Silent Partner

by Jonathan Kellerman

  He turned to Milo, shook one finger. “You were always insensitive. There I was fading away and all you could think of was your cock.”

  “Don't make it sound life-threatening, Ellston. You had an upset stomach. Gas. Too much menudo, not enough fiber.”

  “So you say.” To me: “Got your work cut out for you, shrink. That is one big frigging piece of work sitting next to you—take you years just to get through the top layer of denial.”

  “Belding,” said Milo. “Or give back the bread.”

  “Belding,” repeated Crotty. “A capitalist. Vicious. Because he was a latent. I know what that does to a person.” He got up, looked over a group of boxes on the floor, went down on his knees in front of one of them and pawed through it with both hands.

  “Here we go,” said Milo.

  Crotty pulled out a brown cloth scrapbook, flipped pages, wiped his forehead, then sat down next to me and pointed.

  “There.”

  His fingertip rested next to a snapshot of a young man in police uniform. Black-and-white, sawtooth edges, just like the one of Sharon and Shirlee.

  The young man wore a police uniform, stood next to a patrol car on a palm-lined street. His features were delicate, almost girlish, his eyes big and round. Innocent. Thick, wavy dark hair parted in the middle, a dimple on his right cheek. A pretty boy—the easily bruised countenance of a young Monty Clift.

  “Glom this,” said Crotty and pointed to another photo on the page. Same man in civilian attire, standing next to the Dodge I'd just seen in the driveway. He wore sports clothes and had his arm around the waist of a girl. She wore a halter and shorts, was shapely. Her face had been scratched out with a ballpoint pen.

  “I was some piece of beef back then,” said Crotty. He yanked the book away, snapped it shut, and tossed it on the floor.

  “Those were taken in '45. I was just out of Uncle Sam's Navy, earned ribbons in the Pacific, thought I was God's gift to women and kept telling myself that those little shipboard episodes with the cook—sweaty Swedish meatball—had been just a bad dream. No matter that doing it with him had felt the way love should feel, and all the frails I nailed had a better time than I did.”

  He tapped his chest. “I was as sweet as Mary Pickford but trying to convince myself I was frigging Gary Cooper. So what better job for an overcompensating macho buck than to wear blue and carry a big stick?”

  He laughed. “Day I got my discharge papers, I applied to the force. Day I finished the academy I thought I was King Hetero Stud. Being Butch Blue was going to solve all my problems. The brass took one look at me and knew exactly where to send me. Toilet decoy in MacArthur Park till all the local queers made me, then gay-bar detail over in Hollywood. I was great, busted more faggots than any other piece of bait. Got promoted, assigned to Vice, spent the next ten years of my life busting more faggots—busting myself, drinking it off every night. I made detective in record time but was nothing more than a frigging lure—kissed up to so many sad suckers my lips started to callous. Vice loved me. I was their frigging secret weapon, batting my lashes, breaking up private parties up in the hills, rousting raucous black-and-tans out in the colored districts—that gave the other pigs the chance to break some nappy heads.”

  He reached over, took hold of my collar, opened his good eye wide. He was sweating and seemed to have gone pale, though in the dim light it was hard to be sure.

  “Know the reason I was so frigging good, Curly? 'Cause deep down inside I wasn't acting Slam, bam, out in the alley, then here come the other Vice pigs with their saps and their sticks. Another meat wagon full of faggots expressed to County Lockup, black-and-blue, puking blood. Once in a while one of them would hang himself in his cell. The Vice boys would say good riddance, less paperwork. I'd laugh the loudest, chug-a-lug the fastest.”

  His mustache quivered. “For ten years I was an accessory to the assault and murder of gay men, never stopped to wonder why I was going home each night, puking my own guts out and drinking gin until I could feel my liver sizzling.”

  He let go of my collar. Milo was looking the other way, staring off into space.

  “I was eating myself up is why,” said Crotty. “Until I took a vacation down south—Tijuana. Crossed the border looking for action, got stoned drunk in a cantina watching a donkey mount a woman, stumbled outside and asked a cabbie to take me to a whorehouse. But the cabbie wasn't fooled. Drove me to a crappy little place on the outskirts of town. Cardboard walls painted turquoise, chickens outside the door and in. Twenty-four hours later I knew who I was, knew I was trapped. What I didn't know was how to get out of it.”

