by James Ellroy
"Look--"
"Give."
"Give on what?"
"Give on Duke's new gig and his enemies. Tell me who used to pimp Kathy."
"I don't know who pimped her!"
"Then give on the other two."
Cindy wiped her face--smeared lipstick, runny makeup. "All I know's this guy was going around talking up cocktail-bar girls, acting like Duke. You know, the same one-liners, real Dukey shtick. I heard he was trying to get girls to do call jobs for him. He didn't talk to me or Feather, this is just stale-bread stuff I heard, like from two weeks ago."
Click: "This Guy" maybe the pad tosser, "This Guy" trying on Cathcart's clothes. "Keep going on that."
"That is all I heard, just the way I heard it."
"What did the guy look like?"
"I don't know."
"Who told you about him?"
"I don't even know that, they were just girls gabbing at the next table at this goddamned bar."
"All right, easy. Duke's new gig. Give on that."
"Mister, it was just another Dukey pipe dream."
"Then why didn't you tell me before?"
"You know the old adage 'Don't speak ill of the dead'?" "Yeah. You know the bull daggers at the Woman's Jail?" Cindy sighed. "Dukey pipe dream number six thousand-- smut peddler. Is that a yuck? Dukey said he was going to push this weird smut. That's all I know, we had a two-second conversation on the topic and that's all Duke said. I didn't press it 'cause I know a pipe dream when I hear one. Now will you get out of here?"
Loose Bureau talk: Ad Vice working pornography. "What kind of smut?"
"Mister, I told you I don't know, it was just a two-second conversation."
"You gonna pay Kathy back what Duke left you?" "Sure, Good Samaritan. Ten here, ten there. If I gave her the money all at once she'd just blow it on movie mags anyway."
"I might be back."
"I wait with bated breath."
o o o
Bud drove to a mailbox, sent the cash out special delivery: Kathy Janeway, Orchid View Motel, plenty of stamps and a friendly note. Four hundred plus--a small fortune for a kid.
7:00--time to kill before he met Dudley. The Bureau for a time-killer: Ad Vice, the squadroom board.
Squad 4 on the smut job--Kifka, Henderson, Vincennes, Stathis--four men tracking stag books, all reporting no leads. Nobody around, he could check by in the morning, it was probably nothing anyway. He walked over to Homicide, called Abe's Noshery.
Stens answered.
"Abe's."
"Dick, it's me."
"Oh? Checking up on me, _Officer?_"
"Dick, come on."
"No, I mean it. You're a Dudley man now. Maybe Dud don't like the people I push my corned beef to. Maybe Dud wants skinny, thinks I'll talk to you. It ain't like you're your own man no more."
"You been drinking, partner?"
"I drink kosher now. Tell Exicy that. Tell him Danny Duck wants to dance with him. Tell him I read about his old man and Dream-a-fucking-Dreamland. Tell him I might come to the opening, Danny Duck requests the presence of Sergeant Ed cocksucker Exley for one more fucking dance."
"Dick, you're way out of line."
"The fuck you say. One more dance, Danny Duck's gonna break his glasses and chew his fuckin' throat--"
"Dick, goddammit--"
"Hey, fuck you! I read the papers, I saw the personnel on that Nite Owl job. You, Dudley S., Exley, the rest of Dudley's hard-ons. You're fucking partners with the cocksucker who put me away, you're sucking the same gravy case, so if you th--"
Bud threw the phone out the window. He walked down to the lot kicking things--then the Big Picture kicked him.
He should have swung for Bloody Christmas.
Dudley saved him.
Make Exley the Nite Owl hero so far--he'd be the one to send Inez back through Hell.
Strangeness on the Cathcart end, the case might go wide, more than a psycho robbery gang. _He_ could make the case, twist Exley, work an angle to help out Stens. Which meant:
Not greasing Ad Vice for smut leads.
Holding back evidence from Dudley.
BEING A DETECTIVE--NOT A HEADBASHER--ON HIS OWN.
He fed himself drunk talk for guts:
It ain't like you're your own man.
It ain't like you're your own man.
It ain't like you're your own man.
He was scared.
He owed Dudley.
