by James Ellroy
"I'm an attorney."
"And that's a tape recorder you're carrying?"
"Yes."
"And why are you carrying a revolver in a shoulder holster?"
"Because I command the Administrative Vice Division, Los Angeles Police Department."
Turning florid: "Did Pete Bondurant give you my name?"
Flash the peeper sketch, dig his reaction: "_He_ gave you my name? I've never seen him before, and that likeness reads much younger than the vast majority of my clients. Mr.--"
"Lieutenant."
"Mr. Lieutenant Whatever Out-of-Your-Jurisdiction Policeman, leave this office immediately!"
I shut the door. Ancelet flushed heart-attack red--baby him. "Are you in with Mort Riddick on the BHPD? Talk to him, he'll verify me. I bluffed in with Pete B., so call Pete and ask about me."
Turning beet-red/purple. A decanter set on his desk--I poured him a shot.
He guzzled it and made refill nods. I poured him a short one--he chased it with pills.
"You son of a bitch, using a trusted client of mine as subterfuge, you son of a bitch."
Refill number two--_he_ poured this time.
"A few minutes of your time, Mr. Ancelet. You'll make a valuable contact on the LAPD."
"No good son of a bitch"--winding down.
I flashed the john list. "These are trick names I got out of a police file."
"_I will not identify any of my client names or pseudonyms_."
"Former clients, then, that's all I'm asking."
Squinting, finger-scanning: "There, 'Joseph Arden.' He used to be a client several years back. I remember because my daughter lives near the Arden Dairy in Culver City. This man trucks with common street girls?"
"That's right. And johns always keep the same alias. Now, did this man trick with that Armenian-named girl you told me about?"
"I don't recall. And remember what I told you: I don't keep client files, and my picture file on that clap-passing slut is strictly ancient history."
Lying fuck--file cabinets stacked wall-to-wall. "Listen to a tape. It'll take two minutes."
He tapped his watch. "_One minute_. I'm due on the tee at Hillcrest."
Fast: rig the spools, press Play. Squelch, Stop, Start, there:
Lucille: "These places are filled with losers and lonesome creeps."
Stop, Start, "Chanson d'Amour," the trick:". . . of course, there was always that little dose you gave me."
I pressed Stop. Ancelet, impressed: "That's Joseph Arden. The girl sounds somewhat familiar, too. Satisfied?"
"How can you be sure? You only listened for ten seconds."
More watch taps. "_Listen_, I do most of my business on the phone, and I recognize voices. Now, follow this train of thought: I have asthma. That man had a slight wheeze. I remembered that he called me out of the blue several years ago. He wheezed, and we discussed asthma. He said he heard two men in an elevator discussing my service and got the Premier Escorts number out of the Beverly Hills Yellow Pages, where frankly I advertise my more legitimate escort business. I set the man up with a few dates and _that was that_. Satisfied?"
"And you don't recall which girls he selected."
"Correct."
"And he never came in to look at your picture file."
"Correct."
"And of course you don't keep a pseudonym file on your clients."
_Tap tap_. "Correct, and Jesus Christ, they'll tee off without me. Now, Mr. Policeman Friend of Pete's Who I Have Humored Past the Point of Courtesy, please--"
In his face: "_Sit down. Don't move. Don't pick up the phone_."
He kowtowed--twitching and fuming dark red. File cabinets--nine drawers--go--
Unlocked, manilla folders, side tabs. Male names--lying old whoremaster fuck. Alphabetical: "Amour, Phil," "Anon, Dick," "Arden, Joseph"--
Pull it:
No real name/no address/no phone number.
Ancelet: "This is a rank invasion of privacy!"
Assignations:
7/14/56, 8/1/56, 8/3/56--Lacey Kartoonian--call her Lucille. 9/4/56, 9/11/56--Susan Ann Glynn, a footnote: "Make this girl use a pseudonym: I think she wants clients to be able to locate her thru normal channels to avoid paying commission."
"They are on the second hole already!"
I yanked drawers--one, two, three, four--male names only. Five, six, seven--initialed folders/nude whore pix.
"Get out now, you fucking hard-on voyeur, before I call Mort Riddick!"
Yanking folders--no L.K., no Lucille pictures--
"Karen, call Mort Riddick at the station!"
