by James Ellroy
Down the board: Malcolm Lunceford's LAPD personnel sheets. Bad news--Lunceford as a free-meal scrounger, general incompetent. A putrid arrest record; cited for dereliction of duty three times. An interdepartmental information request issued; four officers who worked with Lunceford responded. Grafter! buffoon: Mal drank on duty, shook down hookers for blowjobs, tried to shake down Hollywood merchants for his off-duty "protection service"--letting him sleep on their premises while he was locked out of his apartment for nonpayment of rent. One complaint too many got Lunceford bounced in June 1950; all four responding officers stated that he probably wasn't a deliberate Nite Owl victim: as a policeman he habituated all-night coffee shops--usually to scrounge chow; he was probably at the Nite Owl at 3:00 A.M. because he was hooked on sweet Lucy and sleeping in the weeds and the Nite Owl looked cozy and warm.
Bud drove to Hollywood Station--Inez on his mind, Dudley, Dick Stens along with her. Guts: she tried to claw herself off the gurney to get at Sylvester Fitch, strapped dead to a morgue cot; she screamed: "I'm dead, I want them dead!" He hustled her to the ambulance, filched morphine and a hypo, shot her up while no one was looking. The worst of it should have been over--but the worst was still coming.
Exley would interrogate her, make her spit out details, look at sex offender pix until she cracked. Ellis Loew wanted an airtight case--that meant show-ups, courtroom testimony. Inez Soto: the first headliner witness for the most ambitious D.A. who ever breathed--all he could do was see her at the hospital, say "Hi," try to muffle the blows. A brave woman shoved at Ed Exley-- fodder for a cowardly hard-on.
Inez to Stens.
Good revenge: Danny Duck masks, Exley whimpering. The photo good insurance; Dick still jacked up on blood--a taste that told him he was still on the muscle. His job at Kikey T.'s deli stunk--the dump was a known grifter hangout, a probation rap waiting to happen. Stens sleeping in his car, boozing, gambling--jail taught him absolutely shit.
Bud cut north on Vine; sunlight picked up his reflection in the windshield. His necktie stood out: LAPD shields, 2's. The 2's stood for the men he killed; he'd have to get some new ties made up--3's to add on Sylvester Fitch. Dudley's idea: _esprit de corps_ for Surveillance. Snappy stuff: women got a kick out of them. Dudley was a kick--in the teeth, in the brains.
He owed him more than he owed Dick Stens--the man frosted Bloody Christmas, got him Surveillance, then Homicide. But when Dudley Smith brought you along you belonged to him--and he was so much smarter than everyone else that you were never sure what he wanted from you or how he was using you--shit got lost in all his fancy language. It didn't quite rankle, but you felt it; it scared you to see how Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle gave the man their souls. Dudley could bend you, shape you, twist you, turn you, point you--and never make you feel like some dumb lump of clay. But he always let you know one thing: he knew you better than you knew yourself.
No streetside parking-every space taken. Bud parked three blocks over, walked up to the squadroom. No Exley, every desk occupied: men talking into phones, taking notes. A giant bulletin boar-d all Nite Owl--paper six inches thick. Two women at a table, a switchboard behind them, a sign by their feet: "R&I/DMV Requests." Bud went over, talked over phone noise. "I'm on the Cathcart check, and I want all you can get me, known associates, the works. This clown was popped twice for statch rape. I want full details on the complainants, plus current addresses. He had three pimping rousts, no convictions, and I want you to check all the local city and county vice squads to see if he's got a file. If he does, I want names on the girls he was running. If you get names, get DOBs and run them back through R&I, DMV, City/County Parole, the Woman's Jail. _Details_. You got it?"
The girls hit the switchboard; Bud hit the bulletin board: paper tagged "Victim Lunceford." One update: a Hollywood squad officer talked to Lunceford's boss at the Mighty Man Agency. Facts: Lunceford patronized the Nite Owl virtually every early A.M.--after he got off his 6:00-to-2:00 shift at the Pickwick Bookstore Building; Lunceford was a typical wino security guard not permitted to carry a sidearm; Lunceford had no known enemies, no known friends, no known lady friends, did not associate with his fellow Mighty Men, slept in a pup tent behind the Hollywood Bowl. The tent was checked out, inventoried: a sleeping bag, four Mighty Man uniforms, six bottles of Old Monterey muscatel.
Adios, shitbird--you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bud checked Lunceford's arrest record: nineteen minor felony pops in eleven years as a cop, scratch revenge as a motive, kill six to get one stunk as a motive anyway. Still no Exley, no Breuning and Carlisle. Bud remembered Dudley's memo: check the station files for Lunceford listings.
