The whole squadroom to himself.
A retirement party downstairs-he wasn't invited. The weekly crime report to be read, summarized, tacked to the bulletin board-nobody else ever did it, they knew he did it best. The papers ballyhooing the Dream-a-Dreamland opening-the other cops Moochie Mouse-squeaked him ad nauseam. Space Cooley playing the party; pervert Deuce Perkins roaming the halls. Midnight and nowhere near sleepy-Ed read, typed.
4/9/53: a transvestite shoplifter hit four stores on Hollywood Boulevard, disabled two salesclerks with judo chops. 4/10/53: an usher at Grauman's Chinese stabbed to death by two male Caucasians-he told them to put out their cigarettes. Suspects still at large; Lieutenant Reddin said he was too inexperienced to handle a homicide-he didn't get the job. 4/11/53: a stack of crime sheets-several times over the past two weeks a carload of Negro youths were seen discharging shotguns into the air in the Griffith Park hills. No IDs, the kids driving a '48-'50 purple Mercury coupe. 4/11-4/13/53: five daytime burglaries, private homes north of the Boulevard, jewelry stolen. Nobody assigned yet; Ed made a note: bootjack the job, dust before the access points got pawed. Today was the fourteenth-he might have a chance.
Ed finished up. The empty squadroom made him happy: nobody who hated him, a big space filled with desks and filing cabinets. Official forms on the walls-empty spaces you filled in when you notched an arrest and made somebody confess. Confessions could be ciphers, nothing past an admission of the crime. But if you twisted your man the right way-loved him and hated him to precisely the right degree-then he would tell you things-small details-that would create a reality to buttress your case and give you that much more inteffigence to bend the next suspect with. Art De Spain and his father taught how to find the spark point. They had boxloads of old steno transcripts: kiddie rapers, heisters, assorted riffraff who'd confessed to them. Art would rabbit-punch-but he used the threat more than the act. Preston Exley rarely hit-he considered it the criminal defeating the policeman and creating disorder. They read elliptical answers and made him guess the questions; they gave him a rundown of common criminal experiences-wedges to get the flow started. They showed him that men have levels of weakness that are acceptable because other men condone them and levels of weakness that produce a great shame, something to hide from all but a brilliant confessor. They honed his instinct for the jugular of weakness. It got so sharp that sometimes he couldn't look at himself in the mirror.
The sessions ran late-two widowers, a young man without a woman. Art had a bug on multiple murders-he had his father rehash the Loren Atherton case repeatedly: horror snatches, witness testimony. Preston obliged with psychological theories, grudgingly-he wanted his glory case to stay sealed off, complete, in his mind. Art's old cases were scrutinized-and he reaped the efforts of three fine minds: confessions straight across, 95 percent convictions. But so far his drive to crack criminal knowledge hadn't been challenged-much less sated.
Ed walked down to the parking lot, sleep coming on. "Quack, quack," behind him-hands turned him around.
A man in a kid's mask-Danny Duck. A left-right knocked off his glasses; a kidney shot put him down. Kicks to the ribs drove him into a ball.
Ed curled hard, caught kicks in the face. A flashbulb popped; two men walked away: one quacking, one laughing. Easy IDs: Dick Stensland's bray, Bud White's football limp. Ed spat blood, swore payback.
Russ Millard addressed Ad Vice squad 4-the topic pornography.
"Picture-book smut, gentlemen. There's been a bunch of it found at collateral crime scenes lately: narcotics, bookmaking and prostitution collars. Normally this kind of stuff is made in Mexico, so it's not our jurisdiction. Normally it's an organized crime sideline, because the big mobs have the money to manufacture it and the connections to get it distributed. But Jack Dragna's been deported, Mickey Cohen's in prison and probably too puritanical anyway, and Mo Jahelka's foundering on his own. Stag pix aren't Jack Whalen's style-he's a bookie looking to get his hands on a Vegas casino. And the stuff that's surfaced is too high quality for the L.A. area print mills: Newton Street Vice rousted them, they're clean, they just don't have the facilities to make magazines of this quality. But the backdrops in the pictures indicate L.A. venue: you can see what looks like the Hollywood Hills out some windows, and the furnishings in a lot of the places look like your typical cheap Los Angeles apartments. So our job is to track this filth to its source and arrest whoever made it, posed for it and distributed it."
Jack groaned: the Great Jerk-off Book Caper of 1953. The other guys looked hot to glom the smut, maybe fuel up their wives. Millard popped a Digitalis. " Newton Street dicks questioned everyone at the collateral rousts, and they all denied possessing the stuff. Nobody at the print mills knows where it was made. The mags have been shown around the Bureau and our station vice squads, and we've got zero IDs on the posers. So, gentlemen, look yourself."
Henderson and Kifka had their hands out; Stathis looked ready to drool. Millard passed the smut over. " Vincennes, is there someplace you'd rather be?"
"Yeah, Captain. Narcotics Division."
"Oh? Anyplace else?"
"Maybe working whores with squad two."
"Make a major case, Sergeant. I'd love to sign you out of here."
Oohs, ahhs, cackles, oo-la-las; three men shook their heads no. Jack grabbed the books.
Seven mags, high-quality glossy paper, plain black covers. Sixteen pages apiece: photos in color, black and white. Two books ripped in half, explicit pictures: men and women, men and men, girls and girls. Insertion close-ups: straight, queer, dykes with dildoes. The Hollywood sign out windows; Murphy-bed fuck shots, cheap pads: stucco-swirled walls, the hot plate on a table that came with every bachelor flop in L.A. Par for the stag-book course-but the posers weren't glassy-eyed hopheads, they were good-looking, well-built young kids-nude, costumed: Elizabethan garb, Jap kimonos. Jack put the ripped mags back together for a bingo: Bobby Inge-a male prostitute he'd popped for reefer-blowing a guy in a whalebone corset.
Millard said, "Anybody familiar, Vincennes?"
An angle. "Nothing, Cap. But where did you get these torn-up jobs?"
"They were found in a trash bin behind an apartment house in Beverly Hills. The manager, an old woman named Loretta Downey, found them and called the Beverly Hills P.D. They called us."
"You got an address on the building?"
Millard checked an evidence form. "9849 Charleville. Why?"
"I just thought I'd take that part of the job. I've got good connections in Beverly Hills."
"Well, they do call you 'Trashcan.' All right, follow up in Beverly Hills. Henderson, you and Kifka try to locate the arrestees in the crime reports and try to find out again where they got the stuff-I'll get you carbons in a minute. Tell them there'll be no additional charges filed if they talk. Stathis, take that filth by the costume supply companies and see if you can get a matchup to their inventory, then fmd out who rented the costumes the… performers were wearing. Let's try it this way first-if we have to go through mugshots for IDs we'll lose a goddamn week. Dismissed, gentlemen. Roll, Vincennes. And don't get sidetracked-this is Ad Vice, not Narco."
Jack rolled: R &I, Bobby Inge's file, his angle flushed out: Beverly Hills, see the old biddy, see what he could find out and concoct a hot lead that told him what he already knew-Bobby Inge was guilty of conspiracy to distribute obscene material, a felony bounce. Bobby would snitch his co-stars and the guys who took the pix-one major class transfer requirement dicked.
The day was breezy, cool; Jack took Olympic straight west. He kept the radio going; a newscast featured Ellis Loew: budget cuts at the D.A.'s Office. Ellis droned on; Jack flipped the dial-a kibosh on thoughts of Bill McPherson. He caught a happy Broadway tune, thought about him anyway.
«Hush-Hush» was his idea: McPherson liked colored poon, Sid Hudgens loved writing up jig-fuckers. Ellis Loew knew about it, approved of it, considered it another favor on deposit. McPherson's wife filed for divorce; Loew was satisfied-he took a lead in the polls. Dudley Smith wanted more-and set up the tank job.
An easy parlay:
Dot Rothstein knew a colored girl doing a stretch at Juvenile Hall: soliciting beefs, Dot and the girl kept a thing sizzling whenever she did time. Dot got the little twist sprung; Dudley and his ace goon Mike Breuning fixed up a room at the Lilac View Motel: the most notorious fuck pad on the Sunset Strip, county ground where the city D.A. would be just another john caught with his pants down. McPherson attended a Dining Car soiree; Dudley had Marvell Wilkins-fourteen, dark, witchy- waiting outside. Breuning alerted the West Hollywood Sheriff's and the press; the Big V dropped chloral hydrates in McPherson's last martini. Mr. D.A. left the restaurant woozy, swerved his Cadillac a mile or so, pulled over at Wilshire and Alvarado and passed out. Breuning cruised up behind him with the bait: Marvell in a cocktail gown. He took the wheel of McPherson's Caddy, hustled Bad Bill and the girl to their tryst spot-the rest was political history.
Ellis Loew wasn't told-he figured he just got lucky. Dot sent Marvell down to Tijuana, all expenses paid-skim off the Woman's Jail budget. McPherson lost his wife and his job; his statch rape charge was dismissed-Marvell couldn't be located. Something snapped inside the Bigggg V-
The snap: one shitty favor over the line. The reason: Dot Rothstein in the ambulance October '47-she knew, Dudley probably knew. If they knew, the game had to be played so the rest of the world wouldn't know-so Karen wouldn't.
He'd been her hero a solid year; somehow the bit got real. He stopped sending the Scoggins kids money, closing out his debt at forty grand-he needed cash to court Karen, being with her gave him some distance on the Malibu Rendezvous. Joan Morrow Loew stayed bitchy; Welton and the old lady grudgingly accepted him-and Karen loved him so hard it almost hurt. Working Ad Vice hurt-the job was a snore, he hot-dogged on dope every time he got a shot. Sid Hudgens didn't call so much-he wasn't a Narco dick now. After the McPherson gig he was glad-he didn't know if he could pull another shakedown.
Karen had her own lies going-they helped his hero bit play true. Trust fund, beach pad paid for by Daddy, grad school. Dilettante stuff: he was thirty-eight, she was twenty-three, in time she'd figure it out. She wanted to marry him; he resisted; Ellis Loew as an in-law meant bagman duty until he dropped dead. He knew why his hero role worked: Karen was the audience he'd always wanted to impress. He knew what she could take, what she couldn't; her love had shaped his performance so that all he had to do was act natural-and keep certain secrets hidden.
Traffic snagged; Jack turned north on Doheny, west on Charleville. 9849-a two-story Tudor-stood a block off Wilshire. Jack double-parked, checked mailboxes.
Six slots: Loretta Downey, five other names-three Mr. & Mrs., one man, one woman. Jack wrote them down, walked to Wilshire, found a pay phone. Calls to R &I and the DMV police information line; two waits. No criminal records on the tenants; one standout vehicle sheet: Christine Bergeron, the mailbox "Miss," four reckless-driving convictions, no license revocation. Jack got extra stats off the clerk: the woman was thirty-seven years old, her occupation was listed as actress/car hop, as of 7/52 she was working at Stan's Drive-in in Hollywood.
Instincts: carhops don't live in Beverly Hills; maybe Christine Bergeron hopped some bones to stretch the rent. Jack walked back to 9849, knocked on the door marked "Manager."
An old biddy opened up. "Yes, young man?"
Jack flashed his badge. "L.A. Police, ma'am. It's about those books you found."
The biddy squinted through Coke-bottle glasses. "My late husband would have seen to justice himself, Mr. Harold Downey had no tolerance for dirty things."
"Did you find those magazines yourself, Mrs. Downey?"
"No, young man, my cleaning lady did. «She» tore them up and threw them in the trash, where I found them. I questioned Eula about it after I called the Beverly Hills police."
"Where did Eula find the books?"
"Well… I… don't know if I should…"
A switcheroo. "Tell me about Christine Bergeron."
Harumph. "That woman! And that boy of hers! I don't know who's worse!"
"Is she a difficult tenant, ma'am?"
"She entertains men at all hours! She roller-skates on the floor in those tight waitress outfits of hers! She's got a no-goodnik son who never goes to school! Seventeen years old and a truant who associates with lounge lizards!"
Jack held out a Bobby Inge mugshot; the biddy held it up to her glasses. "Yes, this is one of Daryl's no-goodnik friends, I've seen him skulking around here a dozen times. Who «is» he?"
"Ma'am, did Eula find those dirty books in the Bergeron apartment?"
"Well…"
"Ma'am, are Christine Bergeron and the boy at home now?"
"No, I heard them leave a few hours ago. I have keen ears to make up for my poor eyesight."
"Ma'am, if you let me into their apartment and I find some more dirty books, you could earn a reward."
"Well…"
"Have you got keys, ma'am?"
"Of course I have keys, I'm the manager. Now, I'll let you look if you promise not to touch and I don't have to pay withholding tax on my reward."
Jack took the mugshot back. "Whatever you want, ma'am." The old woman walked upstairs, up to the second-floor units. Jack followed; granny unlocked the third door down. "Five minutes, young man. And be respectful of the furnishings-my brother-in-law owns this building."
Jack walked in. Tidy living room, scratched floor-probably roller-skate tracks. Quality furniture, worn, ill-cared-for. Bare walls, no TV, two framed photos on an end table-publicity-type shots.
Jack checked them out; old lady Downey stuck close. Matching pewter frames-two good-looking people.
A pretty woman-light hair in a pageboy, eyes putting out a cheap sparkle. A pretty boy who looked just like her-extra blond, big stupid eyes. "Is this Christine and her son?"
"Yes, and they are an attractive pair, I'll give them that. Young man, what is the amount of that reward you mentioned?" Jack ignored her and hit the bedroom: through the drawers, in the closet, under the mattress. No smut, no dope, nothing hinky-negligees the only shit worth a sniff.
"Young man, your five minutes are up. And I want a written guarantee that I will receive that reward."
Jack turned around smiling. "I'll mail it to you. And I need another minute or so to check their address book."
"No! No! They could come home at any moment! I want you to leave this instant!"
"Just one minute, ma'am."
"No, no, no! Out with you this second!"
Jack made for the door. The old bat said, "You remind me of that policeman on that television program that's so popular."
"I taught him everything he knows."
He felt a quickie shaping up.
Bobby Inge rats off the smut peddlers, turns state's, some kind of morals rap on him and Daryl Bergeron: the kid was a minor, Bobby was a notorious fruitfly with a rap sheet full of homopandering beefs. Wrap it up tight: confessions, suspects located, lots of paperwork for Millard. The big-time Big V cracks the big-time filth ring and wings back to Narco a hero.
Up to Hollywood, a loop by Stan's Drive-in--Christine Bergeron slinging hash on skates. Pouty, provocative-the quasihooker type, maybe the type to pose with a dick in her mouth. Jack parked, read the Bobby Inge sheet. Two outstanding bench warrants: traffic tickets, a failure-to-appear probation citation. Last known address 1424 North Hamel, West Hollywood -the heart of Lavender Gulch. Three fruit bars for "known haunts"-Leo's Hideaway, the Knight in Armor, B.J.'s Rumpus Room-all on Santa Monica Boulevard nearby. Jack drove to Hamel Drive, his cuffs out and open.
A bungalow court off the Strip: county turf, "Inge-Apt 6" on a mailbox. Jack found the pad, knocked, no answer. "Bobby, hey, sugar," a falsetto trill-still no bite. A locked door, drawn curtains-the whole place dead quiet. Jack went back to his car, drove south.
Fag bar city: Inge's haunts in a two-block stretch. Leo's Hideaway closed until 4:00; the Knight in Armor empty. The barkeep vamped him-"Bobby who?"-like he really didn't know. Jack hit B.J.'s Rumpus Room.
Tufted Naugahyde inside-the walls, ceiling, booths adjoining a small bandstand. Queers at the bar; the barman sniffed cop right off. Jack walked over, laid his mugshots out face up.
The barman picked them up. "That's Bobby something. He comes in pretty often."
"How often?"
"Oh, like several times a week."
"The afternoon or the evening?"
"Both."
"'When was the last time he was here?"
"Yesterday. Actually, it was around this time yesterday. Are you-"
"I'm going to sit at one of those booths over there and wait for him. If he shows up, keep quiet about me. Do you understand?"
"Yes. But look, you've cleared the whole dance floor out already."
"Write it off your taxes."
The barkeep giggled; Jack walked over to a booth near the bandstand. A clean view: the front door, back door, bar. Darkness covered him. He watched.
Queer mating rituals:
Glances, tête-à-têtes, out the door. A mirror above the bar: the fruits could check each other out, meet eyes and swoon. Two hours, half a pack of cigarettes-no Bobby Inge.
His stomach growled; his throat felt raw; the bottles on the bar smiled at him. Itchy boredom: at 4:00 he'd hit Leo's Hideaway.
3:53-Bobby Inge walked in.
He took a stool; the barman poured him a drink. Jack walked up.
The barman, spooked: darting eyes, shaky hands. Inge swiveled around. Jack said, "Police. Hands on your head."
Inge tossed his drink. Jack tasted scotch; scotch burned his eyes. He blinked, stumbled, tripped blind to the floor. He tried to cough the taste out, got up, got blurry sight back-Bobby Inge was gone.
He ran outside. No Bobby on the sidewalk, a sedan peeling rubber. His own car two blocks away.
Liquor brutalizing him.
Jack crossed the street, over to a gas station. He hit the men's room, threw his blazer in a trashcan. He washed his face, smeared soap on his shirt, tried to vomit the booze taste out-no go. Soapy water in the sink-he swallowed it, guzzled it, retched.
Coming to: his heart quit skidding, his legs firmed up. He took off his holster, wrapped it in paper towels, went back to the car. He saw a pay phone-and made the call on instinct.
Sid Hudgens picked up. "«Hush-Hush», off the record and on the QT."
"Sid, it's Vincennes."
"Jackie, are you back on Narco? I need copy."
"No, I've got something going with Ad Vice."
"Something good? Celebrity oriented?"
"I don't know if it's good, but if it gets good you've got it."
"You sound out of breath, Jackie. You been shtupping?"
Jack coughed-soap bubbles. "Sid, I'm chasing some smut books. Picture stuff. Fuck shots, but the people don't look like junkies and they're wearing these expensive costumes. It's welldone stuff, and I thought you might have heard something about it."
"No. No, I've heard bupkis."
Too quick, no snappy one-liner. "What about a male prostie named Bobby Inge or a woman named Christine Bergeron? She carhops, maybe peddles it on the side."
"Never heard of them, Jackie."
"Shit. Sid, what about independent smut pushers in general. What do you know?"
"Jack, I know that that is secret shit that I know nothing about. And the thing about secrets, Jack, is that everybody's got them. Including you. Jack, I'll talk to you later. Call when you get work."
The line clicked off.
EVERYBODY'S GOT SECRETS-INCLUDING YOU.
Sid wasn't quite Sid, his exit line wasn't quite a warning.
DOES HE FUCKING KNOW?
Jack drove by Stan's Drive-in, shaky, the windows down to kill the soap smell. Christine Bergeron nowhere on the premises. Back to 9849 Charleville, knock knock on the door of her apartment-no answer, slack between the lock and the doorjamb. He gave a shove; the door popped.
A trail of clothes on the living room floor. The picture frame gone.
Into the bedroom, scared, his gun in the car.
Empty cabinets and drawers. The bed stripped. Into the bathroom.
Toothpaste and Kotex spilled in the shower. Glass shelves smashed in the sink.
Getaway-fifteen-minute style.
Back to West Hollywood-fast. Bobby Inge's door caved in easy; Jack went in gun first.
Clean-out number two-a better job.
A clean living room, pristine bathroom, bedroom showing empty dresser drawers. A can of sardines in the icebox. The kitchen trashcan clean, a fresh paper bag lining it.
Jack tore the pad up: living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen-shelves knocked over, rugs pulled, the toilet yanked apart. He stopped on a flash: garbage cans, full, lined both sides of the street-
There or gone.
Figure an hour-twenty since his run-in with Inge: the fuck wouldn't run straight to his crib. He probably got off the street, cruised back slow, risked the move out with his car parked in the alley. He figured the roust was for his old warrants or the smut gig; he knew he was standing heat and couldn't be caught harboring pornography. He wouldn't risk carrying it in his car-the odds on a shake were too strong. The gutter or the trash, right near the top of the cans, maybe more skin IDs for Big Trashcan Jack.
Jack hit the sidewalk, rooted in trashcans-gaggles of kids laughed at him. One, two, three, four, five-two left before the corner. No lid on the last can; glossy black paper sticking out.
Jack beelined.
Three fuck mags right on top. Jack grabbed them, ran back to his car, skimmed-the kids made goo-goo eyes at the windshield. The same Hollywood backdrops, Bobby Inge with boys and girls, unknown pretties screwing. Halfway through the third book the pix went haywire.
Orgies, hole-to-hole daisy chains, a dozen people on a quiltcovered floor. Disembodied limbs: red sprays off arms, legs. Jack squinted, eye-strain, the red was colored ink, the photos doctored-limb severings faked, ink blood flowing in artful little swirls.
Jack tried for IDs; obscene perfection distracted him: inkbleeding nudes, no faces he knew until the last page: Christine Bergeron and her son fucking, standing on skates planted on a scuffed hardwood floor.
A photograph, dropped in his mailbox: Sergeant Ed Exley bleeding and terrified. No printing on the back, no need for it: Stensland and White had the negative, insurance that he'd never try to break them.
Ed, alone in the squadroom, 6:00 A.M. The stitches on his chin itched; loose teeth made eating impossible. Thirty-odd hours since the moment-his hands still trembled.
Payback.
He didn't tell his father; he couldn't risk the ignominy of going to Parker or Internal Affairs. Revenge on Bud White would be tricky: he was Dudley Smith's boy, Smith just got him a straight Homicide spot and was grooming him for his chief strongarm. Stensland was more vulnerable: on probation, working for Abe Teitlebaum, an ex-Mickey Cohen goon. A drunk, begging to go back inside.
Payback-already in the works.
Two Sheriff's men bought and paid for: a dip in his mother's trust fund. A two-man tail on Dick Stens, two men to swoop on his slightest probation fuckup.
Payback.
Ed did paperwork. His stomach growled: no food, loose trousers weighted down by his holster. A voice out the squawk box: loud, spooked.
"Squad call! Nite Owl Coffee Shop one-eight-two-four Cherokee! Multiple homicides! See the patrolmen! Code three!"
Ed banged his legs getting up. No other detectives on call-it was his.
Patrol cars at Hollywood and Cherokee; blues setting up crime scene blockades. No plainclothesmen in sight-he might get first crack.
Ed pulled up, doused his siren. A patrolman ran over. "Load of people down, maybe some of them women. I found them, stopped for coffee and saw this phony sign on the door, 'Closed for Illness.' Man, the Nite Owl «never» closes. It was dark inside and I knew this was a hinky deal. Exley, this ain't your squawk, this has gotta be downtown stuff, so-"
Ed pushed him aside, pushed over to the door. Open, a sign taped on: "Clossed Due to Illness." Ed stepped inside, memorized.
A long, rectangular interior. On the right: a string of tables, four chairs per. The side wall mural-papered: winking owls perched on street signs. A checkered linoleum floor; to the left a counter-a dozen stools. A service runway behind it, the kitchen in back, fronted by a cook's station: fryers, spatulas on hooks, a platform for laying down plates. At front left: a cash register.
Open, empty-coins on the floor mat beside it.
Three tables in disarray: food spilled, plates dumped; napkin containers, broken dishes on the floor. Drag marks leading back to the kitchen; one high-heeled pump by an upended chair.
Ed walked into the kitchen. Half-fried food, broken dishes, pans on the floor. A wall safe under the cook's counter-open, spiffing coins. Crisscrossed drag marks connecting with the other drag marks, dark black heel smudges ending at the door of a walk-in food locker.
Ajar, the cord out of the socket-no cool air as a preservative. Ed opened it.
Bodies-a blood-soaked pile on the floor. Brains, blood and buckshot on the walls. Blood two feet deep collecting in a drainage trough. Dozens of shotgun shells floating in blood.
NEGRO YOUTHS DRIVING PURPLE '48-'50 MERC COUPE SEENDISCHARGING SHOTGUNS INTO AIR IN GRIFFITH PARK HILLS SEVERAL TIMES OVER PAST TWO WEEKS.
Ed gagged, tried for a body count.
No discernible faces. Maybe five people dead for the cash register and safe take and what they had on them- "Holy shit fuck."
A rookie type-pale, almost green. Ed said, "How many men outside?"
"I… I dunno. Lots."
"Don't get sick, just get everybody together to start canvassing. We need to know if a certain type of car was seen around here tonight."
"S-s-sir, there's this Detective Bureau man wants to see you."
Ed walked out. Dawn up: fresh light on a mob scene. Patrolmen held back reporters; rubberneckers swarmed. Horns blasted; motorcycles ran interference: meat wagons cut off by the crowd. Ed looked for high brass; newsmen shouting questions stampeded him.
Pushed off the sidewalk, pinned to a patrol car. Flashbulbs pop pop pop-he turned so his bruises wouldn't show. Strong hands grabbed him. "Go home, lad. I've been given the command here."
The first all-Bureau call-in in history-every downtown-based detective standing ready. The chief's briefing room jammed to the rafters.
Thad Green, Dudley Smith by a floor mike; the men facing them, itchy to go. Bud looked for Ed Exley-a chance to scope out his wounds. No Exley-scotch a rumor he caught the Nite Owl squeal.
Smith grabbed the mike. "Lads, you all know why we're here. 'Nite Owl Massacre' hyperbole aside, this is a heinous crime that requires a hard and swift resolution. The press and public will demand it, and since we already have solid leads, we will give it to them.
"There were six people dead in that locker-three men and three women. I have spoken to the Nite Owl's owner, and he told me that three of the dead are likely Patty Chesimard and Donna DeLuca, female Caucasians, the late-shift waitress and cash register girl, and Gilbert Escobar, male Mexican, the cook and dishwasher. The three other victims-two men, one woman- were almost certainly customers. The cash register and safe were empty and the victims' pockets and handbags were picked clean, which means that robbery was obviously the motive. SID is doing the forensic now-so far they have nothing but rubber glove prints on the cash register and food locker door. No time of death on the victims, but the scant number of customers and another lead we have indicates 3:00 A.M. as the time of the killings. A total of forty-five spent 12-gauge Remington shotgun shells were found in the locker. This indicates three men with five-shot-capacity pumps, all of them reloading twice. I do not have to tell you how gratuitous forty of those rounds were, lads. We are dealing with stark raving mad beasts here."
Bud looked around. Still no Exley, a hundred men jotting notes. Jack Vincennes in a corner, no notebook. Thad Green took over.
"No blood tracks leading outside. We were hoping for footprints to run eliminations against, but we didn't find any, and Ray Pinker from SID says the forensic will take at least fortyeight hours. The coroner says IDs on the customer victims will be extremely difficult because of the condition of the bodies. But we do have one very hot lead.
"Hollywood Division has taken a total of four crime reports on this, so listen well. Over the past two weeks a carload of Negro youths were seen discharging shotguns into the air up at Griffith Park. There were three of them, and the shotguns were pumps. The punks were not apprehended, but eyeball witnesses ID'd them as driving a 1948 to 1950 Mercury coupe, purple in color. And just an hour ago Lieutenant Smith's canvassing crew found a witness: a news vendor who saw a purple Merc coupe, '48-'50 vintage, parked across from the Nite Owl last night around 3:00 A.M."
The room went loud: a big rumbling. Green gestured for quiet. "It gets better, so listen well. There are no '48 to '50 purple Mercurys on the hot sheet, so it is very doubtful that we're dealing with a stolen car, and the state DMV has given us a registration list on '48 to '50 Mercurys statewide. Purple was an original color on the '48 to '50 coupe models, and those models were favored by Negroes. Over sixteen hundred are registered to Negroes in the State of California, and in Southern California there are only a very few registerM to Caucasians. There are one hundred and fifty-six registered to Negroes in L.A. County, and there are almost a hundred of you men here. We have a list compiled: home and work addresses. The Hollywood squad is cross-checking for rap sheets. I want fifty two-man teams to shake three names apiece. There's a special phone line being set up at Hollywood Station, so if you need information on past addresses or known associates, you can call there. If you get hot suspects, bring them here to the Hall. We've got a string of interrogation rooms set up, along with a man to head the interrogations. Lieutenant Smith will give out the assignments in a second, and Chief Parker would like a word with you. Any questions first?"
A man yelled, "Sir, who's running the interrogations?"
Green said, "Sergeant Ed Exley, Hollywood squad."
Catcalls, boos. Parker walked up to the mike. "Enough on that. Gentlemen, just go out and get them. Use all necessary force."
Bud smiled. The real message: kill the niggers clean.
Jack's list:
George NMI Yelburton, male Negro, 9781 South Beach; Leonard Timothy Bidwell, male Negro, 10062 South Duquesne; Dale William Pritchford, male Negro, 8211 South Normandie.
Jack's temporary partner: Sergeant Cal Denton, Bunco Squad, a former guard at the Texas State Pen.
Denton 's car down to Darktown, the radio humming: jazz on the "Nite Owl Massacre." Denton hummed: Leonard Bidwell used to fight welterweight, he saw him go ten with Kid Gavilan-he was one tough shine. Jack brooded on his backto-Narco ticket: Bobby Inge, Christine Bergeron gone, no smut leads from the other squad guys. The orgy pix-beautiful in a way. His own private leads, fucked up by some crazy spooks killing six people for a couple hundred bucks. He could still taste the booze, still hear Sid Hudgens: "We've all got secrets."
Snitch call-ins first: his, Denton 's. Shine stands, pool halls, hair-processing parlors, storefront churches-informants palmed, leaned on, queried. The Darktown shuffle-purple car/shotgun rebop, hazy, distorted-riffraff gone on Tokay and hair tonic. Four hours down, no hard names, back to the names on the list.
9781 Beach-a tar-paper shack, a purple '48 Merc on the lawn. The car stood sans wheels, a rusted axle sunk in the grass. Denton pulled up. "Maybe that's their alibi. Maybe they fucked up the car after they did the Nite Owl so we'd think they couldn't drive it nowhere."
Jack pointed over. "There's weeds wrapped around the brake linings. Nobody drove that thing up to Hollywood last night."
"You think?"
"I think."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
Denton hauled to the South Duquesne address-another tar-paper dive. A purple Mercury in the driveway-a coon coach featuring fender skirts, mud flaps, "Purple Pagans" on a hood plaque. Bolted to the porch: a heavy bag/speed bag combo. Jack said, "There's your welterweight."
Denton smiled; Jack walked up, pushed the buzzer. Dog barks inside-a real monster howling. Denton stood flank: the driveway, a bead on the door.
A Negro man opened up: wiry, a tough hump restraining a mastiff. The dog growled; the man said, "This 'cause I ain' paid my alimony? That a goddamn p0-lice offense?"
"Are you Leonard Timothy Bidwell?"
"That's right."
"And that's your car in the driveway?"
"That's right. And if you a po-lice doin' repos on the side you barkin' up the wrong tree, 'cause my baby is paid for outright with my purse from my losin' effort 'gainst Johnny Saxton."
Jack pointed to the dog. "Put him back inside and close the door, walk out and put your hands on the wall."
Bidwell did it extra slow; Jack frisked him, turned him around. Denton walked over. "Boy, you like 12-gauge pumps?"
Bidwell shook his head. "Say what?"; Jack threw a change-up. "Where were you last night at 3:00 A.M.?"
"Right here at my crib."
"By yourself? If you got laid you got lucky. Tell me you got lucky, before my buddy gets pissed."
"I gots custody of my kids fo' the week. They was with me."
"Are they here?"
"They asleep."
Denton prodded him-a gun poke to the ribs. "Boy, you know what happened last night? Bad juju, and I ain't woofin'. You own a shotgun, boy?"
"Man, I don't need no fuckin' shotgun."
Denton poked harder. "Boy, don't you use curse words with me. Now, before we get your pickaninnies out here, you gonna tell me who you lent your automobile to last night?"
"Man, I don' lend my sled to nobody!"
"Then who'd you lend your 12-gauge pump shotguns to? Boy, you spill on that."
"Man, I tol' you I don't own no shotgun!"
Jack stepped in. "Tell me about the Purple Pagans. Are they a bunch of guys who like purple cars?"
"Man, that is just a name for our club. I gots a purple car, some other cats in the club gots them too. Man, what is this all about?" Jack took out his DMV sheet-the Merc owners all typed up. "Leonard, did you read the papers this morning?"
"No. Man, what is-"
"Sssh. You listen to the radio or watch television?"
