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Cole has noticed that his partner runs in the same circles as notorious gangsters, but only when Roy chooses to: when there’s money to be made or information to be gathered. The boxing stadium for the Hammond-Kid Gallahad fight is one thing. There were a hundred people watching that match. But Roy doesn’t make a habit out of lunches at the Mocambo, and he never lets Mickey Cohen pay for anything. After the incident at the office building, Cole understands the balance a little better. He’d thought of Roy as a criminal asset, a man whose position Mickey Cohen takes advantage of when it’s useful. But Roy’s like a stray dog to them, a mangy mutt that they feed scraps to and let follow them around because they know they can put him down whenever they want. Cole knows that now. He wishes he didn’t.
It’s three weeks before they run into Mickey Cohen and Johnny Stompanato again. There’s a lull in the morphine distribution, it seems, some sort of blockage in the supply chain that’s stopped it from spreading out onto the street. When Archie hands them cases about marijuana and small-time prostitution rings, Cole welcomes the change. He’s tired of the memories the syrettes bring back, phantom pain in his side from a long-ago gunshot.
Roy still invites him out every few nights, but always to bars on the fringes of Hollywood. None of the glitz and glamor of The Frolic Room and its celebrity sightings, just dive bars with half-lit signs where the bartenders don’t know Roy’s name. Cole is always sure that another invite to The Blue Room is next, that Roy will take him there just to mock him for liking Elsa’s voice. He’s even sure that he’ll go, just once, to see if it makes Roy act more like himself. But he never gets the chance, because The Blue Room never comes up.
Instead, they get a heroin case. No army surplus in sight, but heroin is heroin, and Roy is the Chief Detective of Ad Vice. “Make us look good,” Archie tells him before they leave for the crime scene.
There’s a dead man in an apartment on Willoughby. No track marks in his arm; the sharp line of white powder on the coffee table shows that he preferred to snort his heroin. They find two neatly folded paper packets of white powder in a locked box on the shelf. There’s very little evidence. The only thing they have to go on is a matchbook from the Mocambo.
“Looks like we’ve got a date with the Mickster,” Roy says, turning the matchbook over in his palm. He doesn’t sound apprehensive; his voice has its trademark neutrality. Cole, on the other hand, is thinking about plush chairs and a glass of whiskey he didn’t drink.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
Roy looks at him. There’s no fear in his face. He looks unusually determined, lacking the unaffected distance he typically wears. “I’m sure,” he says.
They go to the Mocambo. Mickey Cohen and Johnny Stompanato are at table 3, empty plates in front of them. “Well, if it isn’t our two favorite detectives,” Mickey says blandly. “Good to see you Roy.”
Cole notes the lack of a greeting for himself, but he doesn’t particularly care about it. “We’re here for information,” he says, sitting down. He expects Roy to take over the flow of the conversation the way he did last time, but Roy just sits quietly beside him. Roy’s got his eyes trained on Cohen, making sure they never slip sideways to look at Stompanato.
“Haven’t you learned your lesson about asking questions?” Johnny asks. Roy quietly clears his throat, scooting his chair back an inch and crossing one leg over the other. When Cole glances over, he spots Johnny’s foot retreating from the space where Roy’s leg used to be.
“I guess I haven’t,” Cole says, opening his notebook. “We spent our morning visiting a corpse.”
“The dead guy didn’t have much in his apartment,” Roy says. “Just a couple of packets of high-grade heroin and a matchbook from your favorite restaurant, Mickey.”
“I’ve told you already, I don’t mess around with heroin. No H, no numbers, just good old fashioned sports betting. There’s a good fight coming up on Friday, you know, Roy. There are seats open in my section if you want to see a mouthy middleweight get what’s coming to him.”
“No thanks,” Roy says.
Mickey smiles coldly. “That’s right. You’ve probably had enough of that sort of thing.”
Roy tenses beside him. Cole sets his jaw and speaks. “You’ve denied your involvement in the army surplus robbery. But there are no morphine syrettes involved in this crime, Cohen. The LAPD has arrested a number of your associates for trafficking heroin. It’s not difficult to see who’s pulling the strings here.”
“And you can prove I’m connected to this? Your little matchbook is… what’s that word?” Mickey asks, snapping his fingers to jog his memory.
“Circumstantial,” Johnny supplies.
“That’s right. Circumstantial evidence. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Your name’s written in it,” Roy says, flipping the matchbook open. “And I’ve found plenty of those neat little packets over the years. Your name’s always on the tip of everyone’s tongues when they turn up. I’ve heard you fold them yourself. No one else can get the tidy corners you like.”
“Accusing me of moving heroin and of being neurotic? That’s gutsy.”
Roy shrugs. “I’m not the one who’s always washing my hands. You’ve got a spot, by the way. Might want to head over to the restroom now. That sink is calling your name.”