He was crossing the only man on earth more dangerous than he was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ray Pinker walked Ed through the Nite Owl, reconstructing.
"Bim, bam, I'm betting it happened like this. First, the three enter and show their weaponry. One man takes the cash register girl, the kitchen boy and the waitress. This guy hits Donna DeLuca with his shotgun butt--she's standing by the cash register, and we found a piece of her scalp on the floor there. She gives him the money and the money from her purse, he shoves her and Patty Chesimard to the locker, picking up Gilbert Escobar in the kitchen en route. Gilbert resists--note the drag marks, the pots and pans on the floor. A pop to the head--bim, barn--that little pool of blood you see outlined in chalk. The safe is exposed under the cook's stand, one of the three employee victims opens it, note the spilled coins. Bim, barn, Gilbert resists some more, another gun-butt shot, note the circle marked 1-A on the floor, we found three gold teeth there, bagged them and matched them: Gilbert Luis Escobar. The drag marks start there, old Gil has quit fighting, bim, bam, suspect number one plants victims one, two and three inside the food locker."
Back to the restaurant proper--still sealed three nights post-mortem. Gawkers pressed up to the windows; Pinker kept talking. "Meanwhile, gunmen two and three are rounding up victims four through six. The drag marks going back to the locker and the spilled food and dishes speak for themselves. You might not be able to see it because the linoleum's so dark, but there's blood under the first two tables: Cathcart and Lunceford, sitting separately, two gun-butt shots. We know who was where through blood typing. Cathcart drops by table two, Lunceford by table one. Now--"
Ed cut in. "Did you dust the plates for more confirmation?"
Pinker nodded. "Smudges and smears, two viable latents on dishes under Lunceford's table. That's how we ID'd him--we got a match to the set they took when he joined the LAPD. Cathcart and Susan Lefferts had their hands blown off, no way to cross-check on that, their dishes were too smudged anyway. We tagged Cathcart on a partial dental and his prison measurement chart, Lefferts on a full dental. Now, you see the shoe on the floor?"
"Yes."
"Well, from an angle study it looks like Lefferts was flailing to get to Cathcart at the next table, even though they were sitting separately. Dumb panic, she obviously didn't know him. She started screaming, and one of the gunmen stuck a wad of napkins from that container there in her mouth. Doc Layman found a big wad of swallowed tissue in her throat at autopsy, he thinks she might have gagged and suffocated just as the shooting started. Bim, barn, Cathcart and Lefferts are dragged to the locker, Lunceford walks, the poor bastard probably thinks it's just a stickup. At the locker, purses and wallets are taken--we found a scrap of Gilbert Escobar's driver's license floating in blood just inside the door, along with six wax-saturated cotton balls. The gunmen had the brains to protect their ears."
The last bit didn't play: his coloreds were too impetuous. "It doesn't seem like enough men to do the job."
Pinker shrugged. "It worked. Are you suggesting one or more of the victims knew one or more of the killers?"
"I know, it's unlikely."
"Do you want to see the locker? It'll have to be now, we promised the owner he could have the place back."
"I saw it that night."
"I saw the pictures. Jesus, you couldn't tell they were human. You're working the Lefferts background check, right?"
Ed looked out the window; a pretty girl waved at him. Dark-haired, Latin--she looked like Inez Soto. "Right."
"And I spent a full day in San Bernardino and got nowhere. The woman used to live with her mother, who was half-sedated and wouldn't talk to me. I talked to acquaintances, and they told me Sue Lefferts was a chronic insomniac who listened to the radio all night. She had no boyfriends in recent memory, no enemies ever. I checked her apartment in L.A., which was just about what you'd expect for a thirty-one-year-old salesgirl. One of the San Berdoo people said she was a bit of a roundheels, one said she belly-danced at a Greek restaurant a few times for laughs. Nothing suspicious."
"It keeps coming back to the Negroes."
"Yes, it does."
"Any luck on the car or the weapons?"
"No, and 77th Street's checking trashcans and sewer grates for the purses and wallets. And I know an approach we can make and save the investigation a lot of time."
Pinker smiled. "Check Griffith Park for the nicked shells?"