  He folded and unfolded the money, finally crumpled it in his fist. “No guts for quick suicide, I kept pouring the sauce down. Wasn't till a year later—February—that opportunity knocked. Someone tipped Vice to a big soiree out on Cahuenga—absinthe drinkers and dancing boys, an all-sweet jazz band, things in drag smoking reefer. I sailed in wearing a boatnecked sailor shirt, red scarf—this frigging scarf. Inside of thirty seconds I'd snagged a fish—good-looking blond kid, Ivy League get-up, rosy cheeks. Took him outside, made sure to unlock the door, let him kiss me, then stood there fighting not to cry as he got beat up. They broke the whole place open, tore the frigging house apart, but I just sat on the sidelines, only got credit for the blond kid's bust.”

  He stopped, wiped his brow again. “Early the next morning I showed up to process the paper on him but they were gone and so was he. I got pissed, checked it out, found out he was the son of a city councilman, champion athlete, high school valedictorian, Harvard sophomore, BMOC. Leverage. I got off the force with honorable discharge, full pension plus another chunk of cash for ‘disability' settlement. The blond kid went back to Boston, married money, had four kids, ran a bank. I bought El Rancho Illegalo, here, learned about myself, tried to undo ten years by helping others—giving wisdom to those who take it.” He glared at Milo, who ignored him, then turned back to me. “Happy ending, right, Dr. Psychology?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Then you guess wrong, because at this very moment that blond kid is stretched out on a sanitarium bed out in Altadena, dying of AIDS, frigging skeleton. Dying alone because wifey and the four kids have cut him off like an obscene phone call. I found out through the network, been seeing him. Saw him yesterday, in fact, and changed his frigging diapers.”

  Milo cleared his throat. Crotty turned on him.

  “God forbid you should get involved with the network, Lump. Maybe reach out to help someone. Perish the thought you should admit to sizzling your liver 'cause you don't know who you are.”

  “Belding,” said Milo, taking out his note pad. “That's what we're here to talk about.”

  “Ah,” said Crotty disgustedly.

  No one spoke for a while.

  “Mr. Crotty,” I said, “why do you think Belding was latent?”

  The old man coughed, waved his hand. “Ahh, who the hell knows. Maybe he wasn't. Maybe I'm full of shit. One thing I can tell you, he was no stud, despite how the papers played up his dating all those actresses. I did meet him. At a party. He used to hire off-duty cops for security. And sometimes not so off-duty—the department was in to him in a big way, kissing his rich ass until it sparkled.”

  “Be specific,” said Milo.

  “Yeah, right. Okay, one time, must have been back in '49 or '50, I got pulled off a child-molesting case and assigned to one of his bashes out in Bel Air—priorities, eh? Big charity thing, full orchestra, all the best folks tooting and shuffling, lots of female flesh, plenty of cloak-room clinches. But all Stud Belding did was watch everyone else. That's what he was—a watcher. Like some frigging camera on legs. I remember thinking what a cold bastard he was—repressing. Latent.”

  “That's what you meant by meeting him?”

  “Yeah. We shook frigging hands, okay?”

  “Why'd you call him vicious?” I said.

  “I call killing vicious.”

  “Who'd he kill?” asked
Milo.

  Crotty wiped his brow and coughed. “Thousands of people, Lump—all the ones his frigging planes bombed.”

  Milo looked disgusted. “Thanks for the political commentary. Anything more you want to tell us about Belding?”

  “I told you plenty.”

  “How about his sidekick, Vidal?”

  “Billy the Pimp? He was at that party too. Very suave. Good teeth. Excellent-looking teeth.”

  “Anything else besides his dental health?”

  “He was supposed to be the one who supplied Belding with the girls.”

  “What about the War Board parties?” asked Milo. “The ones Belding got investigated for. Did the department do guard duty on those?”

  “Wouldn't surprise me. Like I said, the department was in to him.”

  “Name names,” said Milo, pencil poised.

  “It was a frigging long time ago, Lump.”

