by James Ellroy
Hudgens winked.
Jack wondered if he had it _all_ down on paper.
CHAPTER FOUR
The party in full swing, the muster room SRO.
An open bar: scotch, bourbon, a case of rum Trashcan Jack Vincennes brought in. Dick Stensland's brew in the water cooler: Old Crow, eggnog mix. A phonograph spewed dirty Christmas carols: Santa and his reindeer fucking and sucking. The floor was packed: nightwatch blues, the Central squad--thirsty from chasing vagrants.
Bud watched the crowd. Fred Turentine tossed darts at Wanted posters; Mike Krugman and Walt Dukeshearer played "Name That Nigger," trying to ID Negro mugshots at a quarter a bet. Jack Vincennes was drinking club soda; Lieutenant Frieling was passed out at his desk. Ed Exley tried to quiet the men down, gave up, stuck to the lock-up: logging in prisoners, filing arrest reports.
Almost every man was drunk or working on it.
Almost every man was talking up Helenowski and Brownell, the cop beaters in custody, the two still at large.
Bud stood by the window. Garbled rumors tweaked him: Brownie Brownell had his lip split up through his nose, one of the taco benders chewed off Helenowski's left ear. Dick Stens grabbed a shotgun, went spic hunting. He credited that one: he'd seen Dick carrying an Ithaca pump out to the parking lot. The noise was getting brutal--Bud walked out to the lot, lounged against a prowler.
A drizzle started up. A ruckus by the jail door--Dick Stens shoving two men inside. A scream; Bud cut odds on Stens finishing out his twenty: with him watchdogging, even money; without him, two to one against. From the muster room: Frank Doherty's tenor, a weepy "Silver Bells."
Bud moved away from the music--it made him think of his mother. He lit a cigarette, thought of her anyway.
He'd seen the killing: sixteen years old, helpless to stop it. The old man came home; he must have believed his son's warning: you touch Mother again and I will kill you. Asleep--cuffs on his wrists and ankles, awake--he saw the fuck beat Mother dead with a tire iron. He screamed his throat raw; he stayed cuffed in the room with the body: a week, no water, delirious--he watched his mother rot. A truant officer found him; the L.A. Sheriff's found the old man. The trial, a diminished capacity defense, a plea bargain down to Manslaughter Two. Life imprisonment, the old man paroled in twelve years. His son--Officer Wendell White, LAPD--decided to kill him.
The old man was nowhere.
He'd jumped parole; prowling his L.A. haunts turned up nothing. Bud kept looking, kept waking to the sound of women screaming. He always investigated; it was always just wisps of noise. Once he kicked in a door and found a woman who'd burned her hand. Once he crashed in on a husband and wife making love.
The old man was nowhere.
He made the Bureau, partnered up with Dick Stens. Dick showed him the ropes, heard out his story, told him to pick his shots to get even. Pops would stay nowhere, but thumping wife beaters might drive the nightmares out of his system. Bud picked a great first shot: a domestic squawk, the complainant a longtime punching bag, the arrestee a three-time loser. He detoured on the way to the station, asked the guy if he'd like to tango with a man for a change: no cuffs, a walk on the charge if he won. The guy agreed; Bud broke his nose, his jaw, ruptured his spleen with a dropkick. Dick was right: his bad dreams stopped.
His rep as _the_ toughest man in the LAPD grew.
He kept it up; he followed up: intimidation calls if the fuckers got acquitted, welcome home strongarms if they did time and got parole. He forced himself not to take gratitude lays and found women elsewhere. He kept a list of court and parole dates and sent the fuckers postcards at the honor farm; he got hit with excessive-force complaints and toughed them out. Dick Stens made him a decent detective; now he played nursemaid to his teacher: keeping him half sober on duty, holding him back when he got a hard-on to shoot for kicks. He'd learned to keep himself in check; Stens was now all bad habits: scrounging at bars, letting stick-up men slide for snitch dope.
The music inside went off key--wrong, not really music. Bud caught screeches--screams from the jail.
The noise doubled, tripled. Bud saw a stampede: muster room to cellblock. A flash: Stens going crazy, booze, a jamboree--bash the cop bashers. He ran over, hit the door at a sprint.
The catwalk packed tight, cell doors open, lines forming. Exley shouting for order, pressing into the swarm, getting nowhere. Bud found the prisoner list; checkmarks after "Sanchez, Dinardo," "Carbijal, Juan," "Garcia, Ezekiel," "Chasco, Reyes," "Rice, Dennis," "Valupeyk, Clinton"--all six cop beaters in custody.
