by James Ellroy
A squat, disheveled man stood up, turned around and faced room. He swallowed a few times, then stammered, “C-C-C-Cruz’s wife is sc-screwing the c-c-c-cousin. The c-c-c-car was never reported st-stolen, and the neighbors s-say the wife wants the c-cousin’s parole violated so C-C-Cruz won’t find out about them.”
Harry Sears sat down abruptly. Millard smiled at him and said, “Thanks, partner. Gentlemen, Cruz and Villareal are now state parole absconders and priority fugitives. APBs and absconder warrants have been issued. And here’s the punch line: both of these guys are boozehounds, with over a hundred plain drunks between them. Hit-and-run drunks are a damn menace, so let’s get them. Captain?”
Tierney stood up and shouted, “Dismissed!” Cops swarmed me, offering hands and back slaps and chucks under the chin. I soaked it in until the muster room cleared and Ellis Loew approached, fiddling with the Phi Beta Kappa key dangling from his vest.
“You shouldn’t have slugged with him,” he said, twirling the key. “You were ahead on all three cards.”
I held the DA’s stare. “Proposition 5 passed, Mr. Loew.”
“Yes, it did. But some patrons of yours lost money. Play it smarter here, Officer. Don’t blow this opportunity like you did the fight.”
“You ready, canvasback?”
Blanchard’s voice saved me. I went with him before I did something to blow it then and there.
We headed south in Blanchard’s civilian car, a ‘40 Ford coupe with a contraband two-way under the dashboard. Lee rambled on about the job while I looked out at the downtown LA street scene.
“… mostly we go after priority warrantees, but sometimes we chase down material witnesses for Loew. Not too often—he’s usually got Fritzie Vogel running his errands, with Bill Koenig along for muscle. Shitbirds, both of them. Anyway, we get slack periods sometimes, and we’re supposed to go by the other station houses and check the squadrooms for their priority stuff—warrants filed in the regional courts. Every LAPD station has two men working Warrants, but they spend most of their time catching squeals, so we’re supposed to help out. Sometimes, like today, you hear something at the felony summary or get something hot off the bulletin board. If it’s really slow, you can serve papers for the Department 92 shysters. Three bucks a throw, chump change. The real moolah’s in repos. I’ve got delinquent lists from H.J. Caruso Dodge and Yeakel Brothers Olds, all the nigger stiffs the credit agents are too pansy to move on. Any questions, partner?”
I resisted the urge to ask, “Why aren’t you screwing Kay Lake?” and “While we’re on the subject, what’s the story on her?”
“Yeah. Why’d you quit fighting and join the Department? And don’t tell me it was because your kid sister disappeared and catching criminals gives you a sense of order. I’ve heard that one twice, and I don’t buy it.”
Lee kept his eyes on traffic. “You got any sisters? Kid relatives you really care about?”
I shook my head. “My family’s dead.”
“So’s Laurie. I figured it out when I was fifteen. Mom and Dad kept spending money on handbills and detectives, but I knew she was a snuff job. I kept picturing her growing up. Prom queen, straight A’s, her own family. It used to hurt like a bastard, so I pictured her growing up wrong. You know, like a floozy. It was actually comforting, but it felt like I was shitting on her.”
I said, “Look, I’m sorry.”
Lee gave me a gentle elbow. “Don’t be, because you’re right. I quit fighting and joined the cops because Benny Siegel was putting the heat on me. He bought out my contract and scared off my manager, and he promised me a shot at Joe Louis if I took two dives for him. I said no and joined the Department because the Jew syndicate boys have got a rule against killing cops. I was scared shitless that he’d kill me anyway, so when I heard that the Boulevard-Citizens heisters took some of Benny’s money along with the bank’s, I shook down stoolies until I got Bobby De Witt on a platter. I gave Benny first crack at him. His number two man talked him out of a snuff, so I took the dope to Hollywood dicks. Benny’s my pal now. Gives me tips on the ponies all the time. Next question?”
I decided not to push for information on Kay. Checking out the street, I saw that downtown had given way to blocks of small, unkempt houses. The Bugsy Siegel story stayed with me; I was running with it when Lee slowed the car and pulled to the curb.
I blurted, “What the hell” Lee said, “This one’s for my own personal satisfaction. You remember the baby raper on the felony sheet?”
