L.A. Confidential

L.A. CONFIDENTIAL

by James Ellroy

TO MARY DOHERTY ELLROY

A glory that costs everything and means nothing--

Steve Erickson

PROLOGUE

February 21, 1950

An abandoned auto court in the San Berdoo foothills; Buzz Meeks checked in with ninetyfour thousand dollars, eighteen pounds of high-grade heroin, a 10-gauge pump, a .38 special, a .45 automatic and a switchblade he'd bought off a pachuco at the border--right before he spotted the car parked across the line: Mickey Cohen goons in an LAPD unmarked, Tijuana cops standing by to bootjack a piece of his goodies, dump his body in the San Ysidro River.

He'd been running a week; he'd spent fifty-six grand staying alive: cars, hideouts at four and five thousand a night--risk rates--the innkeepers knew Mickey C. was after him for heisting his dope summit and his woman, the L.A. Police wanted him for kiffing one of their own. The Cohen contract kiboshed an outright dope sale--nobody could move the shit for fear of reprisals; the best he could do was lay it off with Doc Englekling's sons--Doc would freeze it, package it, sell it later and get him his percentage. Doc used to work with Mickey and had the smarts to be afraid of the prick; the brothers, charging fifteen grand, sent him to the El Serrano Motel and were setting up his escape. Tonight at dusk, two men--wetback runners--would drive him to a beanfield, shoot him to Guatemala City via white powder airlines. He'd have twenty-odd pounds of Big H working for him stateside--if he could trust Doc's boys and they could trust the runners.

Meeks ditched his car in a pine grove, hauled his suitcase out, scoped the set-up:

The motel was horseshoe-shaped, a dozen rooms, foothills against the back of them--no rear approach possible.

The courtyard was loose gravel covered with twigs, paper debris, empty wine bottles--footsteps would crunch, tires would crack wood and glass.

There was only one access--the road he drove in on--reconnoiterers would have to trek thick timber to take a potshot.

Or they could be waiting in one of the rooms.

Meeks grabbed the 10-gauge, started kicking in doors. One, two, three, four--cobwebs, rats, bathrooms with plugged-up toilets, rotted food, magazines in Spanish--the runners probably used the place to house their spics en route to the slave farms up in Kern County. Five, six, seven, bingo on that--Mex families huddled on mattresses, scared of a white man with a gun, "There, there" to keep them pacified. The last string of rooms stood empty; Meeks got his satchel, plopped it down just inside unit 12: front/courtyard view, a mattress on box springs spilling kapok, not bad for a last American flop.

A cheesecake calendar tacked to the wall; Meeks turned to April and looked for his birthday. A Thursday--the model had bad teeth, looked good anyway, made him think of Audrey: ex-stripper, ex--Mickey inamorata; the reason he killed a cop, took down the Cohen/Dragna "H" deal. He flipped through to December, cut odds on whether he'd survive the year and got scared: gut flutters, a vein on his forehead going tap, tap, tap, making him sweat.

It got worse--the heebie-jeebies. Meeks laid his arsenal on a window ledge, stuffed his pockets with ammo: shells for the .38, spare clips for the automatic. He tucked the switchblade into his belt, covered the back window with the mattress, cracked the front window for air. A breeze cooled his sweat; he looked out at spic kids chucking a baseball.

He stuck there. Wetbacks congregated outside: pointing at the sun like they were telling time by it, hot for the truck to arrive--stoop labor for three hots and a cot. Dusk came on; the beaners started jabbering; Meeks saw two white men--one fat, one skinny--walk into the courtyard. They waved glad-hander style; the spics waved back. They didn't look like cops or Cohen goons. Meeks stepped outside, his 10-gauge right behind him.

The men waved: big smiles, no harm meant. Meeks checked the road--a green sedan parked crossways, blocking something light blue, too shiny to be sky through fir trees. He caught light off a metallic paint job, snapped: Bakersfield, the meet with the guys who needed time to get the money. _The robin's-egg coupe that tried to broadside him a minute later_.

Meeks smiled: friendly guy, no harm meant. A finger on the trigger; a make on the skinny guy: Mal Lunceford, a Hollywood Station harness bull--he used to ogle the carhops at Scrivener's Drive-in, puff out his chest to show off his pistol medals. The fat man, closer, said, "We got that airplane waiting."

Meeks swung the shotgun around, triggered a spread. Fat Man caught buckshot and flew, covering Lunceford--knocking him backward. The wetbacks tore helter-skelter; Meeks ran into the room, heard the back window breaking, yanked the mattress. Sitting ducks: two men, three triple-aught rounds close in.

The two blew up; glass and blood covered three more men inching along the wall. Meeks leaped, hit the ground, fired at three sets of legs pressed together; his free hand flailed, caught a revolver off a dead man's waistband.

Shrieks from the courtyard; running feet on gravel. Meeks dropped the shotgun, stumbled to the wall. Over to the men, tasting blood--point-blank head shots.

Thumps in the room; two rifles in grabbing range. Meeks yelled, "We got him!," heard answering whoops, saw arms and legs coming out the window. He picked up the closest piece and let fly, full automatic: trapped targets, plaster chips exploding, dry wood igniting.

Over the bodies, into the room. The front door stood open; his pistols were still on the ledge. A strange thump sounded; Meeks saw a man spread prone--aiming from behind the mattress box.

He threw himself to the floor, kicked, missed. The man got off a shot-close; Meeks grabbed his switchblade, leaped, stabbed: the neck, the face, the man screaming, shooting--wide ricochets. Meeks slit his throat, crawled over and toed the door shut, grabbed the pistols and just plain breathed.

The fire spreading: cooking up bodies, fir pines; the front door his only way out. _How many more men standing trigger?_

Shots.

From the courtyard: heavy rounds knocking out wall chunks. Meeks caught one in the leg; a shot grazed his back. He hit the floor, the shots kept coming, the door went down--he was smack in the crossfire.

No more shots.

Meeks tucked his guns under his chest, spread himself deadman style. Seconds dragged; four men walked in holding rifles. Whispers: "Dead meat"--"Let's be reeel careful"--"Crazy Okie fuck." Through the doorway, Mal Lunceford not one of them, footsteps.

Kicks in his side, hard breathing, sneers. A foot went under him. A voice said, "Fat fucker."

Meeks jerked the foot; the foot man tripped backward. Meeks spun around shooting--close range, all hits. Four men went down; Meeks got a topsy-turvy view: the courtyard, Ma! Lunceford turning tail. Then, behind him, "Hello, lad."

Dudley Smith stepped through flames, dressed in a fire department greatcoat. Meeks saw his suitcase--ninety-four grand, dope--over by the mattress. "Dud, you came prepared."

"Like the Boy Scouts, lad. And have you a valediction?"

Suicide: heisting a deal Dudley S. watchdogged. Meeks raised his guns; Smith shot first. Meeks died--thinking the El Serrano Motel looked just like the Alamo.

PART ONE

Bloody Christmas

CHAPTER ONE

Bud White in an unmarked, watching the "1951" on the City Hall Christmas tree blink. The back seat was packed with liquor for the station party; he'd scrounged merchants all day, avoiding Parker's dictate: married men had the 24th and Christmas off, all duty rosters were bachelors only, the Central detective squad was detached to round up vagrants: the chief wanted local stumblebums chilled so they wouldn't crash Mayor Bowron's lawn party for underprivileged kids and snarf up all the cookies. Last Christmas, some crazy nigger whipped out his wang, pissed in a pitcher of lemonade earmarked for some orphanage brats and ordered Mrs. Bowron to "Strap on, bitch." William H. Parker's first yuletide as chief of the Los Angeles Police Department was spent transporting the mayor's wife to Central Receiving for sedation, and now, a year later, _he_ was paying the price.

The back seat, booze-packed, had his spine jammed to Jell-O. Ed Exley, the assistant watch commander, was a straight arrow who might get uppity over a hundred cops juicing in the muster room. And Johnny Stompanato was twenty minutes late.

Bud turned on his two-way. A hum settled: shopliftings, a liquor store heist in Chinatown. The passenger door opened; Johnny Stompanato slid in.

Bud turned on the dash light. Stompanato said, "Holiday cheers. And where's Stensland? I've got stuff for both of you."

Bud sized him up. Mickey Cohen's bodyguard was a month out of work--Mickey went up on a tax beef, Fed time, three to seven at McNeil Island. Johnny Stomp was back to home manicures and pressing his own pants. "It's _Sergeant_ Stensland. He's rousting vags and the payoff's the same anyway."

"Too bad. I like Dick's style. You know that, _Wendell_."

Cute Johnny: guinea handsome, curls in a tight pompadour. Bud heard he was hung like a horse and padded his basket on top of it. "Spill what you got."

"Dick's better at the amenities than you, _Officer White_."

"You got a hard-on for me, or you just want small talk?"

"I've got a hard-on for Lana Turner, you've got a hard-on for wife beaters. I also heard you're a real sweetheart with the ladies and you're not too selective as far as looks are concerned."

Bud cracked his knuckles. "And you fuck people up for a living, and all the money Mickey gives to charity won't make him no better than a dope pusher and a pimp. So my fucking complaints for hardnosing wife beaters don't make me you. _Capisce_, shitbird?"

Stompanato smiled--nervous; Bud looked out the window. A Salvation Army Santa palmed coins from his kettle, an eye on the liquor store across the street. Stomp said, "Look, you want information and I need money. Mickey and Davey Goldman are doing time, and Mo Jahelka's looking after things while they're gone. Mo's diving for scraps, and he's got no work for me. Jack Whalen wouldn't hire me on a bet and there was no goddamn envelope from Mickey."

"No envelope? Mickey went up flush. I heard he got back the junk that got clouted off his deal with Jack D."

Stompanato shook his head. "You heard wrong. Mickey got the heister, but that junk is nowhere and the guy got away with a hundred and fifty grand of Mickey's money. So, Officer White, _I_ need money. And if your snitch fund's still green, I'll get you some fucking-A collars."

"Go legit, Johnny. Be a white man like me and Dick Stensland."

Stomp snickered--it came off weak. "A key thief for twenty or a shoplifter who beats his wife for thirty. Go for the quick thrill, I saw the guy boosting Ohrbach's on the way over."

Bud took out a twenty and a ten; Stompanato grabbed them. "Ralphie Kinnard. He's blond and fat, about forty. He's wearing a suede loafer jacket and gray flannels. I heard he's been beating up his wife and pimping her to cover his poker losses."

Bud wrote it down. Stompanato said, "Yuletide cheer, Wendell."

Bud grabbed necktie and yanked; Stomp banged his head on the dashboard.

"Happy New Year, greaseball."

o o o

Ohrbach's was packed--shoppers swarmed counters and garment racks. Bud elbowed up to floor 3, prime shoplifter turf: jewelry, decanter liquor.

Countertops strewn with watches; cash register lines thirty deep. Bud trawled for blond males, got sideswiped by housewives and kids. Then--a flash view--a blond guy in a suede loafer ducking into the men's room.

Bud shoved over and in. Two geezers stood at urinals; gray flannels hit the toilet stall floor. Bud squatted, looked in--bingo on hands fondling jewelry. The oldsters zipped up and walked out; Bud rapped on the stall. "Come on, it's St. Nick."

The door flew open; a fist flew out. Bud caught it flush, hit a sink, tripped. Cufflinks in his face, Kinnard speedballing. Bud got up and chased.

Through the door, shoppers blocking him; Kinnard ducking out a side exit. Bud chased--over, down the fire escape. The lot was clean: no cars hauling, no Raiphie. Bud ran to his prowler, hit the two-way. "4A31 to dispatcher, requesting."

Static, then: "Roger, 4A31."

"Last known address. White male, first name Ralph, last name Kinnard. I guess that's K-I-N-N-A-R-D. Move it, huh?"

The man rogered; Bud threw jabs: bam-bam-bam-bam-bam. The radio crackled: "4A3 1, roger your request."

"4A31, roger."

"Positive on Kinnard, Ralph Thomas, white male, DOB--"

"Just the goddamn address, I told you--"

The dispatcher blew a raspberry. "For your Christmas stocking, shitbird. The address is 1486 Evergreen, and I hope you--"

Bud flipped off the box, headed east to City Terrace. Up to forty, hard on the horn, Evergreen in five minutes flat. The 12, 1300 blocks whizzed by; 1400--vet's prefabs--leaped out.

He parked, followed curb plates to 1486--a stucco job with a neon Santa sled on the roof. Lights inside; a prewar Ford in the driveway. Through a plate-glass window: Ralphie Kinnard browbeating a woman in a bathrobe.

The woman was puff-faced, thirty-fivish. She backed away from Kinnard; her robe fell open. Her breasts were bruised, her ribs lacerated.

Bud walked back for his cuffs, saw the two-way light blinking and rogered. "4A31 responding."

"Roger, 4A31, on an APO. Two patrolmen assaulted outside a tavern at 1990 Riverside, six suspects at large. They've been ID'd from their license plates and other units have been alerted."

Bud got tingles. "Bad for ours?"

"That's a roger. Go to 5314 Avenue 53, Lincoln Heights. Apprehend Dinardo, D-I-N-A-R-D-O, Sanchez, age twentyone, male Mexican."

"Roger, and you send a prowler to 1486 Evergreen. White male suspect in custody. I won't be there, but they'll see him. Tell them I'll write it up."

"Book at Hollenbeck Station?"

Bud rogered, grabbed his cuffs. Back to the house and an outside circuit box--switches tapped until the lights popped off. Santa's sled stayed lit; Bud grabbed an outlet cord and yanked. The display hit the ground: exploding reindeer.

Kinnard ran out, tripped over Rudolph. Bud cuffed his wrists, bounced his face oh the pavement. Ralphie yelped and chewed gravel; Bud launched his wife beater spiel. "You'll be out in a year and a half, and I'll know when. I'll find out who your parole officer is and get cozy with him, I'll visit you and say hi. You touch her again I'm gonna know, and I'm gonna get you violated on a kiddie raper beef. You know what they do to kiddie rapers up at Quentin? Huh? The Pope a fuckin' guinea?"

Lights went on--Kinnard's wife was futzing with the fuse box. She said, "Can I go to my mother's?"

Bud emptied Ralphie's pockets--keys, a cash roll. "Take the car and get yourself fixed up."

Kinnard spat teeth. Mrs. Ralphie grabbed the keys and peeled a ten-spot. Bud said, "Merry Christmas, huh?"

Mrs. Ralphie blew a kiss and backed the car out, wheels over blinking reindeer.

o o o

Avenue 53--Code 2 no siren. A black-and-white just beat him; two blues and Dick Stensland got out and huddled.

Bud tapped his horn; Stensland came over. "Who's there, partner?"

Stensland pointed to a shack. "The one guy on the air, maybe more. It was maybe four spics, two white guys did our guys in. Brownell and Helenowski. Brownell's maybe got brain damage, Helenowski maybe lost an eye."

"Big maybes."

Stens reeked: Listerine, gin. "You want to quibble?"

Bud got out of the car. "No quibble. How many in custody?"

"Goose. We get the first collar."

"Then tell the blues to stay put."

Stens shook his head. "They're pals with Brownell. They want a piece."

"Nix, this is ours. We get them booked, we write it up and make the party by watch change. I got three cases: Walker Black, Jim Beam and Cutty."

"Exley's assistant watch commander. He's a nosebleed, and you can bet he don't approve of on-duty imbibing."