  “Listen, Ellston, I didn't pay a hundred to get stuff I can get in the locker room.”

  Crotty smiled. “Guy in your situation, Lump, doesn't get anything in the locker room.”

  Milo ran his hand over his face. A knot swelled his jawline.

  “Okay, okay,” said Crotty. “The two I'm sure were in Belding's pocket were a couple of shits named Hummel and DeGranzfeld. Working Ad-Vice when I came on—as head crackers. Soon after, Hummel was transferred out to be the chief's chauffeur. A year later he was a lieutenant out at Newton Division, which was a hell of a match because he was a racist pig, used to go down to Main Street and beat colored whores to a pulp. Wore pigskin gloves—said he wanted to avoid infection.”

  “How do you know he and the other guy were Belding's boys?”

  “It was obvious from the way they moved up fast without earning it—they were connected. And both of them always dressed good, ate good. DeGranzfeld had a big house out in Alhambra, horses, orchard land. You didn't have to be Sherlock to see they were in somebody's pocket.”

  “Lots of pockets besides Belding's.”

  “Let me frigging finish, Lump. Later, both of them quit the force and went to work for Belding at probably six times the salary, all the graft they could eat.”

  “First names,” said Milo, writing.

  “Royal Hummel. Victor DeGranzfeld—Sticky Vicky we used to call him. He was a twerp and a sneak, too yellow-bellied to get physical but just as sadistic as Hummel. When he worked Vice he was head bagman, coordinated collections from all the downtown bookies and pimps. When Hummel moved to Newton he had DeGranzfeld transferred over there as day-watch commander. Bosom buddies, probably a couple of latents themselves. Later both of them were picked to head Metro Narcotics—this was in the early fifties, there was a big dope panic, and the department knew it could get funding increases by making big busts.”

  “All right,” said Milo. “Let's talk about the houses Belding owned—the party pads. Know where any of them were located?”

  Crotty laughed. “Party pads? Isn't that sweet? Where'd you come up with that, Lump? Party pads. They were fuck pads—everyone called 'em that, 'cause that's what Mr. Leland Belding used 'em for. Brought bigwigs there, had a stable of bimboes all set to clean their pipes until they were ready to sign on any frigging dotted line. And no, I don't know any locations. Never got invited to those soirees.”

  He got up, sidestepped a wall of boxes, and went through a doorway into what I assumed was the kitchen.

  Milo said, “Sorry you had to hear his life story.”

  “It's okay. It was interesting.”

  “Not after the thousandth time.”

  “You bad-mouthing me?” Crotty had come out of the kitchen, was glaring at us, a glass of water in one hand, the other balled up in a fist.

  “No,” said Milo. “Just admiring the decor.”

  “Hah!” The old man opened his free hand, revealing a palmful of pills.

  “Vitamins,” he said and swallowed some of them. He washed them down, grimaced, swallowed some more, and rubbed his abdomen. “I'm getting tired. Get the hell out of here and let me get some rest.”

  “Tab's not run yet,” said Milo.

  “Make it snappy.”

  “Got a couple more names for you. Actress named Linda Lanier, rumored to be one of Belding's bimboes. And some doctor she screwed on a stag film—give him the physical description, Alex.”

  As I did, Crotty lost color and put the glass down on a crate. Wiped his forehead, seemed to lose balance, and rested his hands on the back of a moth-eaten settee. He puffed out his cheeks.

  Milo said, “Let's have it, Ellston.”

  “Why're you poking around in the dead-letter pile, Lump?”

  Milo shook his head. “You know the rules.”

  “Sure, sure. Come here and squeeze me, then throw me a few crumbs.”

  “A hundred buys a lot of squeeze,” said Milo, but he pulled out his wallet and gave the old man more money.

  Crotty looked surprised. He stared at the bills.

  “Linda Lanier,” said Milo. “And the doctor in the film.”

  “In reference to Belding?” asked Crotty.

  “In reference to anything. Spit it out, Ellston. Then we'll leave you to dream of your Swede.”

  “You should know such dreams,” said Crotty. He looked at the floor, rubbed his mustache, crossed his legs. “Linda Lanier. Well, well, well. Everything comes around in a circle, doesn't it? Like my little blond banker and everything else in this frigging world.”