“Sure.”
“Tierney said there’s four sodomy unsolveds in Highland Park, right?”
“Right.”
“And he mentioned that there was a memo on the rape-o’s KAs?”
“Sure. What—”
“Bucky, I read that memo and recognized the name of a fence—Bruno Albanese. He works out of a Mex restaurant in Highland Park. I called Highland Park dicks and got the addresses on the assaults, and two of them were within a half mile of the joint where the fence hangs out. This is his house, and R&I says he’s got a shitload of unpaid traffic tickets, bench warrants issued. You want a diagram of the rest of it?”
I got out of the car and walked across a weedy front yard strewn with dog turds. Lee caught up with me at the porch and rang the bell; furious barks issued from inside the house.
The door opened, held to the frame by a chain. The barks grew to a crescendo; through the crack I glimpsed a slatternly woman. I shouted, “Police officers!” Lee wedged his foot into the space between the doorjamb and runner; I reached inside and twisted the chain off. Lee pushed the door open, and the woman ran out onto the porch. I stepped inside the house, wondering about the dog. I was eyeballing a seedy living room when a big brown mastiff leaped at me, his jaws wide open. I fumbled for my piece—and the beast started licking my face.
We stood there, the dog’s front paws resting on my shoulders like we were doing the Lindy Hop. A big tongue lapped at me, and the woman yelped, “Be nice, Hacksaw! Be nice!”
I grabbed the dog’s legs and lowered him to the floor; he promptly turned his attention to my crotch. Lee was talking to the slattern, showing her a mug shot strip. She was shaking her head no, hands on hips, the picture of an irate citizen. With Hacksaw at my heels, I joined them.
Lee said, “Mrs. Albanese, this man’s the senior officer. Would you tell him what you just told me?”
The slattern shook her fists; Hacksaw explored Lee’s crotch. I said, “Where’s your husband, lady? We don’t have all day.”
“I told him and I’ll tell you! Bruno’s paid his debt to society! He doesn’t fraternize with criminals and I don’t know any Coleman what’s his name! He’s a businessman! His parole officer made him quit hanging out at that Mexican place two weeks ago, and I don’t know where he is! Hacksaw, be nice!”
I looked at the real senior officer, now stagger-dancing with a two-hundred-pound dog. “Lady, your husband’s a known fence with outstanding traffic warrants. I’ve got a hot merchandise list in the car, and if you don’t tell me where he is, I’ll turn your house upside down until I find something dirty. Then I’ll arrest you for receiving stolen goods. What’s it gonna be?”
The slattern beat her fists into her legs; Lee wrestled Hacksaw down to all fours and said, “Some people don’t respond to civility. Mrs. Albanese, do you know what Russian roulette is?”
The woman pouted, “I’m not dumb and Bruno’s paid his debt to society!” Lee pulled a .38 snubnose out of his back waistband, checked the cylinder and snapped it shut. “There’s one bullet in this gun. You feeling lucky, Hacksaw?”
Hacksaw said, “Woof” the woman said, “You wouldn’t dare.” Lee put the .38 to the dog’s temple and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber; the woman gasped and started turning pale; Lee said, “Five to go. Prepare for doggie heaven, Hacksaw.”
Lee squeezed the trigger a second time; I held in belly laughs when the hammer clicked again and Hacksaw licked his balls, bored over th
e whole thing. Mrs. Albanese was praying fervently with her eyes shut. Lee said, “Time to meet your maker, doggy” the woman blurted, “No no no no no! Bruno’s tending bar in Silverlake! The Buena Vista on Vendome! Please leave my baby alone!”
Lee showed me the .38’s empty cylinder, and we walked back to the car with Hacksaw’s happy barks echoing behind us. I laughed all the way to Silverlake.
The Buena Vista was a bar and grill shaped like a Spanish rancho—whitewashed adobe walls and turrets festooned with Christmas lights six weeks before the holiday. The interior was cool, all dark wood. There was a long oak bar just off the entrance foyer, with a man behind it polishing glasses. Lee flashed his shield at him and said, “Bruno Albanese?” The man pointed to the back of the restaurant, lowering his eyes.
