by James Ellroy
Dudley got the proceedings started, banging his huge hands on the little wooden table that held Mike’s stenographic pads.
“Mr. Engels,” he said, “you are probably wondering exactly who we are, and why we brought you here.” He paused and poured gin and Coca-Cola, mixed half and half, into a paper cup and handed it to Engels, who took it and sipped dutifully, dark intelligent eyes glancing around at the four of us.
Dudley cleared his throat and continued. “Let me introduce my colleagues,” he said, “Mr. Carlisle, Los Angeles Police Department; Mr. Breuning, of the district attorney’s office; I am Lieutenant Dudley Smith of the L.A.P.D.; and this gentleman”—he paused and inclined his head toward me—“is Inspector Underhill of the F.B.I.” I almost laughed at my big new promotion, but kept a straight face. “If you have any legal questions, you ask the inspector. He’s an attorney, he’ll be glad to answer them.”
I butted in, somehow wanting to calm Engels before the onslaught of brutality I knew would be coming. “Mr. Engels, you may not know it, but you are acquainted with some people who exist on the edges of the L.A. crime world. We want to question you about these people. Our methods are roundabout, but they work. Just answer our questions and I assure you everything will be all right.”
It was a well-informed, ambiguous stab in the dark, and it hit home. Engels believed me. His features relaxed and he gulped the rest of his drink in relief. Dudley poured him another immediately, this one a good two-thirds gin.
Eddie took two healthy slugs of it and when he spoke, his voice had gone down considerably, almost to the baritone range. “What do you want to know?” he asked.
“Tell us about yourself, lad,” Dudley said.
“What about me?”
“Your life, lad, past and present.”
“Exactly what do you mean, Lieutenant?”
“I mean everything, lad.”
Engels seemed to consider this. He seemed to draw into his memory, and guzzled his gin and Coke to speed his thought processes.
I looked at my watch. It was 7:00 and already getting hot in the sordid little room. I took off my suit coat and rolled up my shirtsleeves. I felt tired, having gone more than twenty-four hours without sleep. Almost as if in answer, Mike Breuning switched on a portable fan and handed me a cup of lukewarm coffee. Dudley poured Engels a cupful of pure gin.
“Your life story, lad,” he said. “We’re all dying to hear it.”
* * *
—
“Mom and Dad were good people,” Eddie began, his voice taking on the stentorian tone of one explaining profound intrinsic truth. “They still are, I guess. I’m from Seattle. Mom and Dad were born in Germany. They came here before the First World War. They—”
“Were you a happy youngster, Eddie?” Dudley interrupted.
Engels sipped his gin, wincing slightly at the full-strength bitterness. “Sure, sure, I was a happy kid. A good sport. An ace gent. I had a dog, I had a treehouse, I had a bike. Dad was a good guy. He never hit me. He was a pharmacist. He never sent Ma or me to the doctor. He fixed us up with this stuff from the pharmacy. Sometimes it had dope in it. Once Ma took some and had these religious hallucinations. She said she saw Jesus walking Miffy—that’s another dog we had who got run over. She said Miffy could talk and wanted her to become a Catholic and work at this pet cemetery outside of town. Dad never gave Ma any more of the stuff after that; he hated Catholics. Dad was an ace guy with me but he was tough as nails with my sister, Lillian. He wouldn’t let her date guys, he was always prowling around this flower shop where she worked to make sure no mashers were trying to date her. Dad was an old-fashioned Kraut. He hated guys who chased tail. He didn’t want me to chase tail, he wanted me to marry some Kraut bimbo and go to pharmacist school.”
Engels paused and downed the rest of his gin. His body shook and I could see that he was getting drunk, smiling crookedly, his face glazing over with sentiment. Dudley refilled his cup.
“But you wanted to chase tail, right, Eddie?” I said.
Engels laughed and guzzled gin. “Right,” he slurred, “and I wanted out of that fucking dead-dog town, Seattle. Nothing but rain and dead dogs and pharmacies and ugly tail. U-u-u-gly! Woo! I had the best tail Seattle had to offer and it was worse than the lowest piece of Hollywood ass. U-u-ugly!”
