The Third Figure by Collin Wilcox

advised me not to come to Los Angeles, and I can see now that he was right. But I’m here now, and I don’t have much choice but to—”
    “I disagree with Larsen. I don’t see anything wrong with you being here. Just be sure you keep us posted, that’s all. You’re a crime reporter. You should know we protect our informers from—”
    “Look, let me call you on the phone. Give me a number, and I promise I’ll report once a day, at least. But, for God’s sake, I don’t think you should—”
    “Now, listen, Drake. The way I understand this deal, you’re being paid a bundle of money to find out who killed Dominic Vennezio. Then …” He held up two spread fingers. “Then, second, you’re being paid not to tell anyone about it. Any of the authorities, I mean. Now—” He shook his head, in ponderous burlesque of a regretful reproach. “Now, that just isn’t the way we want to see it happen, Drake. We don’t mind if you give the information to Russo. He’s paying for the information, and he’s got a right to get it. However, if you uncover any information relative to the murder of Dominic Vennezio, you’re going to be in real hot water with the law if you don’t—”
    “But Russo’s not paying me. It’s Mrs. Vennezio. She’s the one I’m working for. She—”
    “She’s a front for Russo. You know it, and so do I.” His protuberant eyes were chilled; his voice was barbed with a policeman’s cynical, bored contempt. As a reporter, I’d often heard that note of contempt in a cop’s voice, questioning a suspect.
    “She’s not a front,” I protested. “She’s—”
    “You’re reporting to Russo, though.”
    “Well, yes. But—”
    “He says ‘no,’ it’s no.”
    I sighed. “Listen, Carrigan, what you’re saying is right. But don’t forget this: the whole La Palada police department is jumping to Russo’s tune. It’s not just me. In fact, I’m a lot more independent than—”
    “All right, Drake. There’s no point in arguing. You can talk all you want to, but I’m telling you what’s going to happen. Now, if you want to phone in once a day, that’s fine. I’ll give you a number you can use, downtown. However, I’m also going to keep an eye on you. For one thing, assuming you really do turn up something, you might need some help. For another, still assuming you turn up something, there’s a little matter of what constitutes evidence. You might tell the jury, for instance, that you talked with Frankie Russo or Larry Sabella. But Russo and Sabella might say you didn’t. If you had a witness, though—a well-concealed witness, who was also a law officer—things might turn out a lot different in court. Of course,” he added in a patronizing tone, faintly contemptuous, “we wouldn’t expect you to testify in court. As I said, we protect our sources.”
    “Thanks for that, anyhow.” I made no effort to conceal the hostile irony in my voice. Informers, like certain lower insects, could not sustain themselves in the full light of day.
    Yet, in the next moment, I realized I’d never have the courage to testify against the Outfit. Score one, I thought, for Carrigan—and another for Larsen.
    He shrugged and got ponderously to his feet.
    “You’re the one who decided to play with the big boys, Drake. Nobody forced you.” He took a small notebook from his pocket, scribbled and tore out a slip of perforated paper. “Here’s the phone number. Ask for me, then identify yourself as my …” He paused. “… my friend from Portland. Don’t mention your name or any other names connected with the case, and always use a pay phone. We’ll call Russo the first subject and Sabella the second subject. Any questions?”
    I shook my head.
    “Good.” He moved briskly to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out into the corridor, softly closing the door behind him.
    I slipped the perforated slip of paper into my billfold, snapped off the TV and absently reached for my drink. Then I