The Purple Hand: Book #3 in the Mike Montego Series

By Jess Waid

Imagine you’re a cop confronted by a mobster who claims your father is a hit man who quit the Mafia decades earlier. Add to that a threat that if you don’t make some hits for the mob, your father is a dead man. Obviously in disbelief, you worry. You have two choices: tell your pop about the mobster’s claim and risk your pop having another heart attack. Or not tell him, unfairly leaving your pop vulnerable, and go against everything you believe in. Become a killer.
Now, imagine you’re the junior partner new to the plainclothes unit and unaware that the threatened cop had asked for you specifically to be his partner. Soon you find yourself involved in shootings, the first one a fatal.
Do you have a sit-down with your senior partner and risk getting kicked out of a detail that puts you one step closer to the Detective Bureau and your dream of being a homicide detective? Or, do you ride the wave and risk the consequences?
Imagine you’re the Mafioso who lost your pa when you were a kid, and because of family tradition you’re compelled to satisfy a lifelong vendetta.
What results tests the two partners’ adherence to a cop’s unwritten loyalty code.
The author was a patrol officer in Hollywood during the period of this story, 1962. It was a time before instant communications, a time when partners had to rely on each other, a time when the LAPD was enjoying a newfound reputation. Los Angeles was coming out of a corrupt and scandalous period. Readers who want to know what it was like to be a cop in the “good old days” will enjoy this character-driven tale. Many of the events and places are real. The characters in this story are composites of actual people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jess Waid
• Release date: Nov 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310762901

Jess Waid

In his novels, Jess Waid draws upon his twenty-two years of experience as an LAPD cop. He worked the streets of Hollywood in the early 'sixties and retired as a Lieutenant II, in Robbery-Homicide Division. While his works are fiction, many of his characters are based on composites of officers he worked with. His stories, in many instances, are based on actual cases. Jess and his wife Barbara live in the Guadalajara area of Mexico.

Book preview

Author’s Note

The Purple Hand is a period piece. It takes place in Hollywood during the summer and fall of 1962. The back-story begins in August; the month Marilyn Monroe was found dead in her Brentwood home.

That fall, President John Kennedy challenged Nikita Krushchev to turn around a fleet of Soviet ships carrying missiles to Cuba and to remove the missiles already on the island.

Also, during this period, the inner workings of the Italian Mafia were relatively obscure; more so in the West, even though motion pictures had depicted gangsters as far back as 1904 (The Moonshiners).

The first modern gangster film was Ben Hecht’s Underworld (1927)—shot from the gangster’s point of view. The movie won Hecht an Oscar for original screenplay. The first 100% talkie crime film produced was The Lights of New York (1928), and, in 1931, Bad Company was released. It was the first to feature the gangland massacre on St. Valentine’s Day.

Early actors in gangster films, such as Edward G. Robinson, James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart, Paul Muni, and George Raft became household names thanks to their star turns in movies like Little Caesar (1930), The Public Enemy (1931), and Scarface: The Shame of a Nation (1932), the latter enjoying a remake, courtesy of director Brian de Palma, starring Al Pacino in the title role, in 1983.

In the 1950s, gangsterism was personified as the Mob, a supposedly organized crime organization. Abraham Polonsky’s Force of Evil (1948) starring John Garfield began the string of such films. Today, omerta, made man, and wise guy, are well known concepts. Francis Ford Coppola’s three-part gangster saga, The Godfather—scripted in collaboration with Mario Puzo, the author of the best-selling novel of the same name—followed generations of the Corleone family, a Mafia dynasty. It gave the public some insight into the inner workings of a crime family, a word that soon came to replace the previously popular Mafia and Cosa Nostra.

Despite the disclaimers of LAPD Chief William H. Parker and FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover in the late 1950s and early 1960s, the Mafia was indeed a major force in organized crime and vendetta-driven violence in Los Angeles.

City Hall with its distinctive, 453-foot tower, was the tallest building in Los Angeles until 1964. Police officers working a foot-beat or driving a patrol car did not carry wireless radio equipment in those days. They relied on themselves and each other for assistance; their lifeline was their car radio and/or a Gamewell box that housed a landline to their division’s front desk.

When cops, all males, (except for Juvenile Division, Jail Division, and various vice operations), ran persons for wants and/or warrants over the radio they were subject to the whims of those persons they had stopped. Often officers waited five minutes or longer to receive the results; their requests went through a tortuous circuit: first, to Communications Division, put in writing, then placed in a sealed capsule and sent via a pneumatic tube to the second floor, to Records and Identification Division. A clerk manually searched the files, documented the findings, and returned the written data through the tube. Law-abiding citizens stopped by a policeman were often put out by the long wait, while wanted criminals knew what the results of the records check would be. Patrol cops were vulnerable during the wait, and they knew it.