Mickey glances down at his hands and is visibly frustrated to discover Roy’s telling the truth. He wipes his hand furiously with the cloth napkin, rubbing at the little drop of sauce until it’s gone.
“Seems like you detectives don’t listen too well,” Johnny says, taking control. “We’ve already told you, we’re not in the heroin business. You can press us all you want, but that answer won’t change.”
“Johnny,” Roy says, like Stompanato is a five-year-old who needs a lesson on how the world works, “repeating yourself doesn’t mean you’re not lying. It just means you’re stubborn.”
“Not as stubborn as you, Roy.” Stompanato’s voice is cold. “Chasing us around like a yappy little dog. Always underfoot, just asking to get kicked. Maybe I oughta teach you another lesson.”
Roy doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t look away. He holds Johnny’s gaze, jaw set.
Cole stands up. Everyone looks at him with surprise, Roy included. “I’d like us to continue this conversation in private,” he says, straightening his suit. “I’m going to request that you get us a room with less prying ears so we can talk.”
“And why should I do that?” Mickey asks, one eyebrow raised.
“Because I’m with the LAPD, and I’ve got at least one crime I can arrest Mr. Stompanato here for. Eyewitness testimony from a favored detective? I may not have made a career rubbing shoulders with gangsters, but I’ve still made a name for myself, Mr. Cohen.”
“Cole,” Roy says. His tone means drop it, but he doesn’t say those words.
Mickey, on the other hand, laughs. “That’s cute, kid! I like it. Real chutzpah. You know what? I’ll give it to you. I'll get you your little private room, and we’ll talk there.”
It only takes a minute. Mickey raises his hand, and a waiter comes over immediately. Cohen requests the manager, who also scampers right on over to table number 3.
“These gentlemen and I would like to borrow the back office for a while,” Mickey says.
It’s not a request. Cole knows that, and so does the manager. After a moment’s hesitation, the manager says, “Of course, Mr. Cohen. Right this way.”
The whole of their little quartet follows him to the office. The manager closes the door behind them, assuring them that they will not be disturbed as long as the door remains closed. Mickey takes the seat behind the desk, still holding court even though the setting has changed. Roy sits casually on the edge of the desk, while Cole and Johnny remain standing.
“So, what’s all this about, kid?” Mickey asks.
“I just thought there should be fewer witnesses when I did this,” Cole says, and he slams his fist into the side of Johnny Stompanato’s face. His knuckles crack against Johnny’s cheek, fingers scraping against his stubble. He can feel an abrasion burn building on his skin. It feels good. It feels righteous. Suddenly, Cole understands how Captain Donnelly must feel every day. He swings his fist again.
Stompanato fights back, of course. He blocks and dodges punches exactly the way that Cole does, muscle memory from the same months of boxing training in the Marines. But Johnny Stompanato is a gunman these days, and Cole grapples with low-level criminals every week. He ducks under Johnny’s guard, grabbing Stompanato by the waist and charging to knock him down. Cole climbs on top of him and rains down blows.
He draws blood, and plenty of it. First from the corner of Johnny's mouth, then from his nose when Cole's fist connects with a satisfying crunch. Roy bled. Why shouldn't Stompanato?
Stompanato is bigger than him, but Cole's angrier. Johnny throws him off, shoving him so hard that Cole goes airborne for a second. Cole’s back hits the front of the desk, but he's back on his feet in no time. Johnny stands too. Before he can settle into his balance, Cole launches himself at Johnny. Johnny topples over, and Cole repositions himself on top of him so he can resume punching.
Cole is dimly aware of Roy and Cohen's voices. They're close by, but their voices sound distant through the blood rushing in Cole's ears.
“Shouldn't you stop him?” Mickey asks.
“Shouldn't you?” Roy replies.
No one can stop Cole right now. It's David and Goliath, but Cole has forgotten his river stones. His fists and brute force will have to do. It's not as poetic, but it's still justice.
Stompanato seems to feel the shift in the tide. If Mickey Cohen isn’t putting a stop to this, it’s because he wants it to continue. If Cole can see that, Johnny must know already. Cohen probably thinks it’s funny. Johnny stops trying to hit Cole back and switches to blocking as many of his punches as possible, catching Cole’s incoming fists with his forearms.
Cole never fought dirty during training, but enough of the Marines did that he knows how it works. He grabs Johnny’s wrists and yanks, tugging his arms down and pinning his forearms under Cole’s legs. Johnny’s eyes widen as he tries to pull his arms free and finds that he can’t. Cole’s grin feels feral. He punches Stompanato’s nose again. If it wasn’t broken before, it certainly is now. Cole’s fist is covered in Johnny’s blood, and it’s on his shirt and tie. It seems a small price to pay.
“Cole, that’s enough,” Roy says. This time, Cole hears him loud and clear. That doesn’t mean he agrees.
“No,” he spits. “He hasn’t gotten half of what he deserves yet.”
“I’m not arguing that. But if you beat Johnny Stompanato to death in front of me, I am going to have to arrest you. You wouldn’t make me do that to you, would you?”
Cole thinks about it, fist still clenched. But Roy is right. He can’t fight the good fight from behind bars. Cole backs off, slowly rising to his feet. Johnny watches him warily. He doesn’t clutch his nose as he gets up. He doesn’t even wipe the blood off his face. It’s probably nothing new to him.
Mickey looks from one man to the next: Johnny, then Roy, and finally Cole. “You used to be a Marine, didn’t you, kid?”
“That’s right.”
“Semper fi. I fuck with one of your guys, you fuck with one of mine.”
“That’s right, too.” It’s weird to think of Roy as “one of his men.” They’re not friends, and they never will be, but they put their lives on the line for each other in every gunfight. Cole protects his own. He’s always tried to do that. He’s just never been very good at it. He probably still isn’t.
“Alright,” Mickey says, shrugging. Cole blinks. That's it?
“Come on, Mickey,” Johnny starts, but Cohen silences him with a raised hand.
“You got yours, and he got his,” Mickey says. “Simple as that. And this will be the end of it. Won't it, detective?” Mickey's cool eyes are focused on Cole.
“Yes,” he says. “It will.” A moment passes between them. It’s probably the adrenaline still rushing through his veins, but Cole feels brave. He hasn’t felt this sure of himself in years. “And the packets of heroin won’t make an appearance in Los Angeles for a while,” Cole says.
Mickey raises his eyebrow. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, asking for that.”
“Just a couple weeks,” Roy says. “Take a vacation. Do some other business. Get the Vice squad in the papers so your name stays out of them.”
Cohen raises his hands in surrender, though the gesture doesn’t feel very genuine. “A couple weeks. In exchange, you better place some bets with my bookies, Roy.”
The corner of Roy’s mouth twists upward. “Sure thing, Mickey. You know how I feel about watching a good fight.”
Cole and Roy step out of the office. Cole makes for the bathroom to wash the blood off his hands, but Roy stops him. He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and carefully, gently, wipes Cole’s hands clean. He folds the bloodied handkerchief neatly when he’s done, returning it to his pocket. The entire affair is deliriously intimate. Cole looks down at his hands, wondering if he imagined the whole thing.
They walk out of the Mocambo unmolested. Roy drives. Cole’s still too hyped up on adrenaline to drive a car, and it’ll be worse when it fades. Roy’s mood has picked up. He turns the radio on, jazz music playing quietly under the thrum of the engine.
“You know, Phelps, if you’d told me you were going to beat the shit out of Johnny Stompanato, I would have stopped you.” Roy’s tone isn’t reprimanding. He clearly thinks it’s funny.
“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
Roy chuckles. “Don’t lie, Cole. You didn’t think about it at all. You were like an animal in there. I thought you were a terrier, but I guess you’re more of a rottweiler.”
“Are you going to lecture me, Officer?” Cole asks, preparing himself for another one of Roy’s long-winded speeches.
“I thought it was sweet,” Roy says. “Misguided, but cute. My knight in shining armor, defending honor I don’t have.”
“It wasn’t about honor,” Cole argues. “It was about—”
“I know,” Roy interrupts. “It was about justice.”
But Cole is, maybe, ready to tell the truth this time. “It was about anger. I don’t even know that I did it for you. I think I selfishly wanted revenge, so I selfishly got it.”
Roy looks over at him, a smile on his face. It doesn’t feel as smarmy as it usually does. “You know what, Cole? Maybe we’ll get along better than I thought.”
“You’re saying that now? We’ve been partners for two months.”
“I didn’t know how it would pan out. I just selfishly wanted you as my partner, so I selfishly got you reassigned.”
“That’s no revelation.”
Roy laughs. It’s an oddly pleasant sound. Maybe there’s something wrong with Cole today. “Stick to working cases, Phelps. You’re aces at spotting evidence, and you’re a whiz in the interrogation room. Leave the dirty work to me. You’re the good cop. Let me be the bad cop.”
“Perfect symbiosis,” Cole says, liking the sound of it even though he’s not sure it quite applies.
“You can’t talk like that and then get all testy when I say you sound like my science teacher, Mr. Phelps.”
“Actually, you made that comment about my clothes. It had nothing to do with the way I talk.”
“Huh. Well, guess I better start making some of those. You talk like a dusty old book, Cole.”
Cole rolls his eyes, but there’s no sting of annoyance. He’s no fan of Roy’s, but he prefers this attitude to the sedated man he’s been driving around with for the past few weeks. They can trade quips all day if it makes Roy act like himself again.
And maybe, deep down, Cole likes the game of it, too.