L.A. Confidential

by James Ellroy

  o o o

  Hinton's route: Gower to La Brea, Franklin to the Hollywood Reservoir. His A.M. installations: Creston Drive, North Ivar. Jack found Creston on his car map: Hollywood Hills, a cul-de-sac way up.

  He drove there, saw the phone truck: parked by a pseudoFrench chateau. Lamar Hinton on a pole across the street-- monster huge in broad daylight.

  Jack parked, checked the truck--the loading door wide open. Tools, phone books, Spade Cooley albums--no suspiciouslooking brown paper bags. Hinton stared at him; Jack went over badge first.

  Hinton trundled down the pole: six-four easy, blond, muscles on muscles. "You with Parole?"

  "Los Angeles Police Department."

  "Then this ain't about my parole?"

  "No, this is about you cooperating to avoid a parole rap."

  "What do you--"

  "Your parole officer don't really approve of this job you've got, Lamar. He thinks you might start doing some bootlegs."

  Hinton flexed muscles: neck, arms, chest. Jack said, "Fleur-de-Lis, 'Whatever You Desire.' You desire no violation, you talk. You don't talk, then back to Chino."

  One last flex. "You broke into my car."

  "You're a regular Einstein. Now, you got the brains to be an informant?"

  Hinton shifted; Jack put a hand on his gun. "Fleur-de-Lis. Who runs it, how does it work, what do you push? Dieterling and Valburn. Tell me and I'm out of your life in five minutes."

  Muscles thought it through: his T-shirt bulged, puckered. Jack pulled out a fuck mag--an orgy pic spread full. "Conspiracy to distribute pornographic material, possession and sales of felony narcotics. I've got enough to send you back to Chino until nineteen-fucking-seventy. Now, did you move this smut for Fleur-de-Lis?"

  Hinton bobbed his head. "Y-y-yeah."

  "Smart boy. Now, who made it?"

  "I d-don't know. Really, honest, I d-don't."

  "Who posed for it?"

  "I don't kn-know, I just d-d-delivered it."

  "Billy Dieterling and Timmy Valburn. Go."

  "J-just c-customers. Queers, you know, they like to fag party."

  "You're doing great, so here's the big question. Who-"

  "Officer, please don't--"

  Jack pulled his .38, cocked it. "You want to be on the next train to Chino?"

  "N-no."

  "Then answer me."

  Hinton turned, gripped the pole. "P-pierce Patchett. He runs the business. He-he's some kind of legit businessman."

  "Description, phone number, address."

  "He's maybe fifty something. I th-think he lives in Bbrentwood and I don't know his n-number 'cause I get paid b-by the m-mail."

  "More on Patchett. Go."

  "H-he sugar-p-pimps girls made up like movie stars. H-he's rich. I-I only met him once."

  "Who introduced you?"

  "This guy Ch-chester I used to see at M-m-muscle Beach."

  "Chester who?"

  "I don't know."

  Hinton: bunching, flexing--Jack figured hot seconds and he'd snap. "What else does Patchett push?"

  "L-lots of b-boys and girls."

  "What about through Fleur-de-Lis?"

  "W-whatever you d-desire."

  "Not the sales pitch, what specifically?"

  Pissed more than scared. "Boys, girls, liquor, dope, picture books, bondage stuff!"

  "Easy, now. Who else makes the deliveries?"

  "Me and Chester. He works days. I don't like--"

  "Where's Chester live?"

  "I don't know!"

  "_Easy, now_. Lots of nice people with lots of money use Fleur-de-Lis, right?"

  "R-right."

  The records in the truck. "Spade Cooley? Is he a customer?"

  "N-no, I just get free albums 'cause I party with this guy Burt Perkins."

  "You fucking would know him. The names of some customers. Go."

  Hinton dug into the pole. Jack flashed: the monster turning, six .38s not enough. "Are you working tonight?"

  "Y-yes."

  "The address."

  "No . . . please."

  Jack frisked: wallet, change, butch wax, a key on a fob. He held the key up; Hinton bobbed his head barn bam--blood on the pole.

  "The address and I'm gone."

  Barn barn--blood on the monster's forehead. "5261B Cheramoya."

  Jack dropped the pocket trash. "You don't show up tonight. You call your parole officer and tell him you helped me, you tell him you want to be picked up on a violation, you have him put you up someplace. You're clean on this, and if I get to Patchett I'll make like one of the smut people snitched. _And if you clean that place out you are Chino-fucking-bound_."

  "B-but you _t-told_ me."

  Jack ran to his car, gunned it. Hinton tore at the pole barehanded.

  o o o

  Pierce Patchett, fifty-something, "some kind of legit businessman."