Ed turned to the window--the Inez type was gone. "If we place those shells, then it's either the Negroes in custody or another three."
"Sergeant, that is one large long shot."
"I know, and I'll help."
Pinker checked his watch. "It's 10:30 now. I'll find the occurrence reports on those shootings, try to pinpoint the locations and meet you with a sapper squad tomorrow at dawn. Say the Observatory parking lot?"
"I'll be there."
"Should I get clearance from Lieutenant Smith?"
"Do it on my say-so, okay? I'm reporting directly to Parker on this."
"The park at dawn then. Wear some old clothes, it'll be filthy work."
o o o
Ed ate Chinese on Alvarado. He knew why he was heading that way: Queen of Angels was close, Inez Soto might be awake. He'd called the hospital: Inez was healing up quickly, her family hadn't visited, her sister called, said Mama and Papa blamed her for the nightmare--provocative clothing, worldly ways. She'd been crying for her stuffed animals; he had the gift shop send up an assortment--gifts to ease his conscience--he wanted her as a major witness in his first big homicide case. And he just wanted her to like him, wanted her to disown four words: "Officer White's the hero."
He stalled with a last cup of tea. Stitches, dental work--his wounds were healing, made small: his mother and Inez blurred together. He'd gotten a report: Dick Stens hung out with known armed robbers, bet with bookies, took his salary in cash and frequented whorehouses. When his men had him pinned cold they'd call County Probation and fix an arrest.
Which paled beside "Officer White's the hero" and Inez Soto with the fire to hate him.
Ed paid the check, drove to Queen of Angels.
o o o
Bud White was walking out.
They crossed by the elevator. White got the first word in. "Give your career a rest and let her sleep."
"What are you doing here?"
"Not looking to pump a witness. Leave her alone, you'll get your chance."
"'This is just a visit."
"She sees through you, Exley. You can't buy her off with teddy bears."
"Don't you want the case cleared? Or are you just frustrated that there's nobody else for you to kill?"
"Big talk from a brownnosing snitch."
"Did you come here to get laid?"
"Different circumstances, I'd eat you for that."
"Sooner or later, I'll take you and Stensland down."
"That goes two ways. War hero, huh? Those Japs must've rolled over for you."
Ed flinched.
White winked.
Tremors--all the way up to her room. Ed looked before he knocked.
Inez was awake--reading a magazine. Stuffed animals strewn on the floor, one creature on the bed: Scooter Squirrel as a footrest. Inez saw him, said, "No."
Faded bruises, her features coming back hard. "No what, Miss Soto?"
"No, I won't go through it with you."
"Not even a few questions?"
"No."
Ed pulled a chair up. "You don't seem surprised to see me here so late."
"I'm not, you're the subtle type." She pointed to the animals. "Did the district attorney reimburse you for those?"
"No, that was out of my own pocket. Did Ellis Loew visit you?"
"Yes, and I told him no. I told him that the three _negrito putos_ drove me around, took money from other _putos_ and left me with the _negrito puto_ that Officer White killed. I told him that I can't remember or won't remember or don't want to remember any more details, he can take his pick and that is _absolutamente_ all there is to it."
Ed said, "Miss Soto, I just came to say hello."
She laughed in his face. "You want the rest of the story? An hour later my brother Juan calls and tells me I can't go home, that I disgraced the family. Then _puto_ Mr. Loew calls and says he can put me up in a hotel if I cooperate, then the gift shop girl brings me those _puto_ animals and says they're gifts from the nice policeman with the glasses. I've been to college, _pendejo_. Don't you think I can follow the chain of events?"
Ed pointed to Scooter Squirrel. "You didn't throw him away."
"He's special."
"Do you like Dieterling characters?"
"So what if I do!"
"Just asking. And where do you put Bud White in your chain of events?"
Inez fluffed her pillows. "He killed a man for me."
"He killed him for himself."
"And that _puto_ animal is dead just the same. Officer White just comes by to say hello. He warns me about you and Mr. Loew. He tells me I should cooperate, but he doesn't press the subject. He hates you, subtle man. I can tell."
"You're a smart girl, Inez."
"You want to say 'for a Mexican,' I know that."
