Opium fumes banged his head; chink backtalk banged it worse: “Spade not here, my place have police sanction, I pay I pay!” Uncle Ace Kwan sent him to Fat Dewey Shin, who sent him to a string of dens on Alameda—Spade was there, but Spade was gone, “I pay! I pay!,” try Uncle Minh, Uncle Chin, Uncle Chan. The Chinatown runaround, it took him hours to figure it out, a shuffle from enemy to enemy. Uncle Danny Tao pulled a shotgun; he took it away from him, blackjacked him, still couldn’t force a snitch. Spade was there, Spade was gone—and if he took one more whiff of “O” he knew he’d curl up and die or start shooting. The punch line: he was shaking Chinatown for a man named Cooley.
Chinatown dead for now.
Bud called the D.A.’s Bureau, gave the squad whip his Perkins/Cooley leads; the man yawned along, signed off bored. Out to the Strip; the Cowboy Rhythm Band on stage, no Spade, nobody had seen him in a couple of days. Hillbilly clubs, local bars, night spots—no sightings of Donnell Clyde Cooley. 1:00 fucking A.M., no place to go but Lynn’s—“Where were you?” and a bed.
Rain came on—a downpour. Bud counted taillights to stay awake: red dots, hypnotizing. He made Nottingham Drive near gone—dizzy, numb in the limbs.
Lynn on her porch, watching the rain. Bud ran up; she held her arms out. He slipped, steadied himself with her body.
She stepped back. Bud said, “I was worried. I kept calling you last night before things got crazy.”
“Crazy how?”
“The morning, it’s too long a story for now. How did it—”
Lynn touched his lips. “I told them things about Pierce that you already know, and I’ve been getting misty with the rain and thinking about telling them more.”
“More what?”
“I’m thinking that it’s over with Pierce. In the morning, sweetie. Both our stories for breakfast.”
Bud leaned on the porch rail. Lightning lit up the street—and dry tears on Lynn’s face. “Honey, what is it? Is it Exley? Did he hardnose you?”
“It’s Exley, but not what you’re thinking. And I know why you hate him so much.”
“What do you mean?”
“That he’s just the opposite of all the good things you are. He’s more like I am.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, it’s a credibility he has for being so calculating. I started out hating him because you do, then he made me realize some things about Pierce just by being who he is. He told me some things he didn’t have to, and my own reactions surprised me.”
More lightning—Lynn looked god-awful sad. Bud said, “For instance?”
“For instance Jack Vincennes is going crazy and has some kind of vendetta against Pierce. And I don’t care half as much as I should.”
“How did you get so friendly with Exley?”
Lynn laughed. “In vino veritas. You know, sweetie, you’re thirty-nine years old and I keep waiting for you to get exhausted being who you are.”
“I’m exhausted tonight.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Bud turned on the porch light. “You gonna tell me what happened with you and Exley?”
“We just talked.”
Her makeup was tear streaked—it was the first time he’d seen her not beautiful. “So tell me about it.”
“In the morning.”
“No, now.”
“Honey, I’m as tired as you are.”
Her little half smile did it. “You slept with him.”
Lynn looked away. Bud hit her—once, twice, three times. Lynn faced straight into the blows. Bud stopped when he saw he couldn’t break her.