The bums in the drunk cage egged the men on.
Stens hit the #4 cell--waving brass knucks.
Willie Tristano pinned Exley to the wall; Crum Crumley grabbed his keys.
Cops shoved cell to cell. Elmer Lentz, blood splattered, grinning. Jack Vincennes by the watch commander's office-- Lieutenant Frieling snoring at his desk.
Bud stormed into it.
He caught elbows going in; the men saw who it was and cleared a path. Stens slid into 3; Bud pushed in. Dick was working a skinny pachuco--head saps--the kid on his knees, catching teeth. Bud grabbed Stensland; the Mex spat blood. "Heey, Mister White. I knowww you, _puto_. You beat up my frien' Caldo 'cause he whipped his _puto_ wife. She was a fuckin' hooer, _pendejo_. Ain' you got no fuckin' brains?"
Bud let Stens go; the Mex gave him the finger. Bud kicked him prone, picked him up by the neck. Cheers, attaboys, holy fucks. Bud banged the punk's head on the ceiling; a bluesuit moved in hard. Ed Exley's rich-kid voice: "Stop it, Officer--that's an order!"
The Mex kicked him in the balls--a dangling shot. Bud keeled into the bars; the kid stumbled out of the cell, smack into Vincennes. Trashcan, aghast--blood on his cashmere blazer. He put the punk down with a left-right; Exley ran out of the cellblock.
Yells, shouts, shrieks: louder than a thousand Code 3 sirens.
Stens whipped out a pint of gin. Bud saw every man there skunked to niggertown forever. Up on his tiptoes, a prime view--Exley dumping booze in the storeroom.
Voices: attaboy, Big Bud. Faces to the voices--skewed, wrong. Exley still dumping, Mr. Teetotaler Witness. Bud ran down the catwalk, locked him in tight.
CHAPTER FIVE
Shut into a room eight feet square. No windows, no telephone, no intercom. Shelves spilling forms, mops, brooms, a clogged-up sink filled with vodka and rum. The door was steel-reinforced; the liquor stew smelled like vomit. Shouts and thudding sounds- boomed through a heat vent.
Ed banged on the door--no response. He yelled into the vent--hot air hit his face. He saw himself pinioned and pickpocketed, Bureau guys who figured he'd never squeal. He wondered what his father would do.
Time dragged; the jail noise stopped, fired up, stopped, started. Ed banged on the door--no luck. The room went hot; booze stench smothered the air. Ed felt Guadalcanal: hiding from the Japs, bodies piled over him. His uniform was sopping wet; if he shot the lock the bullets could ricochet off the plating and kill him. The beatings had to go wide: an I.A. investigation, civil suits, the grand jury. Police brutality charges; careers flushed down the toilet. Sergeant Edmund J. Exley crucified because he could not maintain order. Ed made a decision: fight back with his brains.
He wrote on the back of official departmental forms--version one, the truth:
A rumor started it: John Helenowski lost an eye. Sergeant Richard Stensland logged in Rice, Dennis, and Valupeyk, Clinton--he spread the word. It ignited all at once; Lieutenant Frieling, the watch commander, was asleep, unconscious from drinking alcohol on duty in violation of interdeparmental regulation 4319. Now in charge, Sergeant E. J. Exley found his office keys misplaced. The bulk of the men attending the station Christmas party stormed the cellblock. The cells containing the six alleged assaulters were opened with the misplaced keys. Sergeant Exley attempted to relock those cells, but the beatings had already commenced and Sergeant Willis Tristano held Sergeant Exley while Sergeant Walter Crumley stole the spare keys attached to his belt.
Serge
ant Exley did not use force to get the spare keys back.
More details:
Stensland going crazy, policemen beating helpless prisoners. Bud White: lifting a squirming man, one hand on his neck.
Sergeant Exley ordering Officer White to stop; Officer White ignoring the order; Sergeant Exley relieved when the prisoner freed himself and eliminated the need for a further confrontation.
Ed winced, kept writing--12/25/51, the Central Jail assaults in detail. Probable grand jury indictments, interdepartmental trial boards--Chief Parker's prestige ruined. Fresh paper, thoughts of inmate witnesses--mostly drunks--and the fact that virtually every officer had been drinking heavily. _They_ were compromised witnesses; _he_ was sober, uncompromised, and had made attempts to control the situation. _He_ needed a graceful out; the Department needed to save face; the high brass would be grateful to a man who tried to circumvent bad press--who had the foresight to see it coming and plan ahead. He wrote down version two.