"Yeah, and Frieling's _the_ watch boss, and he's a fucking drunk like you. So don't worry about Exley. And I got a report to write up first--so let's just do it."

Stens laughed. "Aggravated assault on a woman? What's that--six twenty-three point one in the California Penal Code? So I'm a fucking drunk and you're a fucking do-gooder."

"Yeah, and you're ranking. So now?"

Stens winked; Bud walked flank--up to the porch, gun out. The shack was curtained dark; Bud caught a radio ad: Felix the Cat Chevrolet. Dick kicked the door in.

Yells, a Mex man and woman hauling. Stens aimed head high; Bud blocked his shot. Down a hallway, Bud close in, Stens wheezing, knocking over furniture. The kitchen--the spics deadended at a window.

They turned, raised their hands: a pachuco punk, a pretty girl maybe six months pregnant.

The boy kissed the wall--a pro friskee. Bud searched him: Dinardo Sanchez ID, chump change. The girl boo-hooed; sirens scree'd outside. Bud turned Sanchez around, kicked him in the balls. "For ours, Pancho. And you got off easy."

Stens grabbed the girl. Bud said, "Go somewhere, sweetheart. Before my friend checks your green card."

"Green card" spooked her--_madre mia! Madre mia!_ Stens shoved her to the door; Sanchez moaned. Bud saw blues swarm the driveway. "We'll let them take Pancho in."

Stens caught some breath. "We'll give him to Brownell's pals." Two rookie types walked in--Bud saw his out. "Cuff him and book him. APO and resisting arrest."

The rookies dragged Sanchez out. Stens said, "You and women. What's next? Kids and dogs?"

Mrs. Ralphie--all bruised up for Christmas. "I'm working on it. Come on, let's move that booze. Be nice and I'll let you have your own bottle."

CHAPTER TWO

Preston Exley yanked the drop-cloth. His guests oohed and ahhed; a city councilman clapped, spilled eggnog on a society matron. Ed Exley thought: this is not a typical policeman's Christmas Eve.

He checked his watch--8:46--he had to be at the station by midnight. Preston Exley pointed to the model.

It took up half his den: an amusement park filled with papier-mâché mountains, rocket ships, Wild West towns. Cartoon creatures at the gate: Moochie Mouse, Scooter Squirrel, Danny Duck--Raymond Dieterling's brood--featured in the _Dream-a-Dream Hour_ and scores of cartoons.

"Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Dream-a-Dreamland. Exley Construction will build it, in Pomona, California, and the opening date will be April 1953. It will be the most sophisticated amusement park in history, a self-contained universe where children of all ages can enjoy the message of fun and goodwill that is the hallmark of Raymond Dieterling, the father of modern animation. Dream-a-Dreamland will feature all your favorite Dieterling characters, and it will be a haven for the young and young at heart."

Ed stared at his father: fifty-seven coming off forty-five, a cop from a long line of cops holding forth in a Hancock Park mansion, politicos giving up their Christmas Eve at a snap of his fingers. The guests applauded; Preston pointed to a snowcapped mountain. "Paul's World, ladies and gentlemen. An exact-scale replica of a mountain in the Sierra Nevada. Paul's World will feature a thrilling toboggan ride and a ski lodge where Moochie, Scooter and Danny will perform skits for the whole family. And who is the Paul of Paul's World? Paul was Raymond Dieterling's son, lost tragically as a teenager in 1936, lost in an avalanche on a camping trip--lost on a mountain just like this one here. So, out of tragedy, an affirmation of innocence. And, ladies and gentlemen, every nickel out of every dollar spent at Paul's World will go to the Children's Polio Foundation."

Wild applause. Preston nodded at Timmy Valburn--the actor who played Moochie Mouse on the _Dream-a-Dream Hour_--always nibbling cheese with his big buck teeth. Valburn nudged the man beside him; the man nudged back.

Art De Spain caught Ed's eye; Valburn kicked off a Moochie routine. Ed steered De Spain to the hallway. "This is a hell of a surprise, Art."

"Dieterling's announcing it on the _Dream Hour_. Didn't your dad tell you?"

"No, and I didn't know he knew Dieterling. Did he meet him back during the Atherton case? Wasn't Wee Willie Wennerhoim one of Dieterling's kid stars?"

De Spain smiled. "I was your dad's lowly adjutant then, and I don't think the two great men ever crossed paths. Preston just knows people. And by the way, did you spot the mouse man and his pal?"

Ed nodded. "Who is he?"

Laughter from the den; De Spain steered Ed to the study. "He's Billy Dieterling, Ray's son. He's a cameraman on _Badge of Honor_, which lauds our beloved LAPD to millions of television viewers each week. Maybe Timmy spreads some cheese on his whatsis before he blows him."

Ed laughed. "Art, you're a pisser."

De Spain sprawled in a chair. "Eddie, ex-cop to cop, you say words like 'pisser' and you sound like a college professor. And you're not really an 'Eddie,' you're an 'Edmund."'

Ed squared his glasses. "I see avuncular advice coming. Stick in Patrol, because Parker made chief that way. Adniinistrate my way up because I have no command presence."

"You've got no sense of humor. And can't you get rid of those specs? Squint or something. Outside of Thad Green, I can't think of one Bureau guy who wears glasses."

"God, you miss the Department. I think that if you could give up Exley Construction and fifty thousand a year for a spot as an LAPD rookie, you would."

De Spain lit a cigar. "Only if your dad came with me."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. I was a lieutenant to Preston's inspector, and I'm still a number two man. It'd be nice to be even with him."

"If you didn't know lumber, Exley Construction wouldn't exist."

"Thanks. And get rid of those glasses."

Ed picked up a framed photo: his brother Thomas in uniform--taken the day before he died. "If you were a rookie, I'd break you for insubordination."

"You would, too. What did you place on the lieutenant's exam?"

"First out of twenty-three applicants. I was the youngest applicant by eight years, with the shortest time in grade as a sergeant and the shortest amount of time on the Department."

"And you want the Detective Bureau."

Ed put the photo down. "Yes."

"Then, first you have to figure a year minimum for an opening to come up, then you have to realize that it will probably be a Patrol opening, then you have to realize that a transfer to the Bureau will take years and lots of ass kissing. You're twenty-nine now?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll be a lieutenant at thirty or thirty-one. Brass that young create resentment. Ed, all kidding aside. You're not one of the guys. You're not a strongarm type. _You're not Bureau_. And Parker as Chief has set a precedent for Patrol officers to go all the way. Think about that."

Ed said, "Art, I want to work cases. I'm connected and I won the Distinguished Service Cross, which some people might construe as strongarm. And I will _have_ a Bureau appointment."

De Spain brushed ash off his cummerbund. "Can we talk turkey, Sunny Jim?"

The endearment rankled. "Of course."

"Well . . . you're good, and in time you might be really good. And I don't doubt your killer instinct for a second. But your father was ruthless and likable. And you're not, so . .

Ed made fists. "So, Uncle Arthur? Cop who left the Department for money to cop who never would--what's your advice?"

De Spain ifinched. "So be a sycophant and suck up to the right men. Kiss William H. Parker's ass and pray to be in the right place at the right time."

"Like you and my father?"

"_Touché_, Sunny Jim."

Ed looked at his uniform: custom blues on a hanger. Razorcreased, sergeant's stripes, a single hashmark. De Spain said, "Gold bars soon, Eddie. And braid on your cap. And I wouldn't jerk your chain if I didn't care."

"I know."

"And you _are_ a goddamned war hero."

Ed changed the subject. "It's Christmas. You're thinking about Thomas."

"I keep thinking I could have told him something. He didn't even have his holster flap open."

"A purse snatcher with a gun? He couldn't have known." De Spain put out his cigar. "Thomas was a natural, and I always thought he should be telling me things. That's why I tend to spell things out for you."

"He's twelve years dead and I'll bury him as a policeman."

"I'll forget you said that."

"No, remember it. Remember it when I make the Bureau. And when Father offers toasts to Thomas and Mother, don't get maudlin, it ruins him for days."

De Spain stood up, flushing; Preston Exley walked in with snifters and a bottle.

Ed said, "Merry Christmas, Father. And congratulations."

Preston poured drinks. "Thank you. Exley Construction tops the Arroyo Seco Freeway job with a kingdom for a glorified rodent, and I'll never eat another piece of cheese. A toast, gentlemen. To the eternal rest of my son Thomas and my wife Marguerite, to the three of us assembled here."

The men drank; De Spain fixed refills. Ed offered his father's favorite toast: "To the solving of crimes that require absolute justice."

Three more shots downed. Ed said, "Father, I didn't know you knew Raymond Dieterling."

Preston smiled. "I've known him in a business sense for years. Art and I have kept the contract secret at Raymond's request--he wants to announce it on that infantile television program of his."

"Did you meet him during the Atherton case?"

"No, and of course I wasn't in the construction business then. Arthur, do you have a toast to propose?"

De Spain poured short ones. "To a Bureau assignment for our soon-to-be lieutenant."

Laughter, hear-hears. Preston said, "Joan Morrow was inquiring about your love life, Edmund. I think she's smitten."

"Do you see a debutante as a cop's wife?"

"No, but I could picture her married to a ranking policeman."

"Chief of Detectives?"

"No, I was thinking more along the lines of commander of the Patrol Division."

"Father, Thomas was going to be your chief of detectives, but he's dead. Don't deny me my opportunity. Don't make me live an old dream of yours."

Preston stared at his son. "Point taken, and I commend you for speaking up. And granted, that was my original dream. But the truth is that I don't think you have the eye for human weakness that makes a good detective."

His brother: a math brain crazed for pretty girls. "And Thomas did?"

"Yes."

"Father, I would have shot that purse snatcher the second he went for his pocket."

De Spain said, "Goddammit"; Preston shushed him. "That's all right. Edmund, a few questions before I return to my guests. One, would you be willing to plant corroborative evidence on a suspect you knew was guilty in order to ensure an indictment?"

"I'd have to--"

"Answer yes or no."

"I . . . no."

"Would you be willing to shoot hardened armed robbers in the back to offset the chance that they might utilize flaws in the legal system and go free?"

"I . . ."

"Yes or no, Edmund."

"No."

"And would you be willing to beat confessions out of suspects you knew to be guilty?"

"No."

"Would you be willing to rig crime scene evidence to support a prosecuting attorney's working hypothesis?"

"No."

Preston sighed. "Then for God's sake, stick to assignments where you won't have to make those choices. Use the superior inteffigence the good Lord gave you."

Ed looked at his uniform. "I'll use that intelligence as a detective."

Preston smiled. "Detective or not, you have qualities of persistence that Thomas lacked. You'll excel, my war hero."

The phone rang; De Spain picked it up. Ed thought of rigged Jap trenches--and couldn't meet Preston's eyes. Dc Spain said, "It's Lieutenant Frieling at the station. He said the jail's almost full, and two officers were assaulted earlier in the evening. Two suspects are in custody, with four more outstanding. He said you should clock in early."

Ed turned back to his father. Preston was down the hall, swapping jokes with Mayor Bowron in a Moochie Mouse hat.

CHAPTER THREE

Press clippings on his corkboard: "Dope Crusader Wounded in Shootout"; "Actor Mitchum Seized in Marijuana Shack Raid." _Hush-Hush_ articles, framed on his desk: "Hopheads Quake When Dope Scourge Cop Walks Tall"; "Actors Agree: _Badge of Honor_ Owes Authenticity to Hard-hitting Technical Advisor." The _Badge_ piece featured a photo: Sergeant Jack Vincennes with the show's star, Brett Chase. The piece did not feature dirt from the editor's private file: Brett Chase as a pedophile with three quashed sodomy beefs.

Jack Vincennes glanced around the Narco pen--deserted, dark--just the light in his cubicle. Ten minutes short of midnight; he'd prpmised Dudley Smith he'd type up an organized crime report for Intelligence Division; he'd promised Lieutenant Frieling a case of booze for the station party--Hush-Hush Sid Hudgens was supposed to come across with rum but hadn't called. Dudley's report: a favor shot his way because he typed a hundred words a minute; a favor returned tomorrow: a meet with Dud and Ellis Loew, Pacific Dining Car lunch--work on the line, work to earn him juice with the D.A.'s Office. Jack lit a cigarette, read.

Some report: eleven pages long, very verbal, very Dudley. The topic: L.A. mob activity with Mickey Cohen in stir. Jack edited, typed.

Cohen was at McNeil Island Federal Prison: three to seven, income tax evasion. Davey Goldman, Mickey's money man, was there: three to seven, down on six counts of federal tax fraud. Smith predicted possible skirmishing between Cohen minion Morris Jahelka and Jack "The Enforcer" Whalen; with Mafia overlord Jack Dragna deported, they loomed as the two men most likely to control loansharking, bookmaking, prostitution and the race wire racket. Smith stated that Jahelka was too ineffectual to require police surveillance; that John Stompanato and Abe Teitlebaum, key Cohen strongarms, seemed to have gone legitimate. Lee Vachss, contract trigger employed by Cohen, was working a religious racket--selling patent medicines guaranteed to induce mystical experiences.

Jack kept typing. Dud's take hit wrong: Johnny Stomp and Kikey Teitlebaum were pure bent--they could never go pure straight. He fed in a fresh sheet.

A new topic: the February '50 Cohen/Dragna truce meeting-- twenty-five pounds of heroin and a hundred and fifty grand allegedly stolen. Jack heard rumors: an ex-cop named Buzz Meeks heisted the summit, took off and was gunned down near San Bernardino--Cohen goons and rogue L.A. cops killed him, a Mickey contract: Meeks stole the Mick blind and fucked his woman. The horse was supposedly long gone unfound. Dudley's theory: Meeks buried the money and shit someplace unknown and was later killed by "person or persons unknown"--probably a Cohen gunman. Jack smiled: if LAPD was in on a Meeks hit, Dud would never implicate the Department--even in an interdepartmental report.

Next, Smith's summary: with Mickey C. gone, mob action was at a lull; the LAPD should stay alert for new faces looking to crash Cohen's old rackets; prostitution was sticking over the county line--with Sheriff's Department sanction. Jack signed the last page "Respectfully, Lieutenant D. L. Smith."

The phone rang. "Narcotics, Vincennes."

"It's me. You hungry?"

Jack kiboshed a temper fit--easy--what Hudgens just might have on him. "Sid, you're late. And the party's already on."

"I got better than booze, I got cash."

"Talk."

"Talk this: Tammy Reynolds, co-star of _Hope's Harvest_, opens tomorrow citywide. A guy I know just sold her some reefer, a guaranteed felony pinch. She's tripping the light fantastic at 2245 Maravilla, Hollywood Hills. You pinch, I do you up feature in the next issue. Because it's Christmas, I leak my notes to Morty Bendish at the _Mirror_, so you make the dailies, too. Plus fifty cash and your rum. Am I fucking Santa Claus?"

"Pictures?"

"In spades. Wear the blue blazer, it goes with your eyes."

"A hundred, Sid. I need two patrolmen at twenty apiece and a dime for the watch commander at Hollywood Station. And you set it up."

"Jack! It's Christmas!"

"No, it's felony possession of marijuana."

"Shit. Half an hour?"

"Twenty-five minutes."

"I'm there, you fucking extortionist."