A Code three, lights-and-siren, situation, often found the unit losing speed due to the extra drain on the black-and-white’s (patrol car) battery. Uniformed officers carried six-shot .38 caliber revolvers with six-inch barrels, and only 158- or 200-grain ammunition was allowed. Many carried a .38 snub-nosed revolver as a backup. Shotguns were stored in the trunks; there were no cell phones, computers, or

GPS systems. This was prior to the Miranda Supreme Court decision and DNA tests.

Suspects had many tags, most commonly asshole, but never perp. There were no fancy sidewalk stars on Hollywood Boulevard, only wannabes everywhere.

Those interested in kenpo see: www.kenpokarate.com.

All factual errors my fellow officers are bound to discover, including insidious typos, are solely mine, attributable to mild senility.

Chapter One

Neall Haley sat with his back against the wall, beside the swinging door to the kitchen; his preferred spot in the Italian restaurant. Had been ever since meeting Lissa Renzo, the honey-blonde waitress, several months ago. At eleven o’clock her shift would end.

Nursing a beer, he glanced at the dimly lit corner booth where Dante Pio sat. The middle-aged Valentino type, held the red-gloved hand of a tall, showy brunette. As usual, his twin bodyguards occupied a nearby table. Occasionally, they glanced Haley’s way. They knew he was the heat. He knew they were mobsters, killers.

Screw them. Roosting in a place frequented by Mafiosi was not the wisest move for a cop, even an off-duty one, but pretending to ignore them had proved safe enough so far. To be near the lithe Lissa, well worth the risk. The gorgeous woman owned his heart. Besides, the mobsters left her alone although they often would check her out.

All men did.

He’d once asked her why she worked at a mob hangout and she replied, The boss is good to me, but the tips are better. She smiled brightly.

He didn’t push it.

Neall’s plans for tonight, Labor Day, 1962, his twenty-sixth birthday, caused his blood to rush. He anticipated bedding Lissa for the first time this evening. Happy birthday to me. That pleasurable thought bathed him in titillating warmth, and it contrasted nicely with the now cooling schooner of Olympia beer he held.

The French door to a rear courtyard and motel rooms abruptly swung wide. It quickly drew Neall’s attention.

Leonardo Brunetti stepped inside, brushed off the dark blue lapels of his single-button Italian-cut coat, and glanced at his showy gold wristwatch.

Neall knew Brunetti’s routine. The prostitute in room eight had told him she serviced Brunetti nightly at nine. She also hinted that the corpse found a week ago with its head filled with slugs was Brunetti’s dirty work. The murder occurred south of Hollywood; Wilshire Division Homicide caught it.

Lissa had kept an eye on the Sicilian ever since he flew in a month ago from Chicago. They call him the Beak, she’d said. The moniker fit. The hood’s high-bridged nose occupied a large part of his craggy face.

To avoid eye contact with the well-dressed mobster, Neall focused on the tiny bubbles rising in the amber liquid, until a heavy cologne fragrance assaulted his senses.

Sitting back slightly, elbows on the tabletop, his left hand slipped across his chest to the magnum’s rubber gun butt beneath his jacket.

Leonardo Brunetti stopped beside the table.

Hey bull, I wanna talk to you in private, tomorrow, that booth. His thick left index finger pistol-pointed to the far corner where Pio sat cozily with the attractive brunette. Three sharp!

Neall’s left hand gripped the revolver’s butt.

Forget it.

He didn’t look up or turn his head toward the booth, but his peripheral vision locked on Brunetti.

Huh, your fuckin’ future ain’t important to you, Haley?

Brunetti spun about and sauntered across the deep-green carpeting. His agility surprised Haley; but even more so, that the asshole knew his name. He might have heard it from Pio. Lissa would’ve told the number two mob boss if he’d asked her, like she’d told Neall the two gangsters’ names.

Leo Brunetti gave Pio a head nod before sitting with the twin thicknecks and tearing apart a small loaf of seeded garlic bread. The twins were devouring piles of fettuccini smothered in a thick, creamy white sauce.

Moments later, a hand softly touched Neall’s shoulder, jolting him from his musing.

I said, I’m ready.

He caught himself when he saw Lissa’s face.

Uh, my mind was elsewhere, hon, sorry.

He wondered if she might have overheard why Brunetti wanted a meet, but resisted asking. If she didn’t know, which seemed highly likely, she might try to find out, and that might make Dante Pio nervous. Besides, Neall didn’t want to spoil what the night promised. And he certainly didn’t want to risk any harm ever coming to this woman.

He closely followed Lissa’s dark blue Pontiac coupe the eight blocks west to her Gardner Street apartment. Her cozy second-floor pad had become his second home. In the months they had dated, he’d learned where she kept most everything, save the bedroom. His choice. He wanted their first time to be special.