A good bet: field interrogation cards filed by officer surname. Bud hit the storage room, pulled the "L" cabinet--no folder for "Lunceford, Officer Malcolm." An hour checking misfiles "A" to "Z"--zero. No F.I.'s--strange--maybe Wino Mal never filed his field cards.
Almost noon, time for a chow run--a sandwich, talk to Dick. Carlisle and Breuning showed up--loafing, drinking coffee. Bud found a free phone, buzzed snitches.
Snake Tucker heard bupkis; ditto Fats Rice and Johnny Stomp. Jerry Katzenbach said it was the Rosenbergs--they ordered the snuffs from death row, make Jerry back on the needle. An R&I girl hovered.
She handed him a tear sheet. "There's not much. Nothing on Cathcart's K.A.'s, not much detail besides his rap sheet. I couldn't get much on the statutory rape complainants, except that they were fourteen and blonde and worked at Lockheed during the war. My bet is they were transients. Sheriff's Central Vice had a file on Cathcart, with nine suspected prostitutes listed. I followed up. Two are dead of syphilis, three were underaged and left the state as a probation stipulation, two I couldn't get a line on. The remaining two are on that page. Does it help?"
Bud waved Breuning and Carlisle over. "Yeah, it does. Thanks."
The clerk walked off; Bud checked her sheet, two names circled: Jane (a.k.a. "Feather") Royko, Cynthia (a.k.a. "Sinful Cindy") Benavides. Last known addresses, known haunts: pads on Poinsettia and Yucca, cocktail lounges.
Dudley's strongarms hovered. Bud said, "The two names here. Shag them, will you?"
Carlisle said, "This background check shit is the bunk. I say it's the shines."
Breuning grabbed the sheet. "Dud says do it, we do it."
Bud checked their neckties--five dead men total. Fat Breuning, skinny Carlisle--somehow they looked just like twins. "So do it, huh?"
o o o
Abe's Noshery, no parking, around the block. Dick's Chevy Out back, booze empties on the seat: probation violation number one. Bud found a space, walked up and checked the window: Stens guzzling Manischewitz, bullshitting with ex-cons--Lee Vachss, Deuce Perkins, Johnny Stomp. A cop type eating at the counter: a bite, a glance at the known criminal assembly, another bite--clockwork. Back to Hollywood Station--pissed that he was still playing nursemaid.
Waiting for him: Breuning, two hooker types--laughing up a storm in the sweatbox. Bud tapped the glass; Breuning walked out.
Bud said, "Who's who?"
"The blonde's Feather Royko. Hey, did you hear the one about the well-hung elephant?"
"What'd you tell them?"
"I told them it was a routine background check on Duke Cathcart. They read the papers, so they weren't surprised. Bud, it's the niggers. They're gonna burn for that Mex ginch, Dudley's just going through this rigamarole 'cause Parker wants a showcase and he's listening to that punk kid Exley with all his highfalut--"
Hard fingers to the chest. "Inez Soto ain't a ginch, and maybe it ain't the jigs. So you and Carlisle go do some police work."
Kowtow--Breuning shambled off smoothing his shirt. Bud walked into the box. The whores looked bad: a peroxide blonde, a henna redhead, too much makeup on too many miles.
Bud said, "So you read the papers this morning."
Feather Royko said, "Yeah. Poor Dukey."
"It don't sound like you're exactly grieving for him."
"Dukey was Dukey. He was cheap,
but he never hit you. He had a thing about chiliburgers, and the Nite Owl had good ones. One chiliburg too many, RIP Dukey."
"Then you girls buy all that robbery stuff in the papers?"
Cindy Benavides nodded. Feather said, "Sure. That's what it was, wasn't it? I mean, don't you think so?"
"Probably. What about enemies? Duke have any?"
"No, Dukey was Dukey."
"How many other girls was he running?"
"Just us. We are the meager remnants of Dukey-poo's stable."
"I heard Duke ran nine girls once. What happened? Rival pimp stuff?"
"Mister, Dukey was a dreamer. He liked young stuff personally, and he liked to run young stuff. Young stuff gets bored and moves on unless their guy gets mean. Dukey could get mean with other men, but never with females. RIP Dukey."
"Then Duke must've had something else going. A two-girl string wouldn't cover him."