A digression on number one, the action shifted to limit the blame to fewer officers: Stensland, Johnny Brownell, Bud White and a handful of other men who'd already earned or were close to their pensions--Krugman, Tucker, Heineke, Huff, Disbrow, Doherty--older fish to throw the D.A.'S Office if indictment fever ran high. A subjective viewpoint, tailored to fit what the drunk tank prisoners saw, the assaulters trying to flee the cellblock and liberate other inmates. The truth twisted a few turns--impossible for other witnesses to disprove. Ed signed it, listened through the vent for version three.
It came slowly. Voices urged "Stens" to "wake up for a piece"; White left the cellblock, muttering what a waste it all was. Krugman and Tucker yelled insults; whimpers answered them. No further sound of White or Johnny Brownell; Lentz, Huft Doherty prowling the catwalk. Sobs, _Madre mia_ over and over.
6:14 A.M.
Ed wrote out number three: no whimpers, no _madre mia_, the cop beaters inciting other inmates. He wondered how his father would rate the crimes: brother officers assaulted, the assaulters ravaged. Which required absolute justice?
The vent noise dwindled; Ed tried to sleep and couldn't; a key went in the door.
Lieutenant Frieling--pale, trembling. Ed nudged him aside, walked down the corridor.
Six cells wide open--the walls slick with blood. Juan Carbijal on his bunk, a shirt under his head soaked red. Clinton Valupeyk washing blood off his face with toilet water. Reyes Chasco one giant contusion; Dennis Rice working his fingers--swollen blue, broken. Dinardo Sanchez and Ezekiel Garcia curled up together by the drunk cage.
Ed called for ambulances. The words "Prison Ward, County General" almost made him retch.
CHAPTER SIX
Dudley Smith said, "You're not eating, lad. Did a late night with your chums spoil your appetite?"
Jack looked at his plate: T-bone, baked potato, asparagus. "I always order large when the D.A.'s Office picks up the tab. Where's Loew? I want him to see what he's buying."
Smith laughed; Jack eyed the cut of his suit: baggy, good camouflage--make me a stage Irishman, cover my .45 automatic, knuckle dusters and sap. "What's Loew have in mind?"
Dudley checked his watch. "Yes, thirty-odd minutes of amenities should be a sufficient prelude to business on our grand savior's birthday. Lad, what Ellis wants is to be district attorney of our fair city, then governor of California. He's been a deputy D.A. for eight years, he ran for D.A. in '48 and lost, there's an off-year election coming up in March of '53, and Ellis thinks he can win. He's a vigorous prosecutor of criminal scum, he's a grand friend to the Department, and despite his Hebraic genealogy I'm fond of him and think he'll make a splendid district attorney. And, lad, you can help elect him. And make yourself a very valuable friend."
The Mex he'd duked out--the whole deal might go wide. "I might need a favor pretty soon."
"One which he'll supply willingly, lad."
"He wants me to run bag?"
"'Bagman' is a colloquialism I find offensive, lad. 'Reciprocity of friendship' is a more suitable phrase, especially given the splendid connections you have. But money is at the root of Mr. Loew's request, and I'd be remiss in not stating that at the outset."
Jack pushed his plate aside. "Loew wants me to shake down the _Badge of Honor_ guys. Campaign contributions."
"Yes, and to keep that damnable _Hush-Hush_ scandal rag off his back. And since reciprocity is our watchword here, he has specific favors to grant in return."
"Such as?"
Smith lit a cigarette. "Max Pelts, the producer of the show, has had tax trouble for years, and Loew will see to it that he never stands another audit. Brett Chase, whom you have so brilliantly taught to portray a policeman, is a degenerate pederast, and Loew will never prosecute him. Loew will contribute D.A.'s Bureau files to the show's story editor and you will be rewarded thusly: Sergeant Bob Gallaudet, the D.A.'s Bureau whip, is going to law school, doing well and will be joining the D.A.'S Office as a prosecutor once he passes the bar. You will then be given the chance to assume his old position--along with a lieutenancy. Lad, does my proposal impress you?"
Jack took a smoke from Dudley's pack. "Boss, you know I'd never leave Narco and you know I'm gonna say yes. And I just figured out that Loew's gonna show up, give me a thank-you and not stay for dessert. So yes."
Dudley winked; Ellis Loew slid into the booth. "Gentlemen, I'm sorry I'm so late."
Jack said, "I'll do it."
"Oh? Lieutenant Smith has explained the situation to you?"
Dudley said, "Some lads don't require detailed explanations."