He dropped his jacket over the back of her small sofa, went into the kitchenette and reached up into a cupboard for two stemmed glasses. Taking out a corkscrew from a drawer below the counter, he uncorked a bottle of cabernet and set it aside, allowing it to breathe.

Stepping to the hi-fi player, he selected two platters, one by Duke Ellington, the other a vocal by Ella Fitzgerald.

He returned to the counter and grasped the wine bottle as Ella sang The Nearness of You. Then, he heard, Happy Birthday, Neallie, as he was about to pour the red wine.

He turned his head, saw Lissa emerging from the bedroom wearing a chiffon babydoll, her toenails a matching pink. He nearly spilled the wine.

She came up behind him, and pressed her body against his back, her breath warm on his neck.

He quickly forgot about the cabernet.

Bright sunlight streamed through the bedroom window and woke Neall. Lissa had snuggled beside him in the crook of his arm, naked, still asleep. Her rose-petal fragrance lingered in the mid-morning air. He didn’t want to disturb her but his right arm throbbed with numbness—a small price to pay for what she’d given him. Their lovemaking had been long, unceasing, lustily physical at times, and caressingly soft at others.

Oh, how I love this woman.

He brushed his lips across her high-boned cheek. She stirred and clasped an arm around his waist, a sleepy smile showing. Her flesh hot against his, her slightly musky morning fragrance, were intoxicating. She twisted into him, he moved over her smooth body, found her moist, ready. Soon she sheathed his hardened desire, drawing him in, pushing him out, drawing him in, making his pleasure last. They kissed, tongues probed. She moaned, she was close. He slid his tongue down her soft neck, his rhythmic undulation unceasing. He never wanted this to end. Then she squealed, her fingers fluttering on his ass. She quivered, urgently whispered Neall. He continued thrusting, slow and deep. Her fingers continued their rapid dance, her wide eyes now intense upon his. Shared sounds, quickened breaths.

Moments later, another quavering movement sent him to the threshold.

Now Neall, now, she gasped. He plunged, his explosive release mixed with her trembling one. A half-dozen jolts of electricity coursed through his body.

Totally sated, and still sucking in air with its smell of sex, he eased down beside her.

I love you Lissa.

I love you more, sweet Neallie.

He kissed her softly and rolled out of the bed, insanely happy this sunny late summer morning.

While taking a brisk shower, he got a brief chill. The thought of Brunetti’s blunt demand caused it, the comment had him antsy. Although he wanted to ignore it, he couldn’t. Why did the asshole want a sit-down? What in God’s name could possibly affect Neall Haley’s fuckin’ future?

Well, only one way to find out.

However, he refused to think about it now, he needed to drive downtown to Hill Street, go to the Jewelry Trades Building. The engagement ring he had ordered, waiting. He hoped Lissa hadn’t read that secret as well as she had read his mind last night.

Dressed casually, he downed a cup of coffee. At the door, he kissed Lissa long and deep. Breaking away, he said, Since you’ve got the night off, hon, I’ll buy you dinner at Hody’s before I go to work. He thought about the four words he would ask, and her expected response, a single three-letter word that would bounce him beyond the moon.

An hour later, he stood by his black Porsche in a public parking lot. He opened the tiny blue box again. Damn, if the stones weren’t perfect: the center one a one-carat cut gem the other two, tapered baguettes—the diamonds’ brilliance in the sunlight dazzled his eyes. He snapped the lid closed and dropped the box into an inside jacket pocket.

While adjusting his Ray-Bans, he imagined that afternoon, dropping to a knee and proposing. He pulled on the deerskins, and brought the sports coupe to life.

Driving back to Hollywood, he thought of Brunetti’s threatening challenge.

Unable to shake it loose, he reluctantly headed toward the restaurant on La Brea just north of Sunset Boulevard, part of the small Hollywood Riviera del Palme complex. He checked his wristwatch, two-thirty, enough time to down a bowl of tomato bisque and crackers.

He sat at his usual table and, more than once while eating, gave the foyer a surreptitious glance.

Lissa breezed in shortly before three. Hi lover. I’m filling in. Jan’s sick.

Her unexpected appearance threw him off, it had him about to call off the meet with Brunetti, when the large-nosed mobster appeared in the main entry and strode to the corner booth. Dropping his hulk onto the red-vinyl seat, he glared at Neall, sneering, his right trigger-finger doing a come here movement.

Neall didn’t budge. The idea of sitting with the big meathead from the Windy City unnerved him.

Aren’t you going to see what he wants? Lissa asked, apprehensively, obviously noticing.

Haley glanced up at her, then he edged off the chair, hands fisted, right arm pressed against the heavy magnum snug under his brown bomber jacket.

Moving to the booth, he tried to match Brunetti’s hard-eyed stare.

