by James Ellroy
"Yes, Mr. Loew, they do."
"Do they understand that they may be asked to submit to questioning after their statement has been read?"
"They do."
"Read the statement, Counselor."
Kellerman put on bifocals. "I've eliminated Peter and Baxter's more colorful colloquialisms and cleaned up their language and syntax, please bear that in mind."
Loew tugged at his vest. "We're capable of discerning that. Please continue."
Kellerman read: "We, Peter and Baxter Englekling, do swear that this statement is entirely true. In late March of this year, approximately three weeks before the Nite Owl killings, we were approached at our legitimate business, the Speedy King Printshop in San Bernardino. The man who approached us was one Delbert 'Duke' Cathcart, who said that he had gotten our names from 'Mr. XY,' an acquaintance from our youth camp sentence days. Mr. XY had informed Cathcart that we ran a printshop which featured a high-speed offset press of our own design, which was true. Mr. XY had also told Cathcart that we were always interested in quote turning a quick buck unquote, which was also true."
Chuckles. Ed wrote, "Vict. Susan Lefferts from S. Berdoo-- connection?" Loew said, "Continue, Mr. Kellerman. We're all capable of laughing and thinking at the same time."
Kellerman: "Cathcart showed us photographs of people engaged in explicit sexual activities, some of them homosexual in nature. Some of the photographs were quote arty-farty unquote. I.E.: people in colorful costumes and animated red ink embossed on some of the snapshots. Cathcart said that he heard we could manufacture high-quality magazine-type books very fast, and we said this was true. Cathcart also stated that a number of magazine-type books had already been manufactured, using the obscene photographs, and quoted us the cost involved. We knew we could make the books at one eighth of that cost."
Ed passed Millard a note: "Isn't Ad Vice working a pornography job?" The brothers smirked; Loew and Gallaudet whispered. Millard passed a note back: "Yes--no leads from a 4 man team. A cold trail tracking the ('strange costumed' per the statement) books--we're dropping it. Also, no field reports submitted so far link Cathcart to pornography."
Kellerman sipped water. "Cathcart then told us that he heard our late father, Franz 'Doc' Englekling, was friends with Meyer Harris 'Mickey' Cohen, Los Angeles mobster currently incarcerated at McNeil Island Penitentiary. We said this was true. Cathcart then made his basic proposal. He said that distribution of the pornographic books would have to be quote very close unquote, because the quote strange cats unquote who took the photographs and did the pasteup work seemed like they had lots to hide. He did not elaborate on this further. He said that he had access to a network of quote rich perverts unquote who would pay large sums for the books and proposed that we could also manufacture quote regular fuck-suck shit unquote, that could be distributed in large quantities. Cathcart claimed to have access to quote pervert mailing list unquote, quote junkies and whores unquote to serve as models, and access to quote classy call girls unquote, who might pose for a lark if their quote crazy sugar daddy-o unquote agreed. Again, Cathcart did not elaborate on any of his claims, nor did he mention specific names or locations."
Kellerman flipped pages. "Cathcart told us that he would be the procurer, talent scout and middleman. We would be the manufacturers of the books. We were also to visit Mickey Cohen at McNeil Island and get him to release funds to get the business started. We were also to solicit his advice on starting a distribution system. In exchange for the above Cohen would be given a quote bonaroo unquote percentage cut."
Ed passed a note: "No follow-up names--it's too convenient." Millard whispered, "And the Nite Owl is not Mickey's style." Bar Englekling chuckled; Pete poked his ears with a pencil. Kellerman read: "We visited Mickey Cohen in his cell at McNeil, approximately two weeks before the Nite Owl killings. We proposed the idea to him. He refused to help and became very angry when we told him the idea was conceived by Duke Cathcart, whom he referred to as quote a notorious statch rape-o shitbird unquote. In conclusion, we believe that gunmen employed by Mickey Cohen perpetrated the Nite Owl Massacre, a kill-six-to-get-one ruse undertaken out of his hatred for Duke Cathcart. Another possibility is that Cohen talked up Cathcart's proposed scheme on the prison yard and word got out to Cohen rival Jack 'The Enforcer' Whalen, who, always looking for new rackets to crash, assassinated Cathcart and five innocent bystanders as subterfuge. We believe that if the killings were the result of pornography intrigue, we too might become victims. We swear that this deposition is true and not rendered under physical or mental duress."
