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.I'm a cop, I'm an attorney, I'll be the goat, I'll testify when the trials start, the Feds'll be fucked, you'll look so good Welles Noonan'll wither up and die and Gas Chamber Bob'll ride the trials straight to the governorship and--""Klein--""Exley, PLEASE, let me do this.Dudley knows I'm a killer, and he thinks he's operating me on Breuning.Now, if I bring Breuning in, he'll punk out--without Dudley he's got no guts.Exley, PLEASE."Tick tick tick tick tick--seconds/a minute--"Do it."Phone-booth sweats-drenched--I cracked the door for a breeze."And no backup men at the Ranch Market--Breuning might spot them.""Agreed.Do it."Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html_______________________________________Pay phone to pay phone--bug-fear precautions.Long distance--twenty dimes--Newton Station to Mel's Drive Inn, Fresno.Glenda talked a blue streak:Touch told Mickey she drove to TJ.for a scrape.Dig her new stand-in-- Rock Rockwell, full drag.Dig Fed witness Mickey on TV--blatant Vampire plugs.Reckless Glenda--tell me everything.She was carhopping now: roller skates, cowgirl outfits.A Fed fugitive-- fuck it--she spilled a malt on the Fresno DA--and he loved it.Good tips, getting gooood on skates--really gooood tray dips.Stylish Glenda, strong Glenda--tell me ANYTHING.Her blue streak dwindled; her tough-girl shtick tapped out hoarse.Scared Glenda-chain-smoking to tamp down her nerves.I told her:You scared me.You cut me loose from this woman I had no business loving._______________________________________CHAPTER FORTY-SIXHollywood Ranch Market-- Fountain and Vine.Open-air entrance, parking lot.Cars, shoppers, box boys pushing carts.8:02 P.M.--standing curbside.Sweaty, chafing--my bulletproof vest fit tight.Breuning walking toward me-across-the-lot diagonal.Packing a suitcase.Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlFatter than fat--_his_ vest bunched up at the hips.Parking-lot lights: humdrum shoppers lit up.No backup types dawdling.I cut over.Breuning clenched up-fat neck toady fuck."Show me the money.""Dud said you should hand up Vecchio first.""Just show me."He opened the bag--just a crack.Cash stacks--fifty grand easy."Satisfied?"A box boy circled by, hands in his apron.A toupee, familiar--Breuning eyeballed him--Say what?Black-and-white-glossy familiar--slot surveillance pix--Breuning fumbled his piece up--His suitcase hit the ground.I snagged my.45 on my vest.The box boy shot through his apron two-handed--Breuning caught two clean head shots.Screams.A breeze-money flying.I got my piece free; the box boy swung my way--two hands out.Point blank: three shots slammed my vest and pitched me backward.Muzzle smoke in his eyes--I shot through it.Point blank--no way to miss--a bloody toupee sheared clean, Jesus fuck--Screams.Shoppers grabbing money.Breuning and the box boy tangled up dead.Another "box boy"--braced against a car hood, aiming at me.People running/milling/huddling/eating pavement.Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlI threw myself prone.Shots--rifle loud.Roof snipers.That box boy blending in--human shields bobbing every which way.Snipers--Exley backup.Firing at the box boy--missing wide.Bullhorn amplified: "Cease fire! Hostage!"I stood up."Hostage": box boy dragging an old lady backward.Elbows flailing, clawing at him--resisting mean.Blade flash--he slit her throat down to the windpipe.Bullhorn roar: "Get him!"Rifle shots strafed the old lady--box boy hit the sidewalk hauling dead weight.Run--Straight across diagonal--his blind side."DON'T SHOOT, HE'S OURS!"--somebody/somewhere.On him, his shield up-this mouth-gaping, neck-severed thing.I shot through her face and ripped them separate; I matched his face as one more Fed-photo dead man.CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN"The crime wave that has local authorities baffled continues.A scant hour ago four people were shot and killed at the picturesque Hollywood Ranch Market, two of them identified as Midwest-based criminals posing as market employees.An LAPD officer was also gunned down, as was an innocent woman taken hostage by one of the criminals.Thousands of dollars dropped from a suitcase were scattered in the ensuing pandemonium, and when calculating in the gangland slayings in Watts earlier today that also left four dead, the City of the Angels begins to seem like the City of the Devils."My motel room, TV news.Call it for _real_:Exley backup, Smith targets: Breuning and me.A Dudley charade: rogue cops slain, bag cash found.Movie time pending then: my rep even more trashable postmortem.Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html".LAPD Chief of Detectives Edmund J [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.I'm a cop, I'm an attorney, I'll be the goat, I'll testify when the trials start, the Feds'll be fucked, you'll look so good Welles Noonan'll wither up and die and Gas Chamber Bob'll ride the trials straight to the governorship and--""Klein--""Exley, PLEASE, let me do this.Dudley knows I'm a killer, and he thinks he's operating me on Breuning.Now, if I bring Breuning in, he'll punk out--without Dudley he's got no guts.Exley, PLEASE."Tick tick tick tick tick--seconds/a minute--"Do it."Phone-booth sweats-drenched--I cracked the door for a breeze."And no backup men at the Ranch Market--Breuning might spot them.""Agreed.Do it."Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html_______________________________________Pay phone to pay phone--bug-fear precautions.Long distance--twenty dimes--Newton Station to Mel's Drive Inn, Fresno.Glenda talked a blue streak:Touch told Mickey she drove to TJ.for a scrape.Dig her new stand-in-- Rock Rockwell, full drag.Dig Fed witness Mickey on TV--blatant Vampire plugs.Reckless Glenda--tell me everything.She was carhopping now: roller skates, cowgirl outfits.A Fed fugitive-- fuck it--she spilled a malt on the Fresno DA--and he loved it.Good tips, getting gooood on skates--really gooood tray dips.Stylish Glenda, strong Glenda--tell me ANYTHING.Her blue streak dwindled; her tough-girl shtick tapped out hoarse.Scared Glenda-chain-smoking to tamp down her nerves.I told her:You scared me.You cut me loose from this woman I had no business loving._______________________________________CHAPTER FORTY-SIXHollywood Ranch Market-- Fountain and Vine.Open-air entrance, parking lot.Cars, shoppers, box boys pushing carts.8:02 P.M.--standing curbside.Sweaty, chafing--my bulletproof vest fit tight.Breuning walking toward me-across-the-lot diagonal.Packing a suitcase.Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlFatter than fat--_his_ vest bunched up at the hips.Parking-lot lights: humdrum shoppers lit up.No backup types dawdling.I cut over.Breuning clenched up-fat neck toady fuck."Show me the money.""Dud said you should hand up Vecchio first.""Just show me."He opened the bag--just a crack.Cash stacks--fifty grand easy."Satisfied?"A box boy circled by, hands in his apron.A toupee, familiar--Breuning eyeballed him--Say what?Black-and-white-glossy familiar--slot surveillance pix--Breuning fumbled his piece up--His suitcase hit the ground.I snagged my.45 on my vest.The box boy shot through his apron two-handed--Breuning caught two clean head shots.Screams.A breeze-money flying.I got my piece free; the box boy swung my way--two hands out.Point blank: three shots slammed my vest and pitched me backward.Muzzle smoke in his eyes--I shot through it.Point blank--no way to miss--a bloody toupee sheared clean, Jesus fuck--Screams.Shoppers grabbing money.Breuning and the box boy tangled up dead.Another "box boy"--braced against a car hood, aiming at me.People running/milling/huddling/eating pavement.Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlI threw myself prone.Shots--rifle loud.Roof snipers.That box boy blending in--human shields bobbing every which way.Snipers--Exley backup.Firing at the box boy--missing wide.Bullhorn amplified: "Cease fire! Hostage!"I stood up."Hostage": box boy dragging an old lady backward.Elbows flailing, clawing at him--resisting mean.Blade flash--he slit her throat down to the windpipe.Bullhorn roar: "Get him!"Rifle shots strafed the old lady--box boy hit the sidewalk hauling dead weight.Run--Straight across diagonal--his blind side."DON'T SHOOT, HE'S OURS!"--somebody/somewhere.On him, his shield up-this mouth-gaping, neck-severed thing.I shot through her face and ripped them separate; I matched his face as one more Fed-photo dead man.CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN"The crime wave that has local authorities baffled continues.A scant hour ago four people were shot and killed at the picturesque Hollywood Ranch Market, two of them identified as Midwest-based criminals posing as market employees.An LAPD officer was also gunned down, as was an innocent woman taken hostage by one of the criminals.Thousands of dollars dropped from a suitcase were scattered in the ensuing pandemonium, and when calculating in the gangland slayings in Watts earlier today that also left four dead, the City of the Angels begins to seem like the City of the Devils."My motel room, TV news.Call it for _real_:Exley backup, Smith targets: Breuning and me.A Dudley charade: rogue cops slain, bag cash found.Movie time pending then: my rep even more trashable postmortem.Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html".LAPD Chief of Detectives Edmund J [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]