"I ain't got either of them. What's that-"
"Sssh. Leonard, we're looking for three colored guys who like to pop off shotguns and a Merc like yours, a ' 48, a '49, or a '50. I know you wouldn't hurt anybody, I saw you fight Gavilan and I like your style. We're looking for some «bad» guys. Guys with a car like yours, guys who might belong to your club."
Bidwell shrugged. "Why should I help you?"
"Because I'll cut my partner loose on you if you don't."
"Yeah, and you get me a fuckin' snitch jacket, too."
"No jacket, and you don't have to say anything. Just look at this list and point. Here, read it over."
Bidwell shook his head. "They's bad, so I jus' tell you. Sugar Ray Coates, drives a '49 coupe, a beautiful ride. He gots two buddies, Leroy and Tyrone. Sugar loves to party with a shotgun, I heard he gets his thrills shootin' dogs. He tried to get in my club, but we turned him down 'cause he is righteous trash."
Jack checked his list-bingo on "Coates, Raymond NMI, 9611 South Central, Room 114." Denton had his own sheet out. "Two minutes from here. We haul, we might get there first."
Hero headlines. "Let's do it."
The Tevere Hotel: an L-shaped walk-up above a washateria. Denton coasted into the lot; Jack saw stairs going up-just one floor of rooms, a wide-open doorway.
Up and in-a short corridor, flimsy-looking doors. Jack drew his piece; Denton pulled two guns: a.38, an ankle rig automatic. They counted room numbers; 114 came up. Denton reared back; Jack reared back; they kicked the same instant. The door flew off its hinges for a pure clean shot: a colored kid jumping out of bed.
The kid put up his hands. Denton smiled, aimed. Jack blocked him-two reflex pulls tore the ceiling. Jack ran in; the kid tried to run; Jack nailed him: gun-butt shots to the head. No more resistance- Denton cuffed his hands behind his back. Jack slipped on brass knucks and made fists. "Leroy, Tyrone. «Where?»"
The kid dribbled teeth-"One-two-one" came out bloody. Denton yanked him up by his hair; Jack said, "Don't you fucking kill him."
Denton spat in his face; shouts boomed down the hall. Jack ran out, around the "L," a skid to a stop in front of 121-
A closed door. Background noise huge-no way to take a listen. Jack kicked; wood splintered; the door creaked open. Two coloreds inside-one asleep on a cot, one snoring on a mattress.
Jack walked in. Sirens whirring up very close. The mattress kid stirred-Jack bludgeoned him quiet, bashed the other punk before he could move. The sirens screeched, died. Jack saw a box on the dresser.
Shotgun shells: Remington 12-gauge double-aught buck. A box of fifty, most of them gone.
Ed skimmed Jack Vincennes' report. Thad Green watched, his phone ringing off the hook.
Solid, concise-Trash knew how to write a good quickie.
Three male Negroes in custody: Raymond "Sugar Ray" Coates, Leroy Fontaine, Tyrone Jones. Treated for wounds received while resisting arrest; snitched by another male Negro- who described Coates as a shotgun toter who liked to blast dogs. Coates was on the DMV sheet; the informant stated that he ran with two other men-"Tyrone and Leroy"-also living at the Tevere Hotel. The three were arrested in their underwear; Vincennes turned them over to prowl car officers responding to shots fired and searched their rooms for evidence. He found a fifty-unit box of Remington 12-gauge double-aught shotgun shells, forty-odd missing-but no shotguns, no rubber gloves, no bloodstained clothing, no large amounts of cash or coins and no other weaponry. The only clothing in the rooms: soiled T-shirts, boxer shorts, neatly pressed garments covered by dry cleaner's cellophane. Vincennes checked the incinerator in back of the hotel; it was burning-the manager told him he saw Sugar Coates dump a load of clothes in at approximately 7:00 this morning. Vincennes said Jones and Fontaine appeared to be inebriated or under the influence of narcotics-they slept through gunfire and the general ruckus of Coates resisting arrest. Vincennes told late-arriving patrolmen to search for Coates' car-it was not in the parking lot or anywhere in a three-block radius. An APB was issued; Vincennes stated that all three suspects' hands and arms reeked of perfume-a paraffin test would be inconclusive.
Ed laid the report on Green's desk. "I'm surprised he didn't kill them."
The phone rang-Green let it keep going. "More headlines this way, he's shacking with Ellis Loew's sister-in-law. And if the coons doused their paws with perfume to foil a paraffin test, we can thank Jack for that-he gave that little piece of information to «Badge of Honor». Ed, are you up for this?"
Ed's stomach jumped. "Yes, sir. I am."
"The chief wanted Dudley Smith to work with you, but I talked him out of it. As good as he is, the man is off the deep end on coloreds."
"Sir, I know how important this is."
Green lit a cigarette. "Ed, I want confessions. Fifteen of the rounds we retrieved at the Nite Owl were nicked at the strike point, so if we get the guns we've got the case. I want the location of the guns, the location of the car and confessions before we arraign them. We've got seventy-one hours before they see the judge. I want this wrapped up by then. «Clean»."
Specifics. "Rap sheets on the kids?"
Green said, "Joyriding and B &E for all three. Peeping Tom beefs for Coates and Fontaine. And they're not kids-Coates is twenty-two, the others are twenty. This is a gas chamber bounce pure and clean."
"What about the Griffith Park angle? Shell samples to compare, witnesses to the guys letting off the shotguns."
"Shell samples might be good backup evidence, if we can find them and the coloreds don't confess. The park ranger who called in the complaints is coming down to try for an ID. Ed, Arnie Reddin says you're the best interrogator he's ever seen, but you've never worked anything this-"
Ed stood up. "I'll do it."
"Son, if you do, you'll have my job one day."
Ed smiled-his loose teeth ached. Green said, "What happened to your face?"
"I tripped chasing a shoplifter. Sir, who's talked to the suspects?"
"Just the doctor who cleaned them up. Dudley wanted Bud White to have first shot, but-"
"Sir, I don't think-"
"Don't interrupt me, I was about to agree with you. No, I want «voluntary» confessions, so White is out. You've got first shot at all three. You'll be observed through the two-ways, and if you want a partner for a Mutt and Jeff, touch your necktie. There'll be a group of us listening through an outside speaker, and a recorder will be running. The three are in separate rooms, and if you want to play them off on each other, you know the buttons to hit."
Ed said, "I'll break them."
His stage: a corridor off the Homicide pen. Three cubicles set up-mirror-fronted, speaker-connected-flip switches and a string of suspects could hear their partners rat each other off. The rooms: six-by-six square, welded-down tables, bolted-down chairs. In 1, 2 and 3: Sugar Ray Coates, Leroy Fontaine, Tyrone Jones. Rap sheets taped to the wall outside-Ed memorized dates, locations, known associates. A deep breath to kill stage fright-in the #1 door.
Sugar Ray Coates cuffed to a chair, dressed in baggy County denims. Tall, light-complected--close to a mulatto. One eye swollen shut; lips puffed and split. A smashed nose-both nostrils sutured. Ed said, "Looks like we both took a beating."
Coates squinted-one-eyed, spooky. Ed unlocked his cuffs, tossed cigarettes and matches on the table. Coates flexed his wrists. Ed smiled. "They call you Sugar Ray because of Ray Robinson?"
No answer.
Ed took the other chair. "They say Ray Robinson can throw a four-punch combination in one second. I don't believe it myself."
Coates lifted his arms-they flopped, dead weight. Ed opened the cigarette pack. "I know, they cut off the circulation. You're twenty-two, aren't you, Ray?"
Coates: "Say what and so what," a scratchy voice. Ed scoped his throat-bruised, finger marks. "Did one of the officers do a little throttling on you?"
No answer. Ed said, "Sergeant Vincennes? The snazzy dresser guy?"
Silence.
"Not him, huh? Was it Denton? Fat guy with a Texas drawl, sounds like Spade Cooley on TV?"
Coates' good eye twitched. Ed said, "Yeah, I commiserate- that guy Denton is one choice creep. You see «my» face? Denton and I went a couple of rounds."
No bite.
"Goddamn that Denton. Sugar Ray, you and I look like Robinson and LaMotta after that last fight they had."
Still no bite.
"So you're twenty-two, right?"
"Man, why you ask me that!"
Ed shrugged. "Just getting my facts straight. Leroy and Tyrone are twenty, so they can't burn on a capital charge. Ray, you should have pulled this caper a couple of years ago. Get life, do a little Youth Authority jolt, transfer to Folsom a big man. Get yourself a sissy, orbit on some of that good prison brew."
"Sissy" hit home: Coates' hands twitched. He picked up a cigarette, lit it, coughed. "I never truck with no sissies."
Ed smiled. "I know that, son."
"I ain't your son, you ofay fuck. You the sissy."
Ed laughed. "You know the drill, I'll give you that. You've done juvie time, you know I'm the nice guy cop trying to get you to talk. That fucking Tyrone, I almost believed him. Denton must have knocked a few of my screws loose. How could I fall for a line like that?"
"Say what, man? What line you mean?"
"Nothing, Ray. Let's change the subject. What did you do with the shotguns?"
Coates rubbed his neck-shaky hands. "What shotguns?"
Ed leaned close. "The pumps you and your friends were shooting in Griffith Park."
"Don't know 'bout no shotguns."
"You don't? Leroy and Tyrone had a box of shells in their room."
"That their bidness."
Ed shook his head. "That Tyrone, he's a pisser. You did the Casitas Youth Camp with him, didn't you?"
A shrug. "So what and say what?"
"Nothing, Ray. Just thinking out loud."
"Man, why you talkin' 'bout Tyrone? Tyrone's bidness is Tyrone's bidness."
Ed reached under the table, found the audio switch for room 3. "Sugar, Tyrone told me you went sissy up at Casitas. You couldn't do the time so you found yourself a big white boy to look after you. He said they call you 'Sugar' because you gave it out so sweet."
Coates hit the table. Ed hit the switch. "Say what, «Sugar?»"
"Say I «took» it! «Tyrone» give it! Man, I was the fuckin' boss jocker on my dorm! Tyrone the sissy! Tyrone give it for candy bars! Tyrone love it!"
Switch back up. "Ray, let's change the subject. Why do you think you and your friends are under arrest?"
Coates fmgered the cigarette pack. "Some humbug beef, maybe like dischargin' firearms inside city limit, some humbug like that. Wha's Tyrone say 'bout that?"
"Ray, Tyrone said lots of things, but let's get to meat and potatoes. Where were you at 3:00 A.M. last night?"
Coates chained a smoke butt to tip. "I was at my crib. Asleep."
"Were you on hop? Tyrone and Leroy must have been, they were passed out while those officers arrested you. Some crime partners. Tyrone calls you a fairy, then him and Leroy sleep through you getting beat up by some cracker shitbird. I thought you colored guys stuck together. Were you hopped up, Ray? You couldn't take what you did, so you got yourself some dope and-"
"Take what! What you mean! Tyrone and Leroy fuck with them goofballs, not me!"
Ed hit the 2 and 3 switches. "Ray, you protected Tyrone and Leroy up at Casitas, didn't you?"
Coates coughed out a big rush of smoke. "You ain't woofin' I did. Tyrone give his boodie and Leroy so scared he almos' throw hisself off the roof and drink hisself blind on pruno. Stupid down home niggers got no more sense than a fuckin' dog."
Switches back up. "Ray, I heard you like to shoot dogs."
A shrug. "Dogs got no reason to live."
"Oh? You feel that way about people, too?"
"Man, what you sayin'?"
Switches down. "Well, you must feel that way about Leroy and Tyrone."
"Shit, Leroy and Tyrone almos' too stupid to live."
Switches up. "Ray, where's the shotguns you were shooting in Griffith Park?"
"They-I… I don't own no shotguns."
"Where's your 1949 Mercury coupe?"
"I let… it just be safe."
"Come on, Ray. A cherry rig like that? Where is it? I'd keep a nice sled like that under lock and key."
"I said it safe!"
Ed slapped the table-two palms flat down. "Did you sell it? Ditch it? It's a felony transport car. Ray, don't you think-"
"I didn't do no felony!"
"The hell you say! Where's the car?"
"I ain't sayin'!"
"Where's the shotguns?"
"I ain't-I don't know!"
"Where's the car?"
"I ain't sayin'!"
Ed drummed the table. "Why, Ray? You got shotguns and rubber gloves in the trunk? You got wallets and purses and blood all over the seats? Listen to me, you dumb son of a bitch, I'm trying to save you a gas chamber bounce like your buddies- they're underage and you're not, and somebody has to fry for this-"
"I don't know what you talkin' 'bout!"
Ed sighed. "Ray, let's change the subject."
Coates lit another cigarette. "I don' like your subjects."
"Ray, why were you burning clothes at 7:00 this morning?"
Coates trembled. "Say what?"
"Say this. You, Leroy and Tyrone were arrested this morning. None of you had last night's clothes with you. You were seen burning a big pile of clothes at 7:00. Add that to the fact that you hid the car that you, Tyrone and Leroy were cruising around in last night. Ray, it doesn't look good, but if you give me something good to give the D.A., it'll make me look good and I'll say, 'Sugar Ray wasn't a punk like his sissy partners.' Ray, just give me something."
"Such as what, since I innocent of all this rebop you shuckin' me with."
Ed flipped 2 and 3. "Well, you've said bad things about Leroy and Tyrone, you've implied that they're hopheads. Let's try this: where do they get their stuff?"
Coates stared at the floor. Ed said, "The D.A. hates hop pushers. And you met Jack Vincennes, the Big V."
"Crazy fuckin' fool."
Ed laughed. "Yeah, Jack is a little on the crazy side. Personally, I think anyone who wants to ruin their life with narcotics should have the right, it's a free country. But Jack's good buddies with the new D.A., and they've both got hard-ons for hop pushers. Ray, give me one to give the D.A. Just a little one."
Coates hooked a finger; Ed let the switches up and leaned in. Sugar Ray, a whisper. "Roland Navarette, lives on Bunker Hill. Runs a hole-up for parole 'sconders and sells red devils, and that ain't for the fuckin' D.A., that's 'cause Tyrone shoot off his fat fuckin' mouth."
Switches down. "All right, Ray. You've told me that Roland Navarette sells barbiturates to Leroy and Tyrone, so now we're making some progress. And you're scared shitless, you know this is gas chamber stuff and you haven't even asked me what it's all about. Ray, you have a big guilty sign around your neck."
Coates cracked his knuckles; his good eye darted, ifickered. Ed killed the audio. "Ray, let's change the subject."
"How 'bout baseball, motherfucker?"
"No, let's talk about pussy. Did you get laid last night or did you put that perfume on yourself to fuck up a paraffm test?"
Heebie-jeebie shakes.
Ed said, "Where were you at 3:00 last night?"
No answer, more shakes.
"Strike a nerve, Sugar Ray? «Perfume?» «Women?» Even a piece of shit like you has to have some women he cares about. You got a mother? Sisters?"
"Man, don't you talk 'bout my mother!"
"Ray, if I didn't know you I'd say you were protecting some nice girl's virtue. She was your alibi, you were shacked somewhere. But Tyrone and Leroy have got that same perfume on their mitts, and I'm betting against a gang bang, I'm betting you learned about paraffin tests up in road camp, I'm betting you've got just enough decency to feel some guilt over killing three innocent women."
"I AINT KILLED NOBODY!"
Ed pulled out the morning «Herald». "Patty Chesimard, Donna DeLuca and one unidentified. Read this while I take a breather. When I come back you'll get the chance to tell me about it and make a deal that just might save your life."
Coates, Tremor City -all twitches, soaked denims. Ed threw the paper in his face and walked out.
Thad Green in the hall; Dudley Smith, Bud White at the listening post. Green said, "We got an eyeball confirmation from that ranger-those were the guys in Griffith Park. And you were great."
Ed smelled his own sweat. "Sir, Coates was hiked on the women. I can feel it."
"So can I, so just keep going."
"Have we turned the guns or the car?"
"No, and the 77th Street squad is shaking down their relatives and K.A.'s. We'll get them."
"I want to lean on Jones next. Will you do something for me?"
"Name it."
"Set up Fontaine. Unlock his cuffs and let him read the morning paper."
Green pointed to the #3 mirror. "«He'll» break soon. Sniveling bastard."
Tyrone Jones-weeping, a piss puddle on the floor by his chair. Ed looked away. "Sir, have Lieutenant Smith read the paper into his speaker, nice and slow, especially the lines about the car spotted by the Nite Owl. I want this guy primed to fold."
Green said, "You've got it." Ed checked out Tyrone Jones-dark-skinned, flabby, pockmarked. Bawling-cuffed in, welded down.
A whistle up the hail. Dudley Smith spoke into a microphone-silent lip movements. Ed fixed on Jones.
The kid twisted, heaved, buckled, like a film clip they showed at the Academy: an electric chair malfunction, a dozen jolts before the man fried. A sharp whistle up the corridor-Jones slumped, legs splayed, chin down.
Ed walked in. "Tyrone, Ray Coates ratted you off. He said the Nite Owl was your idea, he said you got the idea while you were cruising Griffith Park. Tyrone, tell me about it. I think it was Ray's idea. He made you do it. Tell me where the guns and car are and I think we can save your life."
No answer.
"Tyrone, this is a gas chamber job. If you don't talk to me you'll be dead in six months."
No answer-Jones kept his head down.
"Son, all you have to do is tell me where the guns are and tell me where Sugar left the car."
No answer.
"Son, this can be over in one minute. You tell me, and I get you transferred to a protective custody cell. Sugar won't be able to get you, Leroy won't be able to get you. The D.A. will let you turn state's. «You won't go to the gas chamber»."
No response.
"Son, six people are dead and somebody has to pay. It can be you or it can be Ray."
No answer.
"Tyrone, he called you a queer. He called you a sissy and a homo. He said you took it up the-"
"I DIDN' KILL NOBODY!"
A strong voice-Ed almost jumped back. "Son, we have witnesses. We have evidence. Coates is confessing right now. He's saying you planned the whole thing. Son, save yourself. The guns, the car. «Tell me where they are»."
"I didn' kill nobody!"
"Sssh. Tyrone, do you know what Ray Coates said about you?"
Jones lifted his head. "I know he lie."
"I think he lied, too. I don't think you're a queer. I think he's a queer, because he hates women. I think he liked killing those women. I think you feel bad about-"
"We didn' kill no women!"
"Tyrone, where were you last night at 3:00 A.M.?"
No answer.
"Tyrone, why did Sugar Ray hide his car?"
No answer.
"Tyrone, why did you guys hide the shotguns you were shooting in Griffith Park? We have a witness who ID'd you on that."
No answer. Jones lolled his head-eyes shut, spilling tears.
"Son, why did Ray burn the clothes you guys were wearing last night?"
Jones keening now-animal stuff.
"They had blood on them, didn't they? You killed six goddamn people, you got sprayed. Ray did the clean-up, he tidied the loose ends, «he's» the one who hid the shotguns, he's the boss man, he's been giving the orders since you were giving out butthole up at Casitas. Spill, goddamn you!"
"WE DIDN' KILL NOBODY! I AINT NO FUCKIN' QUEER!"
Ed circled the table-walking fast, talking slow. "Here's what I think. I think Sugar Ray's the boss, Leroy's just a dummy, you're the fat boy Sugar likes to tease. You all did road camp together, you and Sugar Ray got popped for Peeping Tom. Sugar liked looking at girls, you liked looking at boys. You both like looking at white folks, because that is the colored man's forbidden fruit. You had your 12-gauge pumps, you had your snazzy '49 Merc, you had some red devils you bought off Roland Navarette. You were up in Hollywood, white folks' neck of the woods. Sugar was teasing you about being fruit, you kept saying it was just because there were no girls around. Sugar says prove it, prove it, and you guys start peeping. You're getting mad, you're all flying on hop, it's late at night and there's nothing to look at, all those nice white folks have their curtains down. You drive by the Nite Owl, there's these nice white people inside- and it is just too fucking much to take. Poor fat sissy Tyrone, he takes over. He leads his boys into the Nite Owl. Six people are there-three of them women. You drag them into the locker, you hit the cash register and make the cook open the safe. You take their billfolds and purses and you spill some perfume on your hands. Sugar says, 'Touch the girlies, sissy. Prove you ain't queer.' You can't do it so you start shooting and everybody starts shooting and you love it because finally you're more than a poor queer fat little nigger and-"
"NO! NO NO NO NO NO NO!"
"Yes! Where's the guns? You fucking confess and turn over the evidence or you'll go to the fucking gas chamber!"
"No! Didn' kill nobody!"
Ed hit the table. "Why'd you ditch the car?"
Jones lashed his head, spraying sweat.
"Why'd you burn the clothes?"
No answer.
"Where did the perfume come from?"
No answer.
"Did Sugar and Leroy rape the women first?"
"No!"
"Oh? You mean all three of you did?"
"We didn' kill nobody! We wasn't even there!"
"Where were you?"
No answer.
"Tyrone, where were you last night?"
Jones sobbed; Ed gripped his shoulders. "Son, you know what's going to happen if you don't talk. So for God's sake admit what you did."
"Didn' kill nobody. None of us. Wasn't even there."
"Son, you did."
"No!"
"Son, you did, so tell me."
"We didn'!"
"Hush now. Just tell me-»nice and slowly»."
Jones started babbling. Ed knelt by his chair, listened.
He heard: "Please God, I just wanted to lose my cherry"; he heard: "Didn't mean to hurt her so's we'd have to die." He heard: "Not right punish what we didn' do… maybe she be okay, she don't die so I don't die, 'cause I ain't no queer." He felt himself buzzing, electric chair, a sign on top: THEY DIDN'T DO IT.
Jones slipped into a reverie-Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Father Divine. Ed hit the #2 cubicle.
Rank: sweat, cigarette smoke. Leroy Fontaine-big, dark, processed hair, his feet up on the table. Ed said, "Be smarter than your friends. Even if you killed her, it's not as bad as killing six people."
Fontaine tweaked his nose-bandaged, spread over half his face. "This newspaper shit ain't shit."
Ed closed the door, scared. "Leroy, you'd better hope she was with you at the coroner's estimated time of death."
No answer.
"Was she a hooker?"
No answer.
"Did you kill her?"
No answer.
"You wanted Tyrone to lose his cherry, but things got out of hand. Isn't that right?"
No answer.
"Leroy, if she's dead and she was colored you can cop a plea. If she was white you might have a chance. Remember, we can make you for the Nite Owl, and we can make it stick. Unless you convince me you were somewhere else doing something bad, we'll nail you for what's in that newspaper."
No answer-Fontaine cleaned his nails with a matchbook.
A big lie. "If you kidnapped her and she's still alive, that's not a Little Lindbergh violation. It's not a capital charge."
No answer.
"Leroy, where are the guns and the car?"
No answer.
"Leroy, is she still alive?"
Fontaine smiled-Ed felt ice on his spine. "If she's still alive, she's your alibi. I won't kid you, it could get bad: kidnap, rape, assault. But if you eliminate yourself on the Nite Owl now, you'll save us time and the D.A. will like you for it. Kick loose, Leroy. Do yourself a favor."
No answer.
"Leroy, look how it can go both ways. I think you kidnapped a girl at gunpoint. You made her bleed up the car, so you hid the car. She bled on your clothes, so you burned the clothes. You got her perfume all over yourselves. If you didn't do the Nite Owl, I don't know why you hid the shotguns, maybe you thought she could identify them. Son, if that girl is alive she is the only chance you've got."
Fontaine said, "I thinks she alive."
Ed sat down. "«You think?»"
"Yeah, I thinks."
"Who is she? «Where is she?»"
No answer.
"Is she colored?"
"She Mex."
"What's her name?"
"I don' know. College-type bitch."
"Where did you pick her up?"
"I don' know. Eastside someplace."
"Where did you assault her?"
"I don' know… old building on Dunkirk somewheres."
"Where's the car and the shotguns?"
"I don' know. Sugar, he took care of them."
"If you didn't kill her, why did Coates hide the shotguns?"
No answer.
"Why, Leroy?"
No answer.
"Why, son? Tell me."
No answer.
Ed hit the table. "Tell me, goddammit!"
Fontaine hit the table-harder. "Sugar, he poked her with them guns! He 'fraid it be evidence!"
Ed closed his eyes. "Where is she now?"
No answer.
"Did you leave her at the building?"
No answer.
Eyes open. "Did you leave her someplace else?"
No answer.
Leaps: none of the three had cash on them, call their money evidence-stashed when Sugar burned the clothes. "Leroy, did you sell her out? Bring some buddies by that place on Dunkirk?"
"We… we drove her 'roun'."
"Where? Your friends' pads?"
"Tha's right."
"Up in Hollywood?"
"We didn' shoot them people!"
"Prove it, Leroy. Where were you guys at 3:00 A.M.?"
"Man, I cain't tell you!"
Ed slapped the table. "Then you'll burn for the Nite Owl!"
"We didn't do it!"
"Who did you sell the girl to?"
No answer.
"Where is she now?"
No answer.
"Are you afraid of reprisals? You left the girl somewhere, right? «Leroy, where did you leave her, who did you leave her with, she is your only chance to stay out of the fucking gas chamber?»"
"Man, I can't tell you, Sugar, he like to kill me!"
"Leroy, where is she?"
No answer.
"Leroy, you turn state's you'll get out years before Sugar and Tyrone."
No response.
"Leroy, I'll get you a one-man cell where nobody can hurt you."
No response.
"Son, you have to tell me. I'm the only friend you've got."
No response.
"Leroy, are you afraid of the man you left the girl with?"
No answer.
"Son, he can't be as bad as the gas chamber. «Tell me where the girl is»."
The door banged open. Bud White stepped in, threw Fontaine against the wall.
Ed froze.
White pulled out his.38, broke the cylinder, dropped shells on the floor. Fontaine shook head to toe; Ed kept freezing. White snapped the cylinder shut, stuck the gun in Fontaine's mouth. "One in six. Where's the girl?"
Fontaine chewed steel; White squeezed the trigger twice: clicks, empty chambers. Fontaine slid down the wall; White pulled the gun back, held him up by his hair. "«Where's the girl?»"
Ed kept freezing. White pulled the trigger-another little click. Fontaine, bug-eyed. "S-ss-sylvester F-fitch, one-o-nine and Avalon, gray corner house please don' hurt me no-"
White ran out.
Fontaine passed out.
Riot sounds in the corridor-Ed tried to stand up, couldn't get his legs.
A four-car cordon: two black-and-whites, two unmarkeds. Sirens to a half mile out; a coast up to the gray corner house.
Dudley Smith drove the lead prowler; Bud rode shotgun reloading his piece. A four-car flank: black-and-whites in the alley, Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle parked streetside-rifles on the gray house door. Bud said, "Boss, he's mine."
Dudley winked. "Grand, lad."
Bud went in the back way-through the alley, a fence vault. On the rear porch: a screen door, inside hook and eye. He slipped the catch with his penknife, walked in on tiptoes.
Darkness, dim shapes: a washing machine, a blind-covered door-strips of light through the cracks.
Bud tried the door-unlocked--cased it open. A hallway: light bouncing from two side rooms. A rug to walk on; music to give him more cover. He tiptoed up to the first room, wheeled in.
A nude woman spread-eagled on a mattress-bound with neckties, a necktie in her mouth. Bud hit the next room loud.
A fat mulatto at a table-naked, wolfmg Kellogg's Rice Krispies. He put down his spoon, raised his hands. "Nossir, don't want no trouble."
Bud shot him in the face, pulled a spare piece-bang bang from the coon's line of fire. The man hit the floor dead spread-a prime entry wound oozing blood. Bud put the spare in his hand; the front door crashed in. He dumped Rice Krispies on the stiff, called an ambulance.
Jack watched Karen sleep, putting their fight behind him.
Newspaper pix caused it: the Big V and Cal Denton rousting three colored punks-suspects in L.A. 's "Crime of the Century." Denton dragged Fontaine by his conk; Big V had neck holds on the other two. Karen said they reminded her of the Scottsboro Boys; Jack told her he saved their goddamned lives, but now that he knew they gang-raped a Mexican girl he wished he'd let Denton kill them outright. The argument deteriorated from there.
Karen slept curled away from him-covered tight like she thought he might hit her. Jack watched her while he dressed; his last two days hit him.
He was off the Nite Owl, back to Ad Vice. Ed Exley's interrogations tentatively cleared the spooks-pending questioning of the woman they'd been abusing. Bud White played some Russian roulette-the three clammed up. So far, there was no way to know if they had time to leave the woman, drive to the Nite Owl, return to Darktown and gang-rape. Maybe Coates or Fontaine left Jones in charge of the girl and pulled the snuffs with other partners. No luck finding the shotguns; Coates' purple Merc was still missing. No restaurant loot found at their hotel; the debris in the incinerator too far gone for blood-on-fabric analysis. The perfume on the jigs' hands skunked a late paraffin test. Huge pressure at the Bureau: solve the fucking case fast.
The coroner was trying to ID the patron victims, working from dental abstracts and their physical stats cross-checked against missing persons bulletins, call-ins. Made: the cook/dishwasher, waitress, cash register girl; nothing yet on the three customers, the autopsies showed no sexual abuse on the women. Maybe Coates/Jones/Fontaine weren't the triggers; Dudley Smith on the job-his men bracing armed robbers, nuthouse parolees, every known L.A. geek with a gun jacket. The news vendor who spotted the purple Merc across from the Nite Owl was requestioned; now he said it could have been a Ford or a Chevy. Ford and Chevy registrations being checked; now the park ranger who ID'd the spooks said he wasn't sure. Ed Exley told Green and Parker the purple car might have been placed by the Nite Owl to put the onus on the jigs; Dudley pooh-poohed the theory-he said it was probably just a coincidence. A sure-thing case unraveling into a shitload of possibilities.
Huge press coverage-Sid Hudgens had already called-zero hink on the smut, nothing like "We've «all» got secrets." A heroic version of the arrests for fifty scoots-Sid hung up quick.
The Nite Owl cost him a day on the smut. He'd checked the squadroom postings: no leads, none of the other men tracked the skit. He filed a phony report himself: nothing on Christine Bergeron and Bobby Inge, nothing on the other mags he found: Nothing on his filth dreams: his sweetheart Karen orgied up.
Jack kissed Karen's neck, hoping she'd wake up and smile.
No luck.
Canvassing first.
Charleville Drive, questions, no luck: none of the tenants in Christine Bergeron's building heard the woman and her son move out; none knew a thing about the men she entertained. The adjoining apartment houses-ditto straight across. Jack called Beverly Hills High, learned that Daryl Bergeron was a chronic truant who hadn't attended classes in a week; the vice-principal said the boy kept to himself, didn't cause trouble-he was never in school «to» cause trouble. Jack didn't tell him Daryl was too tired to cause trouble: fucking your mother on roller skates takes a lot out of a kid.
His next call: Stan's Drive-in. The manager told him Chris Bergeron splitsvilled day before yesterday, two seconds after getting a phone call. No, he didn't know who the caller was; yes, he would buzz Sergeant Vmcennes if she showed up; no, Chris did not unduly fraternize with customers or receive visitors while carhopping.
Out to West Hollywood.
Bobby Inge's place, talks-fellow tenants and neighbors. Bobby paid his rent on time, kept to himself, nobody saw him move out. The swish next door said he "played the field-he wasn't seeing anyone in particular." Tweaks: "smut books," "Chris Bergeron," "this little twist Daryl"-the fruit deadpanned him cold.
Call West Hollywood dead-after B.J.'s Rumpus Room Bobby wouldn't be caught near the fag-bar strip. Jack grabbed a hamburger, checked his Inge rap sheet-no K.A.'s listed. He studied his private filth stash, hard to concentrate, the contradictions in the pictures kept distracting him.
Attractive posers, trashy backdrops. Beautiful costumes that made you look twice at disgusting homo action. Artful orgy shots: inked-in blood, bodies connected over quilts-pix that made you squint to see female forms held in check by too much explicitness-the sex organ extravaganza made you want to see the women plain nude. The shit was pornography manufactured for money-but somewhere in the process an artist was involved.
A brainstorm.
Jack drove to a dime store, bought scissors, Scotch tape, a drawing pad. He worked in the car: faces cut from the mags, taped to the paper, men and women separated, repeats placed together to make IDs easier. Downtown to the Bureau for matchups: stag pix to Caucasian mug books. Four hours of squinting: eyestrain, zero identifications. Over to Hollywood Station, their separate Vice mugs, another zero; the West Hollywood Sheriff's Substation made zero number three. Bobby Inge aside, his smut beauties were virgins-no criminal records.
4:30 P.M.-Jack felt his options dwindling fast. Another idea caught: check Bobby Inge through the DMV; check Chris Bergeron through again-a complete paper prowl. R &I/Inge one more time-updates on his sheet.