  Jack found a pay phone, called R&I, the DMV. A make: Pierce Morehouse Patchett, DOB 6/30/02, Grosse Pointe, Michigan. No criminal record, 1184 Gretna Green, Brentwood. Three minor traffic violations since 1931.

  Not much. Sid Hudgens next--fuck his smut hink. A busy signal, a buzz to Morty Bendish at the _Mirror_.

  "City Room, Bendish."

  "Morty, it's Jack Vincennes."

  "The Big V! Jack, when are you going back to the Narco Squad? I need some good dope stories."

  Morty wanted shtick. "As soon as I get squeaky-clean Russ Millard off my case and make a case for him. And _you_ can help."

  "Keep talking, I'm all ears."

  "Pierce Patchett. Ring a bell?"

  Bendish whistled. "What's this about?"

  "I can't tell you yet. But if it breaks his way, you've got the exclusive."

  "You'd feed me before you feed Sid?"

  "Yeah. Now I'm all ears."

  Another whistle. "There's not much, but what there is is choice. Patchett's a big handsome guy, maybe fifty, but he looks thirty-eight. He goes back maybe twenty-five years in L.A. He's some kind of judo or jujitsu expert, he's either a chemist by trade or he was a chemistry major in college. He's worth a boatload of greenbacks, and I know he lends money to businessman types at thirty percent interest and a cut of their biz, I know he's bankrolled a lot of movies under the table. Interesting, huh? Now try this on: he's rumored to be some kind of periodic heroin sniffer, rumored to dry out at Terry Lux's clinic. All in all, he's what you might wanta call a powerful behind-the-scenes strange-o."

  Terry Lux--plastic surgeon to the stars. Sanitarium boss: booze, dope cures, abortions, detoxification heroin available--the cops looked the other way, Terry treated L.A. politicos free. "Morry, that's all you've got?"

  "Ain't that enough? Look, what I don't have, Sid might. Call him, but remember I got the exclusive."

  Jack hung up, called Sid Hudgens. Sid answered: "_Hush-Hush_. Off the record and on the QT."

  "It's Vincennes."

  "Jackie! You got some good Nite Owl scoop for the Sidster?"

  "No, but I'll keep an ear down."

  "Narco skinny maybe? I want to put out an all-hophead issue--shvartze jazz musicians and movie stars, maybe tie it in to the Commies, this Rosenberg thing has got the public running hot with a thermometer up their ass. You like it?"

  "It's cute. Sid, have you heard of a man named Pierce Patchett?"

  Silence--seconds ticking off long. Sid, too Sid-like. "Jackie, all I know on the man is that he is very wealthy and what I like to call 'Twilight.' He ain't queer, he ain't Red, he don't know anybody I can use in my quest for prime sinuendo. Where'd you hear about him?"

  Bullshitting him--he could taste it. "A smut peddler told me."

  Static--breath catching sharp. "Jack, smut is from hunger, strictly for sad sacks who can't get their ashes hauled. Leave it alone and write when you get work, _gabishe?_"

  Hang up--bang!--a door slamrning, cutting you off, some line you couldn't cross back to. Jack drove to the Bureau, MALIBU RENDEZVOUS stamped on that door.

  o o o


  The Ad Vice pen stood empty, just Millard and Thad Green in a huddle by the cloakroom. Jack checked the assignment board-- more no-leads--walked around to the supply room on the QT. Unlocked--easy to pull off a snatch. Downwind: the high brass talking Nite Owl.

  "Russ, I know you want in. But Parker wants Dudley."

  "He's too volatile on Negroes, Chief. We both know it."

  "You only call me 'Chief' when you want something, _Captain_."

  Millard laughed. "Thad, the sappers found matching spents in Griffith Park, and I heard 77th Street turned the wallets and purses. Is that true?"

  "Yes, an hour ago, in a sewer. Blood-caked, print-wiped. SID matched to the victims' blood. It's the coloreds, Russ. I know it."

  "I don't think it's the ones in custody. Do you see them leaving a rape scene on the southside, then driving the girl around to let their friends abuse her, _then_ driving all the way to Hollywood to pull the Nite Owl job--when two of them are high on barbiturates?"

  "It's a stretch, I'll admit that. We need to nail down the outside rapists and get Inez Soto to talk. So far she's refused. But Ed Exley is working on her, and Ed Exley is very good."

  "Thad, I won't let my ego get in the way. I'm a captain, Dudley's a lieutenant. We'll share the command."

  "I worry about your heart."

  "A heart attack five years ago doesn't make me a cripple."

  Green laughed. "I'll talk to Parker. Jesus, you and Dudley. What a pair."

