared his palm over the glass in a series of swirls. He surveyed the results, added a few diagonal lines just to give the design some variety, and admired the results. Amazing what a little gun oil on the fingertips would do to glass. Juvenile, he knew, but it felt good, and there hadn't been much about this whole deal that felt good. Take your pleasure where you find it.
Ralphie Santangelo opened the door, and Cleary wondered who his tailor was. The hood's jacket hung crooked over the iron lump of his .38. Well, no one's perfect. "Good evening, Ralphie. Kicked any dogs or twisted any arms today?"
Ralphie locked the door with a viscious wrist motion that should have broken off the key. "You got a smart mouth, Cleary."
"That happens when a guy's bright."
"Watch out somebody don't shut it permanently," sneered Ralphie, his lips curling back from his teeth.
"Life is a risk," agreed Cleary. "Take me to your keeper."
Growls rumbled up from Ralphie's chest, and Cleary swore a strip of the thug's thirty-weight hair rose up like hackles on a mean dog. "It's gonna be a pleasure to put out your lights, Cleary, and I'm gonna do it one light at a time."
Cleary gave him ten points for eloquence. "Slip of the tongue, Ralphie. I meant take me to your leader."
Ralphie flashed him one last warning look, let his lip curl back over his teeth, and ushered him up the stairs to a room off the sun porch. It was designed as a living room for gracious living, but a futuristic desk shaped like a flattened kidney resting on two beer kegs dominated the space and spoiled the gracious effect. Flanked by Nico Cerro, Frank Tucci sat behind the desk, a businessman dressed in an impeccably tailored dark blue silk suit and crisp white shirt, accompanied by his trusted personal secretary. The fact that Nico Cerro looked as much like a secretary as Charles Atlas looked like a ninety-pound weakling didn't seem to bother Tucci. Of course, when your business is dealing in filth, not interoffice memos, maybe Cerro was good casting.
Cleary stopped halfway to the desk, feeling all his juvenile recklessness melt away like fog before the sun. Tucci was too dangerous to bait. "You wanted to know Gold's terms," he said.
Tucci made a graceful motion with his wrist, his snake eyes black and glittering like the city lights visible behind him through the expanse of glass walls. Cleary guessed vultures liked unrestricted vision, the better to spot carrion. "Why don't you have a seat, and we'll talk about Mickey Gold's future."
Cleary sat down carefully to avoid pulling his jacket taut over his gun. "You're talking like the treaty has already been signed, and you're ready to colonize the conquered territory. There hasn't been a war yet, Tucci."
Tucci smiled, a mere stretching of his lips that did nothing to lighten Cleary's feeling of imminent doom. "I am getting ahead of events, aren't I? An old habit of mine, planning ahead. Let's hear Gold's terms first. Then I'll decide if I'll accept his terms of surrender." He took a sip of ice water, and Cleary decided he was replacing the blood in his veins.
"Gold is offering you East and Central L.A. You lay off his operations in the rest of the city. It's a good split, Tucci. You both get half the pie, and nobody spills blood."
Tucci stood up and turned to look down at the sweeping vista of L.A., like a vulture looking over road kill and trying to decide which part to consume first. The gangster whirled around, his eyes looking more alive than Cleary had seen them. "East and Central Los Angeles! He thinks that'll satisfy me?" His voice was harsh, the New York accent more noticeable. "I haven't heard word one about his laundry service, vending operation, refuse contracts. Mickey must think I'm a fool. And I don't like people thinking I'm a fool. It's not healthy. For them," he added, holding out his glass. "Ralphie, get me another ice water. Wasting my breath makes me thirsty."
Cleary lit a cigarette to give himself time to think. It wasn't that he really gave a damn whether Gold and Tucci ate each other up, but he still had too much cop in him to want a gang war to break out. And that was the real reason he was sitting in this plush room with an uncaged snake. He was as much interested in pinning a rap on two gangsters as in getting Joe Quinlan off the hook. He still had enough pull downtown to make things hot for Mickey Gold, and Gold knew it in spite of his blustering to the contrary. He was in this for himself, for Jack Cleary, because he wanted to make a difference, to make up for the time he didn't and a Chinese girl died.