Lissa followed closely.

Shit. He hated her being in the damn place, and worse, now she was their waitress.

Slouching onto the curved bench seat opposite Brunetti, he smelled the familiar sweet cologne.

Brunetti ordered a Campari and soda.

Lissa turned to Neall with a dazzling smile.

Just water, he said in a low voice.

When she whirled away, Brunetti didn’t mince words.

Here ’tis, Haley. My cuz seen your pa driving a plumbing van out in Brentwood—

What the? Neall, sucked in.

Yeah, ‘Dago luck’ my cuz says. Told me he damn near ran into the van. The black ’stache is some different he says, but seeing your old man’s left mitt sticking outta the window had my cuz taking hisself a closer look. Some a your pa’s pinky finger is missing.

What the fuck? Why was he talking about Pop? But Pop was working a project on the affluent west side, and he had lost part of his left pinky before Neall was born. His mind spun like a gyroscope until he realized the logo on Pop’s company vans displayed the Glendale shop address and business number. Brunetti’s cousin could’ve staked out the shop, then tailed Pop home.

But connecting me…. Damn.

Yesterday, the afternoon birthday barbecue at his parents’ place. Brunetti must have spotted him there.

Lissa arrived, placed Brunetti’s drink on a Palms-logo’d coaster.

Brunetti waited until she left to unfold a dog-eared newspaper clipping. His palm smoothed out the yellowed article on the red-checked tablecloth and pointed at a half-tone photograph.

Looky here, Neallie Baby.

His choice of words brought goose bumps.

Neall scanned the Detroit News article dated October 28, 1930. The faded picture depicted two men, alleged gangsters, wearing double-breasted dark suits and dark fedoras. They stood by a black sedan in front of an Italian restaurant. The stockier of the two, identified as Ari Sands, held Neall’s gaze. The man resembled how Pop might’ve looked as a much younger man, but Ari Sands didn’t have Pop’s dark, brushy mustache. Visualizing a ’30’s style pencil-thin one on Pop nearly gutted Neall.

Brunetti tapped a clear-polished manicured fingernail over the photo caption. Your ol’ man, he’s missing some a his pinky, just like the slick shit in that fuckin’ pix. Whattya think?

Neall noted Ari Sands’ left hand caught in a forward movement as he reached out to a car door handle. Five fingers easily visible, and the little one definitely appeared shorter.

Neall drew in a breath. How could it be? When that news photo got snapped, Brunetti, and probably his cousin, had to be boys. What were the odds they could recognize someone from so long ago? Hell, there were kids Neall had gone to high school with, kids he couldn’t name today, and he’d graduated only eight years ago.

Pop never talked about his early childhood, and nothing about mobsters, only that he’d grown up in the Big Apple.

Apprehension flooded Neall, his mind reeled. A heavy black cloud suddenly settled over him, shoving him deeper into the booth’s fake red leather.

Putting on a tough bearing, he shoved the frayed clipping back; Brunetti’s deep-set eyes giving Neall full attention.

That chump went by the name Ari Sands, a Jew name—but he’s a Guinea outta New York. Name’s Angelo Sancia. Pinky for short. He’s your ol’ man, calls hisself Lonn now. But then you knows that, don’t you?

Can’t be. Pop’s Irish. And how the hell does he know Pop’s first name!

Brunetti drank and rattled off a tale that Neall, with trepidation, did not want to believe.

Five years after that photo got snapped, the hit on Dutch Schultz went down, at the Palace Chop House in Newark, back when Dutch run with Charlie ‘the Bug’ Workman. Yeah, your goombah pa was part a’ that, too, Brunetti, sneering, belched, "ma lui spari, before his yella ass vanished...’til now."

The Palace Chop House. That name rang a bell. Abruptly, it felt like a cold steel coil had sprang up Neall’s stiffening spine.

Brunetti grunted and fingered a cellophane wrapped Dutch Master from an inside coat pocket. He slipped the cigar free and nipped off the leaf-wrapped end, turning his head to spit out the tobacco piece. He then licked the its entire length while rolling it.

Mouthing the freshly snipped end, he snapped a flame to a gold-toned lighter, place it under the blunt end and puffed, getting the cigar burning, all the while slit-eyeing Neall.

Neall didn’t smoke, but at times like this he began to see its merit. He pictured the flickering flame in Brunetti’s hand being put to a dried dog turd. It didn’t help, he still found himself craving a cigarette.

Brunetti seemed to be savoring more than the long cigar. After several puffs he set it down, snatched a white-cloth napkin, honked twice into it, and rasped, The fuck should never’ve split.

Neall’s mind switched to his parents’ Los Feliz home, to his pop’s favorite room, the den, where a small glass ashtray with a Palace Chop House logo had owned a spot on the lower bookshelf for as long as Neall could remember. He recalled the times Pop would be on the phone and stop talking whenever he entered.