Jack hung up, made an X mark on his calendar. Another day, no booze, no hop--four years, two months running.

o o o

His stage was waiting--Maravilla cordoned off, two bluesuits by Sid Hudgens' Packard, their black-and-white up on the sidewalk. The street was dark and still; Sid had an ardight set up. They had a view of the Boulevard--Grauman's Chinese included--great for an establishing shot. Jack parked, walked over.

Sid greeted him with cash. "She's sitting in the dark, goofing on the Christmas tree. The door looks flimsy."

Jack drew his .38. "Have the boys put the booze in my trunk. You want Grauman's in the background?"

"I like it! Jackie, you're the best in the West!"

Jack scoped him: scarecrow skinny, somewhere between thirty-five and fifty--keeper of inside dirt supreme. He either knew about 10/24/47 or he didn't; if he did, their arrangement was lifetime stuff. "Sid, when I bring her out the door, I do not want that goddamned baby spot in my eyes. Tell your camera guy that."

"Consider him told."

"Good, now count twenty on down."

Hudgens ticked numbers; Jack walked up and kicked the door in. The arclight snapped on, a living room caught flush: Christmas tree, two kids necking in their undies. Jack shouted "Police!"; the lovebirds froze; light on a fat bag of weed on the couch.

The girl started bawling; the boy reached for his trousers. Jack put a foot on his chest. "The hands, slow."

The boy pressed his wrists together; Jack cuffed him onehanded. The blues stormed in and gathered up evidence; Jack matched a name to the punk: Rock Rockwell, RKO ingenue. The girl ran; Jack grabbed her. Two suspects by the neck--out the door, down the steps.

Hudgens yelled, "Grauman's while we've still got the light!"

Jack framed them: half-naked pretties in their BVDs. Flashbulbs popped; Hudgens yelled, "Cut! Wrap it!"

The blues took over: Rockwell and the girl hauled bawling to their prowler. Window lights popped on; rubberneckers opened doors. Jack went back to the house.

A maryjane haze--four years later the shit still smelled good. Hudgens was opening drawers, pulling out dildoes, spiked dog collars. Jack found the phone, checked the address book for pushers--goose egg. A calling card fell out: "Fleur-de-Lis. Twenty-four Hours a Day--Whatever You Desire."

Sid started muttering. Jack put the card back. "Let's hear how it sounds."

Hudgens cleared his throat. "It's Christmas morning in the City of the Angels, and while decent citizens sleep the sleep of the righteous, hopheads prowl for marijuana, the weed with roots in Hell. Tammy Reynolds and Rock Rockwell, movie stars with one foot in Hades, toke sweet tea in Tammy's swank Hollywood digs, not knowing they are playing with fire without asbestos gloves, not knowing that a man is coming to put out that fire: the free-wheeling, big-time Big V, celebrity crimestopper Jack Vincennes, the scourge of grasshoppers and junk fiends everywhere. Acting on the tip of an unnamed informant, Sergeant Vincennes, blah, blah, blah. You like it, Jackie?"

"Yeah, it's subtle."

"No, it's circulation nine hundred thousand and climbing. I think I'll work in you're divorced twice 'cause your wives couldn't stand your crusade and you got your name from an orphanage in Vincennes, Indiana. The Biggg Veeeee."

His Narco tag: Trashcan Jack--a nod to the time he popped Charlie "Yardbird" Parker and tossed him into a garbage bin outside the flub Zamboanga. "You should beat the drum on _Badge of Honor_. Miller Stanton's my buddy, how I taught Brett Chase to play a cop. Technical advisor kingpin, that kind of thing."

Hudgens laughed. "Brett still like them prepubescent?"

"Can niggers dance?"

"South of Jefferson Boulevard only. Thanks for the story, Jack."

"Sure."

"I mean it. It's always nice seeing you."

You fucking cockroach, you're going to wink because you know you can nail me to that moralistic shitbird William H. Parker anytime you want--cash rousts going back to '48, you've probably got documentation worked around to let you off clean and crucify me--

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.

Sergeant 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 Vincennes 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--

He was cramped in his car, staking the Malibu Rendezvous parking lot: eyes on two "H" pushers in a Packard sedan. Near midnight: he'd been drinking scotch, he blew a reefer on the way over, the bennies he'd been swallowing weren't catching up with the booze. A tip on a midnight buy: the "H" men and a skinny shine, seven feet tall, a real geek.

The boogie showed at a quarter past twelve, walked to the Packard, palmed a package. Jack tripped getting out of the car; the geek started running; the "H" men got out with guns drawn. Jack stumbled up and drew his piece; the geek wheeled and fired; he saw two shapes closer in, tagged them as the nigger's backup, squeezed off a clip. The shapes went down; the "H" men shot at the spook and at him; the spook nosedived a '46 Studebaker.

Jack ate cement, prayed the rosary. A shot ripped his shoulder; a shot grazed his legs. He crawled under the car; a shitload of tires squealed; a shitload of people screamed. An ambulance showed up; a bull dyke Sheriff's deputy loaded him on a gurney. Sirens, a hospital bed, a doctor and the dyke whispering about the dope in his system--blood test validated. Lots of drugged sleep, a newspaper on his lap: "Three Dead in Malibu Shootout--Heroic Cop Survives."

The "H" guys escaped clean--the deaths pinned on them.

The spook was dead at the scene.

The shapes weren't the nigger's backup--they were Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins, tourists from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, the proud parents of Donald, seventeen, and Marsha, sixteen.

The doctors kept looking at him funny; the dyke turned out to be Dot Rothstein, Kikey Teitlebaum's cousin, known associate of the legendary Dudley Smith.

A routine autopsy would show that the pills taken out of Mr. and Mrs. Scoggins came from Sergeant Jack Vincennes' gun.

The kids saved him.

He sweated out a week at the hospital. Thad Green and Chief Worton visited; the Narco guys came by. Dudley Smith offered his patronage; he wondered just how much he knew. Sid Hudgens, chief writer for _Hush-Hush_ Magazine, stopped in with an offer: Jack to roust celebrated hopheads, _Hush-Hush_ to be in on the arrests--cash to discreetly change hands. He accepted-- and wondered just how much Hudgens knew.

The kids demanded no autopsy: the family was Seventh-Day Adventist, autopsies were a sacrilege. Since the county coroner knew damn well who the shooters were, he shipped Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins back to Iowa to be cremated.

Sergeant Jack Vincennes skated--with newspaper honors.

His wounds healed.

He quit drinking.

He quit taking dope, dumped the trunk. He marked abstinent days on his calendar, worked his deal with Sid Hudgens, built his name as a local celebrity. He did favors for Dudley Smith; Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins torched his dreams; he figured booze and hop would put out the flames but get him killed in the process. Sid got him the "technical advisor" job with _Badge of Honor_--then just a radio show. Money started roffing in; spending it on clothes and women wasn't the kick he thought it would be. Bars and dope shakedowns were awful temptations. Terrorizing hopheads helped a little--but not enough. He decided to pay the kids back.

His first check ran two hundred; he included a letter: "Anonymous Friend," a spiel on the Scoggins tragedy. He called the bank a week later: the check had been cashed. He'd been financing his free ride ever since; unless Hudgens had 10/24/47 on paper he was safe.

Jack laid out his party clothes. The blazer was London Shop--he'd bought it with Sid's payoff for the Bob Mitchum roust. The tassel loafers and gray flannels were proceeds from a _Hush-Hush_ exposé linking jazz musicians to the Communist Conspiracy--he squeezed some pinko stuff out of a bass player he popped for needle marks. He dressed, spritzed on Lucky Tiger, drove to Beverly Hills.

o o o

A backyard bash: a full acre covered by awnings. College kids parked cars; a buffet featured prime rib, smoked ham, turkey. Waiters carried hors d'oeuvres; a giant Christmas tree stood out in the open, getting drizzled on. Guests ate off paper plates; gas torches lit the lawn. Jack arrived on time and worked the crowd.

Welton Morrow showed him to his first audience: a group of Superior Court judges. Jack spun yarns: Charlie Parker trying to buy him off with a high-yellow hooker, how he cracked the Shapiro case: a queer Mickey Cohen stooge pushing amyl nitrite--his customers transvestite strippers at a fruit bar. The Big V to the rescue: Jack Vincennes single-handedly arresting a roomful of bruisers auditioning for a Rita Hayworth lookalike contest. A round of applause; Jack bowed, saw Joan Morrow by the Christmas tree--alone, maybe bored.

He walked over. Joan said, "Happy holidays, Jack."

Pretty, built, thirty-one or two. No job and no husband taking its toll: she came off pouty most of the time. "Hi, Joan."

"Hi, yourself. I read about you in the paper today. Those people you arrested."

"It was nothing."

Joan laughed. "Sooo modest. What's going to happen to them? Rock what's-his-name and the girl, I mean."

"Ninety days for the girl, maybe a year honor farm for Rockwell. They should hire your dad--he'd get them off."

"You don't really care, do you?"

"I hope they cop a plea and save me a court date. And I hope they do some time and learn their lesson."

"I smoked marijuana once, in college. It made me hungry and I ate a whole box of cookies and got sick. You wouldn't have arrested me, would you?"

"No, you're too nice."

"I'm _bored_ enough to try it again, I'll tell you that."

His opening. "How's your love life, Joanie?"

"It isn't. Do you know a policeman named Edmund Exley? He's tall and he wears these cute glasses. He's Preston Exley's son."

Straight-arrow Eddie: war hero with a poker up his ass. "I know who he is, but I don't really know him."

"Isn't he cute? I saw him at his father's house last night."

"Rich-kid cops are from hunger, but I know a nice fellow who's interested in you."

"You do? Who?"

"A man named Ellis Loew. He's a deputy district attorney."

Joan smiled, frowned. "I heard him address the Rotary Club once. Isn't he Jewish?"

"Yeah, but look to the bright side. He's a Republican and a corner."

"Is he nice?"

"Sure, he's a sweetheart."

Joan flicked the tree; fake snow swirled. "Welll, tell him to call me. Tell him I'm booked up for a while, but he can stand in line."

"Thanks, Joanie."

"Thank you, Miles Standish. Look, I think I see Daddy giving me the come-hither. Bye, Jackie!"

Joan skipped off; Jack geared up for more shtick--maybe the Mitchum job, a soft version. A soft voice: "Mr. Vincennes. Hello."

Jack turned around. Karen Morrow in a green cocktail dress, her shoulders beaded with rain. The last time he'd seen her she was a too-tall, too-gawky kid forced to say thank you to a cop who'd strongarmed a hop pusher. Four years later just the too-tall stuck--the rest was a girl-to-woman changeover. "Karen, I almost didn't recognize you."

Karen smiled. Jack said, "I'd tell you you've gotten beautiful, but you've heard it before."

"Not from you."

Jack laughed. "How was college?"

"An epic, and not a story to tell you while I'm freezing. I told my parents to hold the party indoors, that England did not inure me to the cold. I have a speech prepared. Do you want to help me feed the neighbor's cats?"

"I'm on the job."

"Talking to my sister?"

"A guy I know has a crush on her."

"Poor guy. No, poor Joanie. Shit, this is not going the way I planned."

"Shit, then let's go feed those cats."

Karen smiled and led the way, wobbling, high heels on grass. Thunder, lightning, rain--Karen kicked off her shoes and ran barefoot. Jack caught up at the next-door porch--wet, close to laughing.

Karen opened the door. A foyer light was on; Jack looked at her--shivering, goose bumps. Karen shook water from her hair. "The cats are upstairs."

Jack took off his blazer. "No, I want to hear your speech."

"I'm sure you know what it is. I'm sure lots of people have thanked you."

"You haven't."

Karen shivered. "Shit. I'm sorry, but this is not going the way I planned."

Jack draped his coat around her shoulders. "You got the L.A. papers over in England?"

"Yes."

"And you read about me?"

"Yes. You--"

"Karen, they exaggerate sometimes. They build things up."

"Are you telling me those things I've read are lies?"

"Not ex--no, they're not."

Karen turned away. "Good, I knew they were true, so here's your speech, and don't look at me, because I'm flustered. One, you got me away from taking pills. Two, you convinced my father to send me abroad, where I got a damn good education and met nice people. Three, you arrested that terrible man who sold me the pills."

Jack touched her; Karen flinched away. "No, let me tell it! Four, what I wasn't going to mention, is that Les Weiskopf gave girls pills for free if they slept with him. Father was stingy with my allowance and sooner or later I would have done it. So there--you kept my goddamned virtue intact."

Jack laughed. "Am I your goddamned hero?"

"Yes, and I'm twenty-two years old and not the schoolgirlcrush type."

"Good, because I'd like to take you to dinner sometime." Karen swung around. Her mascara was ruined; she'd chewed off most of her lipstick. "Yes. Mother and Father will have coronaries, but yes."

Jack said, "This is the first stupid move I've made in years."

CHAPTER SEVEN

A month of shit.

Bud ripped January 1952 off his calendar, counted felony arrests. January 1 through January 11: zero-he'd worked crowd control at a movie location--Parker wanted a muscle guy there to shoo away autograph hounds. January 14: the cop beaters acquitted on assault charges, Helenowski and Brownell chewed up-the spics' lawyer made it look like they instigated the whole thing. Civil suits threatened; "get a lawyer?" scribbled by the date.

January 16, 19, 22: wife thumpers paroled, welcome home visits. January 23--25: stakeouts on a burglary ring, him and Stens acting on a tip from Johnny Stomp, who just seemed to know things, per a rumor: he used to run a blackmail racket. Gangland activity at a weird lull, Stomp scuffling to stay solvent, Mo Jahelka--looking after Mickey C.'s interests--probably afraid to push too much muscle. Seven arrests total, good for his quota, but the papers were working the station brouhaha, dubbing it "Bloody Christmas," and a rumor hit: the D.A.'S Office had contacted Parker, TAD was going to question the men partying on Christmas Eve, the county grand jury was drooling for a presentation. More notes: "talk to Dick," "_lawyer???_," "_lawyer when??_"

The last week of the month--comic relief. Dick off duty, drying out at a health ranch in Twenty-nine Palms; the squad boss thought he was attending his father's funeral in Nebraska-- the guys took up a collection to send flowers to a mortuary that didn't exist. Two felony notches on the 29th: parole violators he'd glommed off another Stomp snitch--but he'd had to beat the shit out of them, kidnap them, haul them from county turf to city so the Sheriff's couldn't claim the roust. The 3 1st: a dance with Chick Nadel, a barkeep who ran hot appliances out of the Moonglow Lounge. An impromptu raid; Chick with a stash of hot radios; a snitch on the guys who boosted the truck, holed up in San Diego, no way to make it an LAPD caper. He busted Chick instead: receiving stolen goods with a prior, ten felony arrests for the month--at least a double-digit tally.

Pure shit--straight into February.

Back to uniform, six days of directing traffic--Parker's idea, Detective Division personnel rotating to Patrol for a week a year. Alphabetically: as a "W" he stood at the rear of the pack. The late bird loses the worm--it rained all six of those days.

Floods on the job, a drought with the women.

Bud thumbed his address book. Lorene from the Silver Star, Jane from the Zimba Room, Nancy from the Orbit Lounge-- late-breaking numbers. They had the look: late thirties, hungry-- grateful for a younger guy who treated them nice and gave them a taste all men weren't shitheels. Lorene was heavyset--the mattress springs always banged the floor. Jane played opera records to set the mood--they sounded like cats fucking. Nancy was a lush, par for bar-prowl course. The jaded type--the type to break things off even quicker than he usually did.