  Jack found what he wanted: a tape recorder/phone tapper, bolt-on style, headphones. He hustled it out a side door, no witnesses.

  o o o

  Dusk, Cheramoya Avenue: Hollywood, a block off Franklin. 5261: a Tudor four-flat, two pads upstairs, two down. No lights--probably too late to glom "Chester" the day man. Jack rang the B buzzer--no response. An ear to the door, a listen--no sounds, period. In with the key.

  Jackpot: one glance told him Hinton played it straight--no cleanout. Pervert fucking Utopia--floor-to-ceiling shelves jammed with goodies.

  Maryjane: leaf, prime buds. Pills--bennies, goofballs, red devils, yellow jackets, blue heavens. Patent dope: laudanum, codeine mixtures, catchy brand names: Dreamscope, Hollywood Sunrise, Martian Moonglow. Absinthe, pure alcohol in pints, quarts, half gallons. Ether, hormone pills, envelopes of cocaine, heroin. Film cans, smutty titles: _Mr. Big Dick_, _Anal Love_, _Gang Bang_, _High School Rapist_, _Rape Club_, _Virgin Cocksucker_, _Hot Negro Love_, _Fuck Me Tonite_, _Susie's Butthole Deelite_, _Boys in Love_, _Locker Room Lust_, _Blow the Man Down_, _Jesus Porks the Pope_, _Cocksucker's Paradise_, _Cornholers Meet the Ramrod Boys_, _Rex the Randy Rottweiler_. Old stag books: T.J. venues, women sucking cock, boys sucking cock, up-the-hole close-ups. Dusty--not a hot item; empty spaces alongside, maybe the good smut, his smut, was piled there: make Lamar for cleaning that out? Why? The rest of the shit spelled felony time to the year 2000. Snapshots-- candid-type pix--real-life movie stars in the raw. Lupe Velez, Gary Cooper, Johnny Weissmuller, Carole Landis, Clark Gable, Tallulah Bankhead muff-diving, corpses going 69 on morgue slabs. A color pic: Joan Crawford and a notoriously well hung Samoan extra named "O.K. Freddy" fucking. Dildoes, dog collars, whips, chains, amyl nitrite poppers, panties, brassieres, cock rings, catheters, enema bags, black lizard pumps with six-inch heels and a female mannequin covered by a tarp-- plasterboard, rubber lips, glued-on pubic hair, a snatch made from a garden hose.

  Jack found the bathroom and pissed. A mirror threw his face back: old, strange. He went to work: tapper to the phone, the oldie smut skimmed.

  Cheap stuff, probably Mex-made: spic hairstyles on skinny junkie posers. Vertigo: he felt swirly, like a good hop jolt. The dope on the shelves made him drool; he mixed Karen in with the pictures. He paced the room, tapped a hollow place, pulled up the rug. Bingo on a cute hidey-hole: a basement, stairs leading to an empty black space.

  The phone rang.

  Jack hit the tapper, picked up. "Hi. Whatever You Desire"-- Lamar Hinton mimicked.

  Click, a hang-up, he shouldn't have used the slogan. A half hour passed--the phone rang. "Hi, it's Lamar"--casual.

  A pause, click.

  A chain of smokes--his throat hurt. The phone rang.

  Try a mumble. "Yeah?"

  "Hi, it's Seth up in Bel Air. You feel like bringing something over?"

  "Sure."

  "Make it a jug of the wormwood. Make it fast and you made a nice tip."

  "Uh . . . gimme the address again, would ya?"

  "Who could forget digs like mine? It's 941 Roscomere, and don't dawdle."

  Jack hung up. Ring ring again.

  "Yeah?"

  "Lamar, tell Pierce I need to . . . Lamar, is that you, boychik?"

  SID HUDGENS.

  Lamar--with a tremor. "Uh, yeah. Who's this?"

  Click.

  Jack pushed "Replay." Hudgens talked, recognition creeped in--

  SID KNEW PATCHETF. SID KNEW LAMAR. SID KNEW THE FLEUR-DE-LIS RACKET.

  The phone rang--Jack ignored it. Splitsville--grab the tapper, wipe the phone, wipe all the filth he'd touched. Out the door queasy--night air peaking his nerves.

  He heard a car revving.

  A shot took out the front window; two shots smashed the door.

  Jack drew, fired--the car hauling, no lights.

  Clumsy: two shots hit a tree and sprayed wood. Three more pulls, no hits, the car fishtailing. Doors opening--eyewitnesses.

  Jack got his car--skids, brodies, no lights until Franklin and a main traffic flow. No make on the shooter car: dark, no lights, the cars all around him looked alike: sleek, wrong. A cigarette slowed him down. He drove straight west to Bet Air.

  Roscomere Road: twisty, all uphill, mansions fronted by palm trees. Jack found 941, pulled into the driveway.