He hit a pay phone, made the calls. Bobby Inge was DMV clean: no citations, no court appearances. Complete Bergeron paper: traffic violation dates, the names of her surety bond guarantors. R &I's only Inge update: a year-old bail report. One name crossed over-Bergeron to Inge.
Bail on an Inge prostie charge-fronted by Sharon Kostenza, 1649 North Havenhurst, West Hollywood. The same woman paid a Bergeron reckless-driving bond.
Jack called R &I back, ran Sharon Kostenza and her address through-no California criminal record. He told the clerk to check the forty-eight-state list; that took a full ten minutes. "Sorry, Sarge. Nothing at all on the name."
Back to the DMV; a shocker: no one named Sharon Kostenza possessed or had ever possessed a California driver's license. Jack drove to North Havenhurst -the address 1649 did not exist.
Brain circuits: prostie Bobby Inge, Kostenza bailed him on a prostie beef, prosties used phony names, prosties posed for stag pix. North Havenhurst a longtime call-house block- He started knocking on doors.
A dozen quickie interviews; tags on nearby fuck joints. Two, on Havenhurst: 1611, 1564.
6:10 P.M.
1611 open for business; the boss deadpanned Sharon Kostenza, Bobby Inge, the Bergerons. Ditto the faces clipped from the fuck mags-the girls working the joint panned out likewise. The madam at 1564 cooperated-the names and faces were Greek to her and her whores.
Another burger, back to West Hollywood Substation. A run through the alias file: another flat busted dead end.
7:20-no more names to check. Jack drove to North Hamel, parked with a view: Bobby Inge's door.
He kept a fix on the courtyard. No foot traffic, street traffic slow-the Strip wouldn't jump for hours. He waited: smoking, smut pictures in his head.
At 8:46 a quiff ragtop cruised by-a slow trawl close to the curb. Twenty minutes later-one more time. Jack tried to read plate numbers-nix, too dark out. A hunch: he's looking for window lights. If he's looking for Bobby's, he's got them.
He walked into the courtyard, lucked oUt on witnesses-none. Handcuff ratchets popped the door: teeth cutting cheap wood. He felt for a wall light, tripped a switch.
The same cleaned-out living room; the pad in the same disarray. Jack sat by the door, waited.
Boredom time stretched-fifteen minutes, thirty, an hour. Knocks on the front windowpane.
Jack drew down: the door, eye-level. He faked a fag lilt: "It's open."
A pretty boy sashayed in. Jack said, "Shit." Timmy Valburn, a.k.a. Moochie Mouse-Billy Dieterling's squeeze.
"Timmy, what the fuck are you doing here?"
Valburn slouched, one hip cocked, no fear. "Bobby's a friend. He doesn't use narcotics, if that's what you're here for. And isn't this a tad out of your jurisdiction?"
Jack closed the door. "Christine Bergeron, Daryl Bergeron, Sharon Kostenza. They friends of yours?"
"I don't know those names. Jack, what is this?"
"You tell me, you've been getting up the nerve to knock for hours. Let's start with where's Bobby?"
"I don't know. Would I be here if I knew where-"
"Do you trick with Bobby? You got a thing going with him?"
"He's just a friend."
"Does Billy know about you and Bobby?"
"Jack, you're being vile. «Bobby is a friend». I don't think Billy knows we're friends, but friends is all we are."
Jack took out his notepad. "So I'm sure you have a lot of friends in common."
"No. Put that away, because I don't know any of Bobby's friends."
"All right, then where did you meet him?"
"At a bar."
"Name the bar."
"Leo's Hideaway."
"Billy know you chase stuff behind his back?"
"Jack, don't be crude. I'm not some criminal you can slap around, I'm a citizen who can report you for breaking into this apartment."
Change-up. "Smut. Picture-book stuff, regular and homo. That your bent, Timmy?"
One little eye flicker-not quite a hink. "You get your kicks that way? You and Billy take skit like that to bed with you?"
No flinch. "Don't be vile, Jack. It's not your style, but be nice. Remember what I am to Billy, remember what Billy is to the show that gives you the celebrity you grovel for. Remember who Billy knows."
Jack moved extra slow: the smut mags and face sheets to a chair, a lamp pulled over for some light. "Look at those pictures. If you recognize anybody, tell me. That's all I want."
Valburn roiled his eyes, looked. The face sheets first: quizzical, curious. On to the costume skin books-nonchalant, a queer sophisticate. Jack stuck close, eyes on his eyes.
The orgy book last. Timmy saw inked-on blood and kept looking; Jack saw a neck vein working overtime.
Valburn shrugged. "No, I'm sorry."
A tough read-a skilled actor. "You didn't recognize anybody?"
"No, I didn't."
"But you did recognize Bobby."
"Of course, because I know him."
"But nobody else?"
"Jack, really."
"Nobody familiar? Nobody you've seen at the bars your type goes to?"
"«My type?» Jack, haven't you been sucking around the Industry long enough to call a spade a spade and still be nice about it?"
Let it pass. "Timmy, you keep your thoughts hidden. Maybe you've been playing Moochie Mouse too long."
"What kind of thoughts are you looking for? I'm an actor, so give me a cue."
"Not thoughts, «reactions». You didn't blink an eye at some of the strangest stuff I've seen in fifteen years as a cop. Arty-fatty red ink shooting out of a dozen people fucking and sucking. Is that everyday stuff to you?"
An elegant shrug. "Jack, I'm «très» Hollywood. I dress up as a rodent to entertain children. Nothing in this town surprises me."
"I'm not sure I buy that."
"I'm telling you the truth. I don't know any of the people in those pictures, and I haven't seen those magazines before."
"People of your type know people who know people. You know Bobby Inge, and he was in those pictures. I want to see your little black book."
Timmy said, "No."
Jack said, "Yes, or I give «Hush-Hush» a little item on you and Billy Dieterling as soul sisters. «Badge of Honor», the «Dream-a-Dream Hour» and queers. You like that for a three-horse parlay?"
Timmy smiled. "Max Peltz would fire you for that. He wants you to be nice. «So be nice»."
"You carry your book with you?"
"No, I don't. Jack, remember who Billy's father is. Remember all the money you can make in the Industry after you retire."
Pissed now, almost seeing red. "Hand me your wallet. Do it or I'll lose my temper and put you up against the wall." Valburn shrugged, pulled out a billfold. Jack glommed what he wanted: calling cards, names and numbers on paper scraps. "I want those returned."
Jack handed the wallet back light. "Sure, Timmy."
"You are going to fuck up very auspiciously one day, Jack. Do you know that?"
"I already have, and I made money on the deal. Remember that if you decide to rat me to Max."
Valburn walked out-elegant.
Fruit-bar pickings: first names, phone numbers. One card looked familiar: "Fleur-de-Lis. Twenty-four Hours a Day- Whatever You Desire. HO-01239." No writing on the back- Jack racked his brain, couldn't make a connection.
New plan: call the numbers, impersonate Bobby Inge, drop lines about stag books-see who bit. Stick at the pad, see who called or showed up: long-shot stuff.
Jack called "Ted-DU-6831"-busy signal; "Geoff-CR-9640"-no bite on a lisping "Hi, it's Bobby Inge." "Bing-AX-6005"-no answer; back to "Ted"-"Bobby who? I'm sorry, but I don't think I know you." "Jim," "Nat," "Otto": no answers; he still couldn't make the odd card. Last-ditch stuff: buzz the cop line at Pacific Coast Bell.
Ring, ring. "Miss Sutherland speaking."
"This is Sergeant Vincennes, LAPD. I need a name and address on a phone number."
"Don't you have a reverse directory, Sergeant?"
"I'm in a phone booth, and the number I want checked is Hollywood 01239."
"Very well. Please hold the line."
Jack held; the woman came back on. "No such number is assigned. Bell is just beginning to assign five-digit numbers, and that one has not been assigned. Franldy, it may never be, the changeover is going so slow."
"You're sure about this?"
"Of course I'm sure."
Jack hung up. First thoughts: bootleg line. Bookies had them-bent guys at P.C. Bell rigged the lines, kept the numbers from being assigned. Free phone service, no way police agencies could subpoena records, no make on incoming calls.
A reflex call: The DMV police line.
"Yes? Who's requesting?"
"Sergeant Vincennes, LAPD. Address only on a Timothy V-A-L-B-U-R-N, white male, mid to late twenties. I think he lives in the Wilshire District."
"I copy. Please hold."
Jack held; the clerk returned. "Wilshire it is. 432 South Lucerne. Say, isn't Valburn that mouse guy on the Dieterling show?"
"Yeah."
"Well… uh… what are you after him for?"
"Possession of contraband cheese."
Chez Mouse: an old French Provincial with new money accoutrements-floodlights, topiary bushes-Moochie, the rest of the Dieterling flock. Two cars in the driveway: the ragtop prowling Hamel, Billy Dieterling's Packard Caribbean-a fixture on the «Badge of Honor» lot.
Jack staked the pad spooked: the queers were too well connected to burn, his smut job stood dead-ended-"Whatever You Desire" some kind of dead-end tangent. He could level with Timmy and Billy, shake them down, squeeze their contacts: people who knew people who knew Bobby Inge-who knew who made the shit. He kept the radio tuned in low; a string of love songs helped him pin things down.
He wanted to track the filth because part of him wondered how something could be so ugly and so beautiful and part of him plain jazzed on it.
He got itchy, anxious to move. A throaty soprano pushed him out of the car.
Up the driveway, skirting the floodlights. Windows: closed, uncurtained. He looked in.
Moochie Mouse gimcracks in force, no Timmy and Billy. Bingo through the last window: the lovebirds in a panicky spat.
An ear to the glass-all he got was mumbles. A car door slammed; door chimes ting-tinged. A look-see in-Billy walking toward the front of the house.
Jack kept watching. Timmy pranced hands-on-hips; Billy brought a big muscle guy back. Muscles forked over goodies: pill vials, a glassine bag full of weed. Jack sprinted for the street. A Buick sedan at the curb-mud on the front and back plates. Locked doors-kick glass or go home empty.
Jack kicked out the driver's-side window. Glass on his front seat booty-a single brown paper bag.
He grabbed it, ran to his car.
Valburn's door opened.
Jack peeled rubber-east on 5th, zigzags down to Western and a big bright parking lot. He ripped the bag open.
Absinthe-190 proof on the label, viscous green liquid.
Hashish.
Black-and-white glossies: women in opera masks blowing horses.
"Whatever You Desire."
Parker said, "Ed, you were brilliant the other day. I disapprove of Officer White's intrusion, but I can't complain with the results. I need smart men like you, and… direct men like Bud. And I want both of you on the Nite Owl job."
"Sir, I don't think White and I can work together."
"You won't have to. Dudley Smith's heading up the investigation, and White will report directly to him. Two other men, Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle, will work with White-however Dudley wants to play it. The Hollywood squad will be in on the job, reporting to Lieutenant Reddin, who'll report to Dudley. We've got divisional contacts assigned, and every man in the Bureau is caffing in informant favors. Chief Green says Russ Millard wants to be detached from Ad Vice to run the show with Dud, so that's a possibility. That makes twenty-four full-time officers."
"What specifically do I do?"
Parker pointed to a case graph on an easel. "One, we have not found the shotguns or Coates' car, and until that girl those thugs assaulted clears them on the time element we have to assume that they are still our prime suspects. Since White's little escapade they've refused to talk, and they've been booked on kidnap and rape charges. I think-"
"Sir, I'd be glad to have another try at them."
"Let me finish. Two, we still have no IDs on the other three victims. Doc Layman's working overtime on that, and we're logging in four hundred calls a day from people worried about missing loved ones. There's an outside chance that this might be more than just a set of robbery killings, and if that proves to be the case I want you on that end of things. As of now, you're liaison to SID, the D.A.'s Office and the divisional contacts. I want you to go over every field report every day, assess them and share your thoughts with me personally. I want daily written summaries, copies to Chief Green and myself."
Ed tried not to smile-the stitches in his chin helped. "Sir, some thoughts before we continue?"
Parker leaned his chair back. "Of course."
Ed ticked points. "One, what about searching for comparable shell samples in Griffith Park? Two, if the girl clears our suspects on the time element, what was that purple car doing across from the Nite Owl? Three, how likely are we to turn the guns and the car? Four, the suspects said they took the girl to a building on Dunkirk first. What kind of evidence did we get there?"
"Good points. But one, shell samples to compare is a long shot. With breech-load weapons the rounds might have expelled back into the car those punks were driving, the actual locations listed in the crime reports were vague, Griffith Park is all hillsides, we've had rain and mudslides over the past two weeks and that park ranger has waffled on ID'ing the three in custody. Two, the news vendor who ID'd the car by the Nite Owl says now that maybe it was a Ford or a Chevy, so our registration checks are now a nightmare. If you're thinking the car was placed there as a plant, I think that's nonsense-how would anyone know «to» plant it there? Three, the 77th Street squad is tearing up the goddamn southside for the car and the guns, muscling K.A.'s, the megillah. And four, there was blood and semen all over a mattress in that building on Dunkirk."
Ed said, "It all comes back to the girl."
Parker picked up a report form. "Inez Soto, age twenty-one. A college student. She's at Queen of Angels, and she just came out of sedation this morning."
"Has anyone spoken to her?"
"Bud White went with her to the hospital. Nobody's talked to her in thirty-six hours, and I don't envy you the task."
"Sir, can I do this alone?"
"No. Ellis Loew wants to prosecute our boys for Little Lindbergh-kidnapping and rape. He wants them in the gas chamber for that, the Nite Owl, or both. And he wants a D.A.'s investigator and a woman officer present. You're to meet Bob Gallaudet and a Sheriff's matron at Queen of Angels in an hour. I don't have to mention that the course of this investigation will be determined by what our Miss Soto tells you."
Ed stood up. Parker said, "Off the record, do you make the coloreds for the job?"
"Sir, I'm not sure."
"You cleared them temporarily. Did you think I'd be angry with you for that?"
"Sir, we both want absolute justice. And you like me too much."
Parker smiled. "Edmund, don't dwell on what White did the other day. You're worth a dozen of him. He's killed three men line of duty, but that's nothing compared to what you did in the war. Remember that."
Gallaudet met him outside the girl's room. The hall reeked of disinfectant-familiar, his mother died one floor down. "Hello, Sergeant."
"It's Bob, and Ellis Loew sends his thanks. He was afraid the suspects would get beaten to death and he wouldn't get to prosecute."
Ed laughed. "They might be cleared on the Nite Owl."
"I don't care, and neither does Loew. Little Lindbergh with rape carries the death penalty. Loew wants those guys in the ground, so do I, so will you once you talk to the girl. So here's the sixty-four-dollar question. Did they do it?"
Ed shook his head. "Based on their reactions, I'd lean against it. But Fontaine said they drove the girl around. 'Sold her out' was the phrase he reacted to. I think it could have been Sugar Coates and a little pickup gang, maybe two of the guys they sold her to. None of the three had money on them when they were arrested, and either way-Nite Owl or gang rape-I think that money is stashed somewhere, covered with blood-like the bloody clothes Coates burned."
Gallaudet whistled. "So we need the girl's word on the time element «and» IDs on the other rapers."
"Right. «And» our suspects are clammed, «and» Bud White killed the one witness who could have helped us."
"That guy White's a pisser, isn't he? Don't look so spooked, being scared of him means you're sane. Now come on, let's talk to the young lady."
They walked into the room. A Sheriff's matron blocked the bed-tall, fat, short hair waxed straight back. Gallaudet said, "Ed Exley, Dot Rothstein." The woman nodded, stepped aside.
Inez Soto.
Black eyes, her face cut and bruised. Dark hair shaved to the forehead, sutures. Tubes in her arms, tubes under the sheets. Cut knuckles, split nails-she fought. Ed saw his mother: bald, sixty pounds in an iron lung.
Gallaudet said, "Miss Soto, this is Sergeant Exley."
Ed leaned on the bed rail. "I'm sorry we couldn't have given you more time to recuperate, and I'll try to make this as brief as possible."
Inez Soto stared at him-dark eyes, bloodshot. A raspy voice: "I won't look at any more pictures."
Gallaudet: "Miss Soto identified Coates, Fontaine and Jones from mugshots. I told her we might need her to look at some mugshots for IDs on the other men."
Ed shook his head. "That won't be necessary right now. Right now, Miss Soto, I need you to try to remember a chronology of the events that happened to you two nights ago. We can do this very slowly, and for now we won't need details. When you're more rested, we can go over it again. Please take your time and start when the three men kidnapped you."
Inez pushed up on her pillows. "They weren't men!"
Ed gripped the rail. "I know. And they're going to be punished for what they did to you. But before we can do that we need to eliminate or confirm them as suspects on another crime."
"I want them dead! I heard the radio! «I want them dead for that!»"
"We can't do that, because then the other ones who hurt you will go free. We have to do this correctly."
A hoarse whisper. "Correctly means six white people are more important than a Mexican girl from Boyle Heights. Those animals ripped me up and did their business in my mouth. They stuck guns in me. My family thinks I brought it on myself because I didn't marry a stupid «cholo» when I was sixteen. I will tell you nothing, «cabrón»."
Gallaudet: "Miss Soto, Sergeant Exley saved your life."
"He ruined my life! Officer White said he cleared the «negritos» on a murder charge! Officer White's the hero-he killed the «puto» who took me up my ass!"
Inez sobbed. Gallaudet gave the cut-off sign. Ed walked down to the gift shop-familiar, his deathwatch. Flowers for 875: fat cheerful bouquets every day.
Bud came on duty early, found a memo on his desk.
4/19/53
Lad-
Paperwork is not your forte, but I need you to run records checks (two) for me. (Dr. Layman has identified the three patron victims.) Use the standard procedure I've taught you and first check bulletin 11 on the squadroom board: it updates the overall status of the case and details the duties of the other investigating officers, which will prevent you frow doing gratuitous and extraneous tasks.
1. Susan Nancy Lefferts, W.F., DOB 1/29/22, no criminal record. A San Bernardino native recently arrived in Los Angeles. Worked as a salesgirl at Bullock's Wilshire (background check assigned to Sgt. Exley).
2. Delbert Melvin Cathcart, a.k.a. "Duke," W.M., DOB 11/14/14. Two statutory rape convictions, served three years at San Quentin. Three procuring arrests, no convictions. (A tough ID: laundry markings and the body cross-checked against prison measurement charts got us our match.) No known place of employment, last known address 9819 Vendome, Silverlake District.
3. Malcolm Robert Lunceford, a.k.a. "Mal," W.M., DOB 6/02/12. No last known address, worked as a security guard at the Mighty Man Agency, 1680 North Cahuenga. Former LAPD officer (patrolman), assigned to Hollywood Division throughout most of his eleven-year career. Fired for incompetence 6/5 0. Known to be a late night habitué of the Nite Owl. I've checked Lunceford's personnel file and concluded that the man was a disgraceful police officer (straight "D" fitness reports from every C. O.). You check whatever paperwork exists on him at Hollywood Station (Breuning and Carlisle will be there to shag errands for you).
Summation: I still think the Negroes are our men, but Cathcart's criminal record and Lunceford's cxpoliceman status mean that more than cursory background checks should be conducted. I want you as my adjutant on this job, an excellent baptism of fire for you as a straight Homicide detective. Meet me tonight (9:30) at the the Pacific Dining Car. We'll discuss the job and related matters.
D.S.
Bud checked the main bulletin board. Nite Owl thick: field reports, autopsy reports, summaries. He found bulletin 11, skimmed it.
Six R &I clerks detached to check criminal records and auto registrations; the 77th Street squad shaking down jigtown for the shotguns and Ray Coates' Mere. Breuning and Carlisle muscling known gun jockeys; the area around the Nite Owl canvassed nine times without turning a single extra eyewitness. The spooks refused to talk to LAPD men, D.A.'s Bureau investigators, Ellis Loew himself. Inez Soto refused to cooperate on clearing up the time frame; Ed Exley blew a questioning session, said they should treat her kid-gloves.
Down the board: Malcolm Lunceford's LAPD personnel sheets. Bad news-Lunceford as a free-meal scrounger, general incompetent. A putrid arrest record; cited for dereliction of duty three times. An interdepartmental information request issued; four officers who worked with Lunceford responded. Grafter! buffoon: Mal drank on duty, shook down hookers for blowjobs, tried to shake down Hollywood merchants for his off-duty "protection service"-letting him sleep on their premises while he was locked out of his apartment for nonpayment of rent. One complaint too many got Lunceford bounced in June 1950; all four responding officers stated that he probably wasn't a deliberate Nite Owl victim: as a policeman he habituated all-night coffee shops-usually to scrounge chow; he was probably at the Nite Owl at 3:00 A.M. because he was hooked on sweet Lucy and sleeping in the weeds and the Nite Owl looked cozy and warm.
Bud drove to Hollywood Station-Inez on his mind, Dudley, Dick Stens along with her. Guts: she tried to claw herself off the gurney to get at Sylvester Fitch, strapped dead to a morgue cot; she screamed: "I'm dead, I want them dead!" He hustled her to the ambulance, filched morphine and a hypo, shot her up while no one was looking. The worst of it should have been over-but the worst was still coming.
Exley would interrogate her, make her spit out details, look at sex offender pix until she cracked. Ellis Loew wanted an airtight case-that meant show-ups, courtroom testimony. Inez Soto: the first headliner witness for the most ambitious D.A. who ever breathed-all he could do was see her at the hospital, say "Hi," try to muffle the blows. A brave woman shoved at Ed Exley- fodder for a cowardly hard-on.
Inez to Stens.
Good revenge: Danny Duck masks, Exley whimpering. The photo good insurance; Dick still jacked up on blood-a taste that told him he was still on the muscle. His job at Kikey T.'s deli stunk-the dump was a known grifter hangout, a probation rap waiting to happen. Stens sleeping in his car, boozing, gambling-jail taught him absolutely shit.
Bud cut north on Vine; sunlight picked up his reflection in the windshield. His necktie stood out: LAPD shields, 2's. The 2's stood for the men he killed; he'd have to get some new ties made up-3's to add on Sylvester Fitch. Dudley 's idea: «esprit de corps» for Surveillance. Snappy stuff: women got a kick out of them. Dudley was a kick-in the teeth, in the brains.
He owed him more than he owed Dick Stens-the man frosted Bloody Christmas, got him Surveillance, then Homicide. But when Dudley Smith brought you along you belonged to him-and he was so much smarter than everyone else that you were never sure what he wanted from you or how he was using you-shit got lost in all his fancy language. It didn't quite rankle, but you felt it; it scared you to see how Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle gave the man their souls. Dudley could bend you, shape you, twist you, turn you, point you-and never make you feel like some dumb lump of clay. But he always let you know one thing: he knew you better than you knew yourself.
No streetside parking-every space taken. Bud parked three blocks over, walked up to the squadroom. No Exley, every desk occupied: men talking into phones, taking notes. A giant bulletin boar-d all Nite Owl-paper six inches thick. Two women at a table, a switchboard behind them, a sign by their feet: "R &I/DMV Requests." Bud went over, talked over phone noise. "I'm on the Cathcart check, and I want all you can get me, known associates, the works. This clown was popped twice for statch rape. I want full details on the complainants, plus current addresses. He had three pimping rousts, no convictions, and I want you to check all the local city and county vice squads to see if he's got a file. If he does, I want names on the girls he was running. If you get names, get DOBs and run them back through R &I, DMV, City/County Parole, the Woman's Jail. «Details». You got it?"
The girls hit the switchboard; Bud hit the bulletin board: paper tagged "Victim Lunceford." One update: a Hollywood squad officer talked to Lunceford's boss at the Mighty Man Agency. Facts: Lunceford patronized the Nite Owl virtually every early A.M.-after he got off his 6:00-to-2:00 shift at the Pickwick Bookstore Building; Lunceford was a typical wino security guard not permitted to carry a sidearm; Lunceford had no known enemies, no known friends, no known lady friends, did not associate with his fellow Mighty Men, slept in a pup tent behind the Hollywood Bowl. The tent was checked out, inventoried: a sleeping bag, four Mighty Man uniforms, six bottles of Old Monterey muscatel.
Adios, shitbird-you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bud checked Lunceford's arrest record: nineteen minor felony pops in eleven years as a cop, scratch revenge as a motive, kill six to get one stunk as a motive anyway. Still no Exley, no Breuning and Carlisle. Bud remembered Dudley 's memo: check the station files for Lunceford listings.
A good bet: field interrogation cards filed by officer surname. Bud hit the storage room, pulled the "L" cabinet-no folder for "Lunceford, Officer Malcolm." An hour checking misfiles "A" to "Z"-zero. No F.I.'s-strange-maybe Wino Mal never filed his field cards.
Almost noon, time for a chow run-a sandwich, talk to Dick. Carlisle and Breuning showed up-loafing, drinking coffee. Bud found a free phone, buzzed snitches.
Snake Tucker heard bupkis; ditto Fats Rice and Johnny Stomp. Jerry Katzenbach said it was the Rosenbergs -they ordered the snuffs from death row, make Jerry back on the needle. An R &I girl hovered.
She handed him a tear sheet. "There's not much. Nothing on Cathcart's K.A.'s, not much detail besides his rap sheet. I couldn't get much on the statutory rape complainants, except that they were fourteen and blonde and worked at Lockheed during the war. My bet is they were transients. Sheriff's Central Vice had a file on Cathcart, with nine suspected prostitutes listed. I followed up. Two are dead of syphilis, three were underaged and left the state as a probation stipulation, two I couldn't get a line on. The remaining two are on that page. Does it help?"
Bud waved Breuning and Carlisle over. "Yeah, it does. Thanks."
The clerk walked off; Bud checked her sheet, two names circled: Jane (a.k.a. "Feather") Royko, Cynthia (a.k.a. "Sinful Cindy") Benavides. Last known addresses, known haunts: pads on Poinsettia and Yucca, cocktail lounges.
Dudley 's strongarms hovered. Bud said, "The two names here. Shag them, will you?"
Carlisle said, "This background check shit is the bunk. I say it's the shines."
Breuning grabbed the sheet. "Dud says do it, we do it."
Bud checked their neckties-five dead men total. Fat Breuning, skinny Carlisle -somehow they looked just like twins. "So do it, huh?"
Abe's Noshery, no parking, around the block. Dick's Chevy Out back, booze empties on the seat: probation violation number one. Bud found a space, walked up and checked the window: Stens guzzling Manischewitz, bullshitting with ex-cons-Lee Vachss, Deuce Perkins, Johnny Stomp. A cop type eating at the counter: a bite, a glance at the known criminal assembly, another bite-clockwork. Back to Hollywood Station-pissed that he was still playing nursemaid.
Waiting for him: Breuning, two hooker types-laughing up a storm in the sweatbox. Bud tapped the glass; Breuning walked out.
Bud said, "Who's who?"
"The blonde's Feather Royko. Hey, did you hear the one about the well-hung elephant?"
"What'd you tell them?"
"I told them it was a routine background check on Duke Cathcart. They read the papers, so they weren't surprised. Bud, it's the niggers. They're gonna burn for that Mex ginch, Dudley's just going through this rigamarole 'cause Parker wants a showcase and he's listening to that punk kid Exley with all his highfalut-"
Hard fingers to the chest. "Inez Soto ain't a ginch, and maybe it ain't the jigs. So you and Carlisle go do some police work."
Kowtow-Breuning shambled off smoothing his shirt. Bud walked into the box. The whores looked bad: a peroxide blonde, a henna redhead, too much makeup on too many miles.
Bud said, "So you read the papers this morning."
Feather Royko said, "Yeah. Poor Dukey."
"It don't sound like you're exactly grieving for him."
"Dukey was Dukey. He was cheap, but he never hit you. He had a thing about chiliburgers, and the Nite Owl had good ones. One chiliburg too many, RIP Dukey."
"Then you girls buy all that robbery stuff in the papers?"
Cindy Benavides nodded. Feather said, "Sure. That's what it was, wasn't it? I mean, don't you think so?"
"Probably. What about enemies? Duke have any?"
"No, Dukey was Dukey."
"How many other girls was he running?"
"Just us. We are the meager remnants of Dukey-poo's stable."
"I heard Duke ran nine girls once. What happened? Rival pimp stuff?"
"Mister, Dukey was a dreamer. He liked young stuff personally, and he liked to run young stuff. Young stuff gets bored and moves on unless their guy gets mean. Dukey could get mean with other men, but never with females. RIP Dukey."
"Then Duke must've had something else going. A two-girl string wouldn't cover him."
Feather picked at her nail polish. "Dukey was jazzed up on some new business scheme. You see, he always had some kind of scheme going. He was a dreamer. And the schemes made him happy, made him feel like the meager coin Cindy and me turned for him wasn't so bad."
"Did he give you details?"
"No."
Cindy had her lipstick out, smearing on another coat. "Cindy, he tell «you» anything?"
"No"-a little squeak.
"Nothing about enemies?"
"No."
"What about girlfriends? Duke have any young stuff going lately?"
Cindy grabbed a tissue, blotted. "N-no."
"Feather, you buy that?"
"I guess Dukey wasn't talking up nobody. Can we go now? I mean-"
"Go. There's a cabstand up the street."
The girls moved out fast; Bud gave them a lead, ran to his car. Up to Sunset across from the cabstand; a two-minute wait. Cindy and Feather walked up.
Separate cabs, different directions. Cindy shot due north on Wilcox, maybe toward home-5814 Yucca. Bud took a shortcut; the cab showed right on time. Cindy walked to a green De Soto, took off westbound. Bud counted to ten, followed.
Up to Highland, the Cahuenga Pass to the Valley, west on Ventura Boulevard. Bud stuck close; Cindy drove middle lane fast. A last-second swerve to the curb by a motel-rooms circling a murky swimming pool.
Bud braked, U-turned, watched. Cindy walked to a left-side room, knocked. A girl-fifteenish, blond-let her in. Young stuff-Duke Cathcart's statch rape type.
Eyeball Surveillance.
Cindy walked out ten minutes later-zoom-a U-turn back toward Hollywood. Bud knocked on the girl's door.
She opened it-teary-eyed. A radio blasted: "Nite Owl Massacre," "Crime of the Southland's Century." The girl focused in. "Are you the police?"
Bud nodded. "Sweetie, how old are you?" No more focus-her eyes went blurry. "Sweetie, what's your name?"
"Kathy Janeway. Kathy with a 'K."' Bud closed the door. "How old are you?" "Fourteen. Why do men always ask you that?" A prairie twang.
"Where are you from?"
" North Dakota. But if you send me back I'll just run away again."
"Why?"
"You want it in VistaVision? Duke said lots of guys get their jollies that way."
"Don't be such a tough cookie, huh? I'm on your side."
"That's a laugh."
Bud scoped the room. Panda bears, movie mags, schoolgirl smocks on the dresser. No whore threads, no dope paraphernalia. "Was Duke nice to you?"
"He didn't make me do it with guys, if that's what you mean."
"You mean you only did it with him?"
"No, I mean my daddy did it to me and this other guy made me do it with guys, but Duke bought me away from him."
Pimp intrigue. "What was the guy's name?"
"No! I won't tell you and you can't make me and I forgot it anyway!"
"Which one of those, sweetie?"
"I don't want to tell!"
"Sssh. So Duke was nice to you?"
"Don't shush me. Duke was a panda bear, all he wanted was to sleep in the same bed with me and play pinochle. Is that so bad?"
"Honey-"
"My daddy was worse! My Uncle Arthur was lots worse!"
"Hush, now, huh?"
"You can't make me!"
Bud took her hands. "What did Cindy want?"
Kathy pulled away. "She told me Duke was dead, which any dunce with a radio knows. She told me Duke said that if anything happened to him she should look after me, and she gave me ten dollars. She said the police bothered her. I said ten dollars isn't very much, and she got insulted and yelled at me. And how'd you know Cindy was here?"
"Never mind."
"The rent here's nine dollars a week and I-"
"I'll get you some more money if you'll-"
"Duke was «never» that cheap with me!"
"«Kathy, hush now and let me ask you a few questions and maybe we'll get the guys who killed Duke. All right? Huh?»"
A kid's sigh. "Okay, all right, ask me."
Bud, soft. "Cindy said Duke told her to look after you if something happened to him. Do you think he figured something was gonna happen?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Why maybe?"
"Maybe 'cause Duke was nervous lately."
"Why was he nervous?"
"I don't know."
"Did you ask him?"
"He said, 'Just biz."'
Feather on Cathcart: "Jazzed on some new business scheme." "Kathy, was Duke starting some new kind of thing up?"