"White, check this."

Bud looked up. Elmer Lentz held out the _Herald_ front page.

The headline: "Police Beating Victims to File Suit."

Subheadings: "Grand Jury Ready to Hear Evidence," "Parker Vows Full LAPD Cooperation."

Lentz said, "This could be trouble."

Bud said, "No shit, Sherlock."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Preston Exley finished reading. "Edmund, all three versions are brilliant, but you should have gone to Parker immediately. Now, with all the publicity, your coming forth smacks of panic. Are you prepared to be an informant?"

Ed squared his glasses. "Yes."

"Are you prepared to be despised within the Department?"

"Yes, and I'm prepared for whatever displays of gratitude Parker has to offer."

Preston skimmed pages. "Interesting. Shifting most of the guilt to men with their pensions already secured is salutory, and this Officer White sounds a bit fearsome."

Ed got chills. "He is. Internal Affairs is interviewing me tomorrow, and I don't relish telling them about his stunt with the Mexican."

"Afraid of reprisals?"

"Not really."

"Don't ignore your fear, Edmund. That's weakness. White and his friend Stensland behaved with despicable disregard for departmental bylaws, and they're both obvious thugs. Are you prepared for your interview?"

"Yes."

"They'll be brutal."

"I know, Father."

"They'll stress your inability to keep order and the fact that you let those officers steal your keys."

Ed flushed. "It was getting chaotic, and fighting those men would have created more chaos."

"Don't raise your voice and don't justify yourseW. Not with me, not with the I.A. men. It makes you appear--"

A breaking voice. "Don't say 'weak,' Father. Don't draw any sort of parallel with Thomas. And don't assume that I can't handle this situation."

Preston picked up the phone. "I know you're capable of holding your own. But are you capable of seizing Bill Parker's gratitude before he displays it?"

"Father, you told me once that Thomas was your heir as a natural and I was your heir as an opportunist. What does that tell you?"

Preston smiled, dialed a number. "Bill? Hello, it's Preston Exley . . . Yes, fine, thank you . . . No, I wouldn't have called your personal line for that . . . No, Bill, it's about my son Edmund. He was on duty at Central Station Christmas Eve, and I think he has valuable information for you . . . Yes, tonight? Certainly, he'll be there . . . Yes, and my regards to Helen . . . Yes, goodbye, Bill."

Ed felt his heart slamming. Preston said, "Meet Chief Parker at the Pacific Dining Car tonight at eight. He'll arrange for a private room where you can talk."

"Which one of the depositions do I show him?"

Preston handed the paperwork back. "Opportunities like this don't come very often. I had the Atherton case, you had a little taste with Guadalcanal. Read the family scrapbook and _remember those precedents_."

"Yes, but which deposition?"

"You figure it out. And have a good meal at the Dining Car. The supper invitation is a good sign, and Bill doesn't like finicky eaters."

o o o

Ed drove to his apartment, read, remembered. The scrapbook held clippings arranged in chronological order; what the newspapers didn't tell him he'd burned into his memory.

1934--the Atherton case.

Children: Mexican, Negro, Oriental--three male, two female--are found dismembered, the trunks of their bodies discovered in L.A. area storm drains. The arms and legs have been severed; the internal organs removed. The press dubs the killer "Dr. Frankenstein." Inspector Preston Exley heads the investigation.

He deems the Frankenstein tag appropriate: tennis racket strings were found at all five crime scenes, the third victim had darning-needle holes in his armpits. Exley concludes that the fiend is recreating children with stitching and a knife; he begins hauling in deviates, cranks, loony bin parolees. He wonders what the killer will do for a face--and learns a week later.

Wee Willie Wennerholm, child star in Raymond Dieterling's stable, is kidnapped from a studio tutorial school. The following day his body is found on the Glendale railroad tracks-- decapitated.

Then a break: administrators from the Glenhaven State Mental Hospital call the LAPD--Loren Atherton, a child molester with a vampire fixation, was paroled to Los Angeles two months before--and has not yet reported to his parole officer.

Exley locates Atherton on skid row: he has a job washing bottles at a blood bank. Surveillance reveals that he steals blood, mixes it with cheap wine and drinks it. Exley's men arrest Atherton at a downtown theater--masturbating during a horror movie. Exley raids his hotel room, finds a set of keys--the keys to an abandoned storage garage. He goes there--and finds Hell.

A prototype child packed in dry ice: male Negro arms, male Mexican legs, a male Chinese torso with spliced-in female genitalia and Wee Willie Wennerhoim's head. Wings cut from birds stitched to the child's back. Accoutrements rest nearby: horror movie reels, gutted tennis rackets, diagrams for creating hybrid children. Photographs of children in various stages of dismemberment, a closet/darkroom filled with developing supplies.

Hell.

Atherton confesses to the killings; he is tried, convicted, hanged at San Quentin. Preston Exley keeps copies of the death photos; he shows them to his policemen sons--so that they will know the brutality of crimes that require absolute justice.

Ed flipped pages: past his mother's obit, Thomas' death. Outside of his father's triumphs, the only time the Exleys made the papers was when, somebody died. He made the _Examiner_: an article on the sons of famous men fighting World War II. Like Bloody Christmas, there was more than one version.

The _Examiner_ ran the version that won him his DSC: Corporal Ed Exley, sole survivor of a platoon wiped out in hand-to-hand combat, takes down three trenches filled with Jap infantry, twenty-nine dead total, if there were an officer present to witness the act he would have won the Congressional Medal of Honor. Version two: Ed Exley seizes the opportunity to make a scout run when a Jap bayonet charge is imminent, dawdles, comes back to find his platoon obliterated and a Jap patrol approaching. He hides under Sergeant Peters and Pfc Wasnicki, feels them buckle when the Japs strafe bodies; he bites into Wasnicki's arm, chews his wristwatch strap clean off. He waits for dusk, sobbing, covered by dead men, a tiny passage between bodies feeding him air. Then a terror nm for battalion HQ--halted when he sees another slaughter scene.

A little Shinto shrine, tucked into a clearing covered with camouflage netting. Dead Japs on pallets, jaundice green, emaciated. Every man ripped stomach to ribcage; ornately carved swords, blood-caked, stacked neatly. Mass suicide--soldiers too proud to risk capture or die from malaria.

Three trenches cut into the ground behind the temple; weaponry nearby--rifles and pistols rusted out from heavy rain. A flamethrower wrapped in camouflage cloth--in working order.

He held it, knowing just one thing: he would not survive Guadalcanal. He'd be assigned to a new platoon; his scout run dawdlings wouldn't wash. He could not request an HQ assignment--his father would deem the act cowardice. He would have to live with contempt--fellow LAPD men wounded, awarded medals.

"Medals" led to "Bond Tours" led to crime scene reconstructions. He saw his opportunity.

He found a Jap machine gun. He hauled the hara-kiri men to the trenches, put useless weapons in their hands, arranged them facing an opening in the clearing. He dropped the machine gun there, pointed toward the opening, three rounds left in the feeder belt. He got the flamethrower, torched the Japs and the shrine past forensic recognition. He got his story straight, made it back to battalion HQ.

Recon patrols confirmed the story: fighting Ed Exley, armed with Jap ordnance, french-fried twenty-nine of the little fuckers.

The Distinguished Service Cross--the second highest medal his country could bestow. A stateside bond tour, a hero's welcome, back to the LAPD a champion.

Some kind of wary respect from Preston Exley.

"Read the family scrapbook. Remember those precedents."

Ed put the book away, still not sure how he'd play Bloody Christmas--but certain what the man meant.

Opportunities fall easy--you pay for them later.

Father, I've known it since I picked up that flamethrower.

CHAPTER NINE

"If it goes to the grand jury, you won't swing. And the D.A. and I will try to keep it from going there."

Jack counted favors on deposit. Sixteen G's to Loew's slush fund--Miller Stanton helped him lube the _Badge of Honor_ gang. He tweaked Brett Chase himself, a concise little threat--a _Hush-Hush_ exposé on his queerness. Max Peltz coughed up large--Loew frosted out a tax audit. A Cupid favor--tonight the man meets pouty Joan Morrow. "Ellis, I don't even want to testify. I'm talking to some lAD goons tomorrow, and it is going to the grand jury. So fix it."

Loew played with his Phi Beta chain. "Jack, a prisoner assaulted you, and you responded in kind. You're clean. You're also somewhat of a public figure and the preliminary depositions that we've received from the plaintiff's attorneys state that four of the beating victims recognized you. You'll testify, Jack. But you won't swing."

"I just thought I'd run it by you. But if you ask me to squeal on my brother officers, I'll plead fucking amnesia. Comprende, Counselor?"

Loew leaned across his desk. "We shouldn't argue--we're doing too well together. Officer Wendell White and Sergeant Richard Stensland are the ones who should be worrying, not you. Besides, the grapevine tells me you have a new lady in your life."

"You mean Joan Morrow told you."

"Yes, and frankly she and her parents disapprove. You are fifteen years older than the girl, and you've had a checkered past."

Caddy, ski instructor--an orphanage kid good at servicing rich folks. "Joanie offer details?"

"Just that the girl has a mad crush on you and believes your press clippings. I assured Joan that those clippings are true. Karen tells Joan that so far you've behaved like a gentleman, which I find hard to believe."

"That ends tonight, I hope. After our little double date, it's the _Badge of Honor_ wrap party and an intimate interlude somewhere."

Loew twisted his vest chain. "Jack, has Joan been playing hard to get or does she really have that many men chasing her?"

Jack twisted the knife. "She's a popular kid, but all those movie star guys are just fluff. Stick to your guns."

"Movie stars?"

"Fluff, Ellis. Cute, but fluff."

"Jack, I want to thank you for coming along tonight. I'm sure you and Karen will be superb icebreakers."

"Then let's hit it."

o o o

Don the Beachcomber's--the women waiting in a wraparound booth. Jack made introductions. "Ellis Loew, Karen Morrow and Joan Morrow. Karen, don't they make a lovely couple?"

Karen said, "Hello," no hand squeeze--six dates and all she put out were bland good-night kisses. Loew sat next to Joan; Joanie checked him out--probably sniffing for signs of Jewishness. "Ellis and I are good phone chums already. Aren't we?"

"We are indeed"--Loew working his courtroom voice.

Joan finished her drink. "How do you two know each other? Do the police work closely with the District Attorney's Office?"

Jack kiboshed a laugh: I'm Jewboy's bagman. "We build cases together. I get the evidence, Ellis prosecutes the bad guys."

A waiter hovered. Joan ordered an Islander Punch; Jack asked for coffee. Loew said, "Beefeater martini." Karen put a hand over her glass. "Then this Bloody Christmas thing will strain relations between the police and Mr. Loew's office. Isn't that likely?"

Loew hit quick. "No, because the LAPD rank and file wish to see the wrongdoers dealt with severely. Right, Jack?"

"Sure. Things like that give all policemen a black eye."

The drinks arrived--Joan took hers down in three gulps. "You were there, weren't you, Jack? Daddy said you always go to that station party, at least since your second wife left you."

Karen: "_Joanie!_"

Jack said, "I was there."

"Did you take a few licks for justice?"

"It wasn't worth it to me."

"You mean there weren't any headlines to be had?"

"Joanie, be quiet. You're drunk."

Loew fingered his tie; Karen fingered an ashtray. Joan slurped the rest of her drink. "Teetotalers are always so judgmental. You used to attend that party after your _first_ wife left you, didn't you, Sergeant?"

Karen gripped the ashtray. "You goddamn bitch."

Joan laughed. "If you want a hero policeman, I know a man named Exley who at least risked his life for his country. Granted, Jack's smooth, but can't you see what he is?"

Karen threw the ashtray--it hit the wall, then Ellis Loew's lap. Loew stuck his head in a menu; Joanie bitch glowered. Jack led Karen out of the restaurant.

o o o

Over to Variety International Pictures--Karen bad-mouthing Joanie non-stop. Jack parked by the _Badge of Honor_ set; hillbilly music drifted out. Karen sighed. "My parents will get used to the idea."

Jack turned on the dash light. The girl had dark brown hair done in waves, freckles, a touch of an overbite. "What idea?"

"Well . . . the idea of us seeing each other."

"Which is going pretty slow."

"That's partly my fault. One minute you're telling me these wonderful stories and the next minute you just stop. I keep wondering what you're thinking about and thinking that there's so many things you can't tell me. It makes me think you think I'm too young, so I pull away."

Jack opened the door. "Keep getting my number and you won't be too young. And tell me some of your stories, because sometimes I get tired of mine."

"Deal? My stories after the party?"

"Deal. And by the way, what do you think of your sister and Ellis Loew?"

Karen didn't blink. "She'll marry him. My parents will overlook the fact that he's Jewish because he's ambitious and a Republican. He'll tolerate Joanie's scenes in public and hit her in private. Their kids will be a mess."

Jack laughed. "Let's dance. And don't get star-struck, people will think you're a hick."

They entered arm in arm. Karen went in starry-eyed; Jack scoped his biggest wrap bash yet.

Spade Cooley and his boys on a bandstand, Spade at the mike with Burt Arthur "Deuce" Perkins, his bass player, called "Deuce" for his two-spot on a chain gang: unnatural acts against dogs. Spade smoked opium; Deuce popped "H"--a _Hush-Hush_ roust just looking to happen. Max Pelts glad-handing the camera crew; Brett Chase beside him, talking to Billy Dieterling, the head cameraman. Billy's eyes on his twist, Timmy Valburn, Moochie Mouse on the _Dream-a-Dream Hour_. Tables up against the back wall--covered with liquor bottles, cold cuts. Kikey Teitlebaum there with the food--Pelts probably had his deli cater the party. Johnny Stompanato with Kikey, ex--Mickey Cohen boys huddling. Every _Badge of Honor_ actor, crew member and general hanger-on eating, drinking, dancing.

Jack swept Karen onto the floor: swirls through a fast-tune medley, grinds when Spade switched to ballads. Karen kept her eyes closed; Jack kept his open--the better to dig the shmaltz. He felt a tap on the shoulder.

Miller Stanton cutting in. Karen opened her eyes and gasped: a TV star wanted to dance with her. Jack bowed. "Karen Morrow, Miller Stanton."

Karen yelled over the music. "Hi! I saw all those old Raymond Dieterling movies you made. You were great!"

Stanton hoisted her hands square-dance style. "I was a brat! Jack, go see Max--he wants to talk to you."

Jack walked to the rear of the set--quiet, the music lulled. Max Pelts handed him two envelopes. "Your season bonus and a boost for Mr. Loew. It's from Spade Cooley."

Loew's bag was fat. "What's Cooley want?"

"I'd say insurance you won't mess with his habit."

Jack lit a cigarette. "Spade doesn't interest me."

"Not a big enough name?"

"Be nice, Max."

Peltz leaned in close. "Jack, _you_ try to be nicer, 'cause you're getting a bad rep in the Industry. People say you're a hard-on, you don't play the game. You shook down Brett for Mr. Loew, fine, he's a goddamn faigeleh, he's got it coming. But you can't bite the hand that feeds you, not when half the people in the Industry blow tea from time to time. Stick with the shvartzes-- those jazz guys make good copy."