The rear of the grill was narrow, with Leatherette booths and dim lighting. Wolfish eating noises led us to the last booth— the only one occupied. A thin, swarthy man was hunched over a plate piled high with beans, chili and huevos rancheros, shoveling the slop in like it was his last meal on earth.
Lee rapped on the table. “Police officers. Are you Bruno Albanese?”
The man looked up and said, “Who, me?”
Lee slid into the booth and pointed to the religious tapestry on the wall. “No, the kid in the manger. Let’s make this fast, so I don’t have to watch you eat. You’ve got outstanding warrants, but me and my partner like your dog, so we’re not taking you in. Ain’t that nice of us?”
Bruno Albanese belched, then said, “You mean you want some skinny?”
Lee said, “Whiz kid,” and smoothed the Maynard mug shot strip on the table. “He cornholes little boys. We know he sells to you, and we don’t care. Where is he?”
Albanese looked at the strip and burped. “I never seen this guy before. Somebody steered you wrong.”
Lee looked at me and sighed. He said, “Some people don’t respond to civility,” then grabbed Bruno Albanese by the scruff of the neck and smashed his head face first into the plate of goo. Bruno sucked in grease through his mouth, nose and eyeballs, flapping his arms and banging his legs under the table. Lee held him there, intoning, “Bruno Albanese was a good man. He was a good husband and a good father to his son Hacksaw. He wasn’t very cooperative with the police, but who expects perfection? Partner, can you give me a reason to spare this shitbird’s life?”
Albanese was making gurgling sounds; blood was leaking into his huevos rancheros. “Have mercy,” I said. “Even fences derserve a better last supper.”
Lee said, “Well put,” and let go of Albanese’s head. He came up for air bleeding and gasping, wiping a whole Mexican cookbook off his face. When he got breath he wheezed out, “The Versailles Apartments on 6th and Saint Andrews room 803 and please don’t give me a rat jacket!”
Lee said, “Bon appetit, Bruno” I said, “You’re good.” We ran out of the restaurant and highballed it code three to 6th and Saint Andrews.
The mail slots in the Versailles lobby listed a Maynard Coleman in Apartment 803. We rode the elevator up to the eighth floor and rang the buzzer; I put my ear to the door and heard nothing. Lee took a ring of skeleton keys from his pocket and worked them into the lock until one hit and the mechanism gave with a sharp click.
We entered a hot, dark little room. Lee flicked on the overhead light, illuminating a Murphy bed covered with stuffed animals—teddy bears, pandas and tigers. The crib stank of sweat and some medicinal odor I couldn’t place. I wrinkled my nose, and Lee placed it for me. “Vaseline with cortisone. The homos use it for ass lube. I was gonna turn Maynard over to Captain Jack personally, but now I’m gonna let Vogel and Koenig have him first.”
I moved to the bed and examined the animals; they all had ringlets of soft children’s hair taped between their legs. Shivering, I looked at Lee. He was pale, his features contorted by facial tics. Our eyes met, and we silently left the room and took the elevator downstairs. On the sidewalk, I said, “What now?”
Lee’s voice was shaky. “Find a phone booth and call the DMV. Give them Maynard’s alias and this address and ask if they’ve processed any pink slips on it the past month or so. If they have, get a vehicle description and a license number. I’ll meet you at the car.”
I ran to the corner, found a pay phone and dialed the DMV police information line. A clerk answered, “Who’s requesting?”
“Officer Bleichert, LAPD badge 1611. Auto purchase information, Maynard Coleman or Coleman Maynard, 643 South Saint Andrews, LA. Probably recent.”
“Gotcha—one minute.”
I waited, notebook and pen in hand, thinking of the stuffed animals. A good five minutes later, “Officer, it’s a positive,” jarred me.
“Shoot.”
“De Soto sedan, 1938, dark green, license B as in boy, V as in Victor, 1-4-3-2 Repeat, B as in boy—”
I wrote it down, hung up and ran back to the car. Lee was scrutinizing an LA street atlas, jotting notes. I said, “Got him.”
Lee closed the atlas. “He’s probably a school prowler. There were elementary schools near the Highland Park jobs, and there’s a half dozen of them around here. I radioed the Hollywood and Wilshire desks and told them what we’ve got. Patrol cars are gonna stop by the schools and put out the skinny on Maynard. What’s the DMV got?”