The brothers clapped. Kellerman said, "My clients welcome questions."
Loew pointed to the bedroom. "After I talk to my colleagues."
They walked in; Loew closed the door. "Conclusions. Bob, you first."
Gallaudet lit a cigarette. "Mickey Cohen, despite his many faults, does not murder people out of pique, and Jack Whalen's only interested in gambling rackets. I believe their story, but everything we've dug up on Cathcart makes him look like a pathetic chump who couldn't get something this big going. I say it's tangent stuff at best. I still make the boogies for the job."
"I agree. Captain, your opinion."
Millard said, "I like one possible scenario--with major reservations. _Maybe_ Cohen talked up the job on the yard at McNeil, word got to the outside and somebody took it from there. _But_--if this deal is smut-connected, then the Englekling boys would either have been killed or approached by now. I've been running a stag book investigation out of Ad Vice for two weeks and my squad has heard nothing on this and hit one brick wall after another. I think Ed and Bob should talk to Whalen, then fly up to McNeil and talk to Mickey. I'll question those lowlifes in the next room, and I'll talk to my Ad Vice men. I've read every field report filed by every man on the Nite Owl, and there is not one mention of pornography. I think Bob's right. It's a tangent we're dealing with."
"Agreed. Bob, you and Exley talk to Cohen and Whalen. Captain, did you have capable men on your job?"
Millard smiled. "Three capable men and Trashcan Jack Vincennes. No offense, Ellis. I know he's involved with your wife's sister."
Loew flushed. "Exley, do you have anything to add?"
"Bob and the captain covered my points, but there's two things I want to mention. One, Susan Lefferts was from San Berdoo. Two, if it's not the Negroes in custody or another colored gang, then the car by the Nite Owl was a plant and we are dealing with one huge conspiracy."
"I think we have our killers. And on that note, are you making progress with Miss Soto?"
"I'm working at it."
"Work harder. Good efforts are for schoolboys, results are what counts. Go to it, gentlemen."
o o o
Ed drove to his apartment--a change of clothes for the run to McNeil. He found a note on the door.
Exley--
I still think you're everything I said you were, but I called the house and talked to my sister and she said you came by and were obviously concerned about my welfare, so I'm thawing a little bit. You've been nice to me (when you weren't covering angles or beating up people) and maybe I'm an opportunist myself and I'm just using you for shelter until I get better and can accept Mr. Dieterling's offer, so since I live in a glass house I shouldn't throw stones at you. That's as close to an apology as I'm going to give you and I will continue to refuse to cooperate. Get the picture? Is Mr. Dieterling for real about a job at Dream-a-Dreamland? I'm going shopping today with the rest of the money you gave me. Keeping busy makes me think about it less. I'll come by tonight. Leave a light burning.
Inez
Ed changed and taped his spare key to the door. He left a light burning.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Jack in his car, waiting to tail Bud White. Mangled hands, fruit-caked clothes--a shift breaking down garage doors, high-spirited darkies japping the search teams--rooftop hit-and-runs. No luck on Coates' Merc; Millard's bomb still exploding, lucky he heard by phone--he would have shit his p
ants otherwise.
"Vincennes, two witnesses have contacted Ellis Loew. They said Duke Cathcart was involved in some kind of unrealized scheme to push that smut we've been chasing. My guess is that it doesn't connect to the Nite Owl, but have you come up with anything?"
He said, "No." He asked if the other guys on the squad hit pay dirt. Millard said, "No."