Feather picked at her nail polish. "Dukey was jazzed up on some new business scheme. You see, he always had some kind of scheme going. He was a dreamer. And the schemes made him happy, made him feel like the meager coin Cindy and me turned for him wasn't so bad."
"Did he give you details?"
"No."
Cindy had her lipstick out, smearing on another coat. "Cindy, he tell _you_ anything?"
"No"--a little squeak.
"Nothing about enemies?"
"No."
"What about girlfriends? Duke have any young stuff going lately?"
Cindy grabbed a tissue, blotted. "N-no."
"Feather, you buy that?"
"I guess Dukey wasn't talking up nobody. Can we go now? I mean--"
"Go. There's a cabstand up the street."
The girls moved out fast; Bud gave them a lead, ran to his car. Up to Sunset across from the cabstand; a two-minute wait. Cindy and Feather walked up.
Separate cabs, different directions. Cindy shot due north on Wilcox, maybe toward home--5814 Yucca. Bud took a shortcut; the cab showed right on time. Cindy walked to a green De Soto, took off westbound. Bud counted to ten, followed.
Up to Highland, the Cahuenga Pass to the Valley, west on Ventura Boulevard. Bud stuck close; Cindy drove middle lane fast. A last-second swerve to the curb by a motel--rooms circling a murky swimming pool.
Bud braked, U-turned, watched. Cindy walked to a left-side room, knocked. A girl--fifteenish, blond--let her in. Young stuff--Duke Cathcart's statch rape type.
Eyeball Surveillance.
Cindy walked out ten minutes later--zoom--a U-turn back toward Hollywood. Bud knocked on the girl's door.
She opened it--teary-eyed. A radio blasted: "Nite Owl Massacre," "Crime of the Southland's Century." The girl focused in. "Are you the police?"
Bud nodded. "Sweetie, how old are you?" No more focus--her eyes went blurry. "Sweetie, what's your name?"
"Kathy Janeway. Kathy with a 'K."' Bud closed the door. "How old are you?" "Fourteen. Why do men always ask you that?" A prairie twang.
"Where are you from?"
"North Dakota. But if you send me back I'll just run away again."
"Why?"
"You want it in VistaVision? Duke said lots of guys get their jollies that way."
"Don't be such a tough cookie, huh? I'm on your side."
"That's a laugh."
Bud scoped the room. Panda bears, movie mags, schoolgirl smocks on the dresser. No whore threads, no dope paraphernalia. "Was Duke nice to you?"
"He didn't make me do it with guys, if that's what you mean."
"You mean you only did it with him?"
"No, I mean my daddy did it to me and this other guy made me do it with guys, but Duke bought me away from him."
Pimp intrigue. "What was the guy's name?"
"No! I won't tell you and you can't make me and I forgot it anyway!"
"Which one of those, sweetie?"
"I don't want to tell!"
"Sssh. So Duke was nice to you?"
"Don't shush me. Duke was a panda bear, all he wanted was to sleep in the same bed with me and play pinochle. Is that so bad?"
"Honey--"
"My daddy was worse! My Uncle Arthur was lots worse!"
"Hush, now, huh?"
"You can't make me!"
Bud took her hands. "What did Cindy want?"
Kathy pulled away. "She told me Duke was dead, which any dunce with a radio knows. She told me Duke said that if anything happened to him she should look after me, and she gave me ten dollars. She said the police bothered her. I said ten dollars isn't very much, and she got insulted and yelled at me. And how'd you know Cindy was here?"
"Never mind."
"The rent here's nine dollars a week and I--"
"I'll get you some more money if you'll--"
"Duke was _never_ that cheap with me!"
"_Kathy, hush now and let me ask you a few questions and maybe we'll get the guys who killed Duke. All right? Huh?_"
A kid's sigh. "Okay, all right, ask me."
Bud, soft. "Cindy said Duke told her to look after you if something happened to him. Do you think he figured something was gonna happen?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Why maybe?"
"Maybe 'cause Duke was nervous lately."
"Why was he nervous?"
"I don't know."
"Did you ask him?"
"He said, 'Just biz."'
Feather on Cathcart: "Jazzed on some new business scheme." "Kathy, was Duke starting some new kind of thing up?"
"I don't know, Duke said girls don't need shoptalk. And I know he left me more than a crummy ten dollars."
Bud gave her a Bureau card. "That's my number at work. You call me, huh?"
Kathy plucked a panda off the bed. "Duke was so messy and such a slob, but I didn't care. He had a cute smile and this cute scar on his chest, and he never yelled at me. My daddy and Uncle Arthur always yelled at me, so Duke never did. Wasn't that a nice thing to do?"