Jack eyeballed the set. Brett Chase in a hobnob: Billy Dieterling, Timmy Valburn--a regular fruit convention. Kikey T. and Johnny Stomp shmoozing--Deuce Perkins, Lee Vachss joining in. Pelts said, "Seriously, Jack. Play the game."

Jack pointed to the hard boys. "Max, the game is my life. You see those guys over there?"

"Sure. What's that--"

"Max, that's what the Department calls a known criminal assembly. Perkins is an ex-con wheelman who fucks dogs, and Abe Teitlebaum's on parole. The tall guy with the mustache is Lee Vachss, and he's made for at least a dozen snuffs for Mickey C. The good-looking wop is Johnny Stompanato. I doubt if he's thirty years old, and he's got a racket sheet as long as your arm. I am empowered by the Los Angeles Police Department to roust those cocksuckers on general suspicion, and I'm derelict in my duty for not doing it. Because I'm _playing the game_."

Pelts waved a cigar. "So keep playing it--but pianissimo on the tough-guy stuff. And look, Miller's bird-dogging your quail. Jesus, you like them young."

Rumors: Max and high school trim. "Not as young as you."

"Ha! Go, you fucking gonif. Your girl's looking for you."

Karen by a wall poster: Brett Chase as Lieutenant Vance Vincent. Jack walked over; Karen's eyes lit up. "God, this is so wonderful! Tell me who everyone is!"

Full-blast music--Cooley yodeling, Deuce Perkins banging his bass. Jack danced Karen across the floor--over to a corner crammed with arclights. A perfect spot--quiet, a scope on the whole gang.

Jack pointed out the players. "Brett Chase you already know about. He's not dancing because he's queer. The old guy with the cigar is Max Pelts. He's the producer, and he directs most of the episodes. You danced with Miller, so you know him. The two guys in skivvies are Augie Luger and Hank Kraft--they're grips. The girl with the clipboard is Penny Fulweider, she couldn't quit working even if she wanted to--she's the script supervisor. You know how the sets on the show are so modernistic? Well, the blond guy across from the bandstand is David Mertens, the set designer. Sometimes you'd think he was drunk, but he's not-- he's got some rare kind of epilepsy, and he takes medicine for it. I heard he was in an accident and hit his head, that that started it. He's got these scars on his neck, so maybe that's it. Next to him there's Phil Shenkel, the assistant director, and the guy next to him is Jerry Marsalas, the male nurse who looks after Mertens. Terry Riegert, the actor who plays Captain Jeffries, is dancing with that tall redhead. The guys by the water cooler are Billy Dieterling, Chuck Maxwell and Dick Harwell, the camera crew, and the rest of the people are dates."

Karen looked straight at him. "It's your milieu, and you love it. And you care about those people."

"I like them--and Miller's a good friend."

"Jack, you can't fool me."

"Karen, this is Hollywood. And ninety percent of Hollywood is moonshine."

"Spoilsport. I'm gearing myself up to be reckless, so don't put a damper on it."

Daring him.

Jack tumbled; Karen leaned into the kiss. They probed, tasted, pulled back the same instant--Jack broke off the clinch dizzy.

Karen let her hands linger. "The neighbors are still on vacation. We could go feed the cats."

"Yeah . . . sure."

"Will you get me a brandy before we go?"

Jack walked to the food table. Deuce Perkins said, "Nice stuff, Vincennes. You got the same taste as me."

A skinny cracker in a black cowboy shirt with pink piping. Boots put him close to six-six; his hands were enormous. "Perkins, your stuff sniffs fire hydrants."

"Spade might not like you talkin' to me that way. Not with that envelope you got in your pocket."

Lee Vachss, Abe Teitlebaum watching them. "Not another word, Perkins."

Deuce chewed a toothpick. "Your quiff know you get your jollies shakin' down niggers?"

Jack pointed to the wall. "Roll up your sleeves, spread your legs."

Perkins spat out his toothpick. "You ain't that crazy."

Johnny Stomp, Vachss, Teitlebaum--all in earshot. Jack said, "Kiss the wall, shitbird."

Perkins leaned over the table, palms on the wall. Jack pulled up his sleeves--fresh tracks--emptied his pockets. Paydirt--a hypo syringe. A crowd forming up--Jack played to it. "Needle marks and that outfit are good for three years State. Hand up the guy who sold you the hypo and you skate."

Deuce oozed sweat. Jack said, "Squeal in front of your friends and you stroll."

Perkins licked his lips. "Barney Stinson. Orderly at Queen of Angels."

Jack kicked his legs out from under him.

Perkins landed face first in the cold cuts; the table crashed to the floor.

The room let out one big breath.

Jack walked outside, groups breaking up to let him through. Karen by the car, shivering. "Did you have to do that?"

He'd sweated his shirt clean through. "Yeah, I did."

"I wish I hadn't seen it."

"So do I."

"I guess reading about things like that are one thing and seeing them is another. Would you try to--"

Jack put his arms around her. "I'll keep that stuff separate from you."

"But you'll still tell me your stories?"

"No . . . yeah, sure."

"I wish we could turn back the clock on tonight."

"So do I. Look, do you want some dinner?"

"No. Do you still want to go see the cats?"

o o o

There were three cats--friendly guys who tried to take over the bed while they made love. Karen called the gray one Pavement, the tabby Tiger, the skinny one Ellis Loew. Jack resigned himself to the entourage--they made Karen giggle, he figured every laugh put Deuce Perkins further behind them. They made love, talked, played with the cats; Karen tried a cigarette--and coughed her lungs out. She begged for stories; Jack borrowed from the exploits of Officer Wendell White and spun gentler versions of his own cases: minimum strongarm, lots of sugar daddy--the bighearted Big V, protecting kids from the scourge of dope. At first the lies were hard--but Karen's warmth made them easier and easier. Near dawn, the girl dozed off; he stayed wide awake, the cats driving him crazy. He kept wishing she'd wake up so he could tell her more stories; he got little jolts of worry: that he'd never remember all the phony parts, she'd catch him in whoppers, it would blow their deal sky high. Karen's body grew warmer as she slept; Jack pressed closer to her. He fell asleep getting his stories straight.

CHAPTER TEN

A corridor forty feet long, both sides lined with benches: scuffed, dusty, just hauled up from some storage hole. Packed: men in plainclothes and uniform, most of them reading--newspapers screaming _Bloody Christmas_. Bud thought of him and Stens front page smeared: nailed by the spics and their lawyers. He'd gotten his call to appear at 4:00 A.M., pure I.A. scare tactics. Dick across the hall--back from the dry-out farm, into the jug. Six Internal Affairs interviews apiece--neither of them had snitched. A regular Christmas reunion, the gang's all here--except Ed Exley.

Time dragged, traffic flowed: interrogation room grillings. Elmer Lentz dropped a bomb: the radio said the grand jury requested a presentation--all the officers at Central Station 12/25/5 1 were to stand a show-up tomorrow, prisoners would be there to ID the roughnecks. Chief Parker's door opened; Thad Green stepped outside. "Officer White, please."

Bud walked over; Green pointed him in. A small room: Parker's desk, chairs facing it. No wall mementoes, a gray-tinted mirrors--maybe a two-way. The chief behind his desk, in uniform, four gold stars on his shoulders. Dudley Smith in the middle chair; Green back in the chair nearest Parker. Bud took the hot seat--a spot where all three men could see him. Parker said, "Officer, you know Deputy Chief Green, and I'm sure you know of Lieutenant Smith. The lieutenant has been serving me as an advisor during this crisis we've been having."

Green lit a cigarette. "Officer, you're being given a last chance to cooperate. You've been questioned repeatedly by Internal Affairs, and you've repeatedly refused to cooperate. Normally, you would have been suspended from duty. But you're a fine detective, and Chief Parker and I are convinced that your actions at the party were relatively blameless. You were provoked, Officer. You were not wantonly violent like most of the men accused."

Bud started to talk; Smith cut him off. "Lad, I'm sure that I speak for Chief Parker in this, so I will take the liberty of stating it without ellipses. It's a danm pity that the six scum who assaulted our brother officers weren't shot on the spot, and the violence visited upon them I deem mild. But, parenthetically, police officers who cannot control their impulses have no business being police officers, and the shenanigans perpetrated by the men outside have made the Los Angeles Police Department a laughingstock. This cannot be tolerated. Heads must roll. We must have cooperative policemen witnesses to offset the damage done to the Department's image--an image that has vastly improved under the leadership of Chief Parker. We have one major policeman witness already, and Deputy D.A. Ellis Loew stands firm in his desire not to prosecute LAPD officers-- even if the grand jury hands down true bills. Lad, will you testify? For the Department, not the prosecution."

Bud checked the mirror--a two-way for sure--make D.A.'s Bureau goons taking notes. "No, sir. I won't."

Parker scanned a sheet of paper. "Officer, you picked a man up by the neck and tried to bash his brains out. That looks very bad, and even though you were verbally provoked, the action stands out more than most of the abuse heaped on the prisoners. That goes against you. But you were heard muttering 'This is a goddamned disgrace' when you left the cellblock, which is in your favor. Now, do you see how appearing as a voluntary witness could offset the disadvantages caused by your . imaginative show of force?"

A snap: Exley's their boy, _he_ heard me, locked in the storeroom. "Sir, I won't testify."

Parker flushed bright red. Smith said, "Lad, let's talk turkey. I admire your refusal to betray fellow officers, and I sense that loyalty to your partner is what stands behind it. I admire that especially, and Chief Parker has authorized me to offer you a deal. If you testify as to Dick Stensland's actions and the grand jury hands down a bill against him, Stensland will serve no time in jail if convicted. We have Ellis Loew's word on that. Stensland will be dismissed from the Department without pension, but his pension will be paid to him sub rosa, through monies diverted from the Widows and Orphans Fund. Lad, will you testify?"

But stared at the mirror. "Sir, I won't testify."

Thad Green pointed to the door. "Be at Division 43 grand jury chambers tomorrow at 9:00. Be prepared to stand in a show-up and be called to testify. If you refuse to testify, you'll receive a subpoena and be suspended from duty pending a trial board. Get out of here, White."

Dudley Smith smiled--very slightly. Bud shot the mirror a stiff middle finger.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Streaks and smudges on the two-way----expressions came off blurred. Thad Green tough to read; Parker simple--he turned ugly colors. Dudley Smith-- lexophile with a brogue--too calculated to figure. Bud White too _too_ easy: the chief quoted, "This is a goddamned disgrace"; a big thought balloon popped up: "Ed Exley is the stool pigeon." The middle finger salute was just icing.

Ed tapped the speaker; static crackled. The closet was hot-- but not stifling like the Central Jail storeroom. He thought of his last two weeks.

He'd played it brass balls with Parker, presenting all three depositions, agreeing to testify as the Department's key witness. Parker considered his assessment of the situation brilliant, the mark of an exemplary officer. He gave the least damaging of the three statements to Ellis Loew and his favorite D.A.'S investigator, a young law school graduate--Bob Gallaudet. The blame was shifted, more than deservedly, to Sergeant Richard Stensland and Officer Wendell White; less deservedly to three men with their pensions already secured. The chief's reward to his exemplary witness: a transfer to a detective squadroom--a huge promotion. With the lieutenant's exam aced, within a year he would stand as Detective Lieutenant E. J. Exley.

Green left the office; Ellis Loew and Gallaudet walked in. Loew and Parker conferred; Gallaudet opened the door. "Sergeant Vincennes, please"--static out of the speaker.

Trashcan Jack: sleek in a chalk-striped suit. No amenities--he took the middle seat checking his watch. A look passed--Trash, Ellis Loew. Parker eyed the new fish, an easy read--pure contempt. Gallaudet stood by the door, smoking.

Loew said, "Sergeant, we'll get right to it. You've been very cooperative with l.A., which is to your credit. But nine witnesses have identified you as hitting Juan Carbijal, and four drunk tank prisoners saw you carrying in a case of rum. You see, your notoriety preceded you. Even drunks read the scandal sheets."

Dudley Smith took over. "Lad, we need your notoriety. We have a stellar witness who will tell the grand jury that you hit back only after being hit, and since that is probably the truth, further prisoner testimony will vindicate you. But we need you to admit bringing the liquor the men got drunk on. Admit to that interdepartmental infraction and you'll get off with a trial board. Mr. Loew guarantees a quashed criminal indictment should one arise."

Trashcan kept still. Ed read in: Bud White brought most of the booze, he's afraid to inform on him. Parker said, "There will have to be a large shake-up within the Department. Testify, and you'll receive a minor trial board, no suspension, no demotion. I'll guarantee you a light slap on the wrist--a transfer to Administrative Vice for a year or so."

Vincennes to Loew. "Ellis, have I got any more truck with you on this? You know what working Narco means to me."

Loew flinched. Parker said, "None, and there's more. You'll have to stand in the show-up tomorrow, and we want you to testify against Officer Krugman, Sergeant Tucker and Officer Pratt. All three men have already earned their pensions. Our key witness will testify roundly, but you can plead ignorance to questions directed at the other men. Frankly, we must sate the public's clamor for blood by giving up some of our own."

Dudley Smith: "I doubt if you've ever drawn a stupid breath, lad. Don't do it now."

Trashcan Jack: "I'll do it."

Smiles all around. Gallaudet said, "I'll go over your testimony with you, Sergeant. Dining Car lunch on Mr. Loew." Vincennes stood up; Loew walked him to the door.

Whispers out the speaker: ". . . and I told Cooley you wouldn't do it again"--"Okay, boss." Parker nodded at the mirror.

Ed walked in, straight to the hot seat. Smith said, "Lad, you're very much the man of the hour."

Parker smiled. "Ed, I had you watch because your assessment of this situation has been very astute. Any last thoughts before you testify?"

"Sir, am I correct in assuming that whatever criminal bills the grand jury hands down will be stalled or quashed during Mr. Loew's post-indictment process?"

Loew grimaced. He'd hit a nerve--just like his father said he would. "Sir, am I correct in that?"

Loew, patronizing. "Have you attended law school, Sergeant?"

"No, sir. I haven't."

"Then your esteemed father has given you good counsel."

Voice steady. "No, sir. He hasn't."

Smith said, "Let's assume you're correct. Let's assume that we are bending our efforts toward what all loyal policemen want: no brother officers tried publicly. Assuming that, what do you advise?"

The pitch he'd rehearsed--verbatim. "The public will demand more than true bills, stalling tactics and dismissed indictments. Interdepartmental trial boards, suspensions and a big transfer shake-up won't be enough. You told Officer White that heads must roll. I agree, and for the sake of the chief's prestige and the prestige of the Department, I think we need criminal convictions and jail sentences."

"Lad, I am shocked at the relish with which you just said that." Ed to Parker. "Sir, you've brought the Department back from Horrall and Worton. Your reputation is exemplary and the Department's has greatly improved. You can assure that it stays that way."

Loew said, "Spill it, Exley. Exactly what does our junior officer informant think we should do?"

Ed, eyes on Parker. "Dismiss the indictments on the men with their twenty in. Publicize the transfer shake-up and give the bulk of the men trial boards and suspensions. Indict Johnny Brownell, tell him to request a no-jury venue and have the judge let him off with a suspended sentence--his brother was one of the officers initially assaulted. And indict, try and convict Dick Stensland and Bud White. Secure them jail time. Boot them off the Department. Stensland's a drunken thug, White almost killed a man and supplied more liquor than Vincennes. Feed them to the goddamn sharks. Protect yourself, protect the Department."