"I don't know, Duke said girls don't need shoptalk. And I know he left me more than a crummy ten dollars."
Bud gave her a Bureau card. "That's my number at work. You call me, huh?"
Kathy plucked a panda off the bed. "Duke was so messy and such a slob, but I didn't care. He had a cute smile and this cute scar on his chest, and he never yelled at me. My daddy and Uncle Arthur always yelled at me, so Duke never did. Wasn't that a nice thing to do?"
Bud left her with a hand squeeze. Halfway out to the street he heard her sobbing.
Back to the car, a brainstorm on the Cathcart play so far. Call Duke's "new gig" and pimp intrigue weak maybes; call Nite Owl chiliburgers 99 percent sure the ink on his death warrant. A pimp statch raper and a grifter ex-cop for victims-strange-but par for the Hollywood Boulevard 3:00 A.M. course. Call it busywork for Dudley -maybe Cindy was hinked on more than the cash she held back. He could muscle the money out of her, glom some pimp scuttlebutt, close out the Cathcart end and ask Dud to send him down to Darktown. Simple-but Cindy was who-knowswhere and Kathy had him dancing to her rune: savior with no place to go. He snapped to something missing from the bulletins: no checkout on Cathcart's apartment. A chance Duke's whore book might be there-leads on his gig and the pimp he bought Kathy from-a good time-killer.
Bud headed over Cahuenga. He saw a red sedan hovering back-he thought he'd seen it by the motel. He speeded up, made a run by Cindy's pad-no green De Soto, no red sedan. He drove to Silverlake checking his rearview. No tail car-just his imagination.
9819 Vendome looked virgin-a garage apartment behind a small stucco house. No reporters, no crime scene ropes, no locals out taking some sun. Bud popped the door with his hand.
A typical bachelor flop: living room/bedroom combo, bathroom, kitchenette. Lights on for a quick inventory-the way Dudley taught him.
A Murphy bed in the down position. Cheapie seascapes on the walls. One dresser, a walk-in closet. No doors on the bathroom and kitchenette-neat, clean. The whole pad looked spanking neat-at odds with Kathy: "Duke was so messy and such a slob."
Detail prowls-another Dudley trick. A phone on an end table, check the drawers: pencils, no address book, no whore book. A stack of Yellow Page directories, a toss-L.A. County, Riverside County, San Bernardino County, Ventura County. San Berdoo the only book used-ruffled pages, a cracked spine. Check the rufflings: "Printshop" listings thumbed through. A connection, probably nothing: victim Susan Lefferts, San Berdoo native.
Bud eyeball-prowled, click/click/click. The bathroom and kitchen immaculate; neatly folded shirts in the dresser. The carpet clean, a bit grimy in the corners. A final click: the crib had been checked out, cleaned up-maybe tossed by a pro.
He went through the closet: jackets and slacks slipping off hangers. Cathcart had a nifty wardrobe-someone had been trying on his threads or this was the real Duke-Kathy's slob-and the tosser didn't bother with his clothes.
Bud checked every pocket, ever garment: lint, spare change, nothing hot. A click: a test to test the tosser. He walked down to the car, got his evidence kit, dusted: the dresser a sure thing for latents. One more click: scouring powder wipe marks. Nail the pad as professionally print-wiped.
Bud packed up, got out, brainstormed some more-pimp war clicks, clickouts-Duke Cathcart had two skags in his stable, no stomach for pushing a fourteen-year-old nymphet-he was a pimp disaster area. He tried to click Duke's pad tossed to the Nite Owl-no gears meshçd, odds on the coons stayed high. If the tossing played, tie it to Cathcart's "new gig"-Feather Royko talked it up-she came off as clean as Sinful Cindy came off hinky. Cindy next-and she owed Kathy money.
Dusk settling in. Bud drove to Cindy's pad, saw the green De Soto. Moans out a half-cracked window-he shoved the sill up, vaulted in.
A dark hallway, grunt-grunt-grunt one door down. Bud walked over, looked in. Cindy and a fat man wearing argyles, the bed about ready to break. Fattie's trousers on the doorknob- Bud filched a billfold, emptied it, whistled.
Cindy shrieked; Fats kept pumping. Bud: "SHITBIRD, WHAT YOU DOIN' WITH MY WOMAN!!!!"
Things speeded up.
Fattie ran out holding his dick; Cindy dove under the sheets. Bud saw a purse, dumped it, grabbed money. Cindy shrieked willy-nilly. Bud kicked the bed. "Duke's enemies. Spill and I won't roust you."
Cindy poked her head out. "I… don't… know nothin'."
"The fuck you don't. Let's try this: somebody broke into Duke's place, you give me a suspect."
"I.. don't… know."
"Last chance. You held back at the station, Feather came clean. You went to Kathy Janeway's motel and stuffed her with a ten-spot. What else you hold back on?"
"Look-"
"Give."
"Give on what?"
"Give on Duke's new gig and his enemies. Tell me who used to pimp Kathy."
"I don't know who pimped her!"
"Then give on the other two."
Cindy wiped her face-smeared lipstick, runny makeup. "All I know's this guy was going around talking up cocktail-bar girls, acting like Duke. You know, the same one-liners, real Dukey shtick. I heard he was trying to get girls to do call jobs for him. He didn't talk to me or Feather, this is just stale-bread stuff I heard, like from two weeks ago."
Click: "This Guy" maybe the pad tosser, "This Guy" trying on Cathcart's clothes. "Keep going on that."
"That is all I heard, just the way I heard it."
"What did the guy look like?"
"I don't know."
"Who told you about him?"
"I don't even know that, they were just girls gabbing at the next table at this goddamned bar."
"All right, easy. Duke's new gig. Give on that."
"Mister, it was just another Dukey pipe dream."
"Then why didn't you tell me before?"
"You know the old adage 'Don't speak ill of the dead'?" "Yeah. You know the bull daggers at the Woman's Jail?" Cindy sighed. "Dukey pipe dream number six thousand- smut peddler. Is that a yuck? Dukey said he was going to push this weird smut. That's all I know, we had a two-second conversation on the topic and that's all Duke said. I didn't press it 'cause I know a pipe dream when I hear one. Now will you get out of here?"
Loose Bureau talk: Ad Vice working pornography. "What kind of smut?"
"Mister, I told you I don't know, it was just a two-second conversation."
"You gonna pay Kathy back what Duke left you?" "Sure, Good Samaritan. Ten here, ten there. If I gave her the money all at once she'd just blow it on movie mags anyway."
"I might be back."
"I wait with bated breath."
Bud drove to a mailbox, sent the cash out special delivery: Kathy Janeway, Orchid View Motel, plenty of stamps and a friendly note. Four hundred plus-a small fortune for a kid.
7:00-time to kill before he met Dudley. The Bureau for a time-killer: Ad Vice, the squadroom board.
Squad 4 on the smut job-Kifka, Henderson, Vincennes, Stathis-four men tracking stag books, all reporting no leads. Nobody around, he could check by in the morning, it was probably nothing anyway. He walked over to Homicide, called Abe's Noshery.
Stens answered.
"Abe's."
"Dick, it's me."
"Oh? Checking up on me, «Officer?»"
"Dick, come on."
"No, I mean it. You're a Dudley man now. Maybe Dud don't like the people I push my corned beef to. Maybe Dud wants skinny, thinks I'll talk to you. It ain't like you're your own man no more."
"You been drinking, partner?"
"I drink kosher now. Tell Exicy that. Tell him Danny Duck wants to dance with him. Tell him I read about his old man and Dream-a-fucking-Dreamland. Tell him I might come to the opening, Danny Duck requests the presence of Sergeant Ed cocksucker Exley for one more fucking dance."
"Dick, you're way out of line."
"The fuck you say. One more dance, Danny Duck's gonna break his glasses and chew his fuckin' throat-"
"Dick, goddammit-"
"Hey, fuck you! I read the papers, I saw the personnel on that Nite Owl job. You, Dudley S., Exley, the rest of Dudley 's hard-ons. You're fucking partners with the cocksucker who put me away, you're sucking the same gravy case, so if you th-"
Bud threw the phone out the window. He walked down to the lot kicking things-then the Big Picture kicked him.
He should have swung for Bloody Christmas.
Dudley saved him.
Make Exley the Nite Owl hero so far-he'd be the one to send Inez back through Hell.
Strangeness on the Cathcart end, the case might go wide, more than a psycho robbery gang. «He» could make the case, twist Exley, work an angle to help out Stens. Which meant:
Not greasing Ad Vice for smut leads.
Holding back evidence from Dudley.
BEING A DETECTIVE-NOT A HEADBASHER-ON HIS OWN.
He fed himself drunk talk for guts:
It ain't like you're your own man.
It ain't like you're your own man.
It ain't like you're your own man.
He was scared.
He owed Dudley.
He was crossing the only man on earth more dangerous than he was.
Ray Pinker walked Ed through the Nite Owl, reconstructing.
"Bim, bam, I'm betting it happened like this. First, the three enter and show their weaponry. One man takes the cash register girl, the kitchen boy and the waitress. This guy hits Donna DeLuca with his shotgun butt-she's standing by the cash register, and we found a piece of her scalp on the floor there. She gives him the money and the money from her purse, he shoves her and Patty Chesimard to the locker, picking up Gilbert Escobar in the kitchen en route. Gilbert resists-note the drag marks, the pots and pans on the floor. A pop to the head-bim, barn-that little pool of blood you see outlined in chalk. The safe is exposed under the cook's stand, one of the three employee victims opens it, note the spilled coins. Bim, barn, Gilbert resists some more, another gun-butt shot, note the circle marked 1-A on the floor, we found three gold teeth there, bagged them and matched them: Gilbert Luis Escobar. The drag marks start there, old Gil has quit fighting, bim, bam, suspect number one plants victims one, two and three inside the food locker."
Back to the restaurant proper-still sealed three nights post-mortem. Gawkers pressed up to the windows; Pinker kept talking. "Meanwhile, gunmen two and three are rounding up victims four through six. The drag marks going back to the locker and the spilled food and dishes speak for themselves. You might not be able to see it because the linoleum's so dark, but there's blood under the first two tables: Cathcart and Lunceford, sitting separately, two gun-butt shots. We know who was where through blood typing. Cathcart drops by table two, Lunceford by table one. Now-"
Ed cut in. "Did you dust the plates for more confirmation?"
Pinker nodded. "Smudges and smears, two viable latents on dishes under Lunceford's table. That's how we ID'd him-we got a match to the set they took when he joined the LAPD. Cathcart and Susan Lefferts had their hands blown off, no way to cross-check on that, their dishes were too smudged anyway. We tagged Cathcart on a partial dental and his prison measurement chart, Lefferts on a full dental. Now, you see the shoe on the floor?"
"Yes."
"Well, from an angle study it looks like Lefferts was flailing to get to Cathcart at the next table, even though they were sitting separately. Dumb panic, she obviously didn't know him. She started screaming, and one of the gunmen stuck a wad of napkins from that container there in her mouth. Doc Layman found a big wad of swallowed tissue in her throat at autopsy, he thinks she might have gagged and suffocated just as the shooting started. Bim, barn, Cathcart and Lefferts are dragged to the locker, Lunceford walks, the poor bastard probably thinks it's just a stickup. At the locker, purses and wallets are taken-we found a scrap of Gilbert Escobar's driver's license floating in blood just inside the door, along with six wax-saturated cotton balls. The gunmen had the brains to protect their ears."
The last bit didn't play: his coloreds were too impetuous. "It doesn't seem like enough men to do the job."
Pinker shrugged. "It worked. Are you suggesting one or more of the victims knew one or more of the killers?"
"I know, it's unlikely."
"Do you want to see the locker? It'll have to be now, we promised the owner he could have the place back."
"I saw it that night."
"I saw the pictures. Jesus, you couldn't tell they were human. You're working the Lefferts background check, right?"
Ed looked out the window; a pretty girl waved at him. Dark-haired, Latin-she looked like Inez Soto. "Right."
"And?"
"And I spent a full day in San Bernardino and got nowhere. The woman used to live with her mother, who was half-sedated and wouldn't talk to me. I talked to acquaintances, and they told me Sue Lefferts was a chronic insomniac who listened to the radio all night. She had no boyfriends in recent memory, no enemies ever. I checked her apartment in L.A., which was just about what you'd expect for a thirty-one-year-old salesgirl. One of the San Berdoo people said she was a bit of a roundheels, one said she belly-danced at a Greek restaurant a few times for laughs. Nothing suspicious."
"It keeps coming back to the Negroes."
"Yes, it does."
"Any luck on the car or the weapons?"
"No, and 77th Street 's checking trashcans and sewer grates for the purses and wallets. And I know an approach we can make and save the investigation a lot of time."
Pinker smiled. " Check Griffith Park for the nicked shells?"
Ed turned to the window-the Inez type was gone. "If we place those shells, then it's either the Negroes in custody or another three."
"Sergeant, that is one large long shot."
"I know, and I'll help."
Pinker checked his watch. "It's 10:30 now. I'll find the occurrence reports on those shootings, try to pinpoint the locations and meet you with a sapper squad tomorrow at dawn. Say the Observatory parking lot?"
"I'll be there."
"Should I get clearance from Lieutenant Smith?"
"Do it on my say-so, okay? I'm reporting directly to Parker on this."
"The park at dawn then. Wear some old clothes, it'll be filthy work."
Ed ate Chinese on Alvarado. He knew why he was heading that way: Queen of Angels was close, Inez Soto might be awake. He'd called the hospital: Inez was healing up quickly, her family hadn't visited, her sister called, said Mama and Papa blamed her for the nightmare-provocative clothing, worldly ways. She'd been crying for her stuffed animals; he had the gift shop send up an assortment-gifts to ease his conscience-he wanted her as a major witness in his first big homicide case. And he just wanted her to like him, wanted her to disown four words: "Officer White's the hero."
He stalled with a last cup of tea. Stitches, dental work-his wounds were healing, made small: his mother and Inez blurred together. He'd gotten a report: Dick Stens hung out with known armed robbers, bet with bookies, took his salary in cash and frequented whorehouses. When his men had him pinned cold they'd call County Probation and fix an arrest.
Which paled beside "Officer White's the hero" and Inez Soto with the fire to hate him.
Ed paid the check, drove to Queen of Angels.
Bud White was walking out.
They crossed by the elevator. White got the first word in. "Give your career a rest and let her sleep."
"What are you doing here?"
"Not looking to pump a witness. Leave her alone, you'll get your chance."
"'This is just a visit."
"She sees through you, Exley. You can't buy her off with teddy bears."
"Don't you want the case cleared? Or are you just frustrated that there's nobody else for you to kill?"
"Big talk from a brownnosing snitch."
"Did you come here to get laid?"
"Different circumstances, I'd eat you for that."
"Sooner or later, I'll take you and Stensland down."
"That goes two ways. War hero, huh? Those Japs must've rolled over for you."
Ed flinched.
White winked.
Tremors-all the way up to her room. Ed looked before he knocked.
Inez was awake-reading a magazine. Stuffed animals strewn on the floor, one creature on the bed: Scooter Squirrel as a footrest. Inez saw him, said, "No."
Faded bruises, her features coming back hard. "No what, Miss Soto?"
"No, I won't go through it with you."
"Not even a few questions?"
"No."
Ed pulled a chair up. "You don't seem surprised to see me here so late."
"I'm not, you're the subtle type." She pointed to the animals. "Did the district attorney reimburse you for those?"
"No, that was out of my own pocket. Did Ellis Loew visit you?"
"Yes, and I told him no. I told him that the three «negrito putos» drove me around, took money from other «putos» and left me with the «negrito puto» that Officer White killed. I told him that I can't remember or won't remember or don't want to remember any more details, he can take his pick and that is «absolutamente» all there is to it."
Ed said, "Miss Soto, I just came to say hello."
She laughed in his face. "You want the rest of the story? An hour later my brother Juan calls and tells me I can't go home, that I disgraced the family. Then «puto» Mr. Loew calls and says he can put me up in a hotel if I cooperate, then the gift shop girl brings me those «puto» animals and says they're gifts from the nice policeman with the glasses. I've been to college, «pendejo». Don't you think I can follow the chain of events?"
Ed pointed to Scooter Squirrel. "You didn't throw him away."
"He's special."
"Do you like Dieterling characters?"
"So what if I do!"
"Just asking. And where do you put Bud White in your chain of events?"
Inez fluffed her pillows. "He killed a man for me."
"He killed him for himself."
"And that «puto» animal is dead just the same. Officer White just comes by to say hello. He warns me about you and Mr. Loew. He tells me I should cooperate, but he doesn't press the subject. He hates you, subtle man. I can tell."
"You're a smart girl, Inez."
"You want to say 'for a Mexican,' I know that."
"No, you're wrong. You're just plain smart. And you're lonely, or you would have asked me to leave."
Inez threw her magazine down. "So what if I am!"
Ed picked it up. Dog-eared pages: a piece on Dream-aDreamland. "I'm going to recommend that we give you some time to get well and recommend that when this mess goes to court you be allowed to testify by written deposition. If we get enough Nite Owl corroboration from other sources, you might not have to testify at all. And I won't come back if you don't want me to."
She stared at him. "I've still got no place to go."
"Did you read that article on the Dream-a-Dreamland opening?"
"Yes."
"Did you see the name 'Preston Exley'?"
"Yes."
"He's my father."
"So what? I know you're a rich kid, blowing your money on stuffed animals. So what? Where will I go?"
Ed held the bed rail. "I've got a cabin at Lake Arrowhead. You can stay there. I won't touch you, and I'll take you to the Dream-a-Dreamland opening."
Inez touched her head. "What about my hair?"
"I'll get you a nice bonnet."
Inez sobbed, hugged Scooter Squirrel.
Ed met the sappers at dawn, groggy from dreams: Inez, other women. Ray Pinker brought flashlights, spades, metal detectors; he'd had Communications Division issue a public appeal: witnesses to the Griffith Park shotgun blastings were asked to come forth to ID the blasters. The occurrence report locations were marked out into grids-all steep, scrub-covered hillsides. The men dug, uprooted, scanned with gizmos going tick, tick, tick-they found coins, tin cans, a.32 revolver. Hours came, went; the sun beat down. Ed worked hard-breathing dirt, risking sunstroke. His dreams returned, circles leading back to Inez.
Anne from the Marlborough School Cotillion-they did it in a '38 Dodge, his legs banged the doors. Penny from his UCLA biology class: rum punch at his frat house, a quick backyard coupling. A string of patriotic roundheels on his bond tour, a one-night stand with an older woman-a Central Division dispatcher. Their faces were hard to remember; he tried and kept seeing Inez-Inez without bruises, no hospital smock. It was dizzying, the heat was dizzying, he was filthy, exhausted-it all felt good. More hours went-he couldn't think of women or anything else. More time down, yells in the distance, a hand on his shoulder.
Ray Pinker holding out two spent shotgun shells and a photo of a shotgun shell strike surface. A perfect match: identical firing pin marks straight across.
Two days since the Fleur-de-Lis grab-no way to tell how far he could take it.
Two days, one suspect: Lamar Hinton, age twenty-six, arrested for strongarm assault, a conviction on an ADW, a deuce at Chino -paroled 3/51. Current employment: telephone installer at P.C. Bell-his parole officer suspected he moonlighted tigging bootleg bookie lines. A mugshot match: Hinton the muscle boy at Timmy Valburn's house.
Two days, no break on his stalemate: a made case would ticket him back to Narco, making «this» case meant Valburn and Billy Dieterling for material witnesses-well-connected homos who could flush his Hollywood career down the toilet.
Two days of page prowling-every roundabout approach tapped out. He checked the collateral case reports, talked to the arrestees-more denials-nobody admitted buying the smut. One day wasted; nothing at Ad Vice to goose his leads: Stathis, Henderson, Kitka reported zero, Millard was trying to co-boss the Nite Owl-pornography was not on his mind.
Two days since: midway through day two he hit hard-the bootleg number, Muscle Boy.
No Fleur-de-Lis phone listing; brain gymnastics tagged his personal connection-the first time he saw the caffing card.
Tilt:
Xmas Eve '51, right before Bloody Christmas. Sid Hudgens set up a reefer roust-he popped two grasshoppers, found the card at their pad, thought nothing else of it.
Scary Sid: "We've all got secrets, Jack."
He pushed ahead anyway, that undertow driving him: he wanted to know who made the smut-and why. He hit the P.C. Bell employment office, cross-checked records against physical stats until he hit Lamar Hinton-tilt, tilt, tilt, tilt, tilt- Jack looked around the squadroom-men talking Nite Owl, Nite Owl, Nite Owl, the Big V chasing hand-job books.
The orgy pix.
Vertigo.
Jack chased.
Hinton's route: Gower to La Brea, Franklin to the Hollywood Reservoir. His A.M. installations: Creston Drive, North Ivar. Jack found Creston on his car map: Hollywood Hills, a cul-de-sac way up.
He drove there, saw the phone truck: parked by a pseudoFrench chateau. Lamar Hinton on a pole across the street- monster huge in broad daylight.
Jack parked, checked the truck-the loading door wide open. Tools, phone books, Spade Cooley albums-no suspiciouslooking brown paper bags. Hinton stared at him; Jack went over badge first.
Hinton trundled down the pole: six-four easy, blond, muscles on muscles. "You with Parole?"
"Los Angeles Police Department."
"Then this ain't about my parole?"
"No, this is about you cooperating to avoid a parole rap."
"What do you-"
"Your parole officer don't really approve of this job you've got, Lamar. He thinks you might start doing some bootlegs."
Hinton flexed muscles: neck, arms, chest. Jack said, "Fleur-de-Lis, 'Whatever You Desire.' You desire no violation, you talk. You don't talk, then back to Chino."
One last flex. "You broke into my car."
"You're a regular Einstein. Now, you got the brains to be an informant?"
Hinton shifted; Jack put a hand on his gun. "Fleur-de-Lis. Who runs it, how does it work, what do you push? Dieterling and Valburn. Tell me and I'm out of your life in five minutes."
Muscles thought it through: his T-shirt bulged, puckered. Jack pulled out a fuck mag-an orgy pic spread full. "Conspiracy to distribute pornographic material, possession and sales of felony narcotics. I've got enough to send you back to Chino until nineteen-fucking-seventy. Now, did you move this smut for Fleur-de-Lis?"
Hinton bobbed his head. "Y-y-yeah."
"Smart boy. Now, who made it?"
"I d-don't know. Really, honest, I d-don't."
"Who posed for it?"
"I don't kn-know, I just d-d-delivered it."
"Billy Dieterling and Timmy Valburn. Go."
"J-just c-customers. Queers, you know, they like to fag party."
"You're doing great, so here's the big question. Who-"
"Officer, please don't-"
Jack pulled his.38, cocked it. "You want to be on the next train to Chino?"
"N-no."
"Then answer me."
Hinton turned, gripped the pole. "P-pierce Patchett. He runs the business. He-he's some kind of legit businessman."
"Description, phone number, address."
"He's maybe fifty something. I th-think he lives in Bbrentwood and I don't know his n-number 'cause I get paid b-by the m-mail."
"More on Patchett. Go."
"H-he sugar-p-pimps girls made up like movie stars. H-he's rich. I-I only met him once."
"Who introduced you?"
"This guy Ch-chester I used to see at M-m-muscle Beach."
" Chester who?"
"I don't know."
Hinton: bunching, flexing-Jack figured hot seconds and he'd snap. "What else does Patchett push?"
"L-lots of b-boys and girls."
"What about through Fleur-de-Lis?"
"W-whatever you d-desire."
"Not the sales pitch, what specifically?"
Pissed more than scared. "Boys, girls, liquor, dope, picture books, bondage stuff!"
"Easy, now. Who else makes the deliveries?"
"Me and Chester. He works days. I don't like-"
"Where's Chester live?"
"I don't know!"
"«Easy, now». Lots of nice people with lots of money use Fleur-de-Lis, right?"
"R-right."
The records in the truck. "Spade Cooley? Is he a customer?"
"N-no, I just get free albums 'cause I party with this guy Burt Perkins."
"You fucking would know him. The names of some customers. Go."
Hinton dug into the pole. Jack flashed: the monster turning, six.38s not enough. "Are you working tonight?"
"Y-yes."
"The address."
"No… please."
Jack frisked: wallet, change, butch wax, a key on a fob. He held the key up; Hinton bobbed his head barn bam-blood on the pole.
"The address and I'm gone."
Barn barn-blood on the monster's forehead. "5261B Cheramoya."
Jack dropped the pocket trash. "You don't show up tonight. You call your parole officer and tell him you helped me, you tell him you want to be picked up on a violation, you have him put you up someplace. You're clean on this, and if I get to Patchett I'll make like one of the smut people snitched. «And if you clean that place out you are Chino-fucking-bound»."
"B-but you «t-told» me."
Jack ran to his car, gunned it. Hinton tore at the pole barehanded.
Pierce Patchett, fifty-something, "some kind of legit businessman."
Jack found a pay phone, called R &I, the DMV. A make: Pierce Morehouse Patchett, DOB 6/30/02, Grosse Pointe, Michigan. No criminal record, 1184 Gretna Green, Brentwood. Three minor traffic violations since 1931.
Not much. Sid Hudgens next-fuck his smut hink. A busy signal, a buzz to Morty Bendish at the «Mirror».
"City Room, Bendish."
"Morty, it's Jack Vincennes."
"The Big V! Jack, when are you going back to the Narco Squad? I need some good dope stories."
Morty wanted shtick. "As soon as I get squeaky-clean Russ Millard off my case and make a case for him. And «you» can help."
"Keep talking, I'm all ears."
"Pierce Patchett. Ring a bell?"
Bendish whistled. "What's this about?"
"I can't tell you yet. But if it breaks his way, you've got the exclusive."
"You'd feed me before you feed Sid?"
"Yeah. Now I'm all ears."
Another whistle. "There's not much, but what there is is choice. Patchett's a big handsome guy, maybe fifty, but he looks thirty-eight. He goes back maybe twenty-five years in L.A. He's some kind of judo or jujitsu expert, he's either a chemist by trade or he was a chemistry major in college. He's worth a boatload of greenbacks, and I know he lends money to businessman types at thirty percent interest and a cut of their biz, I know he's bankrolled a lot of movies under the table. Interesting, huh? Now try this on: he's rumored to be some kind of periodic heroin sniffer, rumored to dry out at Terry Lux's clinic. All in all, he's what you might wanta call a powerful behind-the-scenes strange-o."
Terry Lux-plastic surgeon to the stars. Sanitarium boss: booze, dope cures, abortions, detoxification heroin available-the cops looked the other way, Terry treated L.A. politicos free. "Morry, that's all you've got?"
"Ain't that enough? Look, what I don't have, Sid might. Call him, but remember I got the exclusive."
Jack hung up, called Sid Hudgens. Sid answered: "«Hush-Hush». Off the record and on the QT."
"It's Vincennes."
"Jackie! You got some good Nite Owl scoop for the Sidster?"
"No, but I'll keep an ear down."
"Narco skinny maybe? I want to put out an all-hophead issue-shvartze jazz musicians and movie stars, maybe tie it in to the Commies, this Rosenberg thing has got the public running hot with a thermometer up their ass. You like it?"
"It's cute. Sid, have you heard of a man named Pierce Patchett?"
Silence-seconds ticking off long. Sid, too Sid-like. "Jackie, all I know on the man is that he is very wealthy and what I like to call 'Twilight.' He ain't queer, he ain't Red, he don't know anybody I can use in my quest for prime sinuendo. Where'd you hear about him?"
Bullshitting him-he could taste it. "A smut peddler told me."
Static-breath catching sharp. "Jack, smut is from hunger, strictly for sad sacks who can't get their ashes hauled. Leave it alone and write when you get work, «gabishe?»"
Hang up-bang!-a door slamrning, cutting you off, some line you couldn't cross back to. Jack drove to the Bureau, MALIBU RENDEZVOUS stamped on that door.
The Ad Vice pen stood empty, just Millard and Thad Green in a huddle by the cloakroom. Jack checked the assignment board- more no-leads-walked around to the supply room on the QT. Unlocked-easy to pull off a snatch. Downwind: the high brass talking Nite Owl.
"Russ, I know you want in. But Parker wants Dudley."
"He's too volatile on Negroes, Chief. We both know it."
"You only call me 'Chief' when you want something, «Captain»."
Millard laughed. "Thad, the sappers found matching spents in Griffith Park, and I heard 77th Street turned the wallets and purses. Is that true?"
"Yes, an hour ago, in a sewer. Blood-caked, print-wiped. SID matched to the victims' blood. It's the coloreds, Russ. I know it."
"I don't think it's the ones in custody. Do you see them leaving a rape scene on the southside, then driving the girl around to let their friends abuse her, «then» driving all the way to Hollywood to pull the Nite Owl job-when two of them are high on barbiturates?"
"It's a stretch, I'll admit that. We need to nail down the outside rapists and get Inez Soto to talk. So far she's refused. But Ed Exley is working on her, and Ed Exley is very good."
"Thad, I won't let my ego get in the way. I'm a captain, Dudley 's a lieutenant. We'll share the command."
"I worry about your heart."
"A heart attack five years ago doesn't make me a cripple."
Green laughed. "I'll talk to Parker. Jesus, you and Dudley. What a pair."
Jack found what he wanted: a tape recorder/phone tapper, bolt-on style, headphones. He hustled it out a side door, no witnesses.
Dusk, Cheramoya Avenue: Hollywood, a block off Franklin. 5261: a Tudor four-flat, two pads upstairs, two down. No lights-probably too late to glom " Chester " the day man. Jack rang the B buzzer-no response. An ear to the door, a listen-no sounds, period. In with the key.
Jackpot: one glance told him Hinton played it straight-no cleanout. Pervert fucking Utopia-floor-to-ceiling shelves jammed with goodies.
Maryjane: leaf, prime buds. Pills-bennies, goofballs, red devils, yellow jackets, blue heavens. Patent dope: laudanum, codeine mixtures, catchy brand names: Dreamscope, Hollywood Sunrise, Martian Moonglow. Absinthe, pure alcohol in pints, quarts, half gallons. Ether, hormone pills, envelopes of cocaine, heroin. Film cans, smutty titles: «Mr. Big Dick», «Anal Love», «Gang Bang», «High School Rapist», «Rape Club», «Virgin Cocksucker», «Hot Negro Love», «Fuck Me Tonite», «Susie's Butthole Deelite», «Boys in Love», «Locker Room Lust», «Blow the Man Down», «Jesus Porks the Pope», «Cocksucker's Paradise», «Cornholers Meet the Ramrod Boys», «Rex the Randy Rottweiler». Old stag books: T.J. venues, women sucking cock, boys sucking cock, up-the-hole close-ups. Dusty-not a hot item; empty spaces alongside, maybe the good smut, his smut, was piled there: make Lamar for cleaning that out? Why? The rest of the shit spelled felony time to the year 2000. Snapshots- candid-type pix-real-life movie stars in the raw. Lupe Velez, Gary Cooper, Johnny Weissmuller, Carole Landis, Clark Gable, Tallulah Bankhead muff-diving, corpses going 69 on morgue slabs. A color pic: Joan Crawford and a notoriously well hung Samoan extra named "O.K. Freddy" fucking. Dildoes, dog collars, whips, chains, amyl nitrite poppers, panties, brassieres, cock rings, catheters, enema bags, black lizard pumps with six-inch heels and a female mannequin covered by a tarp- plasterboard, rubber lips, glued-on pubic hair, a snatch made from a garden hose.
Jack found the bathroom and pissed. A mirror threw his face back: old, strange. He went to work: tapper to the phone, the oldie smut skimmed.
Cheap stuff, probably Mex-made: spic hairstyles on skinny junkie posers. Vertigo: he felt swirly, like a good hop jolt. The dope on the shelves made him drool; he mixed Karen in with the pictures. He paced the room, tapped a hollow place, pulled up the rug. Bingo on a cute hidey-hole: a basement, stairs leading to an empty black space.
The phone rang.
Jack hit the tapper, picked up. "Hi. Whatever You Desire"- Lamar Hinton mimicked.
Click, a hang-up, he shouldn't have used the slogan. A half hour passed-the phone rang. "Hi, it's Lamar"-casual.
A pause, click.
A chain of smokes-his throat hurt. The phone rang.
Try a mumble. "Yeah?"
"Hi, it's Seth up in Bel Air. You feel like bringing something over?"
"Sure."
"Make it a jug of the wormwood. Make it fast and you made a nice tip."
"Uh… gimme the address again, would ya?"
"Who could forget digs like mine? It's 941 Roscomere, and don't dawdle."