“So you moved to L.A.?” Mike interjected.
“Fuck, no! The fucking Japs bombed Pearl Harbor and I got drafted. The navy. Dad said I looked like Donald Duck in my uniform. I said he looked like Mickey Mouse in that smock he wore at the pharmacy. He didn’t want me to go. He tried to fix it so I could stay in Seattle. He tried to hand the appeals board this hardship caper, but it didn’t work. But Dad got poetic justice. They made me a pharmacist’s mate. He called me Doctor Duck.”
Eddie Engels doubled over with laughter on the mattress, then jolted up and vomited on the floor, his head between his knees, his hands hanging limply by his sides. He had knocked over his glass of gin, and when he looked up he banged a drunken hand all over the mattress looking for it. He found the glass on the floor in a pool of vomit, picked it up and waved it at Dudley.
“Gimme a refill, Lieutenant. Pharmacist’s Mate Engels, 416-8395 requests a fucking drink on the double!”
Dudley gladly obliged him, this time filling the glass half full. Engels grabbed it and bolted the liquid, falling back onto the mattress and muttering, “Lotsa tail, lotsa tail,” before he passed out.
* * *
—
Eddie Engels woke up some six hours later, panicked and dehydrated to the bone. His eyes were feverish and his voice tremulous and raspy.
Dudley had outlined his plan while Engels was passed out: good guy–bad guy, with modifications. He had gotten a list of known bookmakers, homosexuals, and fences from the dicks at Hollywood Division, figuring Engels would have to know some of them. Throwing these names at Eddie would keep him from guessing why he was really in custody. It sounded like a good, if time-consuming, plan. I had rested during the afternoon and was up for it. But I wanted it to be over, and fast: I wanted to be with Lorna.
As Engels came awake, Mike Breuning was just returning with two big paper bags stuffed with hamburgers, French fries, and coffee in paper cups. We dug in and ignored our prisoner on the mattress.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” he said meekly. No one answered him. He tried again. “I have to go to the bathroom.” We ignored him again. “I said I have to go to the bathroom!” This time his panicked voice intoned upward sharply.
“Then go to the bathroom, for Christ’s sake!” Dudley bellowed.
Engels got up from his resting place and wobbled into the filthy lavatory. We could hear the sound of him vomiting into the toilet bowl, then running water and urinating. He came back a moment later, having discarded his vomit-soaked pajama top. His lean, muscular torso had been given a quick washing. He shivered in the late afternoon heat of the smelly little room.
“I’m ready to answer your questions, Officers,” he said. “Please let me answer them so I can go home.”
“Shut up, Engels,” Dudley said. “We’ll get to you when we’re damn good and ready.”
“Ease off, Lieutenant,” I said. “Don’t worry, Mr. Engels, we’ll be right with you. Would you like a hamburger?” Engels shook his head and stared at us.
We finished our dinner. Dick Carlisle announced that he was going for a walk, and got up and left the room. Mike, Dudley, and I arranged three chairs around the mattress. Engels had backed himself up against the wall. He sat Indian-style, with his hands jammed under his knees to control their trembling. We took our seats facing him and stared at him for a long moment before Dudley spoke: “Your name?”
Our prisoner cleared his throat: “Edward Engels.”
“Your address?”
“1911 Horn, West Hollywood.”
“Your age?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Your occupation?”
Engels hesitated. “Real estate liaison,” he said.
“What the hell is a ‘real estate liaison’?” Dudley barked.
Engels groped for words. “Come on, man!” Dudley shouted.
“Ease off, Lieutenant,” I said. “Mr. Engels, would you explain your duties in that capacity?”
“I…I…uh, help close real estate deals.”
“Which entails?” I asked.
“Which entails fixing up buyers with real estate people.”
“I see. Well, could you—”
Dudley cut in. “Horseshit, Inspector. This guy is a known gambler. I’ve got reports on him from bookies all over Hollywood. In fact, I’ve got several witnesses who say he’s a bookie himself.”
“That’s not true,” Engels cried. “I bet the ponies, but I don’t book any action with bookies or make book myself, and I’m clean with the cops! I’ve got no criminal record!”