Bud left her with a hand squeeze. Halfway out to the street he heard her sobbing.
o o o
Back to the car, a brainstorm on the Cathcart play so far. Call Duke's "new gig" and pimp intrigue weak maybes; call Nite Owl chiliburgers 99 percent sure the ink on his death warrant. A pimp statch raper and a grifter ex-cop for victims--strange--but par for the Hollywood Boulevard 3:00 A.M. course. Call it busywork for Dudley--maybe Cindy was hinked on more than the cash she held back. He could muscle the money out of her, glom some pimp scuttlebutt, close out the Cathcart end and ask Dud to send him down to Darktown. Simple--but Cindy was who-knowswhere and Kathy had him dancing to her rune: savior with no place to go. He snapped to something missing from the bulletins: no checkout on Cathcart's apartment. A chance Duke's whore book might be there--leads on his gig and the pimp he bought Kathy from--a good time-killer.
Bud headed over Cahuenga. He saw a red sedan hovering back--he thought he'd seen it by the motel. He speeded up, made a run by Cindy's pad--no green De Soto, no red sedan. He drove to Silverlake checking his rearview. No tail car--just his imagination.
9819 Vendome looked virgin--a garage apartment behind a small stucco house. No reporters, no crime scene ropes, no locals out taking some sun. Bud popped the door with his hand.
A typical bachelor flop: living room/bedroom combo, bathroom, kitchenette. Lights on for a quick inventory--the way Dudley taught him.
A Murphy bed in the down position. Cheapie seascapes on the walls. One dresser, a walk-in closet. No doors on the bathroom and kitchenette--neat, clean. The whole pad looked spanking neat--at odds with Kathy: "Duke was so messy and such a slob."
Detail prowls--another Dudley trick. A phone on an end table, check the drawers: pencils, no address book, no whore book. A stack of Yellow Page directories, a toss--L.A. County, Riverside County, San Bernardino County, Ventura County. San Berdoo the only book used--ruffled pages, a cracked spine. Check the rufflings: "Printshop" listings thumbed through. A connection, probably nothing: victim Susan Lefferts, San Berdoo
native.
Bud eyeball-prowled, click/click/click. The bathroom and kitchen immaculate; neatly folded shirts in the dresser. The carpet clean, a bit grimy in the corners. A final click: the crib had been checked out, cleaned up-maybe tossed by a pro.
He went through the closet: jackets and slacks slipping off hangers. Cathcart had a nifty wardrobe--someone had been trying on his threads or this was the real Duke--Kathy's slob--and the tosser didn't bother with his clothes.
Bud checked every pocket, ever garment: lint, spare change, nothing hot. A click: a test to test the tosser. He walked down to the car, got his evidence kit, dusted: the dresser a sure thing for latents. One more click: scouring powder wipe marks. Nail the pad as professionally print-wiped.
Bud packed up, got out, brainstormed some more--pimp war clicks, clickouts--Duke Cathcart had two skags in his stable, no stomach for pushing a fourteen-year-old nymphet--he was a pimp disaster area. He tried to click Duke's pad tossed to the Nite Owl--no gears meshçd, odds on the coons stayed high. If the tossing played, tie it to Cathcart's "new gig"--Feather Royko talked it up-she came off as clean as Sinful Cindy came off hinky. Cindy next--and she owed Kathy money.
Dusk settling in. Bud drove to Cindy's pad, saw the green De Soto. Moans out a half-cracked window--he shoved the sill up, vaulted in.
A dark hallway, grunt-grunt-grunt one door down. Bud walked over, looked in. Cindy and a fat man wearing argyles, the bed about ready to break. Fattie's trousers on the doorknob-- Bud filched a billfold, emptied it, whistled.
Cindy shrieked; Fats kept pumping. Bud: "SHITBIRD, WHAT YOU DOIN' WITH MY WOMAN!!!!"
Things speeded up.
Fattie ran out holding his dick; Cindy dove under the sheets. Bud saw a purse, dumped it, grabbed money. Cindy shrieked willy-nilly. Bud kicked the bed. "Duke's enemies. Spill and I won't roust you."
Cindy poked her head out. "I . . . don't . . . know nothin'."
"The fuck you don't. Let's try this: somebody broke into Duke's place, you give me a suspect."
"I . . don't . . . know."
"Last chance. You held back at the station, Feather came clean. You went to Kathy Janeway's motel and stuffed her with a ten-spot. What else you hold back on?"