I shifted in my seat, spoke up over the police radio calls Fowley was monitoring. “He’s not my pal, and I wouldn’t call him ‘Bugsy’ to his face, if I were you.”

“Didn’t you work with him in Vegas?”

“I worked for Ben Siegel in Vegas, yes. Did a security job at the Flamingo. Taught his little private police force how to nab pickpockets, and stopped the pilfering that was nickel-and-diming him.”

“Yeah? So who was doing the pilfering?”

“His little private police force.”

Fowley sailed his spent cigarette out the window, spraying sparks of color into the gray morning. “I’m just warning you that the boss has a hard-on against Siegel-they’re blood enemies.”

“I thought Richardson relished the idea of my clients including the likes of Capone and Frank Nitti.”

“Oh, he loves that. Chicago gangsters are colorful. It’s the West Coast variety Jim hates-they’re criminals, y’know… except for Jim’s pal Mickey Cohen, of course.”

Fowley’s Ford was approaching Crenshaw Boulevard when a crackling voice on the shortwave said, “A 390 W down, 415, empty lot one block east of Crenshaw between 39th and Coliseum. Please investigate-Code Two.”

Code Two meant proceed quickly but without red light or siren; a 390 W was a drunk woman, and 415 was a public disturbance. This all added up to a drunk woman passed out in a vacant lot.

Fowley reacted like an old firehorse hearing a familiar bell. “Huh! We got a naked drunk dame, just a block or so over! Let’s have a look…”

“Stop the presses. What the hell makes you think she’s naked?”

“She’s disturbing the peace and she’s unconscious; ’bout the only way a broad can pull that off is to pass out in the buff. Where’s your sense of adventure, Heller? Maybe she’s a looker!”

“Christ, Fowley, I don’t wanna follow you on some wild goose-”

But he was already turning south on Crenshaw; next it was east on 39th, where he started to crawl through the barren war-zone landscape of vacant lots, some of which were staked off every thirty feet or so. Traffic was nil.