10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2,1-go.

They ran up the stairs. They cut down hallways and found 311. Buzz opened the door. Crutch hoisted the camera. They followed love grunts to a doorway and let fly.

It was all Greek. The Mutant poured hubby the pork with his monster meat in plain view. Crutch tripped the shutter. Pop pop pop pop-the bedroom went flashbulb-white blind. Hubby wailed the fruit-gig standard How Could You? blues. The Mutant pulled on his pants and went out the fire escape. Buzz saw a bag of weed on the dresser and swiped it. Crutch thought, This is the life.

Buzz said, “It had to be a yard long.”

Crutch said, “Under a foot. Remember, Chick Weiss gave us the measurement.”

Clyde Duber said, “We could use him again. Did you get his number?”

Buzz said, “We can find him through the Screen Actors Guild. He’s playing the sidekick on some TV show.”

Clyde Duber’s office, Beverly Hills. Knotty-pine walls, golf trophies and red leather. Dig the wall frieze:

It pertained to that big armored-car heist. Clyde grooved on it. The case was one big bug up his ass. There’s an ink-stained bill behind glass. There’s framed photos of blowtorched stiffs and loose emeralds. There’s Sergeant Scotty Bennett. He’s manhandling two male Negroes.

Clyde kept an amateur file on the case. It was his pet project. Scotty indulged him with knickknacks. Clyde loved Scotty’s sweat-room tapes. They featured male Negroes screaming.

Crutch said, “Freddy Otash bought some hotel in Vegas.”

Clyde poured a triple scotch. “Freddy’s a dipshit. Rumors are circulating, and that’s all I can say about that.”

Buzz said, “Tell Dad about the Hughes deal.”

Crutch scratched his balls. “Life magazine’s offering a million bucks for a photo of Howard Hughes. I think we can do it.”

Clyde made the jack-off sign. Kids-this white man’s burden. Kid wheelmen, kid infiltrators, kid stakeout geeks.