He didn't tell him his reports were all bullshit. He didn't tell him he didn't care if the smut gig and the Nite Owl were doubled up from here to Mars. He didn't tell him he wouldn't rest easy until he had Sid Hudgens' file in his hand and the niggers sucked gas--guilty or not.
Eyes on the bullpen back door: blues hauling in sex geeks. Bud White inside--rubber hose work. He blew his tail last night--Dudley was pissed. Tonight he'd stick close, then hit Hudgens: get the Malibu Rendezvous wiped.
White walked out. Good light: Jack saw blood on his shirt. He hit the ignition, waited.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
No colored lights--white light behind closed curtains. Bud pushed the buzzer.
The door opened--backlight on Lynn Bracken. "Yes? Are you the policeman Pierce told me about?"
"That's right. Did Patchett tell you what it was about?"
She held the door open. "He said you weren't quite sure yourself, and he said I should be candid and cooperate with you."
"You do everything he tells you?"
"Yes, I do."
Bud walked in. Lynn said, "The paintings are real and I'm a prostitute. I've never heard of Kathy what's-her-name, and Dwight Gilette would never sexually abuse a female. If he were going to kill one, he would have used a knife. I have heard of that man Duke Cathcart, essentially that he was a loser with a soft spot for his girls. And that's all the news that's fit to print."
"You finished?"
"No. I have no information on Dwight's other girls, and all I know about that Nite Owl thing is what I read in the papers. Satisfied?"
Bud almost laughed. "You and Patchett had _some_ talk. Did he call you last night?"
"No, this morning. Why?"
"Never mind."
"It's Officer White, isn't it?"
"It's Bud."
Lynn laughed. "_Bud_, do you believe what Pierce and I have told you?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"And you know why we're humoring you."
"You use words like that, you might make me mad."
"Yes. But you know."
"Yeah, I know. Patchett's running whores, maybe other stuff on the side. You don't want me to report you on it."
"That's right. Our motives are selfish, so we're cooperating."
"You want some advice, Miss Bracken?"
"It's Lynn."
"Miss Bracken, here's my advice. Keep cooperating and don't fucking ever try to bribe me or threaten me or I'll have you and Patchett in shit up to your ears."
Lynn smiled. Bud caught it--Veronica Lake in some turkey he saw, Alan Ladd comes home from the war to find his bitch wife snuffed. "Do you want a drink, _Bud?_"
"Yeah, plain scotch."
Lynn walked to the kitchen, came back with two short ones. "Are they making progress on the girl's killing?"
Bud knocked his back. "There's three men on it. It's a sex job, so they'll round up all the usual perverts. They'll give it a decent shot for a couple of weeks, then let it go."
"But you won't let it go."
"Maybe, maybe not."
"Why are you so concerned?"
"Old stuff"
"Old personal stuff?"
"Yeah."
Lynn sipped her drink. "Just asking. And what about the Nite Owl thing?"
"That's coming down to these mg--colored guys we arrested. It's a big fucking mess."
"You say 'fuck' a lot."
"You fuck for money."
"There's blood on your shirt. Is that an integral part of your job?"
"Yeah."
"Do you enjoy it?"
"When they deserve it."
"Meaning men who hurt women."
"Bright girl."
"Did they deserve it today?"
"No."
"But you did it anyway."
"Yeah, just like the half dozen guys you screwed today."
Lynn laughed. "Actually, it was two. Off the record, did you beat up Dwight Gilette?"
"Off the record, I stuck his hand down a garbage disposal."
No gasp, no double take. "Did you enjoy it?"
"Well . . . no."
Lynn coughed. "I'm being a bad hostess. Would you like to sit down?"
Bud sat on the sofa; Lynn sat an arm's length over. "Homicide detectives are different. You're the first man I've met in five years who didn't tell me I look like Veronica Lake inside of a minute."
"You look better than Veronica Lake."
Lynn lit a cigarette. "Thank you. I won't tell your lady friend you said that."
