by James Ellroy
“Yeah.”
“Good.” I put the slip of paper into my pocket and dropped a five-spot on the counter. “Keep the change,” I said.
* * *
—
I found a pay phone in the parking lot and called Dudley Smith downtown. It took some moments for him to come onto the line and I waited in the sweltering booth, lost in thought, the receiver jammed to my ear. Smith’s loud high-pitched brogue suddenly hit me.
“Freddy, lad! How nice to hear from you!”
I recovered fast, speaking calmly: “Good news, Dudley. Our boy was seen at a local diner with a woman some months ago. The counterman said he abused her physically and she enjoyed it. I got a statement from him.” Dudley Smith seemed to be considering this—he was silent for the better part of a minute. In my eagerness, I broke the silence: “I think he’s a sex sadist, Dudley.”
“Ahhh, yes. Well, lad, I think our pal is a lot of things. I’ve got some interesting stuff, too. Now, Freddy, tomorrow you will be the straight man to greatness. You pick me up at my house at nine a.m., 2341 Kelton Avenue, Westwood. Wear a light-colored suit, and be prepared to learn. Have you got that?”
“Yes.”
“Ahhh…grand. Was there anything else you wished to tell me, lad?”
“No.”
“Grand. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Goodbye, Dudley.”
* * *
—
I drove home and showered and changed clothes. I shaved for the second time that day. I drove downtown fighting a tingling anticipation that was half nerves and half a thigh-warming sexual flush. I parked in the lot for city employees on Temple Street, showing the attendant my badge in lieu of a parking sticker. I combed my hair several times, checking in my rearview mirror to see that the part was straight.
At exactly five o’clock, I was stationed directly in front of the Spring Street entrance to city hall, waiting for Lorna Weinberg.
Lorna came out the broad glass doors a few minutes later, limping with one foot kicked out at almost a right angle. She guided her way with a thick, rubber-tipped black wood cane. She carried a briefcase in her left hand, and had an abstracted look on her face. When she saw me she frowned.
“Hello, Miss Weinberg,” I said.
“Mr. Underhill,” she returned. She moved her cane to her left hand and offered me her right. We shook, the handshake an implicit reminder that this was a civil meeting of two professional people.
I said, “Thank you for agreeing to see me. I know you’re a busy woman.”
Lorna nodded brusquely and shifted her weight to her good leg. “And you’re a busy man. We should find a place to go and talk. I’m very curious to hear what you have to say.” Catching herself being almost friendly, she added, “I trust you wouldn’t waste my time.” When I didn’t acknowledge that, she asked, “Would you?”
I gave Lorna Weinberg my widest, most innocent smile. “Maybe. So much for the amenities. Do you eat dinner?”
Lorna frowned again. “Yes, Officer, I do. Do you?”
“Yeah. Every night. An old childhood habit. You know any decent places around here?”
“Not that I can walk to.”
“If your bum leg acts up we can rest or I can carry you. Or we can drive somewhere.”
Lorna winced against my comments, curling her lip reflexively. “We can drive,” she said, “in my car.”
I was more than willing to concede the point.
We walked the half block to Temple very slowly, saying very little. Lorna limped steadily, easily throwing the dead leg forward in almost perfect rhythmic grace. If she was in pain she didn’t show it, only her bare arm holding the cane betrayed any sign of tension.
I tried to think of something to say, but all my one-liners seemed fatuous or abrasive. As we crossed the street I grabbed her elbow to steady her and she withdrew it angrily.
“Don’t,” she snapped, “I can manage myself.”
“I’m sure you can,” I said.
The car was a late model Packard with an automatic shift and a specially constructed stirrup to hold Lorna’s bad leg. Without consulting me, she drove north to Chinatown. She was a good, efficient driver, maneuvering the big car deftly through the heavy evening traffic on North Broadway. Squeezing effortlessly into a tight parking space and setting the hand brake with a flourish, Lorna turned to face me. “Is Chinese all right?” she asked.