I yanked _his_ phone out by the cord--watch his face throb. My own throbs: fuck L.K., find G.B.--
"Mr. Ancelet, Mort's on his way!"
No L.K., files dwindling. There, G.B. paydirt--"Gloria Benson" in brackets. Glenda's movie name-she said she chose it.
I grabbed the file, grabbed the tape rig and hauled. Outside, my car-- I peeled rubber-down to my jurisdiction.
Look:
Two nude snapshots dated 3/56--Glenda looked embarrassed. Four "dates" listed, a note: "A headstrong girl who went back to carhopping."
I ripped it all up.
I hit my siren out of pure fucking joy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
One Susan Ann Glynn DMV-listed--Ocean View Drive, Redondo Beach.
Twenty minutes south. A clapboard shack, no view-- a pregnant woman on the porch.
I parked and walked up. Blond, mid-twenties--DMV stat bullseye.
"Are you Susan Ann Glynn?"
She patted a sit-down place. Expectant: cigarettes, magazines.
"You're the policeman Doug called about?"
I sat down. "He _warned_ you?"
"Uh-huh. He said you looked through an old trick file that had my name on it. He said you might come to see me and make trouble like you did with him. I said I sure hope he makes it before three-thirty, when my husband gets home."
Noon now. "Your husband doesn't know what you used to do?"
A kid yelping inside--she lit a cigarette on reflex. "Uh-uh. And I bet if I cooperate with you, you won't tell him."
"That's right."
She coughed, smiled. "The baby kicked. Now, uh, Doug said the trick was Joseph Arden, so I put on my thinking cap. This isn't for murder or anything like that, is it? Because that man behaved like a gentleman."
"I'm investigating a burglary."
Cough, wince. "You know, I remember that I liked that man. I remember him good because Doug said be nice 'cause this other service girl gave him the clap, and he had to get it treated."
"Did he tell you his real name?"
"No. I used _my_ real name at the service for a while, but Doug accused me of trying to recruit customers for myself, so I stopped."
"What did Joseph Arden look like?"
"Nice looking. Cultured looking. Maybe in his late forties. He looked like he had money."
"Tall, short, heavy, slender?"
"Maybe six feet. I guess you'd say he had a medium build. Blue eyes, I think. What I guess you'd call medium-brown hair."
I showed the sketch. "Does this look like him?"
"This man looks too young. The chin sort of reminds me of him, though."
Noise inside--Susan winced. Check her magazines: _Photoplay_, _Bride's_. "Do you know what mug shots are?"
"Uh-huh, from the TV. Pictures of criminals."
Soft: "Would you--?"
"No" shakes--emphatic. "Mister, this man was no criminal. I could look at your pictures until this new baby of mine has her sweet sixteen and never see his face."
"Did he mention a son named Richie?"
"We didn't talk much, but on like our second date he said his wife just tried to kill herself. At first I didn't believe it, 'cause lots of men tell you sad things about their wives so you'll feel sorry for them and pretend you like it more."
"You said at first you didn't believe him. What convinced you?"
"He told me he and his wife h
ad this fight a few weeks back, and she just started screaming and picked up a can of Drano and started drinking it. He said he stopped her and fetched this doctor neighbor of his so he wouldn't have to take her to the hospital. Believe me, that story was so awful that I knew he didn't make it up."
"Did he say that she went to a hospital for follow-up treatment?"
"No. He said the neighbor doctor took care of all of it. He said he was glad, 'cause that way nobody knew how crazy his wife was."
One dead lead. "Did he tell you his wife's name?"
"No."
"Did he mention the names of any other family members?"
"No, he sure didn't."
"Did he mention any other girls who worked for Doug Ancelet?"
Nods--eager. "Some girl with one of those foreign-type I-A-N names. It seemed to me he had--"
"Lacey Kartoonian?"
"Riiight."
"What did he say about her?"
"That she loved it. That's a big thing with call-service customers. They think they're the only ones who can make you love it."
"Be more specific."
"He said, 'Do it like Lacey does.' I said, 'How's that?' He said, 'Love it.' That's all he said about her, I'm sure."
"He didn't mention her as the one who gave him a dose?"
"Uh-uh, that's all he said. And I never met that girl myself, and nobody else ever brought her up to me. And if she didn't have such a funny call name I wouldn't have remembered her at all."