So what? Parents did that.

Brunetti knocked down the last of his drink, followed by his thick lips drawing on the dog turd until its brown end glowed red.

Yeah, back then your ol’ man scrambled his dumb dago ass like the rest of ’em goombahs for Diamond Joe Esposito an’ Scarface Capone.

Smoke escaped his twisted mouth as he spoke. Ol’ Pinky climbed over tons a’ bodies—politicians, Mick gang members, even some of his own kind.

More smoke escaped from his twisted mouth.

Angelo Pinky Sancia, the smart-head finger man called the Purple Hand—s’posedly ’cause he was a fierce fuckin’ enforcer for Sammy Purples. Hah. All my life I been wanting that sonofabitch. Now that I got his fuckin’ ass pinned, I’m gonna have me some fun an’ games.

He waved to Lissa for another drink.

Why the hell did Brunetti want Sancia so badly?

Neall pressed down on his knees.

If he believes Pop is Sancia, why hasn’t he made his move already? Or is that part of his ‘fun an’ games?’

Scowling, Leo Brunetti leaned closer to Neall. Sancia done split the family, that’s a fact, an’ he shouldn’t’ve. Uh-uh—an’ ’cause he did, you’re gonna play along wit’ me. Specially if you cares about your ol’ man stayin’ healthy.

Play? Pop staying healthy? Shit.

The bald threat made no sense, yet it sounded too real. Neall itched to plug Brunetti on the spot, erase his bullcrap accusations.

He slipped out his Smith & Wesson revolver, aimed it at the Nose and pulled the trigger. Brunetti’s head silently snapped back, then bounced forward off the high-backed seat, landing on the tablecloth. Blood seeped; the red-and-white checked cloth turned completely red.

Lissa sat down a fresh tumbler of Campari and soda in front of Brunetti. She frowned at Neall, who snapped out of his reverie. The blood on the tablecloth evaporated. He didn’t like the way Brunetti watched her as she waltzed away.

Neall clamped his teeth and eased his left hand off the gun butt.

Be cool, Haley. Don’t create a problem—not here where Lissa works.

Brunetti gargled an oily laugh, cut short by a series of wet sputters. Nearly choking, he snatched the now soggy-tipped cigar from between his teeth.

What’s so funny, Beak? Neall sucked in the satisfying get-even feeling calling him that.

Like I told you— Brunetti coughed up mucus and tongued it onto the cloth napkin, eyeing the brownish glob like it was rat poison. Your fuckin’ future.

You’re no part of my future, only a small part of this fucking lousy day.

Neall Haley didn’t feel as defiant as he’d tried to sound.

You and your cousin are nuts. He pushed out from the corner booth. Lots of guys are missing their little fingertips. I’m not buying any of your bullshit.

Brunetti also got to his feet, his coal-dark eyes narrowing. He deftly stuffed the old clipping into Neall’s jacket opening.

"Nuts, huh? We’ll see. I want you to have this. Think about your pa, ’cause I’m gonna be speaking some serious shit next time we talk. An’ hear this, Haley. Don’t be telling your ol’ man squat. Your damn trap stays shut, till I say fuckin’ otherwise, or else—hai capito, you understand?"

Neall wheeled about and strode out of the Palms. He didn’t want to talk to Lissa; his roiling gut would never allow his words to sound reasonable.

He raced the Porsche the three miles east to his parents’ home on Berendo Street, his mind filled with morbid dread. He needed to view the black-and-white snapshot that owned a spot in Pop’s den, as if it could explain things. Missy, his teenaged sister wouldn’t be home from school yet, and this was Mom’s grocery shopping day, so he’d have the place to himself.

Once inside he headed straight for the den where he spied the small photo. He stared at it tremblingly for a few moments before turning to leave.

He drove to a nearby liquor store and bought his first-ever cigarettes, a carton of Camels.

At his Fern Dell apartment, a mile-and-a-half west of his parents’ place, he snatched a half-empty bottle of Glenlivet from a cupboard and strode into the living room.

Dropping onto a recliner, he fired up a Camel and smoked and coughed between slugs of the single malt scotch, straight out of the bottle.

Whatever Leonardo Brunetti had in mind for Pop, it couldn’t be pretty. What about Lissa? The asshole knew Neall dated her. Would Brunetti hurt her? Neall gripped the green bottle, while his mind grasped for any understanding, catching nothing concrete, only Pop’s image as darkness draped the bay window and Neall’s spirit.

He had to tell Pop. But what about his weak heart? He would never forget the time his pop had collapsed. He never wanted to see that happen again. Besides, if he told Pop, he’d likely do something, and Brunetti’s or else would come into play. But why harm Pop over something that happened decades ago? Hell, Brunetti had to be a kid at the time. Whatever the hell had happened back then must have been damn personal.

