3:39 a.m.

Snafu:

Wilshire and Barrington. Three-car pileup. Winches, tow trucks, traffic detoured.

A jeep plowed a road-hog Caddy. A ’38 DeSoto sheared off the Caddy’s rear end. Skid marks, broken glass, street flares. Six injured parties hauled to Saint John’s.

They were all drunk. The soldier was blitzed off booze from Dave’s Blue Room. The squares were still blotto from the Trojan-Bruin game. The soldier had hound blood. He shared ambulance space with a built blonde. She slipped him her phone number.

Parker stood in the intersection. Winches pried the vehicles loose. Tow drivers cinched chains and rolled the cars off.

Poof!—you’re alone. Poof!—it’s your own world at 3:40 a.m.

He doused the flares. He kicked glass down a storm drain. A Plymouth idled by. A redhead had the wheel. She was a Joan-from-Northwestern manqué.

He left Miss Lake at 1:00. She’d probably heard by now. She’d grasp the implied threat, for sure.

Carl Hull clued him in to the specific listening post. Carl had heard a ’39 recording. Miss Lake’s chums tattled. They jawed with her shitheel lover. Carl called the conversation a “significant wedge.”

Cars skirted broken glass and whizzed by him. He sat on the Wilshire curb and lit a cigarette.

He prayed off an urge to drink. He was too charged to sleep. He could brood on his back porch and hit early Mass. Dudley Smith would be there. The Archbishop would suggest coffee and cake.

Parker shut his eyes. A car door slammed. A man coughed and spritzed tobacco juice—he knew that sound.

He opened his eyes. Jim Davis walked up. His coat flapped wide. The hump still wore two big revolvers.

“Don’t tell me. You were listening to police-band calls, and you figured I’d be here.”

Davis leaned on a light pole. “Got me a swell radio. The insomniac’s best friend, as I’m sure you know.”

Parker tossed his cigarette. “Insomniacs tend to find each other. The world narrows down at this time of night.”

“Yeah. And the world narrowed down when you worked for me. I had a smart lawyer-cop as my adjutant when I pulled my most heinous stunts.”

Parker stood up. Davis crowded in. He threw his gut out and walked two-guns-first.

“What’s your net worth, Jim? The Mexican Staties were paying you a dollar a wetback to run their trucks through L.A. You let the Dudster sell dope to the coloreds, and it all had to add up.”

Davis stepped back. “It’s immaterial, son. We’re set to fight this war for the Jew bankers, and I got me two big howitzers at my aircraft plant.”

Parker laughed. “Maybe it won’t come to that.”

Davis spritzed juice. “The old Gypsy lady who reads my tea leaves says it sure as shit will.”

Parker shook his head. “It’s hard to dislike you, Jim. It shouldn’t be, but it is.”

Davis popped in a fresh plug. He came out of bumfuck Texas. He was a 1916 doughboy. He was Chinese-fluent. He mediated the last Hop Sing tong truce. He ran the Klan out of L.A. and welcomed the Silver Shirts.

“You were always looking over me, son. I’d have pulled a good many more heinous stunts if you hadn’t been. I’ll be there to tell the world that when they swear you in as Chief.”

4:41 a.m.

Parker drove home. The house was dead still. Helen was sleeping. Three hours to 8:00 a.m. Mass.

He poured a triple bourbon and walked out to the back porch. It overlooked the Silver Lake Reservoir. House lights bordered the water. There’s twelve lights, predawn.

He sipped bourbon. Please, God—just one.

He thought about Miss Lake. He thought about Joan from Northwestern. He saw her in jodhpurs and boots once. She shot skeet off Lake Michigan.

Parker turned on the radio. The newscasts were shrill. He tuned in the police band. He caught a tavern stickup. He knew the detectives at the scene.

Police work—a closed circle. We all kneel at the same pew.

An ADW in Compton. A fleeing burglar in Watts. Spectators outside a house in Highland Park. Probable suicide. Sergeant D. L. Smith and Officer L. C. Blanchard at location.

Parker sipped bourbon. Closed circle—the Dudster, Miss Lake’s shack job. Two-Gun Jim Davis at loose ends.

The bourbon felt wrong. The standard burn came on lukewarm. A Sheriff’s call hit the air.

4600 Valley Boulevard. That county stretch upside Lincoln Heights. Hit-and-run, four down, no suspect-vehicle make. First broadcast: 5:47 a.m.

Parker dumped his glass. Roll on it. You won’t drink if you go.

5:48 a.m.

He took his civilian car. The location: a curb stretch off a warehouse block. Big industrial hangars and nothing else.

Crash ropes. Three Sheriff’s cars, one meat wagon, four crushed bicycles. Deputies grilling three bruised-up boys. An older man on a stretcher. An ambulance crew standing by.

Parker stopped behind the ropes. His headlights framed the collision point. The wreckage spelled out the incident.

Four bikes. They proceed single file. The older man takes the boys on a predawn jaunt. One adult-size bike at the rear. It’s the most damaged. The three bikes in front are crushed. They are not rear-impact smashed.

No skid marks on the pavement. Pull-away tread smears. The boys were grazed more than hit. Their bikes showed left-to-right denting. The car grazed them on the left and sped away.

The curb was half dirt, half paving. The right-hand tires might have left marks. Plaster molds might reveal the make and model. The bikes were adorned with pennants for the Santa Monica Cycleers.

Parker got out and stood by the ropes. The boys were high school age. Their jabbers overlapped. They left SaMo High at 4:15. Jim Larkin was their leader. He was English. He was some kind of spy in the Great War. They were riding out to Lake Arrowhead. They sure hoped Mr. Larkin was okay.

Larkin’s legs were crushed. Larkin’s collarbone was sheared. Larkin trembled from shock.

A deputy signaled the ambulance men. They picked up the stretcher and moved. An object fell from Larkin’s pocket. The men tucked the stretcher in the ambulance and pulled out.

The ambulance hauled, Code 3. The boys waved good-bye. One boy started crying. Parker prayed the Rosary.

Dawn came up. Parker walked to the ropes and grabbed that object. It was a pearl-inlaid gun grip. Red stones offset a swastika. The grip was Luger-shaped.

Parker tossed it and drove back home. His errand succeeded. He worked off The Thirst.

He still tasted the bourbon. A stale burn had him parched. He raided the icebox and guzzled orange juice. He vowed to pray for Jim Larkin.

The bedroom door was open. He heard Helen snore. The telephone rang. He walked into the living room and caught it three rings in.

“Yes?”

Miss Lake said, “The threat wasn’t necessary. I’ll take whatever you have for me.”