* * *
—
The restaurant interior was a marvel of papier-mâché architecture. All four walls were shaped like mountain ranges, with cascading waterfalls dropping into a trough filled with giant goldfish. The room was bathed in a bluish-green light that imparted an underwater effect.
An obsequious waiter guided us to a booth at the back and handed us menus. Lorna made a great show of studying hers while I formulated my thoughts into a useful brevity. I stared at her as she perused her menu. Her face was very strong and very beautiful.
She looked up from her menu and caught my gaze. “Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “If I do, I know what I’ll have.”
“Are you that rigid? Don’t you like to try new things?”
“Lately, yes. Which is why I’m here.”
“Is that a double-entendre, Officer?”
“It’s a cross between a proposition and a statement of purpose.”
“Is that a double-entendre?”
“It’s a cross between a paradox and a logical fallacy.”
“And the part I—”
I interrupted, “The paradox is murder, counselor, and the fact that I intend to profit from the capture of the murderer. The logical fallacy is that—well, in part I’m here because you are a very handsome and interesting woman.” Lorna opened her mouth to protest, but I raised my voice to drown her out. “Pardon my language, but, as a colleague of mine says, ‘Enough horseshit.’ Let’s eat, then I’ll tell you about it.”
Lorna glowered at me, speechless. I could tell she was mustering her resources for a wicked return salvo. Fortunately for me, our waiter glided up silently and said, “You order now?”
Before Lorna could start again I took a sip of green tea and began the story of Freddy Underhill, rogue cop, and his incredible intuition and persistence. She started to question me several times, but I just shook my head and continued. She changed expressions only once during my monologue, when I mentioned the name of Dudley Smith. Then her rapt look changed to one of anger. By the time I finished, our food had come. Lorna looked from me to her plate, then pushed it away and made a face.
“I can’t eat now,” she said. “Not after what you’ve told me.”
“Do you believe me?”
“Yes. It’s circumstantial, but it fits. What exactly do you want from me?”
“When the case is airtight, I want to file my depositions with you personally. The truth: Smith is going to try to screw me out of this; I can tell. I don’t trust the bastard. Frankly, I want the glory. Are you still preparing cases for the grand jury?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then as soon as I have enough evidence, or as soon as we arrest Engels, I’ll come to you. You prepare the case and the grand jury will indict Engels.”
“And then, Officer?” Lorna asked sarcastically.
“And then we both have the satisfaction of knowing Eddie Engels is on his way to the gas chamber. Your career will be aided, and I’ll go to the detective bureau.” Lorna was morosely silent. I tried to cheer her up. “Which will make your job easier. I’ll be filing lots of cases with you—but only ones where I’m sure my arrestee is guilty.” I smiled.
“Dudley Smith is going to crucify you for this,” Lorna said.
“No, he isn’t. I’ll be too big. The case will make the papers. I’ll have too much su
pport—from the press, plus from within the department. I’ll be untouchable.”
Lorna poked her chopsticks at her fried rice.
“Will you help me?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s my job, my duty.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“You’re very, very cocky.”
“I’m very, very good.”
“I don’t doubt it. My father talks of you often. He misses you. He told me you don’t play golf anymore.”
“I gave it up last winter, shortly after I met you.”
“Why?”
“My best friend got killed, and I killed two men. Golf didn’t seem important anymore.”
“I read about it in the papers. My sister was very upset. It bothered me, too. I wondered how you were affected. Now I can tell that you weren’t, really. You were cocky then and you’re more cocky now. You’re a hard case.”
“No, I’m not. I’m a nice guy and I’m flattered that you thought of me.”
“Don’t be. It was purely professional.”
“Yeah, well purely unprofessionally, I’ve been thinking about you ever since we met. Nice, warm, unprofessional thoughts.”
Lorna didn’t answer—she just blushed. It was a purely feminine, unprofessional blush.
“Are you finished eating?” I asked.
“Yes,” Lorna said softly.
“Then let’s leave.”
* * *
—
Ten minutes later we were back at the parking lot on Temple Street. I got out of the car and walked around to the driver’s side.