Jack hung up. Ring ring again.
"Yeah?"
"Lamar, tell Pierce I need to… Lamar, is that you, boychik?"
SID HUDGENS.
Lamar-with a tremor. "Uh, yeah. Who's this?"
Click.
Jack pushed "Replay." Hudgens talked, recognition creeped in-
SID KNEW PATCHETF. SID KNEW LAMAR. SID KNEW THE FLEUR-DE-LIS RACKET.
The phone rang-Jack ignored it. Splitsville-grab the tapper, wipe the phone, wipe all the filth he'd touched. Out the door queasy-night air peaking his nerves.
He heard a car revving.
A shot took out the front window; two shots smashed the door.
Jack drew, fired-the car hauling, no lights.
Clumsy: two shots hit a tree and sprayed wood. Three more pulls, no hits, the car fishtailing. Doors opening-eyewitnesses.
Jack got his car-skids, brodies, no lights until Franklin and a main traffic flow. No make on the shooter car: dark, no lights, the cars all around him looked alike: sleek, wrong. A cigarette slowed him down. He drove straight west to Bet Air.
Roscomere Road: twisty, all uphill, mansions fronted by palm trees. Jack found 941, pulled into the driveway.
Circular, looping a big pseudo-Spanish: one story, low slate roof. Cars in a row-a Jag, a Packard, two Caddies, a Rolls. Jack got out-nobody braced him. He hunkered down, took plate numbers.
Five cars: classy, no Fleur-de-Lis bags on plush front seats. The house: bright windows, silk swirls. Jack walked up and looked in.
He knew he'd never forget the women.
One almost Rita Hayworth a la «Gilda». One almost Ava Gardner in an emerald-green gown. A near Betty Grable-sequined swim-suit, fishnet stockings. Men in tuxedos mingled-background debris. He couldn't stray his eyes from the women.
Astonishing make-believe. Hinton on Patchett: "He sugarpimps these girls made up to look like movie stars." "Made up" didn't cut it: call these women chosen, cultivated, enhanced by an expert. Astonishing.
Veronica Lake walked through the light. Her face wasn't as close: she just oozed that cat-girl grace. Background men flocked to her.
Jack pressed up to the glass. Smut vertigo, real live women. Sid, that door slamming, that line. He drove home, bad vertigo-achy, itchy, jumpy. He saw a «Hush-Hush» card on his door, "Malibu Rendezvous" inked on the bottom.
He saw headlines:
DOPED-OUT DOPE CRUSADER SHOOTS INNOCENT CITIZENS!
CELEBRITY COP INDICTED FOR KILLINGS!
GAS CHAMBER FOR THE BIG-TIME BIG V! RICH KID GIRLFRIEND BIDS DEATH ROW AU REVOIR!
An arm-in-arm entrance-Inez in her best dress and a veil to hide her bruises. Ed kept his badge out-it got them past the press. Attendants formed the guests into lines-Dream-a-Dreamland was open for business.
Inez was awestruck: quick breaths billowed her veil. Ed looked up, down, sideways-every detail made him think of his father.
A grand promenade- Main Drag, USA, 1920-soda fountains, nickelodeons, dancing extras: the cop on the beat, a paperboy juggling apples, ingenues doing the Charleston. The Amazon River: motorized crocodiles, jungle excursion boats. Snow-capped mountains; vendors handing out mouse-ear beanies. The Moochie Mouse Monorail, tropical isles-acres and acres of magic.
They rode the monorail: the first car, the first run. High speed, upside down, right side up-Inez unbuckled herself giggling. The Paul's World toboggan; lunch: hot dogs, snow cones, Moochie Mouse cheese balls.
On to "Desert Idyll," "Danny's Fun House," an exhibit on outer space travel. Inez seemed to be tiring: gorged on excitement. Ed yawned-his own late night catching up.
A late squeal at the station: a shootout on Cheramoya, no perpetrators caught. He had to go to the scene: an apartment house, shots riddling a downstairs unit. Weird:.38s,.45s retrieved, the living room all shelving-empty except for some sadomasochist paraphernalia-and no telephone. The building's owner couldn't be traced; the manager said he was paid by mail, cashier's checks, he got a free flop and a C-note a month, so he was happy and didn't ask questions-he couldn't even name the dump's tenant. The condition of the apartment indicated a rapid clean-out-but no one saw a thing. Four hours of report writing-four hours snatched from the Nite Owl.
The exhibit was a bore-a sop to culture. Inez pointed to the ladies' room; Ed stepped outside.
A VIP tour on the promenade-Timmy Valburn shepherding bigwigs. The «Herald» front page hit him: Dream-a-Dreamland, the Nite Owl, like nothing else mattered.
He tried to reinterrogate Coates, Jones and Fontaine-they would not give him one word. Eyewitnesses responded to the appeal for IDs on the Griffith Park shooters and could not identify the three in custody: they said they "can't quite be sure." Vehicle checks now extended to '48-'50 Fords and Chevys- nothing hot so far. Jockeying for command of the case: Chief Parker supported Dudley Smith, Thad Green pumped up Russ Millard. No shotguns found, no trace of Sugar Ray's Mere. Wallets and purses belonging to the victims were found in a sewer a few blocks from the Tevere Hotel--combine that with the matching shells found in Griffith Park and you got what the papers didn't report: Ellis Loew bullying Parker to bully him: "It's all circumstantial so far, so have your boy Exley keep working on that Mexican girl, it looks like he's getting next to her, have him talk her into a questioning session under sodium pentothal, let's get some juicy Little Lindbergh details and fix the Nite Owl time frame once and for all."
Inez sat down beside him. They had a view: the Amazon, plaster mountains. Ed said, "Are you all right? Do you want to go back?"
"What I want is a cigarette, and I don't even smoke."
"Then don't start. Inez-"
"Yes, I'll move into your cabin."
Ed smiled. "When did you make up your mind?"
Inez tucked her veil under her hat. "I saw a newspaper in the bathroom, and Ellis Loew was gloating about me. He sounded happy, so I figured I'd put some distance between us. You know, I never thanked you for my bonnet."
"You don't have to."
"Yes I do, because I'm naturally bad-mannered around Anglos who treat me nice."
"If you're waiting for the punch line, there isn't any."
"Yes, there is. And for the record again, I won't tell you about it, I won't look at pictures, and I won't testify."
"Inez, I submitted a recommendation that we let you rest up for now."
"And 'for now's' a punch line, and the other punch line's that you go for me, which is okay, because I've looked better in my time and no Mexican man would ever want a Mexican girl who was gang-raped by a bunch of «negrito putos», not that I've ever gone for Mexican guys anyway. You know what's scary, Exley?"
"I told you, it's Ed."
Inez rolled her eyes. "I've got a creep brother named Eduardo, so I'll call you Exley. You know what's scary? What's scary is that I feel good today because this place is like a wonderful dream, but I know that it's got to get really bad again because what happened was a hundred times more real than this. Do you understand?"
"I understand. For now, though, you should try trusting me."
"I don't trust you, Exley. Not 'for now,' maybe not ever."
"I'm the only one you can trust."
Inez flipped her veil down. "I don't trust you because you don't hate them for what they did. Maybe you think you do, but you're helping your career out at the same time. Officer White, he hates them. He killed a man who hurt me. He's not as smart as you, so maybe I can trust him."
Ed reached a hand out-Inez slid away. "I want them dead. «Absolutamente meurto. Comprende?»"
"I «comprende». Do you «comprende» that your beloved Officer White is a goddamned thug?"
"Only if you «comprende» that you're jealous of him. Look, oh God."
Ray Dieterling, his father. Ed stood up; Inez stood up starry-eyed. Preston said, "Raymond Dieterling, my son Edmund. Edmund, will you introduce the young lady?"
Inez, straight to Dieterling. "Sir, it's a pleasure to meet you. I've been… oh, I'm just a big fan."
Dieterling took her hand. "Thank you, dear. And your name?"
"Inez Soto. I've seen… oh, I'm just a big fan."
Dieterling smiled, sad-the girl's story front-page news. He turned to Ed. "Sergeant, a pleasure."
A good handshake. "Sir, an honor. And congratulations."
"Thank you, and I share those congratulations with your father. Preston, your son has an eye for the ladies, doesn't he?"
Preston laughed. "Miss Soto, Edmund has rarely evinced such good taste." He handed Ed a slip of paper. "A Sheriff's officer called the house looking for you. I took the message."
Ed palmed the paper; Inez blushed through her veil. Dieterling smiled. "Miss Soto, did you enjoy Dream-a-Dreamland?"
"Yes, I did. Oh God, yes."
"I'm glad, and I want you to know that you have a good job here anytime you wish. All you have to do is say the word."
"Thank you, thank you, sir"-Inez wobbly. Ed steadied her, looked at his message: "Stensland on toot at Raincheck Room, 3871 W. Gage. Felony assembly, parole off. alerted. Waiting for you-Keefer."
The partners walked off bowing; Inez waved to them. Ed said, "I'll take you back, but I've got a little stop to make first."
They drove back to L.A., the radio going, Inez beating time on the dashboard. Ed played scenes: Stensland crushed with snappy one-liners. An hour to Raincheck Room-Ed parked behind a Sheriff's unmarked. "I'll only be a few minutes. You stay here, all right?"
Inez nodded. Pat Keefer left the bar; Ed got out, whistled.
Keefer came over; Ed steered him away from Inez. "Is he still there?"
"Yeah, skunk drunk. I'd just about given up on you, you know."
A dark alley by the bar. "Where's the Parole man?"
"He told me to take him, this is county jurisdiction. His pals took off, so there's just him."
Ed pointed to the alley. "Bring him out cuffed."
Keefer went back in; Ed waited by the alleyway door. Shouts, thuds, Dick Stens muscled out: smelly, disheveled. Keefer pulled his head back; Ed hit him: upstairs, downstairs, flails until his arms gave out. Stens hit the ground retching; Ed kicked him in the face, stumbled away. Inez on the sidewalk. Her one-liner: "Officer White's the thug?"
Bud fed the woman coffee-get her out, go see Stens at the lock-up.
Carolyn something, she looked okay at the Orbit Lounge, morning light put ten years on her. He picked her up on a flash: he just got the word on Dick, if he couldn't find a woman he was going to find Exley and kill him. She wasn't bad in bed-but he had to think of Inez to charge up enthusiasm, it made him feel cheap, the odds on Inez ever doing it for love were about six trillion to one. He stopped thinking about her-the rest of the night was all bad talk and brandy.
Carolyn said, "I think I should go."
"I'll call you."
The doorbell rang.
Bud walked Carolyn over. Across the screen: Dudley Smith and a West Valley dick-Joe DiCenzo.
Dudley smiled; DiCenzo nodded. Carolyn ducked out-like she knew they knew the score. Bud scoped his front room: the fold-out down, a bottle, two tumblers.
DiCenzo pointed to the bed. "There's his alibi, and I didn't think he did it anyway."
Bud shut the door. "Did «what?» Boss, what is this?"
Dudley sighed. "Lad, I'm afraid I'm the bearer of bad tidings. Last night a young lassie named Kathy Janeway was found in her motel room, raped and beaten to death. Your calling card was found in her purse. Sergeant DiCenzo took the squeal, knew you were a protégé of mine and called me. I visited the crime scene, found an envelope addressed to Miss Janeway, and recognized your rather unformed handwriting immediately. Explain with brevity, lad-Sergeant DiCenzo is heading the investigation and wants you eliminated as a suspect."
A body shot-little Kathy sobbing. Bud got his lies straight. "I was on the Cathcart background check and this hooker who worked for Cathcart told me the Janeway girl was Cathcart's last squeeze, but he didn't pimp her. I talked to the girl, but she didn't know nothing worth reporting. She told me the hooker was holding cash from Cathcart for her, but she wouldn't kick loose. I shook her down and mailed the money to the kid."
DiCenzo shook his head. "Do you routinely shake down hookers?"
Dudley sighed. "Bud has a sentimental weakness for females, and I fmd his account plausible within the limitations of that limitation. Lad, who was this 'hooker' you mentioned?"
"Cynthia Benavides, a.k.a. 'Sinful Cindy."'
"Lad, you didn't include mention of her in any of the reports you've filed. Which have been rather threadbare, I might add."
Lies: hold back on smut, Cathcart's pad tossed, the pimp who sold Kathy to Duke. "I didn't think she was important stuff."
"Lad, she is a tangential Nite Owl witness. And haven't I taught you to be thorough in your reports?"
Mad now-Kathy on a morgue slab. "Yeah, you have."
"And what precisely have you accomplished since that dinner meeting of ours-which is when you «should» have reported on Miss Janeway and Miss Benavides?"
"I'm still checking out Lunceford and Cathcart K.A.'s."
"Lad, Lunceford's known associates are extraneous to this investigation. Have you learned of anything else on Cathcart?"
"No."
Dudley to DiCenzo. "Lad, are you satisfied that Bud isn't your man?"
DiCenzo pulled out a cigar. "I'm satisfied. And I'm satisfied he ain't the smartest human being ever to breathe. White, toss me a bone. Who do you think did the girl?"
The red sedan: the motel, Cahuenga. "I don't know."
"A succinct answer. Joe, let me have a few minutes alone with my friend, would you please?"
DiCenzo walked out smoking; Dudley leaned against the door. "Lad, you cannot shake down prostitutes for money to pay off underaged mistresses. I understand your sentimental attachment to women, and I know that it is an essential component of your policeman's persona, but such overinvolvement cannot be tolerated, and as of this moment you are off the Cathcart and Lunceford checks and back on the Darktown end of the case. Now, Chief Parker and I are convinced that the three Negroes in custody are our perpetrators, or, at the very most, another jigaboo gang is responsible. We still have no murder weapons and no shake on Coates' car, and Ellis Loew wants more evidence for a grand jury presentation. Our fair Miss Soto will not talk, and I'm afraid we must urge her to take pentothal and endure a questioning session. Your job is to check files and question known Negro sex offenders. We need to find the men our unholy three let abuse Miss Soto, and I think the job is right up your alley. Will you do this for me?"
Big words-more body shots. "Sure, Dud."
"Good lad. Clock in and out at 77th Street Station, and make your reports more detailed."
"Sure, Boss."
Smith opened the door. "I tendered that reprimand with much affection, lad. Do you know that?"
"Sure."
"Grand. You are much in my thoughts, lad. Chief Parker has given me approval on a new containment measure, and I've already signed on Dick Carlisle and Mike Breuning. Once we close the Nite Owl, I'm going to ask you to join us."
"That sounds good, Boss."
"Grand. And, lad? I'm sure you know that Dick Stensland was arrested and Ed Exley had a part in it. You are not to retaliate. Do you understand?"
The red sedan-call it a maybe.
Cathcart's pad tossed and wiped, his clothes prowled-?????
Sinful Cindy: Duke's smut peddler pipe dream.
Feather Royko on Duke: "Hopped up on some new biz."
The Dukey shtick man trying to recruit B-girls. Ad Vice checked out: zero on their smut job. Trashcan Jack V., ace report padder, asked for a transfer to the Nite Owl-he said the job was from hunger. Russ Millard's last c.o.'s summary: 86 the gig-call it a wash.
He lied to Dudley and strolled on it.
If he'd ratted little Kathy to Juvie she'd be reading a movie mag somewhere.
THE PIMP WHO SOLD HER TO DUKE: "THIS GUY MADE ME DO IT WITH GUYS."
EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY-
Sinful Cindy's rap sheet-four known haunt whore bars listed. Her pad first-no Cindy. Hal's Nest, the Moonmist Lounge, the Firefly Room, the Cinnabar at the Roosevelt-no Cindy. An old Vice cop's story: whores congregating at Tiny Naylor's Drive-in-the carhops scouted tricks for them. Over to Tiny's, Cindy's De Soto outside-a food tray hooked to the door.
Bud parked beside her. Cindy saw him, dumped her tray, rolled up her window. Wham-the De Soto in reverse. Bud sprinted, popped the hood, yanked the distributor-the car stalled dead.
Cindy rolled down her window. "You stole my money! You ruined my lunch!"
Bud dropped a five on her lap. "Lunch is on me."
"Mister big shot! Mister big spender!"
"Kathy Janeway got raped and beaten to death. Give on the guy who used to pimp her, give on her tricks."
Cindy put her head on the wheel. The horn beeped; she came back up pale, no tears. "Dwight Gilette. He's some kind of colored guy passing. I don't know nothing about her old tricks."
"Gilette drive a red car?"
"I don't know."
"You got an address?"
"I heard he lives in this tract in Eagle Rock. It's white only, so he plays it that way. But I know he didn't kill her."
"How do you figure?"
"He's a swish. He's careful about his hands, and he'd never put it in a girl."
"Anything else?"
"He carried a knife. His girls call him 'Blue Blade' 'cause his name's Gilette."
"You don't seem surprised Kathy got it that way."
Cindy touched her eyes-bone dry. "She was born for it. Dukey softened her up, so she quit hating men. A few more years and she would've learned. Shit, I should have treated her better."
"Yeah, me too."
Eagle Rock, an R &I check: Dwight Gilette, a.k.a. "Blade," a.k.a. "Blue Blade," 3245 Hibiscus, Eagle's Aerie Housing Development. Six suborning arrests, no convictions, listed as a male Caucasian-if he was a shine he was passing with style. Bud found the tract, the street: cozy stucco cubes, Hibiscus a prime spot: a smoggy L.A. view.
3245: peach paint job, steel flamingos on the lawn, a blue sedan in the driveway. Bud walked up, pushed the buzzer-jingly chimes sounded.
A high-yellow guy opened up. Thirtyish, short, plump, slacks and a silk shirt with a Mr. B. collar. "I heard on the radio, so I thought you fellows might be coming by. The radio said midnight, and I have an alibi. He lives a block away and I can have him here toot-sweet. Kathy was a sweet kid and I don't know who'd do a thing like that. And don't you fellows usually come in pairs?"
"You finished?"
"No. My alibi is my lawyer, he still lives a block away and he's very well placed in the American Civil Liberties Union."
Bud shouldered him into the house, whistled.
Fruit heaven: deep pile rugs, Greek god statues. Male nudes on the wall-paint on velvet flocking. Bud said, "Cute."
Gilette pointed to the phone. "Two seconds or I call my attorney."
Quick throw. "Duke Cathcart. You sold Kathy to him, right?"
"Kathy was headstrong, Duke made me an offer. Duke's dead in that awful Nite Owl thing, so don't tell me you suspect me of that."
No hink. "I heard Duke was pushing smut. You hear that?"
"Smut is déclassé and the answer is no."
More no hink. "Give me some trade talk on Duke. What've you heard?"
Gilette stood one hip jutting. "I heard a guy was asking around about Duke, coming on like Duke, maybe thinking about crashing his stable, not that he had much of a stable left, I've heard. Now will you please leave me alone before I call my friend?"
The phone rang-Gilette walked to the kitchen, grabbed an extension. Bud walked in slow. Nice stuff: Frigidaire, coil burner stove on full blast: eggs, boiling water, stew.
Gilette made kissy sounds, hung up. "Are «you» still here?"
"Nice pad, Dwight. Business must be good."
"Business is excellent, thank you very much."
"Good. I need skinny on Kathy's old tricks, so cough up your whore book."
Gilette hit a switch above the sink. A motor growled; he shoved scrapings down a garbage hole. Bud flipped the switch up. "Your whore book."
"No, «nein, nyet» and never."
Bud hooked him to the gut. Gilette rolled with it, grabbed a knife, swung. Bud sidestepped, kicked at his balls. Gilette doubled up; Bud hit the garbage switch. The motor «scree'd»; Bud jammed the queer's knife hand down the chute.
SCREEEE-the sink shot back blood, bone. Bud yanked the hand out minus fingers-SCREEEEE fifty times louder. Stumps to the burner coils, stumps to the icebox sizzling. "GIVE ME THE FUCKING WHORE BOOK"-through a SCREEEEEEEE echo chamber.
Gilette, eyes rolling back. "Drawer… by TV… ambulance."
Bud dropped him, ran to the living room. Empty drawers, back to the kitchen-Gilette on the floor eating paper.
Choke hold: Gilette spat out a half-chewed page. Bud picked up the wad, stumbled outside, burned flesh making him gag. He smoothed the paper out: names, phone numbers-smeared, two legible: Lynn Bracken, Pierce Patchctt.
Jack at his desk, counting lies.
At work: a string of dead-end reports; legit zeros from the other squad guys totaled luck: Millard wanted to dump the smut job. Count duty no-shows as lies-he'd spent a full day chasing names-matches to the cars in Bel Air. Four names tagged; no luck at a modeling agency specializing in movie star lookalikes-none of the girls came close to his beauties. Put the names aside, chalk up the day as a wash-Sid Hudgens made pursuit a dead issue. He just wanted to see the women again- add that one to his lies to Karen.
They spent the morning at her beach place. Karen wanted to make love; he put her off with bullshit: he was distracted, he'd asked to be detached to the Nite Owl because justice was so important. Karen tried to undress him; he told her he had a sprained back; he didn't say he wasn't interested because all he wanted to do was use her, make her do it with other women, recreate fuck book scenarios. His biggest lie: he didn't tell her that he'd fmally stepped in shit that didn't turn to clover, that he'd played an angle that played him back to the gas chamber door, that his home-to-Narco ticket read adios, lovebirds- because she'd trace 10/24/47 to all his other lies and his carefully constructed nice-guy Big V would go down in flames.
He didn't tell her he was terrified. She didn't sense it-his front was still strong.
Other fronts holding-dumb luck.
Sid hadn't called, his monthly «Hush-Hush» came on schedule- no note, some "sinuendo" on Max Peltz and teenage poon- nothing scary. He checked the report on the Fleur-de-Lis shootout: bright boy Ed Exley caught the squeal. Exley baffled: no make on the drop-pad tenants, the shelves cleaned out-only some bondage shit left-make the rest of the filth down the hidey-hole. Make Lamar Hinton for the shots-a free ride-the Big V was off the case, the Big V had a new mission.
Sid Hudgens knew Pierce Patchett and Fleur-de-Lis; Sid Hudgens knew the Malibu Rendezvous. Sid had a load of private dirt files stashed. The Big V's job: find «his» file, destroy it.
Jack checked his plate list, names matched to DMV pics.
Seth David Krugliak, the owner of the Bel Air manse-fat, oily, a movie biz lawyer. Pierce Morehouse Patchett, Fleur-de-Lis Boss-Mr. Debonair. Charles Walker Champlain, investment banker-shaved head, goatee. Lynn Margaret Bracken, age twenty-nine- Veronica Lake. No criminal records.
"Hello, lad."
Jack swiveled around. "Dud, how are you? What brings you to Ad Vice?"
"A confab with Russ Millard, my colleague on the Nite Owl now. And on that topic, I heard you want in."
"You heard right. Can you swing it?"
Smith passed him a mimeo sheet. "I already have, lad. You're to join in the search for Coates' car. Every garage within the radiu3 on this page is to be checked-with or without the owner's consent. You're to begin immediately."
A map carbon: southside L.A. in street grids. "Lad, I need a personal favor."
"Name it."
"I want you to keep a tail on Bud White. He's gotten personally involved in the unfortunate killing of a child prostitute, and I need him stable. Will you stick to him nights, great tailer that you are?"
Bad Bud-always a sucker for strays. "Sure, Dud. Where's he working out of?"
" 77th Street Station. He's been assigned to roust jigaboos with sex offender records. He's on daywatch at 77th, and you'll be clocking in and out there as well."
"Dud, you're a lifesaver."
"Would you care to elaborate on that, lad?"
"No."
Memo:
"From: Chief Parker. To: Dep. Chief Green, Capt. R. Millard, Lt. D. Smith, Sgt. E. Exley. Conference: Chief's Office, 4:00 P.M., 4/23/53. Topic: Questioning of witness Inez Soto." His father's note: "She's wonderful and Ray Dieterling's much taken with her. But she's a material witness and a Mexican, and I advise you not to get too attached to her. And under no circumstances should you shack up with her. Cohabitation is against departmental regs and being with a Mexican woman could seriously stall your career."
Parker kicked things off. "Ed, the Nite Owl case is narrowing down to the Negroes in custody or some other colored gang. Now, word has it that you've gotten close to the Soto girl. Lieutenant Smith and I deem it imperative that she undergo questioning in order to clear up the time element, alibi or not alibi the three in custody, and identify the other men who assaulted her. We think pentothal is the best way to get results, and pentothal works best when a subject is at ease. We want you to convince Miss Soto to cooperate. She probably trusts you, so you'll have credibility."
Inez post-Stensland: shell-shocked, hard-pressed to move to Arrowhead. "Sir, I think all our evidence so far is circumstantial. I think we should get other corroboration before I approach Miss Soto, and I want to try questioning Coates, Jones and Fontaine again."
Smith laughed. "Lad, they refused to talk to you the other day, and now they have a pinko public defender who's advising them to stay mute. Ellis Loew wants a grand jury presentation-Nite Owl and Little Lindbergh-and you can facilitate it. Kid gloves has gotten us nowhere with our fair Miss Soto, and it's time we quit coddling her."
Russ Millard: "Lieutenant, I agree with Sergeant Exley. If we keep pressing on the southside, we'll turn rape witnesses and maybe find Coates' car and the murder weapons. My instincts tell me the girl's recollections of that night might be too muddled to do us any good, and if we make her remember, it might wreck her life more than it's been wrecked already. Can you picture Ellis Loew badgering her in front of the grand jury? Not very pretty, is it?"
Smith laughed-straight at Millard. "Captain, you politicked very hard to share this command with me, and now you advance a sob sister sensibility. This is a brutal mass murder that requires a swift and hard resolution, not a sorority party. And Ellis Loew is a brilliant attorney and a compassionate man. I'm sure he would handle Miss Soto with care."
Millard swallowed a pill, chased it with water. "Ellis Loew is a headline-grubbing buffoon, not a policeman, and he should not be directing the thrust of this investigation."
"Fair Captain, I deem that comment near seditious in its-"
Parker raised a hand. "Gentlemen, enough. Thad, will you take Captain Millard and Lieutenant Smith down the hall and buy them coffee while I talk to the sergeant here?"
Green ushered the two outside. Parker said, "Ed, Dudley 's right."
Ed kept quiet. Parker pointed to a stack of newspapers. "The press and the public demand justice. We'll look very bad if we don't clear this up soon."
"Sir, I know."
"Do you care about the girl?"
"Yes."
"You know that sooner or later she'll have to cooperatc?"
"Sir, don't underestimate her. She's steel inside."
Parker smiled. "Then let's see how much steel you possess. Convince her to cooperate, and if we get enough corroboration to convince Ellis Loew he's got a showstopper grand jury case, I'll jump you on the promotion list. You'll be a detective lieutenant immediately."
"And a command?"
"Arnie Reddin retires next month. I'll give you the Hollywood detective squad."
Ed tingled.
"Ed, you're thirty-one. Your father didn't make lieutenant until he was thirty-three."
"I'll do it."
Pervert patrol:
Cleotis Johnson, registered sex offender, pastor of the New Bethel Methodist Episcopal Church of Zion, had an alibi for the night Inez Soto was kidnapped: he was in the 77th Street drunk tank. Davis Walter Bush, registered sex offender, alibied up by a half dozen wimesses: they were engaged in an all-night crap game in the rec room of the New Bethel Methodist Episcopal Church of Zion. Fleming Peter Hanley, registered sex offender, spent that night at Central Receiving: a drag queen bit his dick; a team of emergency room docs labored to save the organ so he could notch up a few more convictions for sodomy with mayhem.
Pervert patrol, a call to Eagle Rock Hospital: Dwight Gilette made it there. A skate: the swish didn't die on him.
Four more RSOs alibied; a run by the Hall of Justice Jail. Stens flying high on raisinjack-a jailer fixed him a toilet brew cocktail. Rants: Ed Exley, Danny Duck porking Ellis Loew.
Home, a shower, DMV checks: Pierce Patchett, Lynn Bracken. Calls-a pal working Internal Affairs, West Valley Station. Good results: no Gilette complaint, three men on the Kathy snuff.
Another shower-he could still smell the day on himself.
Bud drove to Brentwood: squeeze Pierce Morehouse Patchett, no criminal record-strange for a name in a pimp's whore book. 1184 Gretna Green, a big Spanish mansion: all pink, lots of tile.
He parked, walked up. Porch lights came on: soft focus on a man in a chair. He matched Patchett's DMV stats, looked shitloads younger than his DOB. "Are you a police officer?"
His cuffs were hooked on his belt. "Yeah. Are you Pierce Patchett?"
"I am. Are you soliciting for police charities? The last time, you people called at my office."
Pinned eyes-maybe zoned on some kind of hop. Bodybuilder muscles, a tight shirt to show them off. An easy voice-he came on like he always sat in the dark waiting for cops to call. "I'm a Homicide detective."
"Oh? Who was killed and why do you think I can help you?"
"A girl named Kathy Janeway."
"That's only half an answer, Mr.-?"
"It's Officer White."
"Mr. White, then. Again, why do you think I can help you?"
Bud pulled up a chair. "Did you know Kathy Janeway?"
"No, I did not. Did she claim to know me?"
"No. Where were you last night at midnight?"
"I was here, hosting a party. If push comes to shove, which I hope it won't, I'll supply you with a guest list. Why do you-"
Bud cut in: "Delbert 'Duke' Cathcart."
Patchctt sighed. "I don't know him either. Mr. White-"
"Dwight Gilette, Lynn Bracken."
A big smile. "Yes, I know those people."
"Yeah? Then keep going."
"Now let me interrupt. Did one of them give you my name?"
"I shook down Gilette for his whore book. He tried to chew up the page that had your name and this Bracken woman's name on it. Patchett, why's a shit pimp have your phone number?"
Patchett leaned forward. "Do you care about criminal matters peripheral to the Janeway killing?"
"No."
"Then you wouldn't feel obliged to report them."
The fucker had style. "That's right."
"Then listen closely, because I'll only say it once, and if it gets repeated I'll deny it. I run call girls. Lynn Bracken is one of them. I bought Lynn from Gilette a few years ago, and if Gilette tried to chew up my name it was because he knows that I hate and fear the police, and he thought-correctly-that I would squash him like a bug if I thought he put the police on to me. Now, I treat my girls very well. I have grown daughters myself, and I lost a baby girl to crib death. I do not like the thought of women being hurt and I frankly have a great deal of money to indulge my fancies. Did this Kathy Janeway girl die badly?"
Beaten to death, semen in the mouth, rectum, vagina. "Yeah, very bad."
"Then find her killer, Mr. White. Succeed, and I'll give you a handsome reward. If that goes against your moral grain, I'll donate the money to a police charity."
"Thanks, but no thanks."
"Against your code?"
"I don't have one. Tell me about Lynn Bracken. She street?"
"No, call. Gilette was ruining her with bad clients. I'm very selective who my girls truck with, by the way."
"So you bought her off Gilette."
"That's correct."
"Why?"
Patchett smiled. " Lynn looks very much like the actress Veronica Lake, and I needed her to fill out my little studio."
"What 'little studio'?"
Patchett shook his head. "No. I admire your intrusive style and I sense you're on your best behavior, but that's all I'll give you. I've cooperated, and if you persist I'll meet you with my attorney. Now, would you like Lynn Bracken's address? I doubt that she knows anything about the late Miss Janeway, but if you like I'll call her and tell her to cooperate."
Bud pointed to the house. "I got her address. You get this address running call girls?"
"I'm a financier. I have an advanced degree in chemistry, I worked as a pharmacist for several years and invested wisely. 'Entrepreneur' sums me up best, I think. And don't tweak me with criminal slang, Mr. White. Don't make me regret I leveled with you."
Bud scoped him. Two to one he «was» leveling, thought cops were bugs that leveling worked with sometimes. "Okay, then I'll wrap it up."
"Please do."
Notebook out. "You said Gilette was pimping Lynn Bracken, right?"
"I dislike the word 'pimp,' but yes."
"Okay, were any of your other girls street-pimped, callpimped?"
"No, all my girls are either models or girls that I saved from general Hollywood heartbreak."
Switcheroo. "You don't read the papers too good, right?"
"Correct. I try to avoid bad news."
"But you heard of the Nite Owl Massacre."
"Yes, because I do not dwell in a cave."
"That guy Duke Cathcart was one of the victims. He was a pimp, and lately a guy's been asking around about him, trying to get girls to do call jobs for him. Now Gilette street -pimped Kathy Janeway, and you know him. I'm thinking maybe you might do business with some other people who might give me a line on this guy."