“The hell you say, Engels! I know better!”
I raised my hands and called for order. “That’s enough! That’s enough from both of you! Now, Mr. Engels, betting the horses is not illegal. Lieutenant Smith just got carried away because he hasn’t picked any winners lately. Would you call yourself a winning gambler?”
“Yes, I’m a winner.”
“Do you earn more at gambling than at your real estate job?”
Engels hesitated. “Yes,” he said.
“Do you list these winnings on your income tax returns?” I asked.
“Uh…no.”
“What did you file as your total income on this year’s return?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about 1950?”
“I don’t know.”
“1949?”
“I don’t know.”
“1948?”
“I don’t remember.”
“1947?”
“I don’t know!”
“1946?”
“I don’t…I was in the navy then…I forget.”
Dudley butted in: “You do pay income tax, don’t you, Engels?”
Engels hung his head between his legs. “No,” he said.
“You realize that income tax evasion is a federal crime, don’t you, Engels?” Dudley continued, pressing.
“Yes.”
“I pay income tax, so does the inspector, so do all good law-abiding citizens. What the hell makes you so special that you think you don’t have to?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ease off, Lieutenant,” I said. “Mr. Engels wants to cooperate. Mr. Engels, I’m going to name some people. Tell me of your association with them.”
Engels nodded dumbly. Dudley handed me a carefully typed slip of paper broken down into three columns headed: “Gamblers,” “Bookmakers,” and “Hollywood Vice offenders.” I started with the gamblers. Mike Breuning got out his steno pad and poised his pencil over it. Dudley lit a cigarette for himself and one for Engels, who accepted it gratefully.
“Okay, Mr. Engels, listen carefully: James Babij, Leslie ‘Scribe’ Thomas, James Gillis, Walter Snyder, Willard Dolphine. Any of those names sound familiar?”
Engels nodded confidently. “Those guys are high rollers, big spenders at Santa Anita. Entrepreneurs, you know what I mean?”
“Yes. Are you intimate with any of them?”
“What do you mean ‘intimate’?” Engels narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“I mean have you gambled with any of these men? Have you entertained any of them in your home?”
“Oh, no. I just see those guys at the track, maybe they buy me a drink at the Turf Club, maybe I buy them one. That kind of thing.”
“All right,” I said, smiling and going to the list of the bookies. “William Curran, Louis Washington, ‘Slick’ Dellacroccio, ‘Zoomer’ Murphy, Frank Deffry, Gerald ‘Smiler’ Chamales, Bruno Earle, Duane ‘The Brain’ Tucker, Fred ‘Fat Man’ Vestal, Mark ‘The Gimp’ McGuire. Ring any bells, Mr. Engels?”
“Lotsa bells, Inspector. Those bimbos are all West L.A. handbooks. Cocktail lounge sharpies. Mark ‘The Gimp’ pimps n——— broads on the side. They’re all small potatoes, strictly from nowhereville.” Engels smiled at his captors cockily. He was starting to feel confident of our purpose. All three of us gave him a deadpan. It made him nervous. “Freddy Vestal pushes reefers, I heard talk,” he blurted out.
I gave Engels a winning smile. “All right now, let’s try these: Pat Morneau, ‘Scooter’ Coleman, Jack Foster, Lawrence Brubaker, Al Bay, Jim Waldleigh, Brett Caldwell, Jim Joslyn.”
Engels went ashen-faced. He swallowed several times, and, recovering quickly, threw out a smile that was pure charm, pure bravado. “Don’t know those guys, Inspector, sorry.”
Dudley went on the attack, saying very softly, “Do you know who those men are, Engels?”
“No.”
“Those men are known degenerates—pansies, sissies, nancy boys, queers, homos, faggots, pederasts, and punks. They all have long rap sheets with the Vice squads of every police agency in L.A. County. They all frequent queer bars in West Hollywood. Places we know you frequent, Engels. Half of those men have identified you from photographs. Half—”
“What photographs?!” Engels screeched. “I’m clean! I ain’t got a police record. This is all a lie! This is—”
I entered the fray: “Mr. Engels, just let me ask you once, for our official records: are you homosexual?”