Neall smacked a fist into a bony knee, nearly spilling the scotch. Simply because of a shortened pinky finger, Brunetti thought Pop was an Italiano named Angelo Sancia. No way.

Regardless, if Pop was or was not an ex-hit man, how could he protect himself if he didn’t know Brunetti believed he was? Not alerting Pop, not right. Fear and liquor were doing a number on Neall’s gut. He convinced himself that he had to identify and then find the cousin who had started all this shit.

Beak Brunetti wanting to play a l’il game must mean Pop has some time. Hopefully, enough so I can permanently ace both cousin assholes and put an end to this.

He fervently felt he could kill the two gorillas. He gazed about the darkened room as if a better answer lurked behind a shadowy table or chair. An answer that he could simply reach out and pluck. But he saw nothing but shadows, shapes. All he had were more questions.

Downing the last of the single-malt, he ground out his umpteenth cigarette butt. His throat felt raw, and his stomach churning in an unsettled mess. His mind screamed, get rid of Brunetti and his cousin.

Although his best weapons were his badge and S&W magnum, in order to effectively use them required backup, a person whom he could both trust and rely upon to keep quiet.

Unfortunately, he had just lost a partner to promotion, and the third man in the plainclothes felony car Neall worked, was transferring to Vice tomorrow. That meant Neall would be getting two new partners in two days.

Three men worked a car in the Felony Car Unit. They rotated shifts during the 28-day deployment period, so one man usually was on a day off. The few days all three worked, a newbie would be pulled from the uniforms in patrol and teamed with the third FCU officer.

Neall pressed back on the leatherette lounger, contemplating. One cop came to mind. He’d seen him take on a psychotic, vicious serial killer, a deadly fight that had shocked the blue-suits witnessing it, himself included. The dark-haired patrolman had damn well amazed Neall.

So he could fight. But can he be trusted?

The more he rolled his thoughts, the more convinced he became that Mike Montego was the cop he needed as a partner. With no clear idea how to gain the man’s support in what Neall intended, he decided he had no choice, he had to take the gamble.

Slowly, he lifted himself out of the La-Z-Boy and walked to the kitchen, empty scotch bottle in hand.

Minutes before the next evening’s roll call he approached the FCU supervisor. Sergeant Brad Kozier hand-picked the men for his plainclothes unit. Neall presented a proposal to Kozier that included Montego and K. W. Deal as his new partners. Dealer was an unknown, but Neall knew Montego had a liking for the first and only black cop to be assigned to the Sixth Division. Deal also would be more apt to keep his mouth shut were he to witness something he shouldn’t—rocking the boat never a good idea for any cop, certainly if he happened to be black.

Neall had heard how the half-Mexican Montego had faced-down more than one wise-ass because of slurs against the burly KW Deal—not that the man needed it. The strong-looking black, likely could handle himself damn well.

During his pitch to Sergeant Kozier, Neall suggested that having both Montego and Deal in the two-car, six-man special unit would fit with the changing times in Angel City.

Especially in ‘Hollyweird’...and sarge, please keep my name out of this partner thing.

The three-striper agreed to move the two new men to FCU the next night. As if that wasn’t enough, in clear proof that God existed, and He liked cops, the sarge handed an arrest warrant to Neall for none other than Mr. Leonardo Brunetti, badly wanted by Chicago PD for Murder One.

Neall smiled. So much for the Beak and his threats. Best fate for that big asshole would be as toe-tagged morgue meat, supine on a cold stainless-steel tray in a refrigerated-storage unit.

But he also knew he had to keep such thoughts to himself. And it meant walking a damn tightrope. But Mike Montego and KW Deal, two straight arrows, would make the perfect backup.

Chapter Two

Michael Dane Montego counted to five, then tailed Brunetti from the Palms restaurant. Not seeing his new partner outside as expected, he stopped. Ninety-degree air scorched his face. His gaze went from the big goon to any movement in the lush courtyard that might reveal the whereabouts of Neall Haley. Nothing.

His dark-suited target continued toward one of the dozen or so motel room doors.

Where the hell is Haley?

The plan was for Montego to come up behind the mobster, Haley in front, and make the bust. Nice and easy. Nobody to interfere. Hands flexed, gut constricted, Montego had a decision to make. Should he let the mobster disappear into a room, or take him without Haley’s help?

After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to go it alone.

A drying serrated palm frond crackled when he brushed past it.

Just then he spied a blinking small orange-ish light to his distant left.

He froze.

Neall Haley stood in a shadow fifty yards away, at the end of the low building.

What the hell?

Three sharp knocks broke the silence.

Montego’s gaze shot to a large neatly dressed gangster standing before a rosewood-colored door, and loosening his necktie. An incandescent bulb above the door illuminated his face and the brass number eight.