Patchett crossed his legs, stretched. "So you think 'this guy' might have killed Kathy Janeway?"
"No, I don't think that."
"Or you think he's behind that Nite Owl thing. I thought Negro youths were supposed to be the killers. What crime are you investigating, Mr. White?"
Bud gripped the chair-fabric ripped. Patchett put his hands up, palms out. "The answer to your questions is no. Dwight Gilette is the only person of that breed I've ever dealt with. Low-level prostitution is not my field of expertise."
"What about B &E?"
"B and E?"
"Breaking and entering. Cathcart's apartment was tossed, and the walls were wiped."
Patchett shrugged. "Mr. White, you're speaking in Sanskrit now. I simply don't know what you're talking about."
"Yeah? Then what about smut? You know Gilette, Gilette sold you Lynn Bracken, Gilette sold Kathy Janeway to Cathcart. Cathcart was supposed to be starting up a smut biz."
"Smut" buzzed him-little eye flickers. Bud said, "Ring a bell?"
Patchett picked up a glass, swirled ice cubes. "No bells, and your questions are getting further and further afield. Your approach has been novel, so I've tolerated it. But you're wearing me thin and I'm beginning to think that your motives for being here are quite muddled."
Bud stood up pissed, no handle on the man. Patchett said, "One of your tangents is personal with you, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"If it's the Janeway girl, I meant what I said. I may suborn women into ifficit activities, but they're handsomely compensated, I treat them very well and make sure the men they deal with show them every due respect. Good night, Mr. White."
Thoughts for the ride: how did Patchett get his number so quick, did his evidence suppression bit backfire- Dudley suspicious, wise to how far he'd go to hurt Exley. Lynn Bracken lived on Nottingham off Los Feliz; he found the address easy-a modern-style triplex. Colored lights beamed out the windows- he looked before he rang.
Red, blue, yellow-figures cut through the beams. Bud watched his very own stag show.
A Veronica Lake dead ringer, nude on her tiptoes: slender, full breasted. Blond-hair in a perfect pageboy cut. A man moving inside her, straining, crouching for the fit.
Bud watched; street sounds faded. He blotted out the man, studied the woman: every inch of her body in every shade of light. He drove home tunnel-vision-nothing but her.
Inez Soto on his doorstep.
Bud walked over. She said, "I was at Exley's place in Lake Arrowhead. He said there was no strings, then he showed up and told me I had to take this drug to make me remember. I told him no. Did you know you're the only Wendell White in the Central Directory?"
Bud straightened her hat, tucked a loose piece of veil under the crown. "How'd you get down here?"
"I took a cab. A hundred of Exley's dollars, so at least he's good for something. Officer White, I don't want to remember."
"Sweetie, you already do. Come on, I'll fix you up with a place."
"I want to stay with you."
"All I've got's a fold-out."
"Fine by me. I figure there has to be a first time again."
"Give it a rest and get yourself a college boy."
Inez stood up. "I was starting to trust him."
Bud opened the door. The first thing he saw was the bed- trashed from Carolyn or whatever her name was. Inez plopped down on it-seconds later she was sleeping. Bud tucked her in, stretched out in the hail with his suitcoat for a pillow. Sleep came slow-his long strange day kept replaying. He went out seeing Lynn Bracken; toward dawn he stirred and found Inez curled up next to him.
He let her stay.
He knew he was dreaming, knew he couldn't stop. He kept flinching with the replay.
Inez at the cabin: "Coward," "Opportunist," "Using me to further your career." Her out-the-door salvo: "Officer White's ten times the man you are, with half the brains and no big-shot daddy." He let her go, then chased: back to L.A., the Soto family shack. Three pachuco brothers came on strong; old man Soto supplied an epitaph: "I don't have that daughter no more."
The phone rang. Ed rolled over, grabbed it. "Exley."
"It's Bob Gallaudet. Congratulate me."
Ed pushed his dream away. "Why?"
"I passed the bar exam, making me both an attorney and a D.A.'s Bureau investigator. Aren't you impressed?"
"Congratulations, and you didn't call at 8:00 A.M. to tell me that."
"Right you are, so listen close. Last night a lawyer named Jake Kellerman called Ellis Loew. He's representing two witnesses, brothers, who say they've got a viable Duke Cathcart connection to Mickey Cohen. They say they can clear the Nite Owl. They've got some outstanding L.A. warrants for pushing Benzedrine, and Ellis is giving them immunity on that, plus possible immunity on any conspiracy charges that might stem from their connection to the Nite Owl. We're having a meeting at the Mirimar Hotel in an hour-the brothers and Kellerman, you, me, Loew and Russ Millard. Dudley S. won't be there. Thad Green's orders-he thinks Millard's the better man for this."
Ed swung out of bed. "So who are these brothers?"
"Peter and Baxter Englekling. Heard of them?"
"No. Is this an interrogation?"
Gallaudet laughed. "Wouldn't you love that. No, it's Kellerman reads a prepared statement, we hobknob with Loew over whether to let them turn state's and take it from there. I'll brief you. Mirimar parking lot in forty-five minutes?"
"I'll be there."
Forty-five on the button. Gallaudet met him in the lobby-no handshake, straight to it. "Want to hear what we've got?"
"Go."
They talked walking. "They're waiting for us, a steno included, and what we've got are Pete and Bar Englekling, age thirty-six, age thirty-two, San Bernardino -based… quasi-hoods, I guess you'd call them. They both did Youth Authority time for pushing maryjane back in the early '40s, and except for the bennie pushing warrants, they've stayed clean. They own a legit printshop up in San Berdoo, they're what you'd call genius fix-it guys, and their late father was a real piece of work. Get this: he was a college chemistry teacher and some kind of pioneering pharmaceuticalist who developed early antipsychotic drugs. Impressive, right? Now get this: Pops, who kicked off in the summer of '50, developed dope compounds for the old mobs- and Mickey C. was his protector back in his bodyguard days."
"This won't be dull. But do «you» make Cohen for the Nite Owl? He's in prison, for one thing."
"Exley, I make those colored guys in custody. Gangsters «never» kill innocent citizens. But frankly, Loew likes the idea of a mob angle. Come on, they're waiting."
Into suite 309, the meeting in a small living room. One long table-Loew and Millard across from three men: a middle-aged lawyer, near twins in overalls-thinning hair, beady eyes, bad teeth. A steno by the bedroom door, perched with her machine set to go.
Gallaudet carried chairs over. Ed nodded around, sat by Millard. The lawyer checked papers; the brothers lit cigarettes. Loew said, "For the official record, it is 8:53 A.M., April 24, 1953. Present are myself, Ellis Loew, district attorney for the City of Los Angeles, Sergeant Bob Gallaudet of the D.A.'s Bureau, Captain Russ Millard and Sergeant Ed Exley of the Los Angeles Police Department. Jacob Kellerman represents Peter and Baxter Englekling, potential prosecution witnesses in the matter of the multiple homicides perpetrated at the Nite Owl Coffee Shop on April 14 of this year. Mr. Kellerman will read a prepared statement given to him by his clients, they will initial the stenographer's transcript. As a courtesy for this voluntary statement, the District Attorney's Office is dismissing felony warrant number 16114, dated June 8, 1951, against Peter and Barter Englekling. Should this statement result in the arrests of the perpetrators of the aforementioned multiple homicides, Peter and Baxter Englekling will be granted immunity from prosecution in all matters pertaining to the said, including accessory, conspiracy and all collateral felonies and misdemeanors. Mr. Kellerman, do your clients understand the aforesaid?"
"Yes, Mr. Loew, they do."
"Do they understand that they may be asked to submit to questioning after their statement has been read?"
"They do."
"Read the statement, Counselor."
Kellerman put on bifocals. "I've eliminated Peter and Baxter's more colorful colloquialisms and cleaned up their language and syntax, please bear that in mind."
Loew tugged at his vest. "We're capable of discerning that. Please continue."
Kellerman read: "We, Peter and Baxter Englekling, do swear that this statement is entirely true. In late March of this year, approximately three weeks before the Nite Owl killings, we were approached at our legitimate business, the Speedy King Printshop in San Bernardino. The man who approached us was one Delbert 'Duke' Cathcart, who said that he had gotten our names from 'Mr. XY,' an acquaintance from our youth camp sentence days. Mr. XY had informed Cathcart that we ran a printshop which featured a high-speed offset press of our own design, which was true. Mr. XY had also told Cathcart that we were always interested in quote turning a quick buck unquote, which was also true."
Chuckles. Ed wrote, "Vict. Susan Lefferts from S. Berdoo- connection?" Loew said, "Continue, Mr. Kellerman. We're all capable of laughing and thinking at the same time."
Kellerman: "Cathcart showed us photographs of people engaged in explicit sexual activities, some of them homosexual in nature. Some of the photographs were quote arty-farty unquote. I.E.: people in colorful costumes and animated red ink embossed on some of the snapshots. Cathcart said that he heard we could manufacture high-quality magazine-type books very fast, and we said this was true. Cathcart also stated that a number of magazine-type books had already been manufactured, using the obscene photographs, and quoted us the cost involved. We knew we could make the books at one eighth of that cost."
Ed passed Millard a note: "Isn't Ad Vice working a pornography job?" The brothers smirked; Loew and Gallaudet whispered. Millard passed a note back: "Yes-no leads from a 4 man team. A cold trail tracking the ('strange costumed' per the statement) books-we're dropping it. Also, no field reports submitted so far link Cathcart to pornography."
Kellerman sipped water. "Cathcart then told us that he heard our late father, Franz 'Doc' Englekling, was friends with Meyer Harris 'Mickey' Cohen, Los Angeles mobster currently incarcerated at McNeil Island Penitentiary. We said this was true. Cathcart then made his basic proposal. He said that distribution of the pornographic books would have to be quote very close unquote, because the quote strange cats unquote who took the photographs and did the pasteup work seemed like they had lots to hide. He did not elaborate on this further. He said that he had access to a network of quote rich perverts unquote who would pay large sums for the books and proposed that we could also manufacture quote regular fuck-suck shit unquote, that could be distributed in large quantities. Cathcart claimed to have access to quote pervert mailing list unquote, quote junkies and whores unquote to serve as models, and access to quote classy call girls unquote, who might pose for a lark if their quote crazy sugar daddy-o unquote agreed. Again, Cathcart did not elaborate on any of his claims, nor did he mention specific names or locations."
Kellerman flipped pages. "Cathcart told us that he would be the procurer, talent scout and middleman. We would be the manufacturers of the books. We were also to visit Mickey Cohen at McNeil Island and get him to release funds to get the business started. We were also to solicit his advice on starting a distribution system. In exchange for the above Cohen would be given a quote bonaroo unquote percentage cut."
Ed passed a note: "No follow-up names-it's too convenient." Millard whispered, "And the Nite Owl is not Mickey's style." Bar Englekling chuckled; Pete poked his ears with a pencil. Kellerman read: "We visited Mickey Cohen in his cell at McNeil, approximately two weeks before the Nite Owl killings. We proposed the idea to him. He refused to help and became very angry when we told him the idea was conceived by Duke Cathcart, whom he referred to as quote a notorious statch rape-o shitbird unquote. In conclusion, we believe that gunmen employed by Mickey Cohen perpetrated the Nite Owl Massacre, a kill-six-to-get-one ruse undertaken out of his hatred for Duke Cathcart. Another possibility is that Cohen talked up Cathcart's proposed scheme on the prison yard and word got out to Cohen rival Jack 'The Enforcer' Whalen, who, always looking for new rackets to crash, assassinated Cathcart and five innocent bystanders as subterfuge. We believe that if the killings were the result of pornography intrigue, we too might become victims. We swear that this deposition is true and not rendered under physical or mental duress."
The brothers clapped. Kellerman said, "My clients welcome questions."
Loew pointed to the bedroom. "After I talk to my colleagues."
They walked in; Loew closed the door. "Conclusions. Bob, you first."
Gallaudet lit a cigarette. "Mickey Cohen, despite his many faults, does not murder people out of pique, and Jack Whalen's only interested in gambling rackets. I believe their story, but everything we've dug up on Cathcart makes him look like a pathetic chump who couldn't get something this big going. I say it's tangent stuff at best. I still make the boogies for the job."
"I agree. Captain, your opinion."
Millard said, "I like one possible scenario-with major reservations. «Maybe» Cohen talked up the job on the yard at McNeil, word got to the outside and somebody took it from there. «But»-if this deal is smut-connected, then the Englekling boys would either have been killed or approached by now. I've been running a stag book investigation out of Ad Vice for two weeks and my squad has heard nothing on this and hit one brick wall after another. I think Ed and Bob should talk to Whalen, then fly up to McNeil and talk to Mickey. I'll question those lowlifes in the next room, and I'll talk to my Ad Vice men. I've read every field report filed by every man on the Nite Owl, and there is not one mention of pornography. I think Bob's right. It's a tangent we're dealing with."
"Agreed. Bob, you and Exley talk to Cohen and Whalen. Captain, did you have capable men on your job?"
Millard smiled. "Three capable men and Trashcan Jack Vincennes. No offense, Ellis. I know he's involved with your wife's sister."
Loew flushed. "Exley, do you have anything to add?"
"Bob and the captain covered my points, but there's two things I want to mention. One, Susan Lefferts was from San Berdoo. Two, if it's not the Negroes in custody or another colored gang, then the car by the Nite Owl was a plant and we are dealing with one huge conspiracy."
"I think we have our killers. And on that note, are you making progress with Miss Soto?"
"I'm working at it."
"Work harder. Good efforts are for schoolboys, results are what counts. Go to it, gentlemen."
Ed drove to his apartment-a change of clothes for the run to McNeil. He found a note on the door.
Exley-
I still think you're everything I said you were, but I called the house and talked to my sister and she said you came by and were obviously concerned about my welfare, so I'm thawing a little bit. You've been nice to me (when you weren't covering angles or beating up people) and maybe I'm an opportunist myself and I'm just using you for shelter until I get better and can accept Mr. Dieterling's offer, so since I live in a glass house I shouldn't throw stones at you. That's as close to an apology as I'm going to give you and I will continue to refuse to cooperate. Get the picture? Is Mr. Dieterling for real about a job at Dream-a-Dreamland? I'm going shopping today with the rest of the money you gave me. Keeping busy makes me think about it less. I'll come by tonight. Leave a light burning.
Inez
Ed changed and taped his spare key to the door. He left a light burning.
Jack in his car, waiting to tail Bud White. Mangled hands, fruit-caked clothes-a shift breaking down garage doors, high-spirited darkies japping the search teams-rooftop hit-and-runs. No luck on Coates' Merc; Millard's bomb still exploding, lucky he heard by phone-he would have shit his pants otherwise.
" Vincennes, two witnesses have contacted Ellis Loew. They said Duke Cathcart was involved in some kind of unrealized scheme to push that smut we've been chasing. My guess is that it doesn't connect to the Nite Owl, but have you come up with anything?"
He said, "No." He asked if the other guys on the squad hit pay dirt. Millard said, "No."
He didn't tell him his reports were all bullshit. He didn't tell him he didn't care if the smut gig and the Nite Owl were doubled up from here to Mars. He didn't tell him he wouldn't rest easy until he had Sid Hudgens' file in his hand and the niggers sucked gas-guilty or not.
Eyes on the bullpen back door: blues hauling in sex geeks. Bud White inside-rubber hose work. He blew his tail last night- Dudley was pissed. Tonight he'd stick close, then hit Hudgens: get the Malibu Rendezvous wiped.
White walked out. Good light: Jack saw blood on his shirt. He hit the ignition, waited.
No colored lights-white light behind closed curtains. Bud pushed the buzzer.
The door opened-backlight on Lynn Bracken. "Yes? Are you the policeman Pierce told me about?"
"That's right. Did Patchett tell you what it was about?"
She held the door open. "He said you weren't quite sure yourself, and he said I should be candid and cooperate with you."
"You do everything he tells you?"
"Yes, I do."
Bud walked in. Lynn said, "The paintings are real and I'm a prostitute. I've never heard of Kathy what's-her-name, and Dwight Gilette would never sexually abuse a female. If he were going to kill one, he would have used a knife. I have heard of that man Duke Cathcart, essentially that he was a loser with a soft spot for his girls. And that's all the news that's fit to print."
"You finished?"
"No. I have no information on Dwight's other girls, and all I know about that Nite Owl thing is what I read in the papers. Satisfied?"
Bud almost laughed. "You and Patchett had «some» talk. Did he call you last night?"
"No, this morning. Why?"
"Never mind."
"It's Officer White, isn't it?"
"It's Bud."
Lynn laughed. "«Bud», do you believe what Pierce and I have told you?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"And you know why we're humoring you."
"You use words like that, you might make me mad."
"Yes. But you know."
"Yeah, I know. Patchett's running whores, maybe other stuff on the side. You don't want me to report you on it."
"That's right. Our motives are selfish, so we're cooperating."
"You want some advice, Miss Bracken?"
"It's Lynn."
"Miss Bracken, here's my advice. Keep cooperating and don't fucking ever try to bribe me or threaten me or I'll have you and Patchett in shit up to your ears."
Lynn smiled. Bud caught it- Veronica Lake in some turkey he saw, Alan Ladd comes home from the war to find his bitch wife snuffed. "Do you want a drink, «Bud?»"
"Yeah, plain scotch."
Lynn walked to the kitchen, came back with two short ones. "Are they making progress on the girl's killing?"
Bud knocked his back. "There's three men on it. It's a sex job, so they'll round up all the usual perverts. They'll give it a decent shot for a couple of weeks, then let it go."
"But you won't let it go."
"Maybe, maybe not."
"Why are you so concerned?"
"Old stuff"
"Old personal stuff?"
"Yeah."
Lynn sipped her drink. "Just asking. And what about the Nite Owl thing?"
"That's coming down to these mg-colored guys we arrested. It's a big fucking mess."
"You say 'fuck' a lot."
"You fuck for money."
"There's blood on your shirt. Is that an integral part of your job?"
"Yeah."
"Do you enjoy it?"
"When they deserve it."
"Meaning men who hurt women."
"Bright girl."
"Did they deserve it today?"
"No."
"But you did it anyway."
"Yeah, just like the half dozen guys you screwed today."
Lynn laughed. "Actually, it was two. Off the record, did you beat up Dwight Gilette?"
"Off the record, I stuck his hand down a garbage disposal."
No gasp, no double take. "Did you enjoy it?"
"Well… no."
Lynn coughed. "I'm being a bad hostess. Would you like to sit down?"
Bud sat on the sofa; Lynn sat an arm's length over. "Homicide detectives are different. You're the first man I've met in five years who didn't tell me I look like Veronica Lake inside of a minute."
"You look better than Veronica Lake."
Lynn lit a cigarette. "Thank you. I won't tell your lady friend you said that."
"How do you know I got a lady friend?"
"Your jacket is a mess and reeks of perfume."
"You're wrong. This is me taking a pass on a pass."
"Which you..
"Yeah, which I seldom fucking do. Keep cooperating, Miss Bracken. Tell me about Pierce Patchett and this racket of his."
"Off the-"
"Yeah, off the record."
Lynn smoked, sipped scotch. "Well, putting what he's done for me aside, Pierce is a Renaissance man. He dabbles in chemistry, he knows judo, he takes good care of his body. He loves having beautiful women beholden to him. He had a marriage that failed, he had a daughter who died very young. He's very honest with his girls, and he only lets us date well-behaved, wealthy men. So call it a savior complex. Pierce loves beautiful women. He loves manipulating them and making money off them, but there's real affection there, too. When I first met Pierce I told him my little sister was killed by a drunken driver. He actually cried. Pierce Patchett is a hardcase businessman, and yes, he runs call girls. But he's a good man."
It played straight. "What else has Patchett got going?"
"Nothing illegal. He puts business deals and movie deals together. He advises his girls on business matters."
"Smut?"
"God, not Pierce. He likes to «do» it, not look at it."
"Or sell it?"
"Yes, or sell it."
Almost too smooth-like Patchett's smut hink needed a whitewash. "I'm starting to think you're snowing me. There's gotta be a perv deal here. Sugar-pimping's one thing, but you make this guy out to be fucking Jesus. Let's start with Patchett's 'little studio."'
Lynn put out her cigarette. "Suppose I don't want to talk about that?"
"Suppose I give you and Patchett to Administrative Vice?"
Lynn shook her head. "Pierce thinks you have your own private vendetta going, that it's in your best interest to eliminate him as a suspect in whatever it is you're investigating and keep quiet about his dealings. He thinks you won't inform on him, that it would be stupid for you to do it."
"Stupid is my middle name. What else does Patchett think?"
"He's waiting for you to mention money."
"I don't do shakedowns."
"Then why-"
"Maybe I'm just fucking curious."
"So be it. Do you know who Dr. Terry Lux is?"
"Sure, he runs a dry-out farm in Malibu. He's dirty to the core."
"Correct on both counts, and he's also a plastic surgeon."
"He did a plastic on Patchett, right? Nobody his age looks that young."
"I don't know about that. What Terry Lux «does» do is alter girls for Pierce's little studio. There's Ava and Kate and Rita and Betty. Read that as Gardner, Hepburn, Hayworth and Grable. Pierce finds girls with middling resemblances to movie stars, Terry performs plastic surgery for exact resemblances. Call them Pierce's concubines. They sleep with Pierce and selected clients- men who can help him put together movie and business deals. Perverse? Perhaps. But Pierce takes a cut of all his girls' earnings and invests it for them. He makes his girls quit the life at thirty-no exceptions. He doesn't let his girls use narcotics and he doesn't abuse them, and I owe him a great deal. Can your policeman's mentality grasp those contradictions?"
Bud said, "Jesus fucking Christ."
"No, Mr. White. Pierce Morehouse Patchett."
"Lux cut you to look like Veronica Lake?"
Lynn touched her hair. "No, I refused. Pierce loved me for it. I'm really a brunette, but the rest is me."
"And how old are you?"
"I'll be thirty next month, and I'll be opening up a dress shop. See how time changes things? If you'd met me a month from now, I wouldn't be a whore. I'd be a brunette who didn't look quite so much like Veronica Lake.
"Jesus Christ."
"No, Lynn Margaret Bracken."
Too quick-almost a blurt. "Look, I want to see you again."
"Are you asking me for a date?"
"Yeah, because I can't afford what Patchett charges."
"You could wait a month."
"No, I can't."
"No more shoptalk, then. I don't want to be somebody's suspect."
Bud made a check mark in the air: Patchett crossed off for Kathy and the Nite Owl. "Deal."
Mickey Cohen's cell.
Gallaudet laughed: velvet-covered bed, velvet-flocked shelves, commode with a velvet-flocked seat. Heat through a wall vent-Washington State, still cold in April. Ed was tired: they talked to Jack "The Enforcer" Whalen, eliminated him, flew a thousand miles. 1:00 A.M.-two cops waiting for a psychopathic hoodlum busy with a late pinochle game. Gallaudet patted Cohen's pet bulldog: Mickey Cohen, Jr., snazzy in a velvetflocked sweater. Ed checked his Whalen notes.
Rambling-they couldn't shut him up. Whalen laughed off the Englekling theory, digressed on L.A. organized crime.
Mob activity in a general lull since Mickey C. hit stir. The insider view: the Mick power broke, Swiss bank money tucked away-cash to rebuild with. Morris Jahelka, Cohen underboss, given a fiefdom-he promptly blew it, investing badly, no funds to pay his men. Whalen said «he» was doing well and offered his Cohen theory.
He figured Mickey was parceling out bookmaking, loansharking, dope and prostitution franchises-small, choosy who they dealt with; when paroled he'd consolidate, grab the money the franchise men invested for him, rebuild. Whalen based his theory on hink: Lee Vachss, ex-Cohen trigger, seemed to have gone legit; Johnny Stompanato and Abe Teitlebaum ditto-two wrong-o's who couldn't walk a straight line. Make all three of them still on the grift-maybe safeguarding Cohen's interests. Chief Parker-afraid the lull might lead to Mafia encroachment-just fielded a new front line against out-of-town muscle: Dudley Smith and two of his goons set up shop at a motel in Gardena: they beat gang guys half to death, stole their money for police charity contributions, put them back on the bus, train or plane to wherever they came from-all very much on the QT.
Whalen concluded:
«He's» allowed to operate because somebody had to provide gambling services or a bunch of crazy independents would shoot L.A. to shit. "Containment"-a Dudley S. word-said it all: the police establishment knew he only shot when shot at; «he played the game». The idea of him or Mickey blasting six people over jack-off books was pure bullshit. Still, things were too quiet, shit had to be brewing.
Mickey Cohen, Jr., yipped; Ed looked up. Mickey Cohen walked in, holding a box of dog biscuits. He said, "I have never killed no man that did not deserve killing by the standards of our way of life. I have never distributed no obscene shit to be used for the purpose of masturbation and only took a confabulation with Pete and Bar Englekling because of my fondness for their late father, may God rest his soul even though he was a fucking kraut. I do not kill innocent bystanders because it's a mitzvah not to and because I adhere to the Ten Commandments except when it is bad for business. Warden Hopkins told me why you was here and I made you wait because you must be stupid morons to make me for this vicious and stupid caper, obviously the handiwork of stupid shvartzcs. But since Mickey Junior likes you I will give you five minutes of my time. Come to Daddy, bubeleh!"
Gallaudet howled. Cohen knelt on the floor, put a biscuit in his mouth. The dog ran to him, grabbed the biscuit, kissed him. Mickey nuzzled the beast; Cohen Junior squealed, pissed. Ed saw a man on the catwalk: Davey Goldman, Mickey's chief accountant, at McNeil on his own tax beef.
Goldman sidled away. Gallaudet said, "Mickey, the Englekling brothers said you went crazy when they mentioned Duke Cathcart was behind their idea."
Cohen spat biscuit crumbs. "Are you familiar with the old saying 'blowing off steam'?"
Ed said, "Yes, but what about other names? Did the Engleklings mention any other names besides Cathcart?"
"No, and Cathcart I never met myself. I heard he had a statch rape jacket, so I judged him on that. The Bible says, 'Judge not, lest ye be judged,' so since I am willing to be judged, I say, 'Judge on, 0 Mickster."'
"Did you give the brothers any advice on setting up a distribution system?"
"No! As God and my beloved Mickey Junior are my witnesses, no!"
Gallaudet: "Mick, here's the key question. Did you talk up the deal on the yard? Who else did you tell about it?"
"I told nobody! Jerk-off books are from sin and hunger! I even chased Davey away when those meshugeneh brothers came calling! Davey's my ears, that's how much I respect the cardinal virtue of confidentiality!"
Gallaudet said, "Ed, I called Russ Millard while you were talking to the warden. He said he checked with his Ad Vice guys on the pornography job, and they've got nothing. No Cathcart, no leads on the books. Russ went through all the Nite Owl field reports and got nothing. Bud White background checked Cathcart, and he reported nothing. Ed, Susie Lefferts from San Berdoo is just a coincidence. Cathcart couldn't make a smut deal happen if he tried. This whole thing was the Engleklings' buying out of some old warrants and a dog show."
Ed nodded. Mickey Cohen, Sr., cradled Mickey Cohen, Jr. "Fathers and Sons are food for thought, are they not a veritable feast? My canine offspring and me, old Doe Franz and his gap-toothed white trash lowlifes. Franz was a chemical genius, great things he did for the drool case mentally disturbed. When a boatload of Big H was stole from me way back, I thought of Franz, and how if I had his brains instead of my own poetic genius I would have recreated my own white powder to sell. Go home, boychiks. Dirty books will not win you your murder case. It's the shvartzes, it's the fucking shvoogies."
Bottles: whisky, gin, brandy. Flashing signs: Schlitz, Pabst Blue Ribbon. Sailors downing cold beers, happy folks juicing their lights out. Hudgens' pad a block away-booze would give him the guts. He knew it before he tailed Bud White-now he had a thousand times the reason.
The barman yelled, "Last call." Jack killed his club soda, pressed the glass to his neck. His day hit him-again.
Millard says Duke Cathcart was involved in some scheme to push «his» smut.
Bud White visits Lynn Bracken, one of the lookalike whores. He stays inside two hours; the whore walks him out. He tails White home, starts thinking evidence: White knows Bracken, she knows Pierce Patchett, he knows Hudgens. Sid knows about the Malibu Rendezvous, Dudley Smith probably knows. Big Dud's reason for the tail job: White bent out of shape on a «hooker» snuff.
Pulsing beer signs: neon monsters. Brass knucks in the car, the Sidster might fold, kick loose with his file-
Jack bolted: Hudgens' place, no lights on, Sid's Packard at the curb. The door-brass knucks for a knocker.
Thirty seconds-nothing. Jack tried the door-no give- shouldered the jamb. The door popped open.
That smell.
Slow motion: handkerchief out, gun out, elbow to the wall- the switch, no prints. Switch down, lights on.
Sid Hudgens hacked up on the floor-a rug soaked black, the floor a blood slick.
Arms and legs severed, out at weird angles off his torso.
Split open crotch to neck, bones showing white through red.
Cabinets upended behind him-folders dumped on a clean patch of rug.
Jack bit his arms to kill screams.
No blood tracks, say the killer got out the back door. Hudgens naked, coated red-black. Limbs off his torso, strands of gore at the cut points, swirls like his inked-in fuck books-
Jack bolted.
Around the house, down the driveway. The back door: ajar, spilling light. Inside: a water-slick floor-no blood prints, tracks covered. He walked in, found grocery bags under the sink. Shaky steps to the living room. File cabinet dirt: folders, folders, folders-one, two, three, four, five bags-two trips to his car.
A quiet L.A. street at 2:20 A.M., calm down mumbo jumbo.
Fifty trillion people had motives. Nobody knew he'd seen the inked-in books. The mutilations would get written off-just psycho stuff.
«He had to find his file».
Jack doused lights, sawed the front door with his handcuffs- let them think it's a burglar. He took off, no destination, just driving.
Just driving wore thin. He found a motel strip, a hot-sheet flop: Oscar's Sleepytime Lodge.
He paid a week's rent, hauled his bags in, took a shower and put his stale clothes back on. A cockroach palace: bugs, grease on the wall above the bed. He smelled himseffi stale working on foul. He locked the door, prowled dirt.
«Hush-Hush» back issues, clippings, pilfered police documents. Files: Montgomery Clift as the smallest dick in Hollywood, Errol Flynn as a Nazi agent. A hot item: Flynn and some homo writer named Truman Capote. Commies, Commie sympathizers, celebrity spook fuckers ranging from Joan Crawford to former D.A. Bill McPherson. Hopheads galore: shit on Charlie Parker, Anita O'Day, Art Pepper, Tom Neal, Barbara Payton, Gail Russell. Intact «Hush-Hush» articles: "Mafia Ties to the Vatican!!!," "Lavender Liturgy: Is 'Rock' Hudson Really 'Rockette'?," "Grasshopper Alert: Beware of Hollywood's Tea Bag Babies." Complete files, too tame to be Hudgens' secret stash-Commies, queers, lezbos, dopesters, satyrs, nymphos, misogynists, mobbought politicos.
Nothing on Sergeant Jack Vincennes.
Nothing on «Badge of Honor»-a big Hudgens fixation-he knew Sid had a file on Brett Chase.
Strange.
More strange: «Hush-Hush» ran a smear on Max Peltz-there was nothing on him.
Nothing on Pierce Patchett, Lynn Bracken, Lamar Hinton, Fleur-de-Lis.
Jack measured his filth pile. Big-make the killer a file thief, if he got any files it wasn't many-his pile looked like it would jam the cabinets to bursting.
ALIBI.
Jack stuffed his files in the closet. "Do Not Disturb" on the door, back to his apartment.
5:10 A.M.
Under the knocker: "Jack-remember our date Thurs." "Jack sweetie-are you hibernating? XXXX-K." He walked in, grabbed the phone, dialed 888.
"Police Emergency."
A hepcat drawl. "Man, I want to report a murder. If I'm lyin', I'm flyin'."
"Sir, is this legitimate?"
"Yeah, if I'm-"
"'What is your address, sir?"
"My address is nowhere, but I was gonna burglarize this house, then I saw this body."
"Sir-"
"421 South Alexandria, got that?"
"Sir, where are-"
Jack hung up, stripped, lay down on the bed. Figure twenty minutes for the bluesmts, ten to ID Hudgens. They putz around, make it as a big case, call Homicide. The desk man thinks brass, shakes a boss case man out of bed. Thad Green, Russ Millard, Dudley S.-they'd all think Big V pronto-his phone would ring in a hot hour.
Jack lay there-sweating up a clean set of sheets. Ring ring-at 6:58.
Jack, yawning. "Yeah?"