"What are your terms, Tucci?" he asked, getting up and moving closer so the wire would pick up the gangster's voice. "I need something I can take back to Mickey Gold."
Ralphie handed Tucci his ice water, and the mobster sipped his transfusion. "My terms are simple and nonnegotiable. I want all the vending machines, including half of all of Mickey's action in Hollywood and West L.A., which will be under our control. Mickey will get his cut from us." He leaned over his desk. "I want to work out the details with Gold, personally."
Fontana ought to be pleased with that speech, thought Cleary as he shook his head. "Gold says that this is going to be the last meeting."
"Last meeting? What the hell is that two-bit matzo ball trying to pull? Nobody tells Frank Tucci he won't deal, not if he wants his body to stay in one piece." Tucci broke off, his black eyes staring at Cleary like a rattler planning to swallow a rat. "What's going on here, Cleary? Why'd Gold send you up here if he wasn't planning to deal?" His eyes narrowed. "Unless he was setting me up." He snapped his fingers. "Ralphie, search him."
Ralphie started toward Cleary, a smile of pure enjoyment on his face, when a clicking noise distracted him. He turned toward the sun porch and the pool beyond. Cleary didn't bother. If there was one sound he recognized, it was the safety on a gun being flipped off. Being a cop taught you things like that. Sometimes it saved your life. Like now, he thought, as he ducked to investigate the plush carpet from a nose-length away just as two gentlemen in shiny suits and wraparound sunglasses cut loose with submachine guns, shattering the plate glass and decorating the opposite wall with a series of holes arranged in an abstract pattern.
"Goddamn it!" shouted Tucci from the other side of the desk where he also was enjoying a close-up view of his carpet. His reflexes weren't so good, thought Cleary, observing an oozing streak of blood on the side of the mobster's neck. Nice to know Tucci had blood instead of ice water in his veins.
"Cleary, you son of a bitch. I'm gonna spread your body parts from here to the Golden Gate!" screamed Tucci.
"I didn't have a damn thing to do with this," shouted Cleary over the sound of exploding glass and reverberating gunshots. He rolled over, saw long tongues of fire flash from gun barrels as the hit men spread another tattoo over the wall, and pulled his .38. He snapped off a quick shot, missed, and heard the deep bark of Ralphie's gun to his left. The first shooter flew backward into the pool where he added a red splash of color to the sparkling aquamarine water. The second hit man disappeared into the shadows.
Cleary climbed to his feet, his ears still ringing from the sounds of gunfire, just in time to see Cerro turn his weapon on him. Cleary
hit the carpet at the same time he felt the heat of a passing bullet that shattered the only remaining pane of glass in the expanse of wall.
Cleary returned the shot, admired the adroit way Cerro ducked to avoid a new part in his hair, and climbed to his feet. "Call off your goons, Tucci. I'm not going to call fire on my own lines."
Tucci stared at him for the space of a heartbeat, but whatever he might have said was interrupted by Ralphie. "Hold it right there, Cleary," he said, his intentions as clear as if he had published them in the Los Angeles Times.
Cleary jumped through the shattered window instead. No point in hanging around where you weren't welcome. Shots made a lacy pattern on the leaves of the orange tree he was crouching under, and he silently slipped deeper into the shadows. Ducking from tree to tree, he rounded the house, pulled his car keys out of his pocket, and did a running dive into the Eldorado.
"Come on, baby," he whispered as he fumbled the key into the ignition. "I'll never ask another thing of you if you just show your tail fins to these bastards." Baby must have heard him because with a deep roar, the Cadillac started. Throwing the gear into reverse, Cleary backed downhill, shifted rapidly through the gears, and headed toward Mickey Gold's. He had a score to settle with the pudgy little rat, and he planned to start by knocking the sleazy little matzo ball's teeth so far down his throat, he would have to take off his shoes to eat.
NINE
Johnny Betts grabbed Dottie's hand. "Come on."
"Wait a minute! Where are we going? I was kinda planning on getting another chili dog and a Coke before the concession stand closed. Watching all those guys skate made me hungry." She hung back.
He tugged at her hand. "All that stuff will break your face out. Now, come on. I don't have time to argue."
"I did have kind of a little place when I woke up this morning. Right there." She touched her cheek. Can you see it? About an inch from my nose?"