Loew fmgered his Phi Beta chain. "Thank you then, Sergeant. And if I can help you in any way, _any way at all_, don't hesitate to call me."
"I won't. Dessert, sir?"
"I would like to stay, but I have depositions waiting for me. We'll break bread another time, I'm sure."
"Whatever you need, Mr. Loew."
Loew dropped a twenty on the table. "Again, thank you. Lieutenant, I'll talk to you soon. And gentlemen--Merry Christmas."
Jack nodded; Loew walked off. Dudley said, "There's more, lad."
"More work?"
"Of sorts. Are you providing security at Welton Morrow's Christmas party this year?"
His annual gig--a C-note to mingle. "Yeah, it's tonight. Does Loew want an invitation?"
"Not quite. You did a large favor for Mr. Morrow once, did you not?"
October '47--too large. "Yeah, I did."
"And you're still friendly with the Morrows?"
"In a hired-hand sort of way, sure. Why?"
Dudley laughed. "Lad, Ellis Loew wants a wife. Preferably a Gentile with a social pedigree. He's seen Joan Morrow at various civic functions and fancies her. Will you play Cupid and ask fair Joan what she thinks of the idea?"
"Dud, are you asking me to get the future LA DA a fucking date?"
"I am indeed. Do you think Miss Morrow will be amenable?"
"It's worth a try. She's a social climber and she's always wanted to marry well. I don't know about a hebe, though."
"Yes, lad, there is that. But you'll broach the subject?"
"Sure."
"Then it's out of our hands. And along those lines--was it bad at the station last night?"
Now he gets to it. "It was very bad."
"Do you think it will blow over?"
"I don't know. What about Brownell and Helenowski? How bad did they get it?"
"Superficial contusions, lad. I'd say the payback went a bit further. Did you partake?"
"I got hit, hit back and got out. Is Loew afraid of prosecuting?"
"Only of losing friends if he does."
"He made a friend today. Tell him he's ahead of the game."
o o o
Jack drove home, fell asleep on the couch. He slept through the afternoon, woke up to the _Mirror_ on his porch. On page four: "Yuletide Surprise for _Hope's Harvest_ co-stars."
No pix, but Morty Bendish got in the "Big V" shtick; "One of his many informants" made it sound like Jack Vi
ncennes had minions prowling, their pockets stuffed with _his_ money--it was well known that the Big V financed his dope crusade with his own salary. Jack clipped the article, thumbed the rest of the paper for Helenowski, Brownell and the cop beaters.
Nothing.
Predictable: two cops with minor contusions was small potatoes, the punks hadn't had time to glom a shyster. Jack got out his ledger.
Pages divided into three columns: date, cashier's check number, amount of money. The amounts ranged from a C-note to two grand; the checks were made out to Donald and Marsha Scoggins of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. The bottom of the third column held a running total: $32,350. Jack got out his bankbook, checked the balance, decided his next payment would be five hundred flat. Five yards for Christmas. Big money until your Uncle Jack drops dead--and it'll never be enough.
Every Christmas he ran it through--it started with the Morrows and he saw them at Christmastime; he was an orphan, he'd made the Scoggins kids orphans, Christmas was a notoriously shitty time for orphans. He forced himself through the story.
Late September 1947.
Old Chief Worton called him in. Welton Morrow's daughter Karen was running with a high school crowd experimenting with dope--they got the shit from a sax player named Les Weiskopf. Morrow was a filthy-rich lawyer, a heavy contributor to LAPD fund drives; he wanted Weiskopf leaned on--with no publicity.
Jack knew Weiskopf: he sold Dilaudid, wore his hair in a jig conk, liked young gash. Worton told him a sergeantcy came with the job.
He found Weiskopf--in bed with a fifteen-year-old redhead. The girl skedaddled; Jack pistol-whipped Weiskopf, tossed his pad, found a trunk full of goofballs and bennies. He took it with him--he figured he'd sell the shit to Mickey Cohen. Welton Morrow offered him the security man gig; Jack accepted; Karen Morrow was hustled off to boarding school. The sergcantcy came through; Mickey C. wasn't interested in the dope--only Big H flipped his switch. Jack kept the trunk--and dipped into it for bennies to keep him juiced on all-night stakeouts. Linda, wife number two, took off with one of his snitches: a trombone player who sold maryjane on the side. Jack hit the trunk for real, mixing goofballs, bennies, scotch, taking down half the names on the _down beat_ poll: THE MAN, jazzster's public enemy number one. Then it was 10/24/47--