Brunetti showed no sign he’d noticed the tail or Haley’s blinking light as he checked the watch on his right wrist.

When the door swung inward, an interior light silhouetted a petite woman with fiery red, bouffant-styled hair. She wore a low-cut, skin-tight, swan-white dress that ended well above her knees; the costume of a costly call girl.

Brunetti stepped inside.

Before closing the door, she spied Montego on the path for a heartbeat then quickly shut the door.

Montego hotfooted it down the narrow path to his slim partner, whose fingers still covered the unlit penlight lens.

Hey, thought we were going to sandwich the big bastard between us?

Haley, not replying, seemed to be breathing faster than normal. Montego scowled, suspecting the cop had been up to something.

Brunetti’s chesty little friend spotted me.

No sweat, Montego—we’re cool.

Haley slipped the small flashlight into his jacket pocket.

Montego knew his new and senior partner only by reputation. The street cops claimed Haley missed nothing, saw every motion you made, heard every word you spoke, but you would never know it by looking at his pale expressionless face. Some cops claimed he could shoot a suspect without blinking while pointing out a robbery happening two blocks down the street—that’s if he chose to tell you anything at all.

Whatever.

Montego patted the folded arrest warrant in his breast pocket. Chicago PD wanted Brunetti on a first-degree murder charge.

In uniform patrol, he had never experienced a face-to-face with a gangster. All he knew was what Haley had told him about a recent Chicago murder case involving this guy, Brunetti. Save what he’d gleaned from a recent Peter Falk movie, Montego knew next to nothing about the Italian Mafia.

For what it’s worth, he said, after speaking to the older hood in the corner booth, our boy said something to two greasy goons chomping garlic bread at the next table—couldn’t hear their jawing, but they’re sitting tight. Shouldn’t be coming outside.

Haley loosed a Camel from a crumpled pack, dipped his light-blond head, and fired up a silver Ronson. The yellow flame lit up his ice-blue eyes. He inhaled deeply.

Probably told the thicknecks to stay put while he gets his hairy ass laid.

His words floated through a smoke-cloud as he pocketed the lighter.

The stifling heat had Montego shaking sweat beads from his nose tip. The heavy four-inch Colt revolver in the new hang-down holster on his left side began to bug him. After he’d received the assignment by telephone that morning, he’d gone downtown and bought the rig—not covered by his uniform allowance—and practiced hand-to-hand combat movements with it strapped on, adjusting to the stiff new leather.

Yesterday evening, he’d sweated in his dark-blue wool LAPD uniform. Tonight, rivulets streamed beneath his white cotton shirt. It clung to his chest. His sports coat hung heavy. No complaints, though. This assignment put him one step closer to becoming a detective, unless he screwed up; or.... Haley had him wondering.

Slipping a finger beneath the narrow rig-strap to ease the pressure on his shoulder, he studied the light-blond cop now acting all Joe Cool.

Haley, the smoldering cigarette dangling from his thin lips, stared toward room eight while he yanked a nickel-plated M&P .357 Smith & Wesson four-inch from under his sports coat.

Montego noted Haley was a lefty, like Brunetti.

Haley broke the shiny revolver open. Using the ambient light from a nearby window to see, he rolled the cylinder. Ash fell on his sleeve when he shoved the six-shot magnum back into its leather home.

His bad-ass reputation caused Montego to wonder, had the slim guy chambered hot loads? Department policy forbade rounds that fired in excess of 1000 feet-per-second, but cowboy cop types didn’t seem to care, claiming they wanted the knockdown power.

Shall we do it? asked Montego.

Uh-uh. Let him drop his silks then we’ll take his Italian ass down.

Haley drew in a drag. The Camel glowed with new life.

Montego finger-shifted the irritating strap on his rig once again, picturing Brunetti about now down to a pair of fancy silk shorts and calf-hugging black socks.

How do we make sure it’s only our boy inside with the hooker?

Haley swiped away the sheen from his brow, lipped the cigarette to the other side of his mouth, and again pulled out the S&W. It’s just them two. He pointed his gun barrel up and surveyed the shadowy courtyard. And his larded ass won’t fit through the small rear window...no matter, he won’t run.

Mike Montego shot Haley a questioning look. And Miss Chesty Redhead?

Not a problem—she’ll clear out.

The Camel stub bobbed like a buoy when Haley spoke.

Oh? Montego said.

Bathroom’s on the left, off the entry—makes things tight.

Haley took a last long drag, let the spent weed drop to the grass, and said, "Tonight, Numero Dos is about to lose one of his main men—and watch your piece, Montego, I’m goin’ in first."

He crushed the cigarette butt underfoot, and moved toward door number eight.