"No, you're wrong. You're just plain smart. And you're lonely, or you would have asked me to leave."
Inez threw her magazine down. "So what if I am!"
Ed picked it up. Dog-eared pages: a piece on Dream-aDreamland. "I'm going to recommend that we give you some time to get well and recommend that when this mess goes to court you be allowed to testify by written deposition. If we get enough Nite Owl corroboration from other sources, you might not have to testify at all. And I won't come back if you don't want me to."
She stared at him. "I've still got no place to go."
"Did you read that article on the Dream-a-Dreamland opening?"
"Yes."
"Did you see the name 'Preston Exley'?"
"Yes."
"He's my father."
"So what? I know you're a rich kid, blowing your money on stuffed animals. So what? Where will I go?"
Ed held the bed rail. "I've got a cabin at Lake Arrowhead. You can stay there. I won't touch you, and I'll take you to the Dream-a-Dreamland opening."
Inez touched her head. "What about my hair?"
"I'll get you a nice bonnet."
Inez sobbed, hugged Scooter Squirrel.
o o o
Ed met the sappers at dawn, groggy from dreams: Inez, other women. Ray Pinker brought flashlights, spades, metal detectors; he'd had Communications Division issue a public appeal: witnesses to the Griffith Park shotgun blastings were asked to come forth to ID the blasters. The occurrence report locations were marked out into grids--all steep, scrub-covered hillsides. The men dug, uprooted, scanned with gizmos going tick, tick, tick--they found coins, tin cans, a .32 revolver. Hours came, went; the sun beat down. Ed worked hard--breathing dirt, risking sunstroke. His dreams returned, circles leading back to Inez.
Anne from the Marlborough School Cotillion--they did it in a '38 Dodge, his legs banged the doors. Penny from his UCLA biology class: rum punch at his frat house, a quick backyard coupling. A string of patriotic roundheels on his bond tour, a one-night stand with an older woman--a Central Division dispatcher. Their faces were hard to remember; he tried and kept seeing Inez--Inez without bruises, no hospital smock. It was dizzying, the heat was dizzying, he was filthy, exhausted--it all felt good. More hours went--he couldn't think of women or anyth
ing else. More time down, yells in the distance, a hand on his shoulder.
Ray Pinker holding out two spent shotgun shells and a photo of a shotgun shell strike surface. A perfect match: identical firing pin marks straight across.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Two days since the Fleur-de-Lis grab--no way to tell how far he could take it.
Two days, one suspect: Lamar Hinton, age twenty-six, arrested for strongarm assault, a conviction on an ADW, a deuce at Chino--paroled 3/51. Current employment: telephone installer at P.C. Bell--his parole officer suspected he moonlighted tigging bootleg bookie lines. A mugshot match: Hinton the muscle boy at Timmy Valburn's house.
Two days, no break on his stalemate: a made case would ticket him back to Narco, making _this_ case meant Valburn and Billy Dieterling for material witnesses--well-connected homos who could flush his Hollywood career down the toilet.
Two days of page prowling--every roundabout approach tapped out. He checked the collateral case reports, talked to the arrestees--more denials--nobody admitted buying the smut. One day wasted; nothing at Ad Vice to goose his leads: Stathis, Henderson, Kitka reported zero, Millard was trying to co-boss the Nite Owl--pornography was not on his mind.
Two days since: midway through day two he hit hard--the bootleg number, Muscle Boy.
No Fleur-de-Lis phone listing; brain gymnastics tagged his personal connection--the first time he saw the caffing card.
Tilt:
Xmas Eve '51, right before Bloody Christmas. Sid Hudgens set up a reefer roust--he popped two grasshoppers, found the card at their pad, thought nothing else of it.
Scary Sid: "We've all got secrets, Jack."
He pushed ahead anyway, that undertow driving him: he wanted to know who made the smut--and why. He hit the P.C. Bell employment office, cross-checked records against physical stats until he hit Lamar Hinton--tilt, tilt, tilt, tilt, tilt-- Jack looked around the squadroom--men talking Nite Owl, Nite Owl, Nite Owl, the Big V chasing hand-job books.
The orgy pix.
Vertigo.
Jack chased.