Silence, stretching. Smith broke it. "Gentlemen, I think our young sergeant's advice is rash and hypocritical. Stensland has his rough edges, but Wendell White is a valuable officer."

"Sir, White is a homicidal thug."

Smith started to speak; Parker raised a hand. "I think Ed's advice is worth considering. Ace them at the grand jury tomorrow, son. Wear a smart-looking suit and ace them."

Ed said, "Yes, sir." He forced himself not to shout his joy to the rafters.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Spotlights, height strips: Jack at 5'11"; Frank Doherty, Dick Stens, John Brownell the short guys, Wilbert Huff, Bud White topping six. Central Jail punks across the glass, couched with D.A.'s cops taking names.

A speaker squawked, "Left profile"; six men turned. "Right profile," "Face the wall," "Face the mirror"; "At ease, gentlemen." Silence; then: "Fourteen IDs apiece on Doherty, Stensland, Vincennes, White and Brownell, four for Huff. Oh shit, the P.A.'s on!"

Stens cracked up. Frank Doherty said, "Eat shit, cocksucker." White stayed expressionless--like he was already at the honor farm protecting Stens from niggers. The speaker: "Sergeant Vincennes to room 114, Officer White report to Chief Green's office. The rest of you men are dismissed."

114--the grand jury witness room.

Jack walked ahead, through curtains down to 114. A crowded room: Bloody Christmas plaintiffs, Ed Exley in a too-new suit, loose threads at the sleeves. The Xmas boys sneered; Jack braced Exley. "You're the key witness?"

"That's right."

"I should've known it was you. What's Parker throwing you?"

"Throwing me?"

"Yeah, Exley. _Throwing you_. The deal, the payoff. You think I'm testifying for free?"

Exley futzed with his glasses. "I'm just doing my duty."

Jack laughed. "You're playing an angle, college boy. You're getting something out of this, so you won't have to hobnob with the fucking rank-and-file cops who are going to hate your fucking guts for snitching. And if Parker promised you the Bureau, watch out, Some Bureau guys are gonna burn in this thing and you're gonna have to work with friends of theirs."

Exley flinched; Jack laughed. "Good payoff, I'll admit that."

"You're the payoff expert. Not me."

"You'll be outranking me pretty soon, so I should be nice. Did you know Ellis Loew's new girlfriend has the hots for you?"

A clerk called, "Edmund J. Exley to chambers."

Jack winked. "Go. And clip those threads on your coat or you'll look like a rube."

Exley walked across the hall--primping, pulling threads.

o o o

Jack killed time--thinking about Karen. Ten days since the party; life was mostly aces. He had to apologize to Spade Cooley; Welton Morrow was pissed over him and Karen--but the lukewarm Joanie/Ellis Loew deal almost made it up for him. Hotel shacks were a strain--Karen lived at home, his place was a dive, he'd been neglecting his payments to the Scoggins kids to make the freight at the Ambassador. Karen loved the illicit romance; he loved her loving it. Aces. But Sid Hudgens hadn't called arid L.A. was heroin dry--no Narco jollies. A year at Ad Vice loomed like the gas chamber.

He felt like a fighter ready to dive. The Christmas geeks kept staring; the punk he'd thumped had on a nose splint--probably a phony some Jew lawyer told him to wear. The grand jury room door stood ajar; Jack walked over, looked in.

Six jurors at a table facing the witness stand; Ellis Loew hurling questions--Ed Exley in the box.

He didn't play with his glasses; he didn't hem and haw. His voice went an octave lower than normal--and stayed even. Skinny, not a cop type, he still had authority--and his timing was perfect. Loew pitched perfect outside sliders; Exley knew they were coming, but acted surprised. Whoever coached him did a fucking-A bang-up job.

Jack picked out details, sensed Exley reaching, a war hero-not a weak sister in a cellblock full of rowdies. Loew glossed over that; Exley's answers hit smart: he was outnumbered, his keys were snatched, he was locked in a storeroom--and that was that. He was a man who knew who he was, knew the futility of cheap heroics.

Exley spieled: rat-offs on Brownell, Hufl Doherty. He called Dick Stensland the worst of the worst, didn't blink snitching Bud White. Jack smiled when it hit him: everything is skewed toward our side. Krugman, Pratt, Tucker, pension safe--were set up-- for his testimony. Stensland and White--heading for indictment city. What a fucking performance.

Loew called for a summation. Exley obliged: pap about justice. Loew excused him; the jurors almost swooned. Exley left the box limping--he'd probably jammed his legs asleep.

Jack met him outside. "You were good. Parker would've loved it." Exley stretched his legs. "You think he'll read the transcript?" "He'll have it inside ten minutes, and Bud White'll fuck you for this if it takes the rest of his life. He was called in to Thad Green after the show-up, and you can bet Green suspended him. You had better pray he cops a deal and stays on the Department, because that is one civilian you do not want on your case."

"Is that why you didn't tell Loew he brought most of the liquor?"

A clerk called, "John Vincennes, five minutes."

Jack got up some nerve. "I'm snitching three old-timers who'll be fishing in Oregon next week. Next to you, I'm clean. And smart."

"We're both doing the right thing. Only you hate yourself for it, and that's not smart."

Jack saw Ellis Loew and Karen down the hall. Loew walked up. "I told Joan you were testifying today, and she told Karen. I'm sorry, and I told Joan in confidence. _Jack, I'm sorry_. I told Karen she couldn't watch in chambers, that she'll have to listen over the speaker in my office. _Jack, I'm sorry_."

"Jewboy, you sure know how to guarantee a witness."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Bud nursed a highball.

Jukebox noise pounded him; he had the worst seat in the bar--a sofa back by the pay phones. His old football wounds throbbed--like his hard-on for Exley. No badge, no gun, indictments shooting his way--the fortyish redhead looked like the best thing he'd ever seen. He carried his drink over.

She smiled at him. The red looked fake--but she had a kind face. Bud smiled. "That an old-fashioned you're drinking?"

"Yes, and my name's Angela."

"My name's Bud."

"Nobody was born with the name 'Bud."'

"They stick you with a name like 'Wendell,' you look for an alias."

Angela laughed. "What do you do, _Bud?_"

"I'm sorta between jobs right now."

"Oh? Well, what _did_ you do?"

SUSPENDED! YOU DUMB FUCK LOOKING. A GIFT HORSE IN THE MOUTH! "I wouldn't play ball with my boss. Angela, what do you say--"

"You mean like a union dispute or something? I'm in the United Federation of Teachers, and my ex-husband was a shop steward with the Teamsters. Is that what you--"

Bud felt a hand on his shoulder. "Lad, might I have a word with you?"

Dudley Smith. CALL IT I.A. RUNNING TAILS.

"This business, Lieutenant?"

"It is indeed. Say good night to your new friend and join me by those back tables. I've told the bartender to turn the music down so we can talk."

A jump tune went soft; Smith walked off. A sailor had his hooks into Angela. Bud eased over to the lounges.

Cozy: Smith, two chairs, a table--a newspaper covering the top, a little mound underneath. Bud sat down. "Is I.A. tailing me?"

"Yes, and other likely indictees. It was your chum Exley's idea. The lad has a piece of Chief Parker's ear, and he told him that you and Stensland might be driven to commit rash acts. Exley vilified you and many other fine men on the witness stand, lad. I've read the transcript. His testimony was high treason and a despicable affront to all honorable policemen."

Stens--holed up on a bender. "Don't that paper say we been indicted?"

"Don't be precipitous, lad. I've used my piece of the chief's ear to have your tail called off, so you're with a friend."

"Lieutenant, what do you want?"

Smith said, "Call me Dudley."

"_Dudley_, what do you want?"

Ho, ho, ho--a beautiful tenor. "Lad, you impress me. I admire your refusal to testify and your loyalty to your partner, however unfounded. I admire you as a policeman, particularly your adherence to violence where needed as a necessary adjunct to the job, and I am most impressed by your punishment of woman beaters. Do you hate them, lad?"

Big words--his head spun. "Yeah, I hate them."

"And for good reason, judging from what I know of your background. Do you hate anything else quite so much?"

Fists so tight his hands ached. "Exley. Fucking Exley. Trashcan Jack, he's gotta be up there, too. Dick Stens is giving himself cirrhosis 'cause those two squealed us off."

Smith shook his head. "Not Vincennes, lad. He was the stalking horse for the Department, and we needed him to give the D.A.'S Office some bodies. He only snitched twenty-year men, and he took the blame for the liquor you brought to the party. No, lad, Jack does not deserve your hatred."

Bud leaned over the table. "Dudley, what do you want?"

"I want you to avoid an indictment and return to duty, and I have a way for you to do it."

Bud looked at the newspaper. "How?"

"'Work for me."

"Doing what?"

"No, more questions first. Lad, do you recognize the need to contain crime, to keep it south of Jefferson with the dark element?"

"Sure."

"And do you think a certain organized crime element should be allowed to exist and perpetuate acceptable vices that hurt no one?"

"Sure, pork barrel. The game's gotta be played that way a little. What's this got to do-"

Smith yanked the paper--a badge and .38 special gleamed up. Bud, scalp prickles. "I knew you had juice. You squared it with Green?"

"Yes, lad, I squared it--with Parker. With the part of his ear that Exley hasn't poisoned. He said if the grand jury didn't hand down a bill against you, your refusal to testify would not be punished. Now pick up your things before the proprietor calls the police."

GLEAMING--Bud grabbed his goodies. "There's no goddamn bill on me?"

Ho, ho, ho--mocking. "Lad, the chief knew he was giving me a long shot, and I'm glad you haven't read the Four Star _Herald_."

Bud said, "_How?_"

"Not yet, lad."

"What about Dick?"

"He's through, lad. And don't protest, because it's unavoidable. He's been billed, he'll be indicted and he'll swing. He's the Department's scapegoat, on Parker's orders. And it was Exley who convinced him to hand Dick over. Criminal charges and jail time."

A broiling hot room--Bud pulled his necktie loose, closed his eyes.

"Lad, I'll get Dick a nice berth at the honor farm. I know a woman deputy there who can fix things, and when he gets out I'll guarantee him a shot at Exley."

Bud opened his eyes; Smith had the _Herald_ spread full. The headline: "Policemen Indicted in Bloody Christmas Scandal." Below, a column circled: Sergeant Richard Stensland flagged on four charges, three old-timer cops billed, Lentz, Brownell, Huff swinging on two bills apiece. Underlined: "Officer Wendell White, 33, received no true bills, although several sources within the District Attorney's Bureau had stated that first-degree assault bills seemed imminent. The grand jury's foreman stated that four police-beating victims recanted their previous testimony, which had Officer White attempting to strangle Juan Carbijal, age 19. The recanted testimony directly contradicted the testimony of LAPD Sergeant Edmund J. Exley, who had sworn under oath that White had, in fact, attempted to grievously injure Carbijal. Sergeant Exley's testimony is not considered tainted, since it resulted in probable indictments against seven other officers; however, although the grand jurors doubted the credibility of the recantings, they deemed them sufficient to deny the D.A.'s Office true bills against Officer White. Deputy D.A. Ellis Loew told reporters: 'Something suspicious happened, but I don't know what it was. Four retractions have to supersede the testimony of one witness, even as splendid a witness as Sergeant Exley, a decorated war hero."'

Newsprint swirling. Bud said, "Why? Why'd you do that for me? And how?"

Smith crumpled the paper. "Lad, I need you for a new assignment Parker has given me the go-ahead on. It's a containment measure, an adjunct to Homicide. We're going to call it the Surveillance Detail, an innocuous name for a duty that few men are fit for, but you were born for. It's a muscle job and a shooting job and a job that entails asking very few questions. Lad, do you follow my drift?"

"In Technicolor."

"You'll be transferred out of Central dicks when Parker announces his shake-up. Will you work for me?"

"I'd be crazy not to. Why, Dudley?"

"Why what, lad?"

"You shivved Ellis Loew to help me out, and everyone in the Bureau knows you and him are tight. Why?"

"Because I like your style, lad. Will that answer suffice?"

"I guess it'll have to. Now let's try 'how?"'

"How what, lad?"

"How you got the spics to retract."

Smith laid brass knucks on the table: chipped, caked with blood.

CALENDAR

1952

EXTRACT: L.A. _Mirror-News_, March 19:

POLICE BEATING SCANDAL:

COPS DISCIPLINE THEIR OWN

BEFORE WORST CULPRITS STAND TRIAL

LAPD Chief William H. Parker promised that he would seek justice--"wherever the search takes me"--in the tangled web of police brutality and civilian lawsuits that has come to be known as the "Bloody Christmas" scandal.

Seven officers have received criminal assault indictments stemming from their actions at the Central Division Jail on Christmas morning of last year. Those officers are:

Sergeant Ward Tucker, indicted for Second Degree Assault.

Officer Michael Krugman, Second Degree Assault and Battery.

Officer Henry Pratt, Second Degree Assault.

Sergeant Elmer Lentz, First Degree Assault with Battery.

Sergeant Wilbert Huff, First Degree Assault with Battery.

Officer John Brownell, First Degree Assault and Aggravated Assault.

Sergeant Richard Stensland, First Degree Assault, Aggravated Assault, First Degree Battery and Mayhem.

Parker did not dwell on the charges facing the indicted policemen, or on the scores of civil suits that beating victims Dinardo Sanchez, Juan Carbijal, Dennis Rice, Ezekiel Garcia, Clinton Rice and Reyes Chasco have filed against individual policemen and the Los Angeles Police Department. He announced that the following officers would receive interdepartmental trial boards, and, if not vindicated, would be severely disciplined within the Department.

Sergeant Walter Crumley, Sergeant Walter Dukeshearer, Sergeant Francis Doherty, Officer Charles Heinz, Officer Joseph Hernandez, Sergeant Willis Tristano, Officer Frederick Turentine, Lieutenant James Frieling, Officer Wendell White, Officer John Heineke and Sergeant John Vincennes.

Parker closed his press conference praising Sergeant Edmund J. Exley, the Central Division officer who came forward to testify before the grand jury. "It took great courage to do what Ed Exley did," the chief said. "The man has my greatest admiration."

EXTRACT: L.A. _Examiner_, April 11:

FIVE "BLOODY CHRISTMAS"

INDICTMENTS DISMISSED; PARKER

REVEALS RESULTS OF TRIAL BOARD

ACTIONS

The District Attorney's Office announced today that five future defendants in last year's "Bloody Christmas" police brutality scandal will not stand trial. Officer Michael Krugman, Officer Henry Pratt and Sergeant Ward Tucker, all forced to resign from the Los Angeles Police Department as the result of being charged, had their indictments dismissed on the basis of abandoned testimony. Deputy D.A. Ellis Loew, who had been set to prosecute them, explained. "Many minor witnesses, prisoners at the Central Station Jail last Christmas, cannot be located."

In a related development, LAPD Chief William H. Parker announced the results of his "massive shake-up" of police personnel. The following indicted and nonindicted officers were found guilty of various interdepartmental infractions pertaining to their behavior last Christmas morning.

Sergeant Walter Crumley, six months suspension from duty without pay, transferred to Hollenbeck Division.

Sergeant Walter Dukeshearer, six months suspension from duty without pay, transferred to Newton Street Division.

Sergeant Francis Doherty, four months suspension from duty without pay, transferred to Wilshire Division.

Officer Charles Heinz, six months suspension from duty without pay, transferred to the Southside Vagrant Detail.