Montego eased out a held breath. He touched the writ in his coat pocket but left it there. He wanted both hands free. He flexed his hands and decided to leave his .357 blue-steel Colt Python holstered. He drew a deep breath and called upon his hand-fighting regimen to center himself.

They stepped up to the solid door, with Haley on the doorknob side, Montego by the hinges.

Though he’d done this hundreds of times in uniform, the uncertainty of what awaited him behind the door always put him on edge. The sports suit he wore this time made no difference.

Haley rapped the rose-red panel two times.

It opened almost instantly. The fiery redhead puffed on a cigarette in a long black-plastic holder. She flashed a frowning smile at Haley, glanced at Montego, then scooted between them out into the courtyard, leaving a trail of blue-gray smoke.

Haley slipped through the swirling burnt tobacco cloud, his S&W pointed ahead of him. Montego, half-crouched, stepped into the entry behind Haley.

Leonardo Brunetti wasn’t in sight, but beyond Haley, Montego spied a navy-blue suit coat neatly draped over a high-backed lounge chair. A small television atop a beige lowboy played Rod Serling’s theme for The Twilight Zone. Opposite the dresser, a made-up queen-sized bed with a cream-colored coverlet remained made.

The mobster had to be in the bathroom and must have heard the raps.

Montego eyed the cut-glass knob on the door to his left. Seeing no hinges, he knew the door swung inward.

And it did.

Fast.

Haley’s S&W now aimed at the bathroom.

A fully clothed Brunetti barreled out and slapped Haley’s gun loose, then kicked Haley in the groin.

The cop collapsed just as his magnum flew across the room landing on the dark-blue carpet.

Brunetti whipped a blue-steel semi-automatic from his shoulder holster.

Montego whammed into him while pulling out his own revolver.

The larger man sprawled sideways, pistol still gripped by his left hand.

Haley scrambled on all fours after Brunetti, who twisted about on the carpet, arcing his 9 mm pistol toward Montego.

Haley’s side swiping-kick to Brunetti’s gun-hand, knocked the piece free.

The pistol slid under the bed.

Haley yelled, Shoot his ass, Mike!

Instead, Montego rammed the blue-steel snake home, booted Haley’s dropped magnum clear of the action, and sprang forward.

Brunetti, shoving Haley away, rolled right and reached under the bed. Before he could grab his pistol, Montego was on him. He wrenched the mobster’s head up violently and flung him back into the lowboy.

The TV slid off the dresser and landed on the carpet with a flash and a poof. The Twilight Zone entered the twilight zone.

Brunetti snorted mucus like a winded horse, regained his footing, spit blood at the dead television, turned toward Montego, and bull-charged, grumbling, You sonofabitch.

Montego, side-stepping, grasped a handful of greasy black hair in one hand and Brunetti’s shoulder holster strap in the other. Using the man’s own momentum, he slammed him nose-first into the nightstand. The lamp toppled, killing the lit bulb. The glow from the bathroom open doorway now the only illumination in the cluttered room.

Brunetti’s struggled to his feet but Montego dropped hard onto his lower back, flattening him.

You’re busted, Beak.

Haley, back in the action, hooked a handcuff loop around the mobster’s thick left wrist while Montego removed a gold Rolex wristwatch from the right one. Forcing Brunetti’s arms up and over, they muscled their prisoner to a seated position. Haley secured the second bracelet, then retrieved his magnum from the entryway.

Some damn good shit there, Tonto.

Holding Brunetti’s right upper arm, Montego drew a lungful of air, then hissed it out like he was blowing a horn, diluting the flowing adrenaline.

He had felt a short stab of pride in his chest when Haley used his nickname, Tonto. Some cops made it sound insulting, but Haley seemed sincere. Perhaps, he’d start calling him Neall. Montego usually called cops by they last names until he got to know them.

Haley quickly holstered his S&W and snagged Brunetti’s Beretta from under the bed. He popped out the fully loaded magazine, and then ejected the chambered cartridge. He secured the semi-auto inside his leather-belted waistband, and grasped Brunetti’s left arm.

Montego noticed Brunetti’s light-blue blood mottled shirt as he slipped the fancy Rolex into Brunetti’s trouser pocket. He patted him down, wiping the hair-oil residue on his hands onto the blue fabric.

While Haley held onto Brunetti’s left upper arm, Montego snatched the suit coat off the chair, noting it was a Petrocelli. Size 52.

After running a forearm over his damp brow, he re-gripped Brunetti’s upper arm. The goon, mouthing unintelligible slobbering noises, fought the stainless-steel cuffs as they jostled him out through the front doorway.

Montego spotted the red-haired hooker hunkered among azaleas by a corner of the building. Even in the subdued lighting, the clinging contours of her starkly white dress hid nothing—clearly she possessed no threatening weapons, beyond the eye-bulgingly obvious.

Although her statement wasn’t required in a