June, 1929

Hollywood, California

The whole idea of having three stiffs laid out in the back of his Ford Woody annoyed the shit out of Mickey Two Shoes, even if he had killed these guys himself.

"This isn't right," Mickey said. Big boy: six-four, three-twenty easy. He looked like a middle-aged football player. People referred to him as "Mickey Two Shoes" because of his splashy footwear. Today, for example, he wore his red alligators loafers without socks.

Then Mickey said, "They ought to give you an automobile."

Mendel the Rabbi didn't answer.

The Woody glided up Mulholland-Los Angeles glittering below them-the windows open and that new gizmo on-the car radio-Satchmo Armstrong and the Hot Five's "Basin Street Blues" playing to a clear night.

"Hey," Mick nudging the rabbi. "You listening to me, or what?"

"They ought to give you an automobile."

"Exactly, this is what I'm saying. I got upholstery to think about. I got an investment."

"What a fuckin' odor," Mendel the Rabbi said. He wasn't a real rabbi. He wasn't even religious. They called him Mendel the Rabbi because he had a habit of mumbling prayers to himself in Hebrew when he shot people. "It smells like somebody dropped a load in here."

"That's what dead people do."

"You don't think I know? I'm a professional."

"Did I say you weren't a professional? Don't be so goddamn sensitive, Mendel. I'm simply making a comment, y'know, an observation. I mean look at the mess back there. I got shit, I got piss, I got blood-it's disgusting."

"You should've brought a tarp," Mendel said. Along with a pencil-thin mustache, he had ears a man could use as wings.

"I should've been a fuckin' accountant." The Mickey and Mendel show.

"Yeah, that, too."

Who the stiffs were-okay, had been-also bothered Mickey. Filling the rear of his Ford Woody were the Sax Brothers, uh-huh, the ones and only, Coco, Plato, and Bruno, a single bullet hole in each of their heads. Unbelievable. You can have your Laurel and Hardy, your Keaton, your Arbuckle, your Marx Brothers-now those guys, the Marx Brothers, they copied the Sax boys move for move, even the names, all that ending in "o" stuff-yeah, no contest, the Sax Brothers had better moves and funnier shit, but the damn talkies had ruined them.

"So, tell me, which one did you like best?" Mendel did an over the shoulder hitch-hike motion with his thumb, pointing to the bodies. Since he was short, five-one or two, his thumb merely stabbed the back of the seat.

Mickey Two Shoes was watching the road. "What?"

"The Sax Brothers. Which one?"

"All of 'em."

"You must've had a favorite."

Mickey did an irritated glance at the rabbi. "You asking favorites? I swear to Christ, Mendel, you're a head case. We just shot those poor bastards." Then Mickey considered the question. "Bruno. I liked Bruno, the way he wiggled his eyebrows."

"I liked the one who chased the skirts."

"They all chased the skirts."

"The one with the cop whistle," Mendel the Rabbi said. "What's-his-name, curly blonde hair."

"Coco."

"Yeah. Coco with the whistle." The rabbi stared out the passenger window a moment before turning to his associate. "Not that I didn't enjoy Plato. No slight intended, believe me.

Plato always had a hustle. But an intellectual, a thinker, figuring the angles. The guy reminded me a lot of you, Mick. "

"Get your nose outta my ass, Mendel." Brown-nosing Hebe.

A person did have to think of everything, though. All the what-you-call-it, contingencies.

Next time, I work alone. I shoot the poor jerk-off, I go home. Bing-bang, simple. No partners, and none of this drive the bodies shit. What the hell am I? A delivery service, a chauffeur?

Mickey didn't mind the Hebe, actually. Sort of liked the guy. But watching out for two people bothered him. He'd enough problems avoiding his own mistakes.

An acid feeling in his stomach traveled up to the throat and left a bitter taste. He needed to go to that little grocery store over on Crescent Heights and get himself a nice milk, something to coat the lining, to sooth the inflammation.

"You've been cursed with my stomach, Mickey," his mom telling him this since age six. "We're too sensitive for the world, that's our problem. Our stomachs feel everything. Like two peas in a pod, you and me."

The Woody station wagon labored another turn up Mulholland. The night air felt cool on Mick's skin. If you took a good breath, and ignored the stink of the Sax Brothers, you could smell the Pacific.

Mendel said, "So where we taking these dead boys?"

"Doctor Hobbs."

"Oh, yeah?" The Heb's definitely curious now. Amadeus Hobbs, the plastic surgeon who never used a scalpel. Mendel said, "He's the one who got Theda's and Bruno's baby. I mean, I heard Mister Roussin didn't trust Theda with the kid so he gave him to the doc." After a second or two of hesitation, "Is that shit true?"

"Depends," Mick said. "What shit are we discussing?"

"How Hobbs never cuts anybody."

"He never cut me."

"Get out. You saying he worked on you?" The rabbi, a tad skeptical.

"Remember Johnny Kotenni? Arms like hams. Ugly. Johnny took a bat to the side of my face."

"Get out."