"Vincennes, it's Russ Millard."
"Yeah, Cap. What time is it? What's-"
"Never mind. Do you know where Sid Hudgens lives?"
"Yeah, Chapman Park somewhere. Cap, what's-"
"421 South Alexandria. «Now», Vincennes."
Shave, shower, clothes that stayed dry. Forty minutes to the scene-a fuckload of cop cars on Sid Hudgens' lawn. Morgue men hefting plastic bags: blood, body parts.
Jack parked on the lawn. An attendant wheeled out a gurney: gore wrapped in sheets. Russ Millard by the door; two comers- Don Kleckner, Duane Fisk-down the driveway. Patrolmen shooed away spectators; reporters crowded the sidewalk. Jack walked up to Millard. "Hudgens?"-not too much shock, a pro.
"Yes, your buddy. A bit chewed up, I'm afraid. A burglar called it in. He was about to tap the house, then he saw the body. Pry marks on the doorjamb, so I buy it. Don't look inside if you've eaten."
Jack looked. Dried blood, white tape outlines: arms, legs, torso-the severing points marked. Millard said, "Somebody «hated» him. You see those drawers over there? I think the killer snuffed him for his files. I had Kieckner call the «Hush-Hush» publisher. He's going to open up the office and give us copies of the recent stuff Hudgens was working on."
Old Russ wanted a comment. Jack crossed himself: his first time since the orphanage, where the fuck did it come from.
"Vincennes, you were his friend. What do you think?"
"I think he was scum! Everybody hated him! You've got all L.A. for suspects!"
"Easy, now, «easy». I know you've leaked information to Hudgens, I know you two did business. If we don't wrap this in a few days, I'm going to want a statement."
Duane Fisk spieling Morty Bendish-make book on a «Mirror» scoop. Jack said, "I'll kick loose. What am I going to do, impede the progress of an official investigation?"
"Your sense of duty is admirable. Now, let's talk about Hudgens. Girls, boys, what did he like?"
Jack lit a cigarette. "He liked dirt. He was a goddamned degenerate. Maybe he pulled his pud while he looked at his own goddamn shitrag, I don't know."
Don Kleckner walked up, a copy of «Hush-Hush» spread open: "TV Mogul Loves to Ogle-And Then Some!!! And Teen Queens Are His Scene!!!" "Captain, I bought this at that newsstand on the corner. And the publisher told me «Badge of Honor» was a bee in Hudgens' bonnet."
"This is good. Don, you start canvassing. Vincennes, come here."
Over to the lawn. Millard said, "This keeps coming back to people you know."
"I'm a cop and I'm Hollywood. I know lots of people, and I know Max Peltz likes young trim. So what? He's sixty years old and he's no killer."
"We'll decide that this afternoon. You're block searching on the Nite Owl, right? Looking for Coates' car?"
"Yeah."
"Then go back to that now and report to the Bureau at 2:00. I'm going to ask some key people from «Badge of Honor» to come in for some friendly questioning. You can help grease things."
Billy Dieterling, Timmy Valburn-"People He Knew" closing in. "Sure, I'll be there."
Morty Bendish ran up. "Jackie, does this mean I'll get «all» your exclusives now?"
Garage door break-ins, niggers hurling fruit-»real» work back at the motel. He was heading into Darktown when it hit him.
He cut east, parked by the Royal Flush. Claude Dineen's Buick up on blocks-he was probably dealing shit in the men's room.
Jack walked in. Everything froze: the Big V meant grief. The barman poured a double Old Forester; Jack downed it-cutting off five years kosher. The juice warmed him. He kicked the men's room door in.
Claude Dineen geezing up.
Jack kicked him prone, yanked the spike from his arm. A frisk, no resistance-Claude was up on cloud ten. Bingo: tinfoil Benzedrine. He swallowed a roll dry, flushed the hypo down the toilet. He said, "I'm back."
He hit the motel juiced, primed to figure angles. File go-round number two.
Nothing new jumped out; one instinct buzzed him: Hudgens didn't keep his "secret" files at home. If the killer snuffed him for a particular file, he tried to torture the location out of him first. The killer didn't glom a lot of files-the cabinets wouldn't hold much more than what he stole. Sid's Big V file was still at large-if the killer found it he might keep it, might throw it away.
Jump: Hudgens/Patchett connected, pornography/vice rackets the connection. Put the Cathcart/Nite Owl connection aside: Millard/Exley called it a bust-denials from Whalen and Mickey C., Cathcart never got his smut gig going. Millard's report: the Englekling brothers didn't know who took the pictures; Cathcart got ahold of some of the stag books, went crazy with a harebrained scheme. Put that aside and what he had was:
Bobby Inge, Christine and Daryl Bergeron-gone. Lamar Hinton, the probable shooter at the Fleur-de-Lis drop- undoubtedly gone. Timmy Valburn, a Fleur-de-Lis customer, rousted by him-a connection to Billy Dieterling, a «Badge of Honor» cameraman, catch him at Millard's questioning party-»stay calm on that». Say Timmy told Billy about the roust; Billy was there when he trashed Hinton's car, «keep calm», the queers had shitloads to lose by admitting their connection to Fleur-deLis-which Russ Millard did not know existed.
Brainstorming, chain-smoking.
Mutilations on Hudgens' body matched the inked-in poses in the fuck books he found outside Bobby Inge's pad. «No other caps had seen those specific books»-Millard viewed the stiff, tagged the chopped limbs as straight amputations.
Hudgens warned him away from Fleur-de-Lis. Lynn Bracken was a Patchett whore-maybe she knew Sid.
Wild card: Dudley Smith told him to tail Bud White. His reason: White running maverick on a hooker killing. Bracken was a hooker, Patchett ran hookers. But: «Dudley did not mention any tie-ins to the Nite Owl or pornography-Patchett/Bracken/ smut/Fleur-de-Lis et fucking al were probably Greek to him. The Englekling brothers/Cathcart wash aside, srnut/Patchett/Bracken/ Fleur-de-Lis/Hudgens in no way made its way into the incredible glut of interdivision posted Nite Owl paperwork».
Sky high: Benzedrine, cop logic. 11:20-time to kill before the Bureau. Two real leads-Pierce Patchett, Lynn Bracken.
Bracken was closer.
Jack drove to her apartment, settled in behind her car. Give her an hour, play it by ear if she left.
Time Benzedrine-flew; Bracken's door stdyed shut. 12:33-a kid chucked a newspaper at it. If Morty Bendish speedballed his story and that kid pitched the «Mirror»-
The door opened; Lynn Bracken picked the paper up, yawned back inside. The paperboy swooped by, carrier sacks in plain view: Los Angeles «Mirror-News». Be in there, Morty.
Bang!-Bracken slammed the door, ran to her car. She gunned it, swerved west on Los Feliz. Jack cut her two seconds slack, tailed her.
Southwest: Los Feliz to Western to Sunset, Sunset straight out-ten miles over the speed limit. Odds on: a fear run to Patchett's place, she didn't want to use the phone.
Jack looped south, shortcutted, made 1184 Gretna Green burning rubber. A huge Spanish manse, a huge front lawn- Lynn Bracken hadn't showed yet.
A skidding heart: he forgot what you paid to eat bennies. He parked, checked out the house: nobody out and about. Up to the door, a duck around the side-find some windows.
All closed. A gardener working around back-no way to circuit without being seen. A car door slammed; Jack ran to a front window: closed, a part in the curtains he could squint through.
The doorbell rang; Jack squinted in. Patchett walked to the door, opened it. Lynn Bracken shoved her newspaper at him- zoom into a panic duet: mute lip movements, fear very large. Jack put an ear to the glass-all he heard was his own heart thumping. No need for sound: they didn't know Sid was dead, they're scared anyway, they didn't kill him.
They walked into the next room-full curtains, no way to look or listen. Jack ran to his car.
He made the Bureau ten minutes late. The Homicide pen was jam-packed «Badge of Honor»: Brett Chase, Miller Stanton, David Mertens the set man, Jerry Marsalas his nurse-one long bench crammed tight. Standing: Billy Dieterling, the camera crew, a half dozen briefcase men: attorneys for sure. The gang looked nervous; Duane Fisk and Don Kleckner paced with clipboards. No Mar Peltz, no Russ Millard.
Billy D. shot him the fisheye; the rest of the gang waved. Jack waved back; Kieckner buttonholed him. "Ellis Loew wants to see you. Booth number six."
Jack walked down. Loew was staring out a back wall mirror-a lie detector stall across the glass. Polygraph time: Millard questioning Peltz, Ray Pinker working the machine.
Loew noticed him. "I'd rather Mar didn't have to go through that. Can you fix it?"
Protecting a slush-fund contributor. "Ellis, I've got no truck with Millard. If Mar's lawyer advised him to do it, he'll have to do it."
"Can Dudley fix it?"
"Dud's got no truck with him either, Millard's the pious type. And before you ask me, I don't know who killed Sid, and I don't care. Has Max got an alibi?"
"Yes, but one that he would rather not use."
"How old is she?"
"Quite young. Would-"
"Yeah, Russ would file on him for it."
"My God, all this for scum like Hudgens."
Jack laughed. "Counselor, one of his little mudslings got you elected."
"Yes, politics makes for strange bedfellows, but I doubt if he'll be grieved. You know, we've got nothing. I talked to those attorneys outside, and they all assured me their clients have valid alibis. They'll give statements and be eliminated, the rest of the «Badge of Honor» people will be alibied and then we'll only have the rest of Hollywood to deal with."
An opening. "Ellis, you want some advice?"
"Yes, give me your appropriately cynical view."
"Let it play out. Push on the Nite Owl, that's the one the public wants cleared. Hudgens was shit, the investigation'll be a shit show and we'll never get the killer. Let it play out."
The door opened; Duane Fisk put two thumbs down. "No luck, Mr. Loew. Alibis straight across, and they sound like good ones. The coroner estimated Hudgens' death at midnight to 1:00 A.M., and these people were all in plain view somewhere else. We'll go for corroboration, but I think it's a wipe."
Loew nodded; Fisk walked out. Jack said, "Let it go."
Loew smiled. "What's your alibi? Were you in bed with my sister-in-law?"
"I was in bed alone."
"I'm not surprised-Karen said you've been moody and scarce lately. You look edgy, Jack. Are you afraid your arrangement with Hudgens will be publicized?"
"Millard wants a deposition, I'll give him one. You buy Sid and me as lodge brothers?"
"Of course. Along with Dudley Smith, myself and several other well-known choirboys. You're right on Hudgens, Jack. I'll broach it to Bill Parker."
A yawn-the bennies were losing their kick. "It's a dog of a case, and you don't want to prosecute it."
"Yes, since the victim did facilitate «my» election, and he might have left word that «you» leaked word to him on Mr. McPherson's quote dark desires. Jack…"
"Yeah, I'll keep my nose down, and if your name turns up on paper I'll destroy it."
"Good man. And if I…"
"Yeah, there is something. Track the reports on the investigation. Sid kept some secret dirt files, and if your name's anywhere, it's there. And if I get a lead on where, I'll be there with a match."
Loew, pale. "Done, and I'll talk to Parker this afternoon."
Ray Pinker rapped on the mirror, pressed a graph to the glass: twin needle lines-no wild fluctuations. Out the speaker: "Not guilty, but no give on his alibi. Was he «en flagrante?»"
Loew smiled. Russ Millard, speaker loud. "Go to work, Vincennes. Nite Owl block canvassing, if you recall. Your cockamamie TV show hasn't panned out so far, and I want a written statement on your dealings with Hudgens. «By 0800 tomorrow»."
Darktown beckoned.
South to 77th. Jack popped another roll and picked up his search map; the desk sergeant told him the spooks were getting feistier, some pinko agitators put a bug up their ass, more garbage attacks, the garage men were going out in threes: one detective, two partrolmen, teams on opposite sides of the street. Meet his guys at 116th and Wills-they'd been one man short since noon.
The bennies kicked in-Jack zoomed back up. He drove to 116 and Wills: a stretch of cinderblock shacks, windows stuffed with cardboard. Dirt alleys, a bicycle brigade: colored kids packing fruit. His guys up ahead: two partrolmen on the left, two blues and a plainclothes on the right. Armed: tin snips, rifles. Jack parked, made the left-side team a threesome.
Pure shitwork.
Knock on the door, get permission to search the garage. Three quarters of the locals played possum; back to the garage, open the door, cut the lock. The right-side team didn't ask-they went in snips first, dawdled, brandished their hardware at the bicycle kids. The left-side kids tried to look mean; one kid chucked a tomato over their heads. The blues fired over his head-taking out a pigeon coop, chewing up a palm tree. Dusty garage after dusty garage after dusty garage-no '49 Mere license DG1 14.
Twilight, a block of deserted houses-broken windows, weed jungle lawns. Jack started feeling punk: achy teeth, chest pings. He heard rebel yells across the street; the right-side team triggered shots. He looked at his partners-then they all tore ass over.
The Holy Grail in a rat-infested garage: a purple '49 Merc, jig rig to the hilt. California license DG114-registcred to Raymond "Sugar Ray" Coates.
Two patrolmen whipped out bottles.
A couple of bicycle kids jabbered: the bonaroo paint job, a white cat hanging around the alley.
The left-side guys broke into a rain dance.
Jack squinted through a side window. Three pump shotguns on the floor between the seats: big bore, probably 12-gauge.
Yells-deafening; back slaps-bonecrusher hard. The kids yelled along; a patrolman let them slug from his bottle. Jack took a big gulp, emptied his gun at a streetlight, got it with his last shot. Whoops, rebel yells; Jack let the kids play quick draw with his piece. Sid Hudgens buzzed him-he took a big drink, chased him away.
A private room at the Pacific Dining Car. Dudley Smith, Ellis Loew, Bud across the table. Blistered hands, three days of hose work: sex offenders blurred in his head.
Dudley said, "Lad, we found the car and the shotguns an hour ago. No prints, but one of the firing pins perfectly matches the nicked shells we found at the Nite Owl. We took the victims' purses and wallets out of a sewer grate near the Tevere Hotel, which means that we have a damn near airtight case. But Mr. Loew and I want the whole hog. We want confessions."
Bud shoved his plate away. It all came back to the spooks- scotch his shot at Exley. "So you'll put bright boy on the niggers again."
Loew shook his head. "No, Exley's too soft. I want you and Dudley to question them, inside the jail, tomorrow morning. Ray Coates has been in the infirmary with an car infection, but they're releasing him back into general population early tomorrow. I want you and Dud there bright and early, say 7:00."
"What about Carlisle and Breuning?"
Dudley laughed. "Lad, you're a much more frightful presence. This job has the name 'Wendell White' on it, as does another assignment I've kicked off lately. One you'll be interested in."
Loew said, "Officer, it's been Ed Exley's case so far, but now you can share the glory. And I'll grant you a favor in return."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. Dick Stensland has been handed a six-count probation indictment. Do it, and I'll drop four of those charges and put him in front of a lenient judge. He'll be sentenced to no more than ninety days."
Bud stood up. "Deal, Mr. Loew. And thanks for dinner."
Dudley beamed. "Until 7:00 tomorrow, lad. And why are you leaving so abruptly, is it a hot date you have?"
"Yeah, Veronica Lake."
She opened the door, all Veronica: spangly gown, blond curl over one eye. "If you'd called first, I wouldn't look this ridiculous."
She looked edgy. Her dye job was off: uneven, dark at the roots. "Bad date?"
"An investment banker Pierce wants to curry favor with."
"Did you fake it good?"
"He was so self-absorbed that I didn't have to fake it." Bud laughed. "You turn thirty, you do it strictly for thrills." Lynn laughed, still edgy, she might touch him first just to have something to do with her hands. "If men don't try to be Alan Ladd, they might get the real Lynn Margaret."
"Worth the wait?"
"You know it is, and you're wondering if Pierce told me to be receptive."
He couldn't think of a comeback.
Lynn took his arm. "I'm glad you thought of that, and I like you. And if you wait in the bedroom I'll scrub off Veronica and that investment banker."
She came to him naked, a brunette, her hair still wet. Bud forced himself to go slow, take time with his kisses, like she was a lonely woman he wanted to love to death. Lynn played off his timing: her kisses back, her touches. Bud kept thinking she was faking-he rushed to taste her so he'd know.
Lynn moaned, put his hands on her breasts, set up a rhythm for his fmgers. Bud followed her lead, loved it when she gasped and came over and over, hair-trigger. Real-so real he forgot about himself, he heard something like "In me, please in me." He rubbed himself hard on the bed, went in her, kept his hands on her breasts like she taught him. Hard inside her-he let himself go just as her legs pulsed and her hips pushed him up off the sheets-then his face pressing wet hair, their arms locked on each other tight.
They rested, talked. Lynn talked up her diary: a thousand pages back to high school in Bisbee, Arizona. Bud rambled on the Nite Owl, his strongarm job in the morning-sitting-duck stuff he couldn't take much more of. Lynn's look said, "Then just give it up"; he didn't have an answer, so he spieled on Dudley, the heartbreaker rape girl with a crush on him, how he'd hoped the Nite Owl would swing another way so he could use itto juke this guy he hated. Lynn talked back with little touches; Bud told her he was letting the Kathy snuff go for now, it was too easy to go crazy on-crazy like his play with Dwight Gilette. Lynn pressed on his family; he told her "I don't have one"; he ran down his outlaw job: Cathcart, his pad tossed, his smut dream, the San Berdoo Yellow Pages open to printshops clicking in to the Englekling brothers plea bargain, then clicking out, back to the colored punks they had on ice. He knew she knew the gist: he was frustrated because he wasn't that smart, he wasn't really a Homicide detective-he was the guy they brought in to scare other guys shitless. After a while, the talk petered out-Bud felt restless, pissed at himself for spilling too much too fast. Lynn seemed to sense it: she bent down and drove him crazy with her mouth. Bud stroked her hair, still a little wet, glad she didn't have to fake it with him.
Evidence-the victims' belongings found near the Tevere Hotel; Coates' Mere and the shotguns located: forensic verification on the piece that shot the strangely marked rounds. No grand jury on earth would refuse to hand down Murder One. The Nite Owl case was made.
Ed at his kitchen table, writing a report: Parker's last summary. Inez in the bedroom, her bedroom now, he couldn't get up the nerve to say: "Just let me sleep with you, we'll see how things go, wait on the other." She'd been moody-reading books on Raymond Dieterling, getting up nerve to ask the man for a job. The news on the guns didn't bolster her-even though it meant no testimony. Evidence-her outside wounds had healed, there was no physical pain to distract her. She kept feeling it happen.
The phone rang; Ed grabbed it. An extra click-Inez picking up in the bedroom.
"Hello?"
"Russ Millard, Ed."
"Captain, how are you?"
"It's Russ to sergeants and up, son."
"Russ, have you heard about the car and the guns? The Nite Owl's history."
"Not exactly, and that's why I called. I just talked to a Sheriff's lieutenant I know, a man on the Jail Bureau. He told me he heard a rumor. Dudley Smith's taking Bud White in to beat confessions out of our boys. Tomorrow morning, early. I had them moved to another cellblock where they can't get at them."
"Jesus Christ."
"The savior indeed. Son, I have a plan. We go in early, confront them with the new evidence and try for legitimate confessions. You play the bad guy, I'll play savior."
Ed squared his glasses. "What time?"
"Say 7:00?"
"All right."
"Son, it means making an enemy out of Dudley."
The bedroom line clicked off. "So be it. Russ, I'll see you tomorrow."
"Sleep well, son. I need you alert."
Ed hung up. Inez in the doorway, wearing his robe-huge on her. "You can't do this to me."
"You shouldn't eavesdrop."
"I was expecting a call from my sister. Exley, you can't."
"You wanted them in the gas chamber, they're going there. You didn't want to testify, now I doubt if you'll have to."
"I want them hurt. I want them to suffer."
"No. It's wrong. This is a case that demands absolute justice."
She laughed. "Absolute justice fits you like this robe fits me, «pendejo»."
"You got what you wanted, Inez. Let it go at that and get on with your life."
"What life? Living with you? You'll never marry me, you're so deferential around me that I want to scream and every time I've got myself convinced you're a pretty decent guy you do something that makes me say, '«Madre mia», how can I be so dumb?' And now you'd deny me this? «This little thing?»"
Ed held up his report. "Dozens of men built this case. Those animals will be dead by Christmas. «Todos», Inez. «Absolutamente». Isn't that enough?"
She laughed-harder. "No. Ten seconds and they go to sleep. Six hours they beat me and fucked me and stuck things in me. No, it's not enough."
Ed stood up. "So you'll let Bud White jeopardize our case. Ellis Loew probably arranged this, Inez. He's thinking airtight grand jury presentation, a two day trial with half of it him grandstanding. He'd jeopardize what he's already got for that. Be smart and recognize it."
"No, you recognize that the fix is in. The «negritos» die because that's the way it is. I'm just a witness nobody needs anymore, so maybe tomorrow Officer White takes a few licks for my justice."•
Ed made fists. "White's a brutal disgrace of a policeman and a slimy, womanizing son of a bitch."
"No, he's just a guy who calls a spade a spade and doesn't look six ways before he crosses the street."
"He's shit. «Mierda»."
"Then he's my «mierda». Exley, I «know» you. You don't give a damn about justice, you just care about yourself. You're only doing that thing tomorrow to hurt Officer White, and you're only doing it because you know that he knows what you are. You treat me like you want to love me, then you give me nothing but money and social connections, which you've got plenty of and won't miss. You take no risks for me, and Officer White risks his estüpido life and doesn't weigh the consequences, and when I get better you'll want to fuck me and set me up someplace where you won't have to be seen in public with me, which is revolting to me, and if for no other reason I love «estupido» Officer White because at least he has the sense to know what you are."
Ed walked up to her. "And what am I?"
"Just a run-of-the-mill coward."
Ed raised a fist, flinched when she flinched. Inez pulled off her robe. Ed looked, looked away-at the wall and his framed army medals. A target-he threw them across the room. Not enough. He took a bead on a window, reared back, hit soft padded curtains instead.
Jack woke up seeing smut.
Karen in orgy shots-Veronica Lake loving her. Blood: fuck pix as coroner's pix, beautiful women drenched red. The first real thing he saw was daybreak-then Bud White's car parked by Lynn Bracken's pad.
Cracked lips, bone aches head to toe. He swallowed his last bcnnies, brought back his last thoughts before oblivion.
Nothing in the files, Patchett and Bracken his only Hudgens leads. Patchett had servants living in. Bracken lived alone-he'd brace her when White left her bed.
Jack brainstormed a tailing report-lies to snow Dudley Smith. A door slammed-a sound like a gunshot. Bud White walked to his car.
Jack hit the seat prone. The car pulled away, seconds, another gunshot/door slam. A quick look: a brunette Lynn Bracken heading out.
Over to her car, up to Los Feliz, east. Jack followed: the right lane, dawdling back. Sparse early morning traffic: call the woman too distracted to spot him.
Due cast, into Glendale. North on Brand, a swerve to the curb in front of a bank. Jack pulled around the corner to a sighting point-the corner store, a grocer's-milk cartons stacked by the door.
He squatted down, watched the sidewalk. Lynn B. was talking to a man: nervous, a shaky little guy. He opened the bank and hustled her in; a Ford and Dodge were parked further down-no way to nail plate numbers. Lamar Hinton walked outside lugging boxes.
Files, files, files-it had to be.
Bracken and the bank geek hauled boxes: a run to the Dodge and Lynn's Packard. The geek locked up the bank, hit the Ford and U-turned southbound; Hinton and Bracken formed a chain-separate cars heading north.
Seconds tick tick tick-Jack counted to ten, chased.
He caught them a mile out-weaving, creeping up, falling back-downtown Glendale, north into foothills. Traffic dwindled; Jack found a lookout spot: a clean view of the road winding upward. He parked, watched: the cars kept climbing, took a fork, disappeared.
He followed their route straight to a campsite-picnic tables, barbecue pits. Two cars behind a pine row; Bracken and Hinton carrying boxes-muscle boy dangling a gas can off one pinky.
Jack ditched his car, snuck up behind some scrub pines. Bracken and Hinton dumped: paper in a big charcoal pit. They turned their backs; Jack sprinted over, ducked down.
They came back, another load: Bracken with a lighter out, Hinton's arms full. Jack stood up, kicked, pistolwhipped-the balls, left/right/left to the face. Hinton went down dropping paper; Jack broke his arms-knees to the elbows, jerks at the wrists.
Hinton went white-shock coming on.
Bracken had hold of the gas can and a lighter.
Jack stood in front of the pit, his.38 cocked.
Standoff.
Lynn held the can, the cap loose, spilling fumes. Flick-a flame on the lighter. Jack drew down-right in her face.
Standoff.
Hinton tried to crawl. Jack's gun hand started shaking. "Sid Hudgens, Patchett and Fleur-de-Lis. It's either me or Bud White, and I can be bought."
Lynn killed the flame, lowered the gas. "What about Lamar?"
Hinton: pawing at the dirt, spitting blood. Jack lowered his gun. "He'll live. And he shot at me, so now we're quits."
"He didn't shoot at you. Pierce… I just know he didn't."
"Then who did?"
"I don't know. Really. And Pierce and I don't know who killed Hudgens. The first we heard of it was the newspapers yesterday."
The pit-folders on charcoal. "Hudgens' private dirt, right?"
"Yes."
"Yes and keep going."
"No, let's talk about your price. Lamar told Pierce about you, and Pierce figured out that you were that policeman who always seems to wind up in the scandal sheets. So as you say, you can be bought. Now, for how much?"
"What I want's in with those files."
"And what do you-"
"I know about you and the other girls Patchett runs. I know all about Fleur-de-Lis and the shit Patchett pushes, including the smut."
No fluster-the woman put out a stone face. "Some of your stag books have pictures with animated ink. Red, like blood. I saw pictures of Hudgens' body. He was cut up to match those photos."
The stone face held. "So now you're going to ask me about Pierce and Hudgens."
"Yeah, and who doctored up the photos in the books." Lynn shook her head. "I don't know who made those books, and neither does Pierce. He bought them bulk from a rich Mexican man."
"I don't think I believe you."
"I don't care. Do you want money besides?"
"No, and I'm betting whoever made those photographs killed Hudgens."
"Maybe somebody who got excited by the pictures killed him. Do you care either way? Why am I betting Hudgens had dirt on you, and that's what's behind all this?"
"Smart lady. And I'm betting Patchett and Hudgens didn't play golf or-"
Lynn cut him off. "Pierce and Sid were planning on working a deal together. I won't tell you any more than that."
Extortion-it had to be. "And those files were for that?"
"No comment. I haven't looked at the files, and let's keep this a stalemate and make sure nobody gets hurt."
"Then tell me what happened at the bank."
Lynn watched Hinton try to crawl. "Pierce knew that Sid kept his private files in safe-deposit boxes at that B of A. After we read that he'd been killed, Pierce figured the police would locate the files. You see, Sid had files on Pierce's dealings-dealings legitimate policemen would disapprove of. Pierce bribed the manager into letting us have the files. And here we are."
Jack smelled paper, charcoal. "You and Bud White."
Lynn made fists, pressed them to her legs. "He has nothing to do with any of this."
"Tell me anyway."
"Why?"
"Because I don't make you two as the hot item of 1953."
A smile from deep nowhere-Jack almost smiled back. Lynn said, "We're going to strike a deal, aren't we? A truce?"
"Yeah, a non-aggression pact."
"Then make this part of it. Bud approached Pierce, investigating the murder of a young girl named Kathy Janeway. He'd gotten Pierce's name and mine from a man who used to know her. Of course, we didn't kill her, and Pierce didn't want a policeman coming around. He told me to be nice to Bud… and now I'm starting to like him. And I don't want you to tell him anything about this. Please."
She even begged with class. "Deal, and you can tell Patchett the D.A. thinks the Hudgens case is a loser. It's heading for the back burner, and if I find what I want in that pile, today didn't happen."
Lynn smiled-this time he smiled back. "Go look after Hinton."
She walked over to him. Jack dug into the folders, found name tabs, kept digging. A spate of T's, a run of V's, the kicker. "Vincennes, John."
Eyewitness accounts: squarejohns at the beach that night. Nice folks who saw him drill Mr. & Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins, nice folks who told Sid about it for cash, nice folks who didn't tell the "authorities" for fear of "getting involved." The results of the blood test Sid bribed the examining doctor into suppressing: the Big V with a snootful of maryjane, Benzedrine, liquor. His own doped-up statement in the ambulance: confessions to a dozen shakedowns. Conclusive proof: Jack V. snuffed two innocent citizens outside the Malibu Rendezvous.
"I got Lamar back to my car. I'll drive him to a hospital."
Jack turned around. "This is too good to be true. Patchett's got carbons, right?"
That smile again. "Yes, for his deal with Hudgens. Sid gave him carbons of every file except the files he kept on Pierce himself Pierce wanted the carbons as his insurance policy. I'm sure he didn't trust Sid, and since we have all of Hudgens' files right here, I'm sure Pierce's files are in there."
"Yeah, and you have a carbon on mine."
"Yes, Mr. Vincennes. We do."
Jack tried to ape that smile. "Everything I know about you, Patchett, his rackets and Sid Hudgens is going into a deposition, «multiple» copies to «multiple» safe-deposit boxes. If anything happens to me or mine, they go to the LAPD, the D.A.'s Office and the L.A. «Mirror.»"
"Stalemate, then. Do you want to light the match?"
Jack bowed. Lynn doused the files, torched them. Paper sizzled, fireballed-Jack stared until his eyes stung.
"Go home and sleep, Sergeant. You look terrible."
Not home-Karen's.
He drove there woozy, keyed up. He started to feel the close-out: bad debts settled bad, a clean slate. He got the idea just like he got the idea to shake down Claude Dineen. He didn't say the words, didn't rehearse it. He turned the radio on so he'd keep the notion fresh.
A stern-voiced announcer:
"… and the southside of Los Angeles is now the focus of the largest manhunt in California history. We repeat, an hour and a half ago, just after dawn, Raymond Coates, Tyrone Jones and Leroy Fontaine, the accused killers in the Nite Owl massacre case, escaped from the Hall of Justice Jail in downtown Los Angeles. The three had been moved to a minimum security cellblock to await requestioning and made their escape by the means of knotted-together bedsheets and a jump out a secondstory window. Here, recorded immediately after the escape, are the comments of Captain Russell Millard of the Los Angeles Police Department, co-supervisor of the Nite Owl investigation.
"'I… assume full responsibility for this incident. I was the one who ordered the three suspects sequestered in a minimum security unit. I… every effort will be made to recapture them with all due speed. I..
Jack turned the radio off. Close-out: pious Russ Millard's career. Call-out: figure the whole Bureau yanked from bed for the dragnet. He yawned the rest of the way to Karen's, rang her bell seeing double.
Karen opened up. "Sweetie, «where have you been?»"
Jack plucked curlers out of her hair. "Will you marry me?"
Karen said, "Yes."
Ed, staked out at 1st and Olive. His father's shotgun for backup, a replay on his hunch.
Sugar Ray Coates: "Roland Navarette, lives on Bunker Hill. Runs a hole-up for parole absconders."
A whispered snitch: the speakers didn't catch it, doubtful Coates remembered he said it. R &I, Navarette's mugshot, address: a rooming house midway down Olive, half a mile from the Hall of Justice Jail. A dawn breakout-they couldn't make Darktown unseen. Figure all four of them armed.
Scared-like Guadalcanal '43.
Outlaw-he didn't report the lead.
Ed drove to mid-block. A clapboard Victorian: four stories, peeling paint. He jumped the steps, checked out the mail slots: R. Navarette, 408.
Inside, his suitcoat around the shotgun. A long hallway, glass-fronted elevator, stairs. Up those stairs-he couldn't feel his footsteps. The fourth-floor landing-nobody in sight. Down to 408, drop the suitcoat. Inez screaming primed him-he kicked the door in.
Four men eating sandwiches.
Jones and Navarette at a table. Fontaine on the floor. Sugar Coates by the window, picking his teeth.
No weapons in sight. Nobody moved.
Odd sounds-"You're under arrest" strangling out. Jones put his hands up. Navarette raised his hands. Fontaine laced his hands behind his head. Sugar Ray said, "Cat got your goddamn tongue, sissy?"
Ed jerked the trigger: once, twice-buckshot took off Coates' legs. Recoil-Ed braced against the doorway, aimed. Fontaine and Navarette stood up screaming; Ed SQUEEZED the trigger, blew them up in one spread. Recoil, a bad pull: half the back wall came down.