Chrono links:
Christmas '57: peeper's mother with the suicide blues _again_. Susan Glynn/Joseph Arden--trick dates 9/56. Mrs. Arden, Drano drinker-- private treatment. Police agencies sealed suicide files. Arden, wealthy--_if_ his wife killed herself, he'd buy _extra_ legal closure.
Linkage:
Letters, peeper tapes, Ancelet.
Quotes:
Joseph Arden to Lucille: "that dose you gave me."
Mom to Champ/peeper: "Your father gave me what that prostitute gave him."
Conclusive:
The peeper peeped his own father fucking Lucille.
Susan: "Penny for your thoughts."
"You don't want to know."
"Ask me one."
Try her: "When you worked for the service, did you know a girl named Gloria Benson? Her real name's Glenda Bledsoe."
Smiling, pleased: "I remember her. She quit Doug's to become a movie star. When I read she was under contract to Howard Hughes it made me so happy."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Wilshire Station--wait, work.
I dusted the Mom-peeper envelopes--two prints surfaced. I checked Jack Woods' Vice sheet--match-up-Jack pawed the goods.
No post-Christmas letters box-stashed--why?
I buzzed Sid Riegle: check white female attempted suicides/suicides Christmas '57 up. Assume Coroner's file closure; inquire station squad to squad--City/County. Look for: middle-aged/affluent/husband/son/ daughters. Sid said I'll help you part time--_you_ never show up--_I'm_ running Ad Vice by default.
I called the Arden Dairy--a shot at a Joseph Arden make. Strikeout: no Arden-surname owners/employees; the founder dead, heirless.
I called University Station--4:00--nightwatch roll call in progress. Via intercom hookup:
Did any of you men trick-card Joseph Arden--white male alias?
One taker--"I _think_ I carded that alias"--no real name, vehicle or description recalled.
Joseph Arden--dead for now.
A teletype check: no Topanga Canyon 187s--Pincushion Miciak decomposing.
Dinner: candy bars from a vending machine. Grab a sweat room, wait.
I tilted a chair back--sleep waves hit me. Half dreaming: Mr. Third Party says hi!
The Red Arrow Inn--peeper jimmies Lucille's door. Jimmy marks _on the peeper's door_--nonmatching. Kafesjian 459: watchdogs chopped and blinded--eyes shoved down their throats.
The peeper sobbing, listening to:
Lucille with odd tricks--and his own father.
Read the peeper passive.
Read the burglar brutal.
Silverware stolen, found: the peeper's bed stabbed and ripped. Assumed: the peeper himself. My new instinct: third party/door chopper = burglar/bed slasher =
One separate fiend.
Half dreaming--sex-fiend gargoyles chasing me. Half waking-- "Doubleheader, Lieutenant"--Joe Plainclothes shoving two punks in.
One white, one colored. The plainclothesman cuffed them to chairs, their hands racked to the slats.
"Blondie's Patrick Orchard, and the Negro guy's Leroy Carpenter. My partner and me checked Stephen Wenzel's place, and it looked like he cleaned it out in a hurry."
Orchard--skinny, pimples. Carpenter--purple suit, this coon fashion plate.
"Thanks, Officer."
"Glad to oblige"--smile--"Glad to earn a few points with Chief Exley."
"Did you run them for warrants?"
"Sure did. Leroy's a child-support skip, and Pat's a Kern County probation absconder."
"If they cooperate, I'll cut them loose."
He winked. "Sure you will."
I winked. "Check the jail roster tomorrow if you don't believe me."
Orchard smiled. Leroy said, "Say what?" Plainclothes--huh?--back out shrugging.
Showtime.
I reached under the table-bingo--a sap taped on. "I meant what I said, and this has got _nothing_ to do with you. This is about a policeman named George Stemmons, Jr. He was observed rousting you two and a guy named Stephen Wenzel, and all I want is for you to tell me about it."
Orchard--wet lips--snitch-eager.
Leroy--"Fuck you, ofay motherfuck, I know my rights."
I sapped him--arms, legs--and dumped his chair. He hit the floor sideways--no bleats, no yelps--good stones.
Orchard, snitch frenzied: "Hey, I know that Junior cat!"
"And?"
"And he shook me down for my roll!"
"And?"
"And he stole my . . . my . . ."