Officer Joseph Hernandez, four months suspension from duty without pay, transferred to 77th Street Division.

Sergeant Wilbert Huff, nine months suspension from duty without pay, transferred to Wilshire Division.

Sergeant Willis Tristano, three months suspension from duty without pay, transferred to Newton Street Division.

Officer Frederick Turentine, three months suspension from duty without pay, transferred to East Valley Division.

Lieutenant James Frieling, six months suspension from duty without pay, transferred to the LAPD Academy Instruction Bureau.

Officer John Heineke, four months suspension from duty without pay, transferred to Venice Division.

Sergeant Elmer Lentz, nine months suspension from duty without pay, transferred to Hollywood Division.

Officer Wendell White, no suspension, transferred to the Homicide Adjunct Surveillance Detail.

Sergeant John Vincennes, no suspension, transferred to Administrative Vice.

EXTRACT: L.A. _Times_, May 3:

POLICE SCANDAL DEFENDANT

RECEIVES SUSPENDED SENTENCE

Officer John Brownell, 38, the first Los Angeles policeman involved in the "Bloody Christmas" scandal to face public trial, pleaded guilty at arraignment today and asked Judge Arthur J. Fitzhugh to sentence him immediately on the First Degree Assault and Aggravated Assault charges he was facing.

Brownell is the older brother of LAPD patrolman Frank D. Brownell, one of two officers injured in a bar brawl with six young men last Christmas Eve. Judge Fitzhugh, taking into account the facts that Officer Brownell was under psychological duress over the injury of his brother and that he had been discharged from the Los Angeles Police Department without pension, read the County Probation Department's report, which recommended formal probation and no jail time. He then gave Brownell a year in the County Jail, sentence suspended, and ordered him to report to the county's chief probation officer, Randall Milteer.

EXTRACT: L.A. _Examiner_, May 29:

STENSLAND CONVICTED--JAIL

FOR L.A. POLICEMAN

. . . the eight-man, four-woman jury found Stensland guilty on four counts: First Degree Assault, Aggravated Assault, First Degree Battery and Mayhem, the charges stemming from the former police detective's alleged maltreatment of Central Jail prisoners during last year's "Bloody Christmas" scandal. In biting testimony, Sergeant E. J. Exley of the LAPD described Stensland's "rampage against unarmed men." Stensland's attorney, Jacob Kellerman, attacked Exley's credibility, stating that he was locked in a storeroom throughout most of the morning the events took place. In the end, the jurors believed Sergeant Exley, and Kellerman, citing the suspended sentence received by Bloody Christmas defendant John Brownell, asked Judge Arthur Fitzhugh to take mercy on his client. The judge did not oblige. He sentenced Stensland, already dismissed from the LAPD, to a year in the County Jail and remanded him to the custody of the Sheriff's deputies who would escort him to Wayside Honor Rancho. As he was led away, Stensland shouted obscenities regarding Sergeant Exley, who could not be reached for comment.

FEATURE: Cavalcade Weekend Magazine, L.A. _Mirror_, July 3:

TWO EXLEY GENERATIONS SERVE THE

SOUTHLAND

The first thing that strikes you about Preston Exley and his son Edmund is that they don't talk like cops, even though Preston served with the Los Angeles Police Department for fourteen years and Ed has been with the LAPD since 1943, shortly before he went off to war and won himself the Distinguished Service Cross in the Pacific Theater. In fact, before the Exley clan emigrated to America, their family tree spawned generations of Scotland Yard detectives. So police work is in the clan's blood, but even more so is a thirst for advancement.

Item: Preston Exley took an engineering degree at USC, studying by night while he pounded a dangerous downtown beat by day.

Item: The late Thomas Exley, Preston's eldest son, achieved the highest scholastic average in the history of the LAPD Academy, and a plaque commemorating him is hung in the Academy's administration building. Tragically, Thomas was killed in the line of duty soon after his graduation. Further item: The second highest average was earned by Ed Exley himself, a summa cum laude UCLA graduate--at nineteen!--in 1941. Evidence going back generations: the Exleys don't talk like cops because they are not typical policemen.

Both men have been in the news lately. Preston, 58, has teamed up with world-renowned cartoonist/moviemaker/TV show host Raymond Dieterling to build Dream-a-Dreamland, the monumental amusement park that broke ground six months ago, with completion and opening scheduled for late April of next year. Exley Senior began his career in the construction business after he left the LAPD in 1936, taking his chief aide, Lieutenant Arthur De Spain, with him. At his spacious Hancock Park mansion, Preston Exley spoke with _Mirror_ correspondent Dick St. Germain.

"I had an engineering degree and Art knew building materials," he said. "We had our combined life savings and borrowed from some independent investors who appreciated the wildcat mentality. We started Exley Construction and built cheap houses, then better houses, then office buildings, then the Arroyo Seco Freeway. We flourished beyond my wildest dreams. Now Dream-a-Dreamland, the gentle dreams of millions of people realized on two hundred acres. In a way, it's a hard one to top."

Exley smiled. "Ray Dieterling is a visionary," he said. "Dream-a-Dreamland will give people the chance to live the many worlds he has created through films and animation. The mountain that he's calling Paul's World is a perfect example. Paul Dieterling, Ray's son, died tragically in an avalanche back in the mid-30s. Now there will be a mountain that serves as a benevolent testimony to the boy, a mountain that brings people joy, with a percentage of the revenues earned going to children's charities. That's a hard one to top."

But will he try to top it?

Exley smiled again. "I'm addressing the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors and the State Legislature next week," he said. "The subject will be the cost of Southern California mass rapid transit and the best way to link the Southland by freeway. Frankly, I want the job and I'm ready to offer the county an enticing bid."

And then?

Exley smiled and sighed. "And then there's all these politico fellows who've been pestering me," he said. "They think I'd be a natural for mayor, governor, senator or whatever, even though I keep teffing them that Fletcher Bowron, Dick Nixon and Earl Warren are friends of mine."

But is he ruling politics out?

"I rule nothing out," Preston Exley said. "Setting limitations is against my nature."

And, as our reporters discovered, his son Edmund, now a detective sergeant with the LAPD's Hollywood Division, feels the same way. Recently in the news for testifying in a trial related to the "Bloody Christmas" police scandal, Ed Exley sees blue skies ahead-- although he plans to keep police work his sole career. Speaking to our correspondent at his family's Lake Arrowhead cabin, Exley Junior said, "I want nothing other than to be a valuable, ranking detective presented with challenging cases. My father had the Loren Atherton case"--a reference to the 1934 child murderer who claimed six victims, including child star Wee Willie Wennerholm--"and I'd like to be in a position to work cases of that importance. Being in the right place at the right time is important, and I have a deep need to solve things and create order out of chaotic situations, which I believe is a good drive for a detective to have."

Exley was certainly in the right place at the right time in the fall of 1943, when, the sole survivor of a bayonet attack on his platoon, he single-handedly wiped out three trenches full of Japanese infantry. He was in the right place at the right time for justice when he courageously testified against fellow officers in a massive police brutality scandal. Exley says of the two incidents: "That's the past, and right now I'm building for my future. I'm getting solid experience working Hollywood Detectives, and my father, Art De Spain and I spend evenings performing mock questionings to help me perfect my interrogation techniques. My father wants the world, but all I want is the most this police department has to offer."

Preston Exley and Ed Exley survive Thomas, and Marguerite (nee Tibbetts) Exley, the clan's matriarch, who died of cancer six years ago. Do they feel the loss in their personal lives?

Preston said, "God, yes, every day. They are both irreplaceable."

On that subject, Edmund was more reflective. "Thomas was Thomas," he said. "I was seventeen when he died and I don't think I ever knew him. My mother was different. I knew her, she was kind and brave and strong, and there was something sad about her. I miss her, and I think the woman I marry will probably be like her, only a bit more volatile."

Two generations for this week's Profile--two men going places and serving the Southland while they do it.

BANNER: L.A. _Times_, July 9:

LOEW ANNOUNCES D.A.'S CANDIDACY

BANNER: Society Page, L.A. _Herald-Express_, September 12:

GALA LOEW/MORROW WEDDING

ATTRACTS HOLLYWOOD, LEGAL CROWDS

EXTRACT: L.A. _Times_, November 7:

McPHERSON AND LOEW TOP D.A.'S

FIELD: WILL CLASH IN SPRING

ELECTION

William McPherson, seeking his fourth term as Los Angeles District Attorney, will face upstart Deputy D.A. Ellis Loew in next March's general election, the two colleagues leading an eight-man field by a wide margin.

McPherson, 56, received 38 percent of the votes cast; Loew, 41, received 36 percent. Their closest rival was Donald Chapman, the former city parks commissioner, with 14 percent. The remaining five candidates, considered long shots with little chance of winning, received a total of 12 perccnt of the votes cast between them.

McPherson, in a scheduled press conference, predicted a down-to-the-wire campaign and stressed that he is an incumbent civil servant first and a political candidate second. Locw, at home with his wife, Joan, echoed those sentiments, predicted victory next March and thanked the voters at large and the law enforcement community in particular for their support.

1953

LAPD Annual Fitness Report,

Marked _Confidential_, dated

1/3/53, filed by Lt. Dudley

Smith, copies to Personnel and

Administration Divisions:

1/2/53

ANNUAL FITNESS REPORT

DUTY DATES: 4/4/52--12/31/52

SUBJECT: White, Wendell A., Badge 916

GRADE: Police Officer (Detective) (Civil Serv. Rate 4)

Division: Detective Bureau (Homicide Adjunct Surveillance Detail)

COMMANDING OFFICER: Lt. Dudley L. Smith, Badge 410.

Gentlemen:

This memorandum serves both as a fitness report on Officer White and an update on the first nine months of the Surveillance Detail's existence. Of the sixteen men working the squad, I consider White my finest officer. To date he has been attentive, thorough, and has put in long hours without complaint. He has a perfect attendance record, and has often worked two-week stretches of eighteen-hour days. White transferred to Surveillance under the cloud of last year's unfortunate Christmas mess, and Deputy Chief Green, citing the four excessive-force complaints filed against him, had some misgivings about the transfer (i.e.: that White's propensity for violence and the potentially violent nature of the assignment would prove to be a disastrous combination). This has not proven to be the case, and I unhesitatingly give Officer White straight "A" markings in every fitness category. He has often evinced spectacular bravery. By way of example, I would like to cite several instances of White's performance above and beyond the call of duty.

1. 5/8/52. On a liquor store stakeout, Officer White (who is plagued by old football injuries) chased a fleeing armed suspect for a half mile. The suspect fired repeatedly back at Officer White, who did not return his fire for fear of hitting innocent civilians. The suspect took a woman hostage and held a gun to her head, which held off the backup officers who had caught up with Officer White. White then walked through a side alley while his partners attempted to calm the suspect down. The suspect refused to release the woman, and White shot and killed him at point-blank range. The woman was unharmed.

2. Numerous instances. One of the key duties of the Surveillance Detail is to meet paroled prison inmates upon their return to Los Angeles and try to convince them of the folly of committing violent crimes in our city. This job requires great physical presence, and Officer White has, frankly, been instrumental in scaring many hardened criminals into a docile parole. He has spent much off-duty time tailing parolees with particularly violent records, and he is responsible for the arrest of John "Big Dog" Cassese, a twice-convicted rapist and armed robber. On 7/20/52, White, while surveilling Cassese inside a cocktail lounge, overheard him attempting to suborn a minor female into prostitution. Cassese attempted to resist arrest, and Officer White subdued him through physical means. Later, White and two other Surveillance officers (Sgt. Michael Breuning, Officer R. J. Carlisle) questioned Cassese extensively about his post-parole activities. Cassese confessed to the rape/murders of three women. (See Homicide arrest report 168-A, dated 7/22/52.) Cassese was tried, convicted and executed at San Quentin.

3. 10/18/52. Officer White, while surveilling parolee Percy Haskins, observed Haskins in a known criminal assembly with Robert Mackey and Karl Carter Goff. All three men possessed long armed-robbery records, and White sensed that a major felony was in the making and proceeded on that assumption. He tailed Haskins, Mackey and Goff to a market at 1683 S. Berendo. The three robbed the market, and White attempted to arrest them outside. The three refused to relinquish their weapons. White shot and killed Goff and severely wounded Mackey. Haskins surrendered. Mackey later died of his wounds and Haskins pleaded guilty to armed robbery with priors and was given a life sentence.

In summary, Officer White has taken the high ground and has been instrumental in making the Surveillance Detail's first year a resounding success. I will be returning to my regular Homicide duties effective 3/15/53 and would like Officer White to join my squad as a regular Homicide detective. In my opinion, he has the makings of a fme case man.

Respectfully,

Dudley L. Smith, Badge 410,

Lieutenant, Homicide Division

LAPD Annual Fitness Report,

marked _Confidential_, dated 1/6/53,

filed by Capt. Russell Millard,

copies to Personnel and

Administration Divisions:

1/6/53

ANNUAL FITNESS REPORT

DUTY DATES: 4/13/52--12/31/52

SUBJECT: Vincennes, John, Badge 2302

GRADE: Detective Sergeant (Civil Serv. Rate 5)

DIVISION: Detective Bureau (Administrative Vice)

COMMANDING OFFICER: Capt. Russell A. Millard, Badge 5009

Gentlemen:

An overall "D +" fitness rating for Sergeant Vincennes, along with some comments.

A. Since he doesn't drink, Vincennes is excellent at liquor violation operations.

B. Vincennes oversteps his bounds where narcotics are concerned, insisting on making possession arrests when dope is found collaterally at Ad Vice crime scenes.

C. He has not fulfilled my fears that he would neglect his Ad Vice duties to offer assistance to his Bureau mentor, Lt. Dudley Smith. This is to Vincennes' credit.

D. Vincennes is not terribly resented for his testimony in the Christmas assaults matter, because he lost his much coveted Narco assignment and because none of the officers he specifically informed on went to jail.

E. Vincennes is continually pressing me to return him to Narco. I will not sign his transfer papers until he makes a major case at Ad Vice--this is a long-standing Ad Vice transfer stipulation. Vincennes has had Deputy D.A. Ellis Loew exert pressure on me to transfer him, and I have refused. I will continue to refuse, even if Loew is elected D.A.

F. There are rumors that Vincennes leaks interdepartmental information to the _Hush-Hush_ scandal rag. I have warned him: never leak word of our work or I will have your hide.

G. In conclusion, Vincennes has proven himself a barely adequate Ad Vice officer. His attendance is good, his reports are well written (and, I suspect, padded). He is too well known to operate bookmakers and adequate at working prostitution sweeps. He has not neglected his duties to fulfill his TV show commitments, which is to his credit. Ad Vice has a probable pornography crackdown coming up within the next few months and Vincennes has a chance to prove his mettle (and earn his major case transfer requirement) on that. Again, an overall "D +" rating.