Blood spray thick-Ed stumbled, wiped his eyes. He saw Jones make the elevator.
He ran after him: slid, tripped, caught up. Jones was pushing buttons, screaming prayers-inches from the glass, "Please Jesus." Ed aimed point-blank, squeezed twice. Glass and buckshot took his head off.
Strong legs now, fuck civilian screams all around him.
Ed ran downstairs, into a crowd: blues, plainclothesmen. Hands pounded his back; men shouted his name. A voice close by: "Millard's dead. Heart attack at the Bureau."
Rain for the funeral. A graveside service: Dudley Smith's eulogy, a priest's last words.
Every Bureau man attended: Thad Green's orders. Parker called out the press: a little ceremony after they planted Russ Millard. Bud watched Ed Exley comfort the widow-his best profile to the cameras.
A week of cameras, headlines: Ed Exley, "L.A.'s Greatest Hero"-World War II stalwart, the man who slayed the Nite Owl slayers and their accomplice. Ellis Loew told the press the three confessed before they escaped-nobody mentioned the niggers were unarmed. Ed Exley was made.
The priest's spiel picked up steam. The widow started weeping-Exley put an arm around her shoulders. Bud walked away.
Lightning, more rain-Bud ducked into the chapel. Parker's soiree was set up: lectern, chairs, a table laid out with sandwiches. More lightning-Bud looked out the window, saw the casket hit the dirt. Ashes to fucking ashes-Stens got six months, scuttlebutt had Exicy and Inez a hot item: kill four jigs, get the girl.
The mourners headed up-Ellis Loew slipped, took a pratfall. Bud hit on the good stuff: Lynn, West Valley on the Kathy snuff. Let the bad shit go for now.
Into the chapel: raincoats and umbrellas dumped, a rush for seats. Parker and Exley stood by the lectern. Bud sprawled in a chair at the back.
Reporters, notepads. Front row seats: Loew, the widow Millard, Preston Exley-hot news for Dream-a-Dreamland.
Parker spoke into the mike. "This is a sad occasion, an occasion of mourning. We mourn a kind and good man and a dedicated policeman. We mark his passing with regret. The loss of Captain Russell A. Millard is the loss of Mrs. Millard, the Millard family and all of us here. It will be a hard loss to bear, but bear it we will. There is a passage I recall from somewhere in the annals of literature. That passage is 'If there was no God, how could I be a Captain?' It is God who will see us through our grief and our loss. The God who allowed Russ Millard to become a captain, His captain."
Parker pulled out a small velvet case. "And life continues through our losses. The loss of one splendid policeman coincides with the emergence of another one. Edmund J. Exley, detective sergeant, has amassed a brilliant record in his ten years with the Los Angeles Police Department, three of those years given over to service in the United States Army. Ed Exley received the Distinguished Service Cross for gallantry in the Pacific Theater, and last week he evinced spectacular bravery in the line of duty. It is my honor to present him with the highest measure of honor this police department can bestow: our Medal of Valor."
Exley stepped forward. Parker opened the case, took out a gold medallion hung from a blue satin ribbon and placed it around his neck. The men shook hands-Exley had tears in his eyes. Flashbulbs popped, reporters scribbled, no applause. Parker tapped the mike.
"The Medal of Valor is a very high expression of esteem, but not one with practical everyday applications. Spiritual ramifications aside, it does not reward the recipient with the challenge of good, hard police work. Today I am going to utilize a rarely used chief's prerogative and reward Ed Exley with work. I am promoting him two entire ranks, to captain, and assigning him as the Los Angeles Police Department's floating divisional commander, the assignment formerly held by our much loved colleague Russ Millard."
Preston Exley stood up. Civilians stood up; the Bureau men stood on cue-Thad Green flashed them two thumbs. Scattered applause, lackluster. Ed Exley stood ramrod straight; Bud stayed sprawled in his chair. He took out his gun, kissed it, blew pretend smoke off the barrel.
A gala lawn wedding, a Presbyterian service-old man Morrow called the shots and picked up the tab. June 19, 1953: the Big V ties the knot.
Miller Stanton best man; Joanie Loew-swacked on champagne punch-matron of honor. Dudley Smith the hit of the reception-stories, Gaelic songs. Parker and Green came at Ellis Loew's request; boy captain Ed Exley showed up. The Morrows' social circle pals rounded out the guest list-and swelled old Welton's huge backyard to bursting.
Marriage vows for his close-out. Bad debts settled good: new calendar days, his "insurance policy deposition" stashed in fourteen different bank vaults. Scary vows: he pumped himself up at the altar.
Parker buried the Hudgens killing. Bracken and Patchett stalemated. Dudley called off his tail on White, bought his phony reports: no Lynn, White prowling bars at night. He staked Lynn's place for a couple of days, it looked like she had a good thing going with Bud-who always was a sucker.
Like himself
The minister said the words; they said the words; Jack kissed his bride. Hugs, backsiaps-well wishers swept them away from each other. Parker drummed up some warmth; Ed Exley worked the crowd, no sign of his Mexican girl. Nicknames now: "Shotgun Ed," "Triggerman Eddie." "L.A.'s Greatest Hero" smiles on a bagman cop marrying up.
Jack found a spot above the pool house-a little rise with a view. Two celebrants stuck out: Karen, Exley. Give him credit: he seized the opportunity, made the Department look bold. He wouldn't have had the stomach for it-or the rage.
Exley. White. Himself
Jack counted secrets: his own, whatever lived at that edge where pornography touched a dead scandal monger and lightly brushed the Nite Owl Massacre. He thought of Bud White, Ed Exley. He sent up a wedding day prayer: the Nite Owl dead and buried, safe passage for ruthless men in love.
CALENDAR
1954
EXTRACT: L.A. «Herald-Express», June 16:
EX-POLICEMAN ARRESTED
FOR MURDEROUS
ROBBERY SPREE
Richard Alex Stensland, 40, former Los Angeles police detective and a defendant in the 1951 "Bloody Christmas" police scandal, was arrested early this morning and charged with six counts of armed robbery and two counts of first-degree murder. Arrested with him at his hideout in Pacoima were Dennis "The Weasel" Burns, 43, and Lester John Miciak, 37. The other men were charged with four armed-robbery counts and two counts of first-degree murder.
The arrest raid was led by Captain Edmund J. Exley, divisional floating commander for the Los Angeles Police Department, currently assigned to head up the LAPD's Robbery Division. Assisting Captain Exley were Sergeants Duane Fisk and Donald Kleckner. Exley, whose testimony in the Bloody Christmas scandal sent Stensland to jail in 1952, told reporters: "Eyewitnesses identified photographs of the three men. We have conclusive proof that these men are responsible for stickups at six central Los Angeles liquor stores, including the robbery of Sol's Liquors in the Silverlake District on June 9. The proprietor of that store and his son were shot and killed during that robbery and eyewitnesses place both Stensland and Burns at the scene. Intensive questioning of the suspects will begin soon, and we expect to clear up many other unsolved robberies."
Stensland, Burns and Miciak offered no resistance during their arrest. They were taken to the Hall of Justice Jail, where Stensland was restrained from attacking Captain Exley.
BANNER: L.A. «Mirror-News», June 21:
STENSLAND CONFESSES, DESCRIBES
REIGN OF ROBBERY TERROR
BANNER: L.A. «Herald-Express», September 23:
LIQUOR STORE KILLERS CONVICTED;
DEATH PENALTY FOR EX-POLICEMAN
EXTRACT: L.A. «Times», November 11:
STENSLAND DIES FOR LIQUOR STORE
KILLINGS-GUNMAN FORMER POLICEMAN
At 10:03 yesterday morning, Richard Stensland, 41 and a former Los Angeles police officer, died in the gas chamber at San Quentin Prison for the June 9 murders of Solomon and David Abramowitz. The killings took place during a liquor store holdup. Stensland was convicted and sentenced on September 22 and refused to appeal his sentence.
The execution went off smoothly, although Stensland appeared inebriated. Present among the press and prison officials were two LAPD detectives: Captain Edmund J. Exley, the man responsible for Stensland's capture, and Officer Wendell White, the condemned killer's former partner. Officer White visited Stensland in his death row cell on execution eve and stayed through the night with him. Assistant Warden B. D. Terwilliger denied that Officer White supplied Stensland with intoxicating liquor and denied that White viewed the execution while drunk himseW. Stensland verbally abused the prison chaplain who was present and his last words were obscenities directed at Captain Exley.
1955
«Hush-Hush» Magazine, May 1955 Issue:
WHO KILLED SID HUDGENS?
Justice in the City of the Fallen Angels reminds us of a line from that sin-sational sepia show «Porgy and Bess». Like "a man," it's "a sometime thing." As in for instance: if you're a well-connected contributor to demon D.A. Ellis Loew's slush fund and you get murdered-killer beware!!!-L.A. Chief of Police William H. Parker will spare no expense unearthing the fiend who put you on the night train to the Big Adios. But if you're a crusading journalist writing for this magazine and you get chopped into Ken-L Ration in your own living room-killer rejoice!!!-Chief Parker and his moralistic, misanthropic, mindless mongolians will sit on their hands (well worn from palming payoffs) and whistle "justice is a sometime thing" while the killer whistles Dixie.
It has now been two years since Sid Hudgens was fatally slashed in his Chapman Park living room. Two years ago the LAPD had its (sticky, graft-ridden) hands full with the infamous Nite Owl murder case, which was resolved when one of their members took the law into his own (overweeningly ambitious, opportunistic) hands and shotgunned the shotgunners to the Big Au Revoir. Sid Hudgens' murder was assigned to two flunky detectives with a total of zero "made" homicide cases between them. They, of course, did not fmd the killer or killers, spent most of their days here at the «Hush-Hush» office reading back issues for clues, scarfing coffee and doughnuts and ogling the comely editorial assistants who flock to «Hush-Hush» because we know where the bodies are buried…
We at «Hush-Hush» tap the inside pulse of the City of the Fallen Angels, and we «have» investigated the Sidster's death on our own. We have gotten nowhere, and we ask the Los Angeles Police Department the following questions:
Sid's pad was ransacked. What happened to the ultra on the QT, ultra secret and ultra «Hush-Hush» files the Sidster was supposed to be keeping-sinuendo even too scalding for us to publish?
Why didn't D.A. Ellis Loew, elected largely on the strength of a «Hush-Hush» article exposing the peccadillos of his incumbent opponent, give us a backscratch in return and use his legal juice to force the LAPD to track down the Sidster's slayer?
Celebrity cop John "Jack" Vincennes, the famous dope scourge "Big V," was a close friend of Sid's and was responsible for many of his crusading exposés on the menace of narcotics. Why didn't Jack (heavily connected to Ellis Loew-we won't utter the word "bagman," but feel free to «think» it) investigate the killing on his own, out of paiship for his beloved buddy the Sidster?
Unanswerable questions for now-unless «you», the reading public, take up the cry. Look for updates in future issues-and remember, dear reader, you heard it first here: off the record, on the QT and «very» Hush-Hush.
«Hush-Hush» magazine, December 1955 issue:
JUSTICE WATCH: BEWARE THE
LOEW/VINCENNES COMBINE!!!!
We've pussyfooted long enough, dear reader. In our May issue we marked the second anniversary of the fiendish murder of ace «Hush-Hush» scribe Sid Hudgens. We lamented the fact that his killing remains unsolved, gently prodded the Los Angeles Police Department, D.A. Ellis Loew and his brother-in-law by marriage LAPD Sergeant Jack Vincennes to do something about it, asked a few pertinent questions and got no response. Seven months have passed without justice being done, so here's some more questions:
Where «are» Sid Hudgens' «ultra» sin-tillating and sinsational secret files-the files too hot for even scalding «Hush-Hush» to handle?
Did D.A. Loew quash the Hudgens murder investigation because the crusading Sidster recently published an exposé on «Badge of Honor» producer/director Max Pelts and his bent for teenage girls, and Pelts was a (five figure!!!) contributor to Loew's 1953 D.A.'s campaign fund?
Has Loew ignored our pleas for justice because he's too busy gearing up for his spring 1957 reelection campaign? Is Jack "We won't use the word 'Bagman"' Vincennes again shaking down Hollywoodites for contributions for brother-in-law Ellis and thus unable to investigate the Sidster's death?
More on the Big-time Big V:
Is Vincennes, dope-buster supreme, on the sauce and feuding with his much younger rich-girl wife, who persuaded him to leave his beloved Narco Division, but now frets over his working the hazardous LAPD Surveillance Detail????
Fuel for thought, dear reader-and a gentle prodding for belated justice. The search for justice for Sid Hudgens continues. Remember, dear reader: you heard it first here, off the record, on the QT and «very» Hush-Hush.
1956
"Crimewatch" feature, «Hush-Hush» Magazine, October 1956 issue:
GANGLAND DROUGHT AS COHEN
PAROLE APPROACHES: WILL FEAST
FOLLOW FAMINE WITH THE
MICKSTER REDUX?
You, dear reader, probably haven't noticed, since you're a law-abiding citizen who relies on «Hush-Hush» to keep you abreast of the dark and sin-sational side of life. This publication has been accused of being sin-ical, but we're also sin-cere in our desire to inform you of the perils of crime, organized and otherwise, which is why this periodical periodically offers a "Crimewatch" feature. This month we offer a palpably percolating potpourri centering on malicious L.A. mob activity or the lack of it, our focus the currently incarcerated Meyer Harris Cohen, 43, also known as the misanthropic Mickster, the inimitable Mickey C.
The Mick has been reposing at McNeil Island Federal pen since November of 1951, and he should be paroled sometime next year, certainly by the end of 1957. You all know Mickey by reputation: he's the dapper little gent who ruled the L.A. rackets circa '45 to '51, until Uncle Sammy popped him for income tax evasion. He's a headline grabber, he's a big mocher, face it: he's a mensch. And he's up at McNeil, freezing his toches in the admittedly plush cell, his pet bulldog Mickey Cohen, Jr., keeping his tootsies warm, his money man Davey Goldman, also convicted of tax beefs, warming a cell down the hail. L.A. gangland activity has been-enjoying? «enduring?»-a strange lull since Mickey packed his PJs for Puget Sound, and we at «Hush-Hush», privy to many unnamable insider sources, have a theory as to what's been shaking. Listen close, dear reader: this is off the record, on the QT and «very» Hush-Hush.
November '51: adios Mickey, pack a toothbrush and don't forget to write. Before catching the McNeil Island Express, the Mickster informs his number two man, Morris Jahelka, that he (Mo) will remain titular boss of Kingdom Cohen, which Mickey has "long-term loan" divested to various legit, non-criminal businessmen that he trusts, to be quietly run by out-of-town muscle on a drastically scaled-down basis. Mickey may come off like a vicious buffoon, but Mrs. Cohen's little boy has a head on his simian shoulders.
Are you on our wavelength so far, dear reader? Yes? Good, now listen even more closely.
Mickey languishes in his cell, living the prison life of Riley, and time goes by. The Mick gets percentage fees from his "franchise holders," funneled straight to Swiss bank accounts, and when he's paroled he'll get "giveback fees" and have Kingdom Cohen returned to him on a platter. He'll rebuild his evil empire and happy days will be here again.
Such is the power of the ubiquitous Mickey C. that for several years no upstart gangsters try to crash his lulled-down, on-siesta rackets. Jack "The Enforcer" Whalen, however, a well-known thug/gambler, somehow knows of Mickey's plan to let sleeping dogs snooze while he's stuck in stir and the police are gratefully twiddling their thumbs with no mobster nests to swat. Whalen does not attack the diminutized Kingdom Cohen-he simply builds up a rival, strictly bookmaking kingdom with no fear of reprisals.
Meanwhile, what has happened to some of the Mickster's chief goons? Well, nebbish-like Mo Jahelka keeps triplicate sets of books for the franchise holders, whiz at figures that he is, and Davey Goldman, stuck in stir with his boss, walks Mickey Cohen, Jr., around the McNeil Island yard. Abe Teitlebaum, Cohen muscle goon, owns a delicatessen that features greasy sandwiches named after Borscht Belt comedians, and Lee Vachss, Mr. Icepick To The Ear, sells patent medicine. «Our» favorite Mickey misanthrope, Johnny Stompanato (sometimes known as "Oscar" because of his Academy Award-size appendage), nurses a long-term case of the hots for Lana Turner, and may have returned to his old pre-Cohen ways: running blackmail/extortion rackets. Assuming that Whalen and Mickey don't collide upon the Mick's release, things look hunky-dory and copacetic, don't they? Gangland amity all around?
Perhaps «no».
Item: in August of 1954, John Fisher Diskant, an alleged Cohen franchise holder, was gunned down outside a motel in Culver City. No suspects, no arrests, current disposition: the case reposes in the open file of the Culver City P.D.
Item: May 1955: two alleged Cohen prostitution bosses, franchise holders both-Nathan Janklow and George Palevsky-are gunned down outside the Torch Song Tavern in Riverside. No suspects, no arrests, current disposition: the Riverside County sheriff says case closed due to lack of evidence.
Item: July 1956: Walker Ted Turow, known drug peddler who had recently stated his desire to "push white horse very large and become a bonaroo racketeer" is found shot to death at his pad in San Pedro. You guessed it: no clues, no suspects, no arrests, current disposition with the LAPD's Harbor Division: open file, we're not holding our breath.
Now, dig it, children: all four of these gang-connected or would be gang-connected chumps were shot dead by three-man trigger gangs. The cases were barely investigated because the respective investigating agencies considered the victims lowlifes whose deaths did not merit justice. We wish we could say that ballistics reports indicate that the same guns were used for all three shootings, but they weren't-although.30-30 ripples pistols were the killers' M.O. all three times. And we at «Hush-Hush» know that no interagency effort has been launched to catch the killers. In fact, we at «Hush-Hush» are the first even to connect the crimes in theory. Tsk, tsk. We «do» know that Jack Whalen and his chief factotums are alibied up tight as a crab's pincer for the times of the killings and that Mickey C. and Davey G. have been questioned and have no idea who the bad boys are. Intriguing, right, dear reader? So far, no overt moves have been made to take over siesta time Kingdom Cohen, but we have word that Mickey minion Morris Jahelka has packed up and moved to Florida, scared witless..
And the Mickster is soon to be paroled. What will happen then??????
Remember, dear reader, you saw it here first. Off the record, on the QT and «very» Hush-Hush.
1957
CONFIDENTIAL LAPD REPORT: compiled by
Internal Affairs Division, dated 2/10/57
Investigating officer: Sgt. D. W. Fisk, Badge 6129,
IAD. Submitted at the request of Deputy Chief Thad
Green, Chief of Detectives
Subject: White, Wendell A., Homicide Division
Sir:
When you initiated this investigation you stated that Officer White passing the sergeant's exam with high marks after two failing attempts and nine years in the Bureau startled you, especially in the light of Lt. Dudley Smith's recent promotion to captain. I have thoroughly investigated Officer White and have come up with many contradictory items which should interest you. Since you already have access to Officer White's arrest record and personnel sheet, I will concentrate solely on those items.
1. White, who is unmarried and without immediate family, has been intimately involved on a sporadic basis with one Lynn Margaret Bracken, age 33, for the past several years. This woman, the owner of Veronica's Dress Shop in Santa Monica, is rumored (unsubstantiated by police records) to be an ex-prostitute.
2. White, who was brought into Homicide by Lt. Smith in 1952, has, of course, not turned into the superior case man that (now) Capt. Smith assumed he would be. His 1952-5 3 work under Lt. Smith with the Surveillance Detail was, of course, legendary, and resulted in White's killing two men in the line of duty. Since his (April 1953) shooting of Nite Owl case collateral suspect Sylvester Fitch, White has served under Lt./Capt. Smith with little formal distinction. However (rather amazingly), there have been no excessive force complaints filed against him (see White's personnel sheets 1948-51 for records of his previous dismissed complaints). It is known that during those years and up until the spring of 1953 White visited paroled wife beaters and verbally and/or physically abused them. Evidence points to the fact that these illegal forays have not recurred for almost four years. White remains volatile (as you know, he received a departmental reprimand for punching out windows in the Homicide pen when he received word that his former partner, Sgt. R. A. Stensland, had been sentenced to death), but it is known that he has sometimes avoided work with Lt./Capt. Smith's Mobster Squad, straining his relationship with Smith, his Bureau mentor. Citing the violent nature of the assignment, White has been quoted as saying, "I've got no more stomach left for that stuff." Interesting, when given White's reputation and past record.
3. In spring 1956, White took nine months' accumulated sick leave and vacation time when Capt. E. J. Exley rotated in as acting commander of Homicide. (A well-known hatred exists between White and Capt. Exley, deriving from the 1951 Christmas brutality affair.) During his time off from duty, White (whose Academy scores indicate only average intelligence and below average literacy) attended criminology and forensics classes at USC and took and passed (at his own expense) the FBI'S "Criminal Investigation Procedures" seminar at Quantico, Virginia. White had failed the sergeant's exam twice before embarking on these studies, and on his third attempt passed with a score of 89. His sergeantcy should come in before the end of the 1957 calendar year.
4. In November 1954, R. A. Stensland was executed at San Quentin. White asked for and received permission to attend the execution. He spent the night before the execution on death row drinking with Stensland. (I was told the assistant warden overlooked this infraction of prison rules out of a regard for Stensland's ex-policeman status.) Capt. Exley also attended the execution, and it is not known if he and White had words before or after the event.
5. I saved the most interesting item for last. It is interesting in that it illustrates White's continued (and perhaps increasing) tendency to overinvolve himself in matters pertaining to abused and (now) murdered women. I.e., White has shown undue curiosity in a number of unsolved prostitute killings that he believes to be connected: murders that have taken place in California and various parts of the West over the past several years. The victim's names, DODs and locations of death are:
Jane Mildred Hamsher, 3/08/5 1, San Diego
Kathy NMI Janeway, 4/19/53, Los Angeles
Sharon Susan Palwick, 8/29/5 3, Bakersfield, Calif.
Sally NMI DeWayne, 11/02/55, Needles, Ariz.
Chrissie Virginia Renfro, 7/16/56, San Francisco
White has told other Homicide officers that he thinks evidential similarities point to one killer, and he has traveled (at his own expense) to the above-listed cities where the crimes occurred. Naturally, the detectives that White has talked to considered him a pest and were reluctant to share information with. him, and it is not known whether he has made progress toward solving any of the above cases. Lt. J. S. DiCenzo, Commander of the West Valley Station squad, stated that he thinks White's hooker-killing fixation dates back to the time of the Nite Owl case, when White became personally concerned about the murder of a young prostitute (Kathy Janeway) he was acquainted with.
6. All in all, a surprising investigation. Personally, I admire White's initiative and persistence in pursuing a sergeantcy and his (albeit untoward) tenacity in the matter of the prostitute homicides. A list of my interview references will follow in a separate memo.
Respectfully,
Sgt. D. W. Fisk, 6129, lAD
CONFIDENTIAL LAPD REPORT: Compiled by
Internal Affairs Division, dated 3/11/57
Investigating officer: Sgt. Donald Kieckner, badge 688,
IAD. Submitted at the request of William H. Parker,
Chief of Police
Subject: Vincennes, John, Sergeant, Surveillance Detail
Sir:
You stated that you wished to explore, in light of Sgt. Vincennes' deteriorating duty performance, the advisability of offering him early retirement by stress pension before the twentieth anniversary of his LAPD appointment comes up in May 1958. I deem that measure inappropriate at this time. Granted, Vincennes is an obvious alcoholic; granted also, his alcoholism cost him his job with «Badge of Honor» and thus cost the LAPD a small fortune in promotional considerations. Granted again, at 42 he is too old to be working a high-risk assignment such as the Surveillance Detail. As for his admittedly deteriorating performance, it is only deteriorating because Vincennes was, during his Narcotics Division heyday, a bold and inspired policeman. From my interviews I have concluded that he does not drink on duty and that his deteriorating performance can best be summed up by "sluggishness" and "bad reflexes." Moreover, should Vincennes reject an early retirement offer, my guess is that the pension board would back him up.
Sir, I know that you consider Vincennes a disgrace as a policeman. I agree with you, but advise you to consider his connection to District Attorney Loew. The Department needs Loew to prosecute our cases, as your new chief aide, Capt. Smith, will tell you. Vincennes continues to solicit funds and run errands for Loew, and should Loew, as expected, be reelected next week, he would most likely intercede if you decided to pressure Vincennes out of the Department. My recommendation is as follows: keep Vincennes on Surveillance until 3/58, when a new commander is scheduled to rotate in with his own replacement officers, then assign him to menial duties in a patrol division until his 5/15/58 retirement date arrives. At that time, Vincennes, humbled by a return to uniformed duty, could probably be persuaded to separate from the Department with all due speed.
Respectfully,
Donald J. Kieckner, IAD
BANNER: L.A. «Times», March 15:
LOEW REELECTED IN LANDSLIDE;
STATEHOUSE BID NEXT?
EXTRACT: L.A. «Times», July 8:
MICKEY COHEN WOUNDED IN
PRISON YARD ATTACK
McNeil Island Federal Prison officials announced that yesterday mobsters Meyer Harris "Mickey" Cohen and David "Davey" Goldman were wounded in a vicious daylight attack.
Cohen and Goldman, both slated to be paroled in September, were watching a softball game on the prison yard when three hooded assailants wielding pipes and handmade "shivs" descended. Goldman was stabbed twice in the shoulder and beaten viciously about the head, and Cohen escaped with superficial puncture wounds. Prison doctors said that Goldman's injuries are severe and that he may have suffered irreparable brain damage. The assailants escaped, and at this moment a massive investigation is being conducted to discover who they are. McNeil administrator R. J. Wolf said, "We believe this was a so-called death contract, contracted to in-prison inmates by outside sources. Every effort will be made to get to the bottom of this incident."
«Hush-Hush» Magazine, October 1957 issue:
MICKEY COHEN BACK IN L.A.!!! ARE
HIS BAD OLD GOOD TIMES HERE TO
STAY???
He was the most colorful mobster the City of Fallen Angels had ever seen, Hepcat-and to dig his act at the Mocambo or the Troc was like watching Daddy-o Stradivarius chop a fiddle from a tree trunk. He'd crack jokes written by gagster Davey Goldman, slip fat envelopes to the bagmen from the Sheriff's Department and do a wicked Lindy hop with his squeeze Audrey Anders or the other comely quail sashaying on the premises. Eyes would dart to his table and the ladies would surreptitiously survey his chief bodyguard, Johnny Stompanato, and wonder, "Is he really «that» large?" Sycophants, stooges, glad-handers, pissanters and general rimbamboos would drop by the Mickster's side, to be rewarded with jokes, a backslap, a handout. The Mick was a soft touch for crippled kids, stray dogs, the Salvation Army and the United Jewish Appeal. The Mick also ran bookmaking, loansharking, gambling, prostitution and dope rackets and killed an average of a dozen people a year. Nobody's perfect, right, Hepcat? You leave your toenail trimmings on the bathroom floor, Mickey sends people on the night train to Slice City.
Dig it, Hepcat: people also tried to kill Mickey!!! A mensch like that?-No!!!! Yes, Hepcat, what goes around comes around. The trouble was, the Mick had more lives than the proverbial feline, kept dodging bombs, bullets and dynamite while those around him went down dead, survived six years at McNeil Island Pen, including a recent shiv/pipe attack-and now he's back! Sy Devore, watch out: the Mickster will be in for a few dozen shiny new sharkskin suits; Trocadero and Mocambo cigarette girls, get ready for some C-note tips. Mickey and his entourage will soon descend on the Sunset Strip, and-»very Hush-Hush»-yes, ladies, Johnny Stompanato is «that» large, but he only has eyes for Lana Turner, and word is that he and Lana have been playing more than footsie lately…
But back to Mickey C. Avid «Hush-Hush» readers will recall our October '56 Crimewatch feature, where we speculated on the gangland "lull" that has been going on since the Mick went to stir. Well, some still unsolved deaths occurred, and that pipe/shiv attack that wounded Mickey and left his stooge Davey Goldman a vegetable? Well… they never got the hooded inmate assailants who attempted to send Mickey and his man to Slice City…
Call this a warning, children: he's a mensch, he's local color to the nth degree, he's the marvelous, malevolent benevolent Mickster. He's tough to kill, 'cause innocent bystanders take the hot lead with his name on it. Mickey's back, and his old gang might be forming up again. Hepcat, when you club hop on the sin-tillating Sunset Strip, bring a bulletproof vest in case Meyer Harris Cohen sits nearby.
EXTRACT: L.A. «Herald-Express», November 10:
MOBSTER COHEN SURVIVES BOMB ATTEMPT
A bomb exploded under the home of paroled mobster Mickey Cohen early this morning. Cohen and his wife, Lavonne, were not injured, but the bomb did destroy a wardrobe room that housed three hundred of Cohen's custom-made suits. Cohen's pet bulldog, alseep nearby, was treated for a singed tail at Westside Veterinary Hospital and released. Cohen could not be reached for comment.
Confidential letter, addendum to the outside agency investigation report required on all incoming commanders of Internal Affairs Division, Los Angeles Police Department. Requested by Chief William H. Parker.
11/29/57
Dear Bill-
God, we were sergeants together! It seems like a million years ago, and you were right. I did relish the chance to slip briefly back into harness and play detective again. I felt slightly treacherous interviewing officers behind Ed and Preston's back, but again you were right: firstly in your overall policy of outside agency validation for incoming I.A. chiefs, and secondly in choosing an ex-policeman predisposed to like Ed Exley to query brother officers on the man. Hell, Bill, we both love Ed. Which makes me happy to state that, basic investigation aside (the D.A.'s Bureau is conducting it, aren't they?), I have nothing but positives to report.
I spoke to a number of Detective Bureau men and a number of uniformed officers. One consensus of opinion held: Ed Exley is very well respected. Some officers considered his shooting of the Nite Owl suspects injudicious, most considered it bold and a few tagged it as intentionally grandstanding. Whatever, my opinion is that that act is what Ed Exley is most remembered for and that it has largely eclipsed the bad feelings he generated by serving as an informant in the Bloody Christmas matter. Ed's jump from sergeant to captain was greatly resented, but he is considered to have proven his mettle as divisional floater: the man has run seven divisions in under five years, established many valuable contacts and has earned the general respect of the men serving under him. Your basic concern: that his "not one of the boys" nature would provoke anger when it was learned that he would be running I.A., seems so far to be unfounded. Word is out that Ed will take over l.A. early in '58, and it is tacitly assumed that he will vigorously pursue the assignment. My guess is that his reputation for sternness and intelligence will deter many potentially bent cops into sticking to the straight and narrow.
It is also known that Ed has passed the exam for promotion to inspector and is first on the promotion list. Here some notes of discord appear. It is generally viewed that Thad Green will retire in the next several years and that Ed might well be chosen to replace him as chief of detectives. The great majority of the men I spoke to voiced the opinion that Capt. Dudley Smith, older, much more experienced and more the leader type, should have the job.
Some personal observations to supplant your outside agency report. (1) Ed's relationship with Inez Soto is physically intimate, but I know he would never violate departmental regs by cohabitating with her. Inez is a great kid, by the way. She's become good friends with Preston, Ray Dieterling and myself, and her public relations work for Dream-a-Dreamland is near briffiant. And so what if she's a Mexican? (2)1 spoke to I.A. Sgts. Fisk and Kieckner about Ed-the two worked Robbery under him, are junior straight-arrow Exley types and are positively ecstatic that their hero is about to become their C.O. (3) As someone who has known Ed Exley since he was a child, and as an ex-police officer, I'll go on the record: he's as good as his father and I'd be willing to bet that if you made a tally you'd see that he's made more major cases than any LAPD detective ever. I'm also willing to bet that he's wise to this affectionate little ploy you've initiated: all good cops have intelligence networks.
I'll close with a favor. I'm thinking of writing a book of reminiscences about my years with the Department. Would it be possible for me to borrow the file on the Loren Atherton case? Without Preston and Ed knowing, please-I don't want them to think I've gone arty-farty in my waning years.
I hope this little addendum serves you well. Best to Helen, and thanks for the opportunity to be a cop again.
Sincerely,
Art De Spain
LAPD TRANSFER BULLETINS
1. Officer Wendell A. White, Homicide Division to the Hollywood Station Detective Squad (and to assume the rank of Sergeant), effective 1/2/5 8.
2. Sgt. John Vincennes, Surveillance Detail to Wilshire Division Patrol, effective when a replacement officer is assigned, but no later than 3/15/58.
3. Capt. Edmund J. Exley to permanent duty station: Commander, Internal Affairs Division, effective 1/2/5 8.