“Please smile before we say good night, Lorna,” I said.
Lorna grudgingly obliged, parting her lips and gritting her teeth.
I laughed. “Not bad for a neophyte. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night? I know a place in Malibu. We can take a seaside drive.”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s right, don’t think.”
“Look, Mr.—”
“Call me Freddy.”
“Look, Freddy, I…” Lorna’s voice and resistance trailed off, and she grimaced and smiled again, unsolicited.
“Good,” I said buoyantly. “Silence implies consent. I’ll meet you in front of city hall at six o’clock.”
Lorna stared at the steering wheel, unwilling to meet my eyes. I leaned into the car window and gently turned her head to face me, then kissed her softly on her closed mouth. Her hand came off the wheel and closed tightly on my arm. I broke the kiss.
“Don’t think, Lorna. Tomorrow at six.”
I ran off in the direction of my car before she could answer.
10
Dudley Smith and his female brood lived in a modest, spacious house a mile south of Westwood Village. I pulled up in front of it with five minutes to spare, wearing my only light-colored suit, which was somewhat wrinkled and soiled. I rang the doorbell and heard myself announced by several girlish giggles:
“Daddy, he’s here!”
“Daddy, your policeman is here!”
“Daddy, visitor, Daddy!”
Curtains were pulled back in the picture window adjoining the doorway. A freckle-faced little girl was staring at me. She stared until I grinned and waved to her. Then she stuck out her tongue and retreated.
Dudley Smith threw open the door a moment later. As usual, he was wearing a brown vested wool suit. In September. The freckle-faced little girl was atop his shoulders, in a pink cotton dress. She giggled down at me.
“Freddy, lad, welcome,” Dudley said, bending over and lowering the little girl to floor level. “Bridget, darling, this grand-looking young gentleman is Officer Fred Underhill. Say hello to Officer Fred, darling.”
“Hello, Officer Fred,” Bridget said, and curtsied.
“Hello, fair Bridget.” I said, bowing.
Dudley was laughing loudly. It almost seemed genuine. “Oh, lad, you’re a heartbreaker, you are. Bridget, get your sisters. They’ll be wanting to meet the young gentleman.”
Bridget scampered off. I felt the momentary loss I sometimes do around big families, then pushed it aside. Dudley seemed to notice my slight change in mood. “A family is something to cherish, lad. You’ll have yours in time, I expect.”
“Maybe,” I said, glancing around at the warmly appointed living room. “Why the light-colored suit, Dudley?”
“Symbolism, lad. You’ll see. Let’s not talk about it here. You’ll find out soon enough.”
Bridget returned with her sisters in tow, all four of them. The girls ranged in age from six to about fourteen. They all wore identical pink cotton dresses and they all looked like soft, pretty versions of Dudley. The Smith girls lined up behind Bridget, the youngest.
Dudley Smith announced proudly, “My daughters, Fred. Bridget, Mary, Margaret, Maureen, and Maidred.”
The girls all curtsied and giggled. I bowed exaggeratedly.
Dudley threw a rough arm around my shoulders. “You mark my words, lassies, this young man will be chief of police someday.” He tightened his grip and my shoulder started to numb. “Now, say goodbye to your old dad and Officer Fred, and wake up your mother, she’s slept long enough.”
“Bye, Daddy. Bye, Officer Fred.”
“Bye-bye, Mr. Officer.”
“Bye-bye.”
The girls all rushed to their father and hugged at his legs and pulled his suit coat. He blew them kisses and shooed them gently inside as he shut the door behind us. Walking across the lawn to my car, Dudley Smith said matter-of-factly, “Now do you know why I hate woman-killers worse than Satan, lad?”
* * *
—
“Drive, lad, and listen,” Dudley was saying. “Yesterday I sent out some queries on handsome Eddie. Edward Thomas Engels, born April 19, 1919, Seattle, Washington. No criminal record, I checked with the feds. Navy service in the war, ’42 to ’46. Good record. Honorable discharge. Our friend was a pharmacist’s mate. I called the L.A. Credit Bureau. He financed two cars with a finance company, and they checked him out. He listed two credit references. That’s who we’re going to see now, lad, known intimates of handsome Eddie.”