"And he stole your felony narcotics. _And?_"
"And he was stoned out of his fucking gourd!"
"_And?_"
"And he was talking this 'I'm a criminal mastermind' rebop!"
"_And?_"
"And he boosted my shit! He popped these goofballs right out in the open by the Club Alabam!"
Tilly Hopewell confirmed. "_And?_"
"An-an-an--"
I sapped his chair. "AND?"
"An-an-an' I know Steve Wenzel. St-St-Steve s-said i-Junior t-t-talked this crazy shit to him!"
Tilly confirmation ditto. I checked Leroy--too quiet--watch his fingers--
Waistband pokes, surreptitious.
I hauled his chair up and jerked his belt--H bindles popped out of his pants.
Improvise:
"Pat, I didn't find these on Mr. Carpenter, I found them on you. Now, do you have anything else to say about Junior Stemmons, Steve Wenzel and yourself?"
Leroy--"Crazy, daddy-o!"--dig the ofay.
"AND, Mr. Orchard?"
"An-an-and St-Steve s-said he c-cut a d-deal w-w-with c-crazy Junior. J-Junior p-promised Steve this b-big money to buy this b-bulk horse. C-couple days ago, Steve, he told me this. He s-s-said J-Junior n-needed twenty-four hours to get the money."
Leroy: "Sissy fink stool pigeon motherfucker."
Craaazy Junior--KILL HIM, JACK.
Twirling my sap: "Possession of heroin with intent to sell. Conspiracy to distribute narcotics. Assault on a police officer, because you just took a swing at me. AND, Mr. Orch--"
"Okay! Okay! Okay!"
I sapped the table. "AND?"
"A-and c-crazy Junior, he made me go with him to the club Alabam. Y-y-you know that b-boxer cop?"
"_Johnny Duhamel?_"
"R-right, who w-won the G-Golden Gloves, i-i-Junior, he started bothering the-the-the-"
Tongue tied bad--uncuff him, cut him slack.
Leroy: "You afraid to let _my_ hands free, Mr. Police?"
Orch
ard: "Fuck, that's better."
"AND?"
"And J-Junior, he was bugging the G-Golden Gloves guy."
"What was Duhamel doing at the Club Alabam?"
"It looked like he was eyeballing these guys back by this curtained-off room they got there."
"What guys? What were they doing?"
"It looked like they were filing numbers off these slot machines."
"_And?_"
"Man, you keeping saying that!"
I sapped the table hard--it jumped off the floor. "AND why did Junior Stemmons take you to the Club Alabam?"
Orchard, hands up, begging: "Okay okay okay. Junior what's-his-name was stoned out of his gourd. He buttonholed the Golden Gloves man and told him this crazy fantasy rebop that I had this big money to buy mink coats with. The boxer cop, he almost went nuts shushing Junior. They almost threw blows, and I saw these two _other_ cops that I sorta knew by sight watching the whole thing sort of real interested."
"Describe the two other cops."
"Shit, mean looking. A heavyset blond guy, and this thin guy with glasses."
Breuning and Carlisle--go from there:
Duhamel scoping slot work--Mobster Squad duty? Goons scoping _him_--suspected fur thief?
Orchard: "Man, I got no more 'ands' for you. Whatever you threaten me with, I'll be feeding you bullshit from here on in."
Work the spook: "_Give_, Leroy."
"Give shit, I ain't no stool pigeon."
"No, you're a small-time independent narcotics pusher."
"Say what?"
"Say this heroin is a month's pay for you."
"An' say I got a bail bondsman ready to stand my bail an' a righteous Jew lawyer set to defend me. Say you book me, say I get my phone call. Say what, shit."
I uncuffed him. "Did Tommy Kafesjian ever muscle you, Leroy?"
"Tommy K. don't scare me."
"Sure he does."
"Horse pucky."
"You're either paying him protection, snitching for him or running from him."
"Horse pucky."
"Well, I don't think snitching's your style, but I think you're looking over your shoulder a lot waiting for some Kafesjian guy to notice you."
"Maybe that's true. But maybe the Kafesjians ain't gonna control the Southside traffic that much longer."
"Did Junior Stemmons tell you that?"
"Maybe he did. But maybe it's just loose talk pertainin' to this big Southside Federal thing. And either way I ain't no snitch."