  He straightened, stood, made his way to the gray piano, sat down and picked off a couple of notes. The instrument was badly out of tune. He extracted a dissonant boogie-woogie with his left hand, random high notes with his right.

  Then, as abruptly as he'd begun, he stopped and said, “This is terribly weird, Lump. If I didn't know better, I'd start using words like destiny—not that I'd want you in my destiny.” He played several bars of slow blues, let his hands fall to his sides. “Lanier and the doctor—you say they did it on film?”

  Milo nodded and pointed to me. “He saw it.”

  “She was beautiful, wasn't she?”

  I said, “Yes, she was.”

  “C'mon,” said Milo, “spit it out.”

  Crotty gave a weak smile. “I fibbed, Lump. When you asked me about Belding being a killer. I fudged with that political shit because I didn't know what alley cat you were chasing. Actually I meant it literally, but I didn't want to get into it—nothing I could ever prove.”

  “You don't have to prove a goddam thing,” said Milo. “Just tell me what you know.” He peeled off more bills. Crotty snatched them.

  “Your doctor,” he said, “sounds exactly like a guy named Neurath. Donald Neurath, M.D. You described him to a T, Curly, and I know he and Linda Lanier had a thing going.”

  “How do you know that?” said Milo.

  Crotty looked ill-at-ease.

  “C'mon, Ellston.”

  “Okay, okay. One of my assignments, when I wasn't snaring faggots, was working the Scraper Club detail—illegal abortions. Back in those days there were three ways for a girl in trouble to go: coat hanger in the alley, some butcher in a white coat, or a bona fide medico moonlighting for big bucks. Neurath was one of the bona fides—plenty of doctors did it. But it was still a Class A felony, meaning excellent payoff potential for the department.

  “There was an approved group of abortionists—we used to call it the Scraper Club—maybe twenty or so doctors, spread all over the city, respectable guys with established practices. They kicked back a percentage of their fees in return for protection by Vice and a guarantee that anyone not in the club would get busted hard and fast. And it worked. There was this one guy, osteopath out in the Valley, tried to muscle in on one of the approved guys' business by charging half as much for a scrape. A week after he started, they busted him—using a female cop who just happened to be pregnant. Bail denied, stuck in a county cell with hardcases. While he was in lockup, his office got torched and someone scared his daughter while she w
as walking home from school.”

  “Pretty,” said Milo.

  “That's the way it was back then, Lump. Are you sure it's that much better now?”

  “You're positive this Neurath was a member of the club.”

  “I know it for a fact because I picked up moolah from his office. Big fancy suite on Wilshire near Western.” He stopped, stared at Milo. “That's right, I played bagman too. Not my favorite frigging assignment, but I had enough on my mind without worrying about some penny-ante payoff for something that was gonna happen anyway. Hell, today a kid can walk into a clinic and leave scraped, half-hour later. So what's the big deal, right?”

  Milo said, “Keep talking.”

  Crotty gave him a sour look. “We conducted our business after hours, no one around. I'd ride the elevator up to his office, make sure I was alone, give a coded knock on the door. Once I was in, neither of us would talk—pretending it wasn't happening. He'd hand me a manila envelope; I'd do a superficial count and be off.”

  “What kind of doctor was he?”

  “Obstetrician. Nice little irony there, eh? Neurath giveth, Neurath taketh away.”

  “What about him and Lanier?”

  “One evening, after I picked up the loot, I went down the block to this Chinese place to have a little moo-goo and rice wine before heading back. I was sitting in a back booth when in walks Neurath with this platinum-blond dish. It was dark; they didn't notice me. She had her arm in his—they were looking pretty cozy. They took a table across the room, sat close together, talking pretty intense. The old piece-on-the-side routine, except this dish was really elegant-looking, no tramp. Few minutes later she got up to go to the ladies' room and I got a good look at her face. It was then that I recognized her—from Belding's party. She'd been wearing a black dress—no back, very little front, lots of mink trim. Because of the mink, I'd figured her for a rich brat. She'd stuck in my mind because she was gorgeous, really gorgeous. Perfect face, delicious body. But elegant. Classy.”