“Fuck, no!” Eddie Engels practically screamed.
“All right. Thank you.”
“Inspector,” Dudley said calmly, “I don’t buy it. We know for a fact that he’s tight with this homo, Lawrence Brubaker. We know—”
“Larry Brubaker was an old navy buddy! We were stationed together at the Long Beach yard during the war!” Engels was sweating, his face and torso were popping sweat from every pore. I handed him a glass of water. He gulped it down in one second flat, then looked to me for support.
“I believe you,” I said. “You used to live near his bar in Venice, right?”
“Right! With a woman. I was shacked with her. I tell you I dig women. Ask Janet, she’ll tell you!”
“Janet?” I asked innocently.
“Janet Valupeyk. She’s the dame I do the real estate gig with. She’ll tell you. We shacked together for two years, she’ll tell you.”
“All right, Mr. Engels.”
“Not all right, Inspector,” Dudley said, his voice rising in pitch and timbre, “not all right at all. We have witnesses who place this degenerate at known queers bars like the Hub, the Black Cat, Sergio’s Hideaway, the Silver Star, the Knight in Armor, and half the homo hangouts in the Valley.”
“No, no, no!” Engels was shaking his head frantically in denial.
I raised my voice and glared sternly at Dudley. “This time you’ve gone too far, Lieutenant. You’ve been badly misinformed. The Silver Star isn’t a homosexual hangout—I’ve been there myself, many times. It’s just a congenial neighborhood cocktail lounge.”
Engels grabbed at what he thought was a life raft. “That’s right! I been there myself, lotsa times.”
“To place bets?” I interjected.
“Hell no, to chase tail. I picked up lots of good stuff there.” Unaware that he was hanging himself, Engels rambled on, squirming on the now sweat-drenched mattress. “I scored in half the juke joints in Hollywood. Queer, shit! Somebody’s been feeding you guys the wrong dope! I’m a veteran. Larry Brubaker’s queer, but I just used him, borrowed money from him. He didn’t try no queer stuff with me! You ask Janet. You ask her!” Engels was addressing all his remarks to me now. It was obvious he considered me his savior. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dudley draw his finger across his thro
at.
“Mr. Engels,” I said, “let’s take a break for a while, shall we? Why don’t you take a rest?”
Engels nodded. I went into the bathroom and wet a paper napkin in the sink. I tossed it to him and he swabbed his face and upper body with it.
“Rest, Eddie,” I said, smiling down at the handsome killer.
He nodded again and hid his face in his hands.
“I’m going for a walk,” I announced to Dudley and Mike Breuning. I grabbed a container of cold coffee and a cold hamburger and walked outside.
A Santa Ana wind had come up, and the shabby front lawn was littered with a fresh array of debris. Palm fronds had blown out onto the sidewalk. The wind had cleared all traces of smog from the air, and the twilight sky was a pure light blue tinged with the remnants of a pink sun.
I tried to eat my burger, but it was too greasy and cold, and my nervous stomach balked. I threw the sandwich to the ground and sipped my coffee, pondering the rituals of justice.
Dudley came out a minute later. “Our friend is asleep, lad,” he said. “Mike slipped him a Mickey Finn. He’ll wake up in about four hours or so with a devilish headache. Then I’ll go to work on him.”
“Where’s Carlisle?”
“He’s going through handsome Eddie’s apartment. He should be back soon. How do you feel, lad?”
“Expectant. Anxious for it to be over.”
“Soon, lad, soon. I’m going to have at that monster for a good long time. You stay out until I take off my necktie. Then you intervene. Meet force with force, lad, be it verbal or physical. Do you follow?”
“Yes.”
“Ahhh, grand. You are a brilliant young policeman, Freddy. Do you know that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ve wanted a protégé like you for a long time, lad. Mike and Dick are good cops, but they’ve got no brains, no imagination. You have a spark, a brilliant one.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you look so glum?”
“I’m wondering how I’ll like the detective bureau.”
“You’ll like it fine. It’s the cream of the department. Now get some rest.”