Respectfully,

Russell A. Millard, Badge 5009,

Commanding Officer,

Administrative Vice

LAPD Annual Fitness Report,

marked Confidental, dated 1/1 1/5 3,

filed by Lt. Arnold Reddin,

Commander, Hollywood Division Detective

Squad, copies to Personnel and

Administration Divisions:

1/11/53

ANNUAL FITNESS REPORT

DUTY DATES: 3/1/52--12/31/52

SUBJECT: Exley, Edmund J., Badge 1104

GRADE: Detective Sergeant (Civil Serv. Rate 5)

DIVISION: Detective (Hollywood Squad)

COMMANDING OFFICER: Lt. Arnold D. Reddin, Badge 556

Gentlemen:

On Sergeant Exley:

This man has obvious gifts as a detective. He is thorough, intelligent, seems to have no personal life and works very long hours. He is only thirty years old and in his nine months as a detective he has amassed a brilliant arrest record, with a 95 percent conviction rate on the cases (mostly minor felony property crimes) he has made. He is a thorough and succinct report writer.

Exley works poorly with partners and well by himself, so I have let him conduct interviews alone. He is a peerless interrogator and to my mind has gotten many miraculous confessions (without physical force). All well and good, and my overall fitness grade on Exley is a solid "A."

But he is roundly hated by his fellow officers, the result of his serving as an informant in the Christmas shake-up, and he is despised for receiving a Bureau assignment out of it. (It seems to be common knowledge that Exley made the Detective Bureau as a result of his informing.) Also, Exley does not like to employ force with suspects, and most of the men consider him a coward.

Exley has passed the lieutenant's exam with very high marks and an opening is probably coming up for him. I think he is both too young and too inexperienced to be a detective lieutenant and that such a promotion would create great resentment. I think he would be a roundly hated supervisor.

Respectfully,

Lt. Arnold D. Reddin, Badge 556

EXTRACT: L.A. _Daily News_, February 9:

IT'S OFFICIAL: CONSTRUCTION

KING EXLEY TO LINK SOUTHLAND

WITH SUPERHIGHWAYS

Today, the Tri-County Highway Commission announced that Preston Exley, ex--San Francisco paperboy and L.A. cop, would be the man to build the freeway system that will link Hollywood to downtown L.A., downtown to San Pedro, Pomona to San Bernardino and the South Bay to the San Fernando Valley.

"Details will be forthcoming," Exley told the News by phone. "I'll be holding a televised press conference tomorrow, and representatives of the State Legislature and the Tn-County Commission will be there with me."

February 1953 issue, _Hush-Hush_ Magazine:

L.A. D.A. TAKES TIME OFF FROM

CAMPAIGN--RELAXING WITH COPPER

CUTIE!!!

by Sidney Hudgens

Bill McPherson, the district attorney for the City of Los Angeles, likes them long and leggy, zesty and chesty--and dark and dusky. From Harlem's Sugar Hill to L.A.'s Darktown, the 57-year-old married man with three teenaged daughters is known as a sugar daddy who likes to tss around that long slush-fund green--in dark hot spots where the drinks are tall, the jazz is cool, reefer smoke hangs humid and black-white romance bebops to the jungle throb of a wailing tenor sax.

Can you dig it, hepcat? McPherson, engaged in a reelection campaign, the fight of his political life against ace crimebuster Ellis Loew, needs time to relax. Does he go to the pool at the staid Jonathan Club? No. Does he take the family to Mike Lyman's or the Pacific Dining Car? No. Where _does_ he go? To the Darktown Strutter's Ball.

It's all shakin' south of Jefferson, hepcat. It's a different world down there. Get your hair marcelled, get yourself a purple sharkskin suit and trip the dark fantastic. D.A. Bill McPherson does--every Thursday nite.

But let's talk facts. Marion McPherson, Darktown Bill's long-suffering hausfrau, thinks Billy Boy spends Thursday nites watching Mexican bantamweights pound each other silly at the Olympic Auditorium. She's wrongsky--Bad Billy craves amour, not mayhem, on his Thursdays.

Fact numero uno--Bill McPherson is a regular at Minnie Roberts' Casbah--the swankiest colored cathouse on L.A.'s southside. Call it sinuendo, hepcat-- but we've heard he likes the thirty-five-dollar milkbath, plied by two very large Congo cuties. Fact numero twosky--McPherson was seen listening to Charlie "Bird" Parker (a notorious hophead) at Tommy Tucker's Playroom, on cloud ten from the Playroom's potent Plantation Punch. His date that night was one Lynette Brown, age eighteen, a dusky deelite with two juvenile arrests for possession of marijuana. Lynette told a secret _Hush-Hush_ correspondent, "Bill like his black. He say, 'Once you had black you can't go back.' He dig jazz and he like to party slow. He really married? He really distric' 'turney?"

He sure is, sweet thing. But for how much longer? There's a bunch of Thursdays between now and Election Day, and will Bad Bebop Billy be able to control his dark desires until then?

Remember, dear reader, you heard it first here--off the record, on the Q.T. and _very_ Hush-Hush.

EXTRACT: L.A. _Herald-Express_, March 1:

BLOODY CHRISTMAS POLICEMAN TO

LEAVE JAIL SOON

On April 2, Richard Alex Stensland leaves Wayside Honor Rancho a free man. Convicted last year on four assault charges related to the 1951 Bloody Christmas police brutality scandal, he walks out an ex-cop with an uncertain future.

Stensland's former partner, Officer Wendell White, spoke to the _Herald_. He said, "It was the luck of the draw, that Christmas thing. I was there, and I could have been the guy that swung. It was Dick, though. He made a good cop out of me. I owe him for that and I'm mad at what happened to him. I'm still Dick's friend and I bet he's still got lots of friends in the Department."

And among the civilian population, it appears. Stensland told a _Herald_ reporter that upon his release he'll go to work for Abraham Teitlebaum, the owner of Abe's Noshery, a delicatessen in West Los Angeles. Asked whether he bears grudges against any of the people who put him in jail, Stensland said, "Only one. But I'm too law-abiding to do anything about it."

L.A. _Daily News_, March 6:

SCANDAL TURNS CLOSE D.A.'S RACE TO

LANDSLIDE

It was expected to go down to the wire: incumbent city D.A. William McPherson vs. Deputy D.A. Ellis Loew, the winner to hold the job as top elected crimefighter in the Southland for the next four years. Both men campaigned on the issues: how to deploy the city's legal budget the best way, how to most efficaciously fight crime. Both men, predictably, claimed they would fight crime the hardest. The L.A. law enforcement establishment considered McPherson soft on crime and too liberal in general and threw their support to Loew. Union organizations supported the incumbent. McPherson stood pat on his status quo record and played off his nice-guy personality, and Loew tried a young firebrand routine that didn't work: he came off as theatrical and vote-hungry. It was a gentleman's campaign until the February issue of _Hush-Hush_ magazine hit the stands.

Most people take _Hush-Hush_ and other scandal sheets with a grain of salt, but this was election time. An article alleged that D.A. McPherson, happily married for twenty-six years, cavorted with young Negro women. The D.A. ignored the article, which was accompanied by photographs of him and a Negro girl, taken at a nightclub in south central Los Angeles. Mrs. McPherson did not ignore the article--she filed for divorce. Ellis Loew did not mention the article in his campaign, and McPherson began to slip in the polls. Then, three days before the election, Sheriffs deputies raided the Lilac View Motel on the Sunset Strip, acting on the tip of an "unknown informant" who called in with word of an illegal assignation in room 9. The assignators proved to be D.A. McPherson and a young Negro prostitute, age 14. The deputies arrested McPherson on statutory rape charges and heard out the story of Marvell Wilkins, a minor with two soliciting arrests.

She told them that McPherson picked her up on South Western Avenue, offered her twenty dollars for an hour of her time and drove her to the Lilac View. McPherson pleaded amnesia: he recalled having "several martinis" at a dinner meeting with supporters at the Pacific Dining Car restaurant, then getting into his car. He remembers nothing after that. The rest is history: reporters and photographers arrived at the Lilac View Motel shortly after the deputies, McPherson became front-page news and on Tuesday Ellis Loew was elected city district attorney by a landslide.

Something seems fishy here. Scandal-rag journalism should not dictate the thrust of political campaigns, although we at the _Daily News_ (admitted McPherson supporters) would never abridge their right to print whatever filth they desire. We have tried to locate Marvell Wilkins, but the girl, released from custody, seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Without pointing fmgers, we at the _Daily News_ ask District Attorney-elect Loew to initiate a grand jury investigation into this matter, if for no other reason than his desire to assume his new office with no dark clouds overhead.

PART TWO

Nite Owl Massacre

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The whole squadroom to himself.

A retirement party downstairs--he wasn't invited. The weekly crime report to be read, summarized, tacked to the bulletin board--nobody else ever did it, they knew he did it best. The papers ballyhooing the Dream-a-Dreamland opening--the other cops Moochie Mouse-squeaked him ad nauseam. Space Cooley playing the party; pervert Deuce Perkins roaming the halls. Midnight and nowhere near sleepy--Ed read, typed.

4/9/53: a transvestite shoplifter hit four stores on Hollywood Boulevard, disabled two salesclerks with judo chops. 4/10/53: an usher at Grauman's Chinese stabbed to death by two male Caucasians--he told them to put out their cigarettes. Suspects still at large; Lieutenant Reddin said he was too inexperienced to handle a homicide--he didn't get the job. 4/11/53: a stack of crime sheets--several times over the past two weeks a carload of Negro youths were seen discharging shotguns into the air in the Griffith Park hills. No IDs, the kids driving a '48--'50 purple Mercury coupe. 4/11--4/13/53: five daytime burglaries, private homes north of the Boulevard, jewelry stolen. Nobody assigned yet; Ed made a note: bootjack the job, dust before the access points got pawed. Today was the fourteenth--he might have a chance.

Ed finished up. The empty squadroom made him happy: nobody who hated him, a big space filled with desks and filing cabinets. Official forms on the walls--empty spaces you filled in when you notched an arrest and made somebody confess. Confessions could be ciphers, nothing past an admission of the crime. But if you twisted your man the right way--loved him and hated him to precisely the right degree--then he would tell you things--small details--that would create a reality to buttress your case and give you that much more inteffigence to bend the next suspect with. Art De Spain and his father taught how to find the spark point. They had boxloads of old steno transcripts: kiddie rapers, heisters, assorted riffraff who'd confessed to them. Art would rabbit-punch--but he used the threat more than the act. Preston Exley rarely hit--he considered it the criminal defeating the policeman and creating disorder. They read elliptical answers and made him guess the questions; they gave him a rundown of common criminal experiences--wedges to get the flow started. They showed him that men have levels of weakness that are acceptable because other men condone them and levels of weakness that produce a great shame, something to hide from all but a brilliant confessor. They honed his instinct for the jugular of weakness. It got so sharp that sometimes he couldn't look at himself in the mirror.

The sessions ran late--two widowers, a young man without a woman. Art had a bug on multiple murders--he had his father rehash the Loren Atherton case repeatedly: horror snatches, witness testimony. Preston obliged with psychological theories, grudgingly--he wanted his glory case to stay sealed off, complete, in his mind. Art's old cases were scrutinized--and he reaped the efforts of three fine minds: confessions straight across, 95 percent convictions. But so far his drive to crack criminal knowledge hadn't been challenged--much less sated.

Ed walked down to the parking lot, sleep coming on. "Quack, quack," behind him--hands turned him around.

A man in a kid's mask--Danny Duck. A left-right knocked off his glasses; a kidney shot put him down. Kicks to the ribs drove him into a ball.

Ed curled hard, caught kicks in the face. A flashbulb popped; two men walked away: one quacking, one laughing. Easy IDs: Dick Stensland's bray, Bud White's football limp. Ed spat blood, swore payback.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Russ Millard addressed Ad Vice squad 4--the topic pornography.

"Picture-book smut, gentlemen. There's been a bunch of it found at collateral crime scenes lately: narcotics, bookmaking and prostitution collars. Normally this kind of stuff is made in Mexico, so it's not our jurisdiction. Normally it's an organized crime sideline, because the big mobs have the money to manufacture it and the connections to get it distributed. But Jack Dragna's been deported, Mickey Cohen's in prison and probably too puritanical anyway, and Mo Jahelka's foundering on his own. Stag pix aren't Jack Whalen's style--he's a bookie looking to get his hands on a Vegas casino. And the stuff that's surfaced is too high quality for the L.A. area print mills: Newton Street Vice rousted them, they're clean, they just don't have the facilities to make magazines of this quality. But the backdrops in the pictures indicate L.A. venue: you can see what looks like the Hollywood Hills out some windows, and the furnishings in a lot of the places look like your typical cheap Los Angeles apartments. So our job is to track this filth to its source and arrest whoever made it, posed for it and distributed it."

Jack groaned: the Great Jerk-off Book Caper of 1953. The other guys looked hot to glom the smut, maybe fuel up their wives. Millard popped a Digitalis. "Newton Street dicks questioned everyone at the collateral rousts, and they all denied possessing the stuff. Nobody at the print mills knows where it was made. The mags have been shown around the Bureau and our station vice squads, and we've got zero IDs on the posers. So, gentlemen, look yourself."

Henderson and Kifka had their hands out; Stathis looked ready to drool. Millard passed the smut over. "Vincennes, is there someplace you'd rather be?"

"Yeah, Captain. Narcotics Division."

"Oh? Anyplace else?"

"Maybe working whores with squad two."

"Make a major case, Sergeant. I'd love to sign you out of here."

Oohs, ahhs, cackles, oo-la-las; three men shook their heads no. Jack grabbed the books.

Seven mags, high-quality glossy paper, plain black covers. Sixteen pages apiece: photos in color, black and white. Two books ripped in half, explicit pictures: men and women, men and men, girls and girls. Insertion close-ups: straight, queer, dykes with dildoes. The Hollywood sign out windows; Murphy-bed fuck shots, cheap pads: stucco-swirled walls, the hot plate on a table that came with every bachelor flop in L.A. Par for the stag-book course--but the posers weren't glassy-eyed hopheads, they were good-looking, well-built young kids--nude, costumed: Elizabethan garb, Jap kimonos. Jack put the ripped mags back together for a bingo: Bobby Inge--a male prostitute he'd popped for reefer--blowing a guy in a whalebone corset.

Millard said, "Anybody familiar, Vincennes?"

An angle. "Nothing, Cap. But where did you get these torn-up jobs?"

"They were found in a trash bin behind an apartment house in Beverly Hills. The manager, an old woman named Loretta Downey, found them and called the Beverly Hills P.D. They called us."

"You got an address on the building?"

Millard checked an evidence form. "9849 Charleville. Why?"

"I just thought I'd take that part of the job. I've got good connections in Beverly Hills."

"Well, they do call you 'Trashcan.' All right, follow up in Beverly Hills. Henderson, you and Kifka try to locate the arrestees in the crime reports and try to find out again where they got the stuff--I'll get you carbons in a minute. Tell them there'll be no additional charges filed if they talk. Stathis, take that filth by the costume supply companies and see if you can get a matchup to their inventory, then fmd out who rented the costumes the . . . performers were wearing. Let's try it this way first--if we have to go through mugshots for IDs we'll lose a goddamn week. Dismissed, gentlemen. Roll, Vincennes. And don't get sidetracked--this is Ad Vice, not Narco."

o o o

Jack rolled: R&I, Bobby Inge's file, his angle flushed out: Beverly Hills, see the old biddy, see what he could find out and concoct a hot lead that told him what he already knew--Bobby Inge was guilty of conspiracy to distribute obscene material, a felony bounce. Bobby would snitch his co-stars and the guys who took the pix--one major class transfer requirement dicked.

The day was breezy, cool; Jack took Olympic straight west. He kept the radio going; a newscast featured Ellis Loew: budget cuts at the D.A.'s Office. