L.A. Confidential Page #3

The passenger door opens and Mickey Cohen bodyguard

Johnny Stompanato slides in. Guinea handsome, Johnny

wears his curls in a tight pompadour. With his boss

behind bars, he's out of work. Bud just stares at him.

STOMPANATO:

Officer White. I heard you got a

hard-on for wife beaters.

BUD:

And you f*** people up for a

living. That don't make me you.

Capisce, shitbird?

Stompanato smiles. Nervous. Through the window, Bud

watches a Salvation Army Santa palm coins from a kettle.

STENSLAND:

Bud ain't in the mood for small

talk, Stompanato.

STOMPANATO:

Look, Mickey C's doing time and

half the other guys who'd hire me

are dead or left town. I need

money. If your snitch-fund's

green, I'll get you some f***ing-A

collars.

Impatient, Bud tugs at a finger, CRACKS a KNUCKLE.

STOMPANATO:

There's this guy. He's blond and

fat, about forty. Likes the

ponies. Been pimping his wife to

cover his losses. Knocks her

around to keep her in line.

Bud's eyes narrow at this last bit of info. Stompanato

holds up a slip of paper.

STOMPANATO:

I figure the address is worth

twenty.

Bud digs into his wallet, pulls out twenty bucks,

exchanges it with Stompanato. Stompanato smiles smugly,

grabs a bottle of Scotch from the back.

STOMPANATO:

Yuletide cheer, fellas.

Without warning, Bud grabs Stompanato's tie and yanks,

slamming his forehead into the dash.

BUD:

Happy New Year, greaseball.

EXT. 1486 EVERGREEN - NIGHT

A stucco job in a row of vet prefabs. A neon Santa

sleigh has landed on the roof. Through the front window,

we see a fat guy browbeating a woman. Puff-faced, 35-

ish, she backs away as he rages at her.

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