"How do you know I got a lady friend?"
"Your jacket is a mess and reeks of perfume."
"You're wrong. This is me taking a pass on a pass."
"Which you . .
"Yeah, which I seldom fucking do. Keep cooperating, Miss Bracken. Tell me about Pierce Patchett and this racket of his."
"Off the--"
"Yeah, off the record."
Lynn smoked, sipped scotch. "Well, putting what he's done for me aside, Pierce is a Renaissance man. He dabbles in chemistry, he knows judo, he takes good care of his body. He loves having beautiful women beholden to him. He had a marriage that failed, he had a daughter who died very young. He's very honest with his girls, and he only lets us date well-behaved, wealthy men. So call it a savior complex. Pierce loves beautiful women. He loves manipulating them and making money off them, but there's real affection there, too. When I first met Pierce I told him my little sister was killed by a drunken driver. He actually cried. Pierce Patchett is a hardcase businessman, and yes, he runs call girls. But he's a good man."
It played straight. "What else has Patchett got going?"
"Nothing illegal. He puts business deals and movie deals together. He advises his girls on business matters."
"Smut?"
"God, not Pierce. He likes to _do_ it, not look at it."
"Or sell it?"
"Yes, or sell it."
Almost too smooth--like Patchett's smut hink needed a whitewash. "I'm starting to think you're snowing me. There's gotta be a perv deal here. Sugar-pimping's one thing, but you make this guy out to be fucking Jesus. Let's start with Patchett's 'little studio."'
Lynn put out her cigarette. "Suppose I don't want to talk about that?"
"Suppose I give you and Patchett to Administrative Vice?"
Lynn shook her head. "Pierce thinks you have your own private vendetta going, that it's in your best interest to eliminate him as a suspect in whatever it is you're investigating and keep quiet about his dealings. He thinks you won't inform on him, that it would be stupid for you to do it."
"Stupid is my middle name. What else does Patchett think?"
"He's waiting for you to mention money."
"I don't do shakedowns."
"Then why--"
"Maybe I'm just fucking curious."
"So be it. Do you know who Dr. Terry Lux is?"
"Sure, he runs a dry-out farm in Malibu. He's dirty to the core."
"Correct on both counts, and he's also a plastic surgeon."
"He did a plastic on Patchett, right? Nobody his age looks that young."
"I don't know about that. What Terry Lux _does_ do is alter girls for Pierce's little studio. There's Ava and Kate and Rita and Betty. Read that as Gardner, Hepburn, Hayworth and Grable. Pierce finds girls with middling resemblances to movie stars, Terry performs plastic surgery for exact resemblances. Call them Pierce's concubines. They sleep with Pierce and selected clients-- men who can help him put together movie and business deals. Perverse? Perhaps. But Pierce takes a cut of all his girls' earnings and invests it for them. He makes his girls quit the life at thirty-
-no exceptions. He doesn't let his girls use narcotics and he doesn't abuse them, and I owe him a great deal. Can your policeman's mentality grasp those contradictions?"
Bud said, "Jesus fucking Christ."
"No, Mr. White. Pierce Morehouse Patchett."
"Lux cut you to look like Veronica Lake?"
Lynn touched her hair. "No, I refused. Pierce loved me for it. I'm really a brunette, but the rest is me."
"And how old are you?"
"I'll be thirty next month, and I'll be opening up a dress shop. See how time changes things? If you'd met me a month from now, I wouldn't be a whore. I'd be a brunette who didn't look quite so much like Veronica Lake.
"Jesus Christ."
"No, Lynn Margaret Bracken."
Too quick--almost a blurt. "Look, I want to see you again."
"Are you asking me for a date?"
"Yeah, because I can't afford what Patchett charges."
"You could wait a month."
"No, I can't."
"No more shoptalk, then. I don't want to be somebody's suspect."
Bud made a check mark in the air: Patchett crossed off for Kathy and the Nite Owl. "Deal."