I pointed to my notesheet; Lee grabbed the radio mike and switched on the outgoing dial. Static fired up, then the two-way went dead. Lee said, “Fuck it, let’s roll.”
We cruised elementary schools in Hollywood and the Wilshire District. Lee drove, I scanned curbs and school yards for green De Sotos and loiterers. We stopped once at a gamewell phone, and Lee called Wilshire and Hollywood stations with the DMV dope, getting assurances that it would be relayed to every radio car, every watch.
During those hours we hardly spoke a word. Lee gripped the wheel with white-knuckled fingers, slow lane crawling. The only time his expression changed was when we pulled over to check out kids at play. Then his eyes clouded and his hands shook, and I thought he would either weep or explode.
But he just kept staring, and the simple act of moving back into traffic seemed to calm him. It was as if he knew exactly how far to let himself go as a man before getting back to strict cop business.
Shortly after 3:00 we headed south on Van Ness, a run by Van Ness Avenue Elementary. We were a block away, going by the Polar Palace, when green De Soto BV 1432 passed us in the opposite direction and pulled into the parking lot in front of the rink.
I said, “We’ve got him. Polar Palace.”
Lee hung a U-turn and drew to the curb directly across the street from the lot. Maynard was locking the De Soto, eyeing a group of kids skipping toward the entrance with skates slung over their shoulders. “Come on,” I said.
Lee said, “You take him, I might lose my temper. Make sure the kids are out of the way, and if he pulls any hinky moves, kill him.”
Solo plainclothes rousts were strictly against the book. “You’re crazy. This is a —”
Lee shoved me out the door. “Go get him, goddamnit! This is Warrants, not a fucking classroom! Go get him!”
I dodged traffic across Van Ness to the parking lot, catching sight of Maynard entering the Polar Palace in the middle of a big throng of children. I sprinted to the front door and opened it, telling myself to go smooth and slow.
Cold air stunned me; harsh light reflecting off the ice rink stung my eyes. Shielding them, I looked around and saw papier mâché fjords and a snack stand shaped like an igloo. There were a few kids twirling on the ice, and a group of them oohing and aahing at a giant taxidermied polar bear standing on its hind legs by a side exit. There was not an adult in the joint. Then it hit me: check the men’s room.
A sign pointed me to the basement. I was halfway down the stairs when Maynard started up them, a little stuffed rabbit in his hands. The stench of room 803 came back; just as he was about to pass me, I said, “Police officer, you’re under arrest,” and drew my .38.
The rape-o
threw up his hands; the rabbit went flying. I shoved him into the wall, frisked him and cuffed his hands behind his back. Blood pounded in my head as I pushed him up the stairs; I felt something pummeling my legs. “You leave my daddy alone! Leave my daddy alone!”
The assailant was a little boy in short pants and a sailor’s jumper. It took me half a second to make him as the rape-o’s kid—their resemblance was bone deep. The boy attached himself to my belt and kept bawling, “Leave my daddy alone” the father kept bawling for time to say good-bye and get a babysitter; I kept moving, up the stairs and through the Polar Palace, my gun at the rape-o’s head, my other hand pushing him forward, the kid dragging behind me, yowling and punching with all his might. A crowd had formed; I shouted, “Police officer!” until they separated and gave me a shot at the door. An old geezer opened it for me, blurting, “Hey! ain’t you Bucky Bleichert?”
I gasped, “Grab the kid and call for a matron” the junior tornado was yanked off my back. I saw Lee’s Ford in the parking lot, shoved Maynard all the way to it and into the backseat. Lee hit the horn and peeled; the rape-o mumbled Jesus mumbo jumbo. I kept wondering why the horn blare couldn’t drown out the little boy’s shrieks for his daddy.
We dropped Maynard off at the Hall of Justice jail, and Lee phoned Fritz Vogel at Central squadroom, telling him the rape-o was in custody and ready to be interrogated on the Bunker Hill burglaries. Then it was back to City Hall, a call to notify Highland Park dicks of Maynard’s arrest and a call to Hollywood Juvie to ease my conscience on the kid. The matron I talked to told me that Billy Maynard was there, waiting for his mother, Coleman Maynard’s ex-wife, a car hop with six hooking convictions. He was still bawling for his daddy, and I hung up wishing I hadn’t called.