We pulled up to the light at Pico and Bundy. I looked to Dudley for some clue to our destination.
“Venice, lad,” he said. “California, not Italy. Keep driving due west.”
“Why the light suit, Dudley?” I tried again.
“Symbolism, lad. We’re going to play good guy–bad guy. This fellow we’re going to see, Lawrence Brubaker, is an old chum of handsome Eddie’s. He owns a bar in Venice. A queer joint. He’s a known homo with a lifetime of lewd conduct arrests. A surefire degenerate. We’ll play with him like an accordion, lad. I’ll browbeat him, you come to his rescue. Just follow my lead, Freddy lad. I trust your instincts.”
I turned left on Lincoln then right on Venice Boulevard, headed for the beach and my first real interrogation. Dudley Smith smoked and stared out the window in abstracted silence. “Pull up to the curb at Windward and Main,” he said finally as we came in view of the ocean. “We’ll walk to the bar, give us time to talk.”
I pulled up and parked in the lot of an American Legion meeting hall, got out, stretched my legs and gulped in the bracing sea air. Dudley got out and clamped me on the back.
“Now listen, lad. I’ve been checking the files for unsolved murders of women that fit handsome Eddie’s M.O. I found three, lad, all choke jobs, as far back as March 1948. One was found three blocks from here, strangled and beaten to death in an alley off Twenty-seventh and Pacific. She was twenty-two, lad. Keep that in mind when we brace this degenerate Brubaker.”
Dudley Smith smiled slowly, a blank-faced, emotionless carnivore smile, and I knew that this was the real man, devoid of all his actor’s conceit. I nodded. “Right, partner,” I said, feeling myse
lf go cold all over.
* * *
—
Larry’s Little Log Cabin was a block from the beach, a pink stucco building with phony redwood swinging doors and a sign over them posting its hours—6:00 a.m. to 2:00 a.m., the maximum allowed by law.
Dudley nudged me as we entered. “It’s only a queer joint at night, lad. In the daytime it’s strictly a hangout for local riffraff. Follow my lead, lad, and don’t upset the locals.”
The room was very narrow, and very dimly lit. There were hunting scenes on the walls and sawdust on the floor. Dudley nudged me again. “Brubaker changes the decor at night, lad, muscle-boy paintings all over the walls. A sergeant from Venice Vice told me.”
There were a half dozen elderly juiceheads sitting at the log-shaped bar, slopping up brew. They looked dejected and meditative at the same time. The bartender was dozing behind the counter. He looked like countermen everywhere—jaded even in sleep. Dudley walked over to the bar and slammed two huge hands down on the wooden surface. The bar reverberated and the early morning drinkers snapped out of their reverie. The bartender’s head jerked back abruptly and he started to stutter: “Y-y-yess, s-s-s-sir?”
“Good morning!” Dudley bellowed musically. “Could you direct me to the proprietor of this fine establishment, Mr. Lawrence Brubaker?”
The barkeep began a stuttering sentence, then thought better of it and pointed to a doorway at the back of the bar. Dudley bowed to the bartender, then propelled me before him in that direction, whispering, “We’re cop antagonists, lad. I’m the pragmatist, you’re the idealist. Brubaker’s a homo and you’re a fine-looking young man. He’ll go for you. If l have to get rough with him, you touch him gently. We have to go about this in a roundabout way. We can’t let him know this is a murder investigation.”
I nodded my head and twisted free of Dudley’s grasp. I felt myself getting very keyed up.
Dudley knocked softly on the door and spoke in an effete American voice, the last syllables strained and upward intoned. “Larry, open up, baby!” A moment later the door was opened by an almost totally bald, blue-eyed, very skinny mulatto who stood there staring at us for a brief instant before cowering backward almost reflexively.