  Circular, looping a big pseudo-Spanish: one story, low slate roof. Cars in a row--a Jag, a Packard, two Caddies, a Rolls. Jack got out--nobody braced him. He hunkered down, took plate numbers.

  Five cars: classy, no Fleur-de-Lis bags on plush front seats. The house: bright windows, silk swirls. Jack walked up and looked in.

  He knew he'd never forget the women.

  One almost Rita Hayworth a la _Gilda_. One almost Ava Gardner in an emerald-green gown. A near Betty Grable--sequined swim-suit, fishnet stockings. Men in tuxedos mingled--background debris. He couldn't stray his eyes from the women.

  Astonishing make-believe. Hinton on Patchett: "He sugarpimps these girls made up to look like movie stars." "Made up" didn't cut it: call these women chosen, cultivated, enhanced by an expert. Astonishing.

  Veronica Lake walked through the light. Her face wasn't as close: she just oozed that cat-girl grace. Background men flocked to her.

  Jack pressed up to the glass. Smut vertigo, real live women. Sid, that door slamming, that line. He drove home, bad vertigo--achy, itchy, jumpy. He saw a _Hush-Hush_ card on his door, "Malibu Rendezvous" inked on the bottom.

  He saw headlines:

  DOPED-OUT DOPE CRUSADER SHOOTS INNOCENT CITIZENS!

  CELEBRITY COP INDICTED FOR KILLINGS!

  GAS CHAMBER FOR THE BIG-TIME BIG V! RICH KID GIRLFRIEND BIDS DEATH ROW AU REVOIR!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  An arm-in-arm entrance--Inez in her best dress and a veil to hide her bruises. Ed kept his badge out--it got them past the press. Attendants formed the guests into lines--Dream-a-Dreamland was open for business.

  Inez was awestruck: quick breaths billowed her veil. Ed looked up, down, sideways--every detail made him think of his father.

  A grand promenade--Main Drag, USA, 1920--soda fountains, nickelodeons, dancing extras: the cop on the beat, a paperboy juggling apples, ingenues doing the Charleston. The Amazon River: motorized crocodiles, jungle excursion boats. Snow-capped mountains; vendors handing out mouse-ear beanies. The Moochie Mouse Monorail, tropical isles--acres and acres of magic.

  They rode the monorail: the first car, the first run. High speed, upside down, right side up--Inez unbuckled herself giggling. The Paul's World
toboggan; lunch: hot dogs, snow cones, Moochie Mouse cheese balls.

  On to "Desert Idyll," "Danny's Fun House," an exhibit on outer space travel. Inez seemed to be tiring: gorged on excitement. Ed yawned--his own late night catching up.

  A late squeal at the station: a shootout on Cheramoya, no perpetrators caught. He had to go to the scene: an apartment house, shots riddling a downstairs unit. Weird: .38s, .45s retrieved, the living room all shelving--empty except for some sadomasochist paraphernalia--and no telephone. The building's owner couldn't be traced; the manager said he was paid by mail, cashier's checks, he got a free flop and a C-note a month, so he was happy and didn't ask questions--he couldn't even name the dump's tenant. The condition of the apartment indicated a rapid clean-out--but no one saw a thing. Four hours of report writing--four hours snatched from the Nite Owl.

  The exhibit was a bore--a sop to culture. Inez pointed to the ladies' room; Ed stepped outside.

  A VIP tour on the promenade--Timmy Valburn shepherding bigwigs. The _Herald_ front page hit him: Dream-a-Dreamland, the Nite Owl, like nothing else mattered.

  He tried to reinterrogate Coates, Jones and Fontaine--they would not give him one word. Eyewitnesses responded to the appeal for IDs on the Griffith Park shooters and could not identify the three in custody: they said they "can't quite be sure." Vehicle checks now extended to '48--'50 Fords and Chevys-- nothing hot so far. Jockeying for command of the case: Chief Parker supported Dudley Smith, Thad Green pumped up Russ Millard. No shotguns found, no trace of Sugar Ray's Mere. Wallets and purses belonging to the victims were found in a sewer a few blocks from the Tevere Hotel---combine that with the matching shells found in Griffith Park and you got what the papers didn't report: Ellis Loew bullying Parker to bully him: "It's all circumstantial so far, so have your boy Exley keep working on that Mexican girl, it looks like he's getting next to her, have him talk her into a questioning session under sodium pentothal, let's get some juicy Little Lindbergh details and fix the Nite Owl time frame once and for all."

  Inez sat down beside him. They had a view: the Amazon, plaster mountains. Ed said, "Are you all right? Do you want to go back?"

  "What I want is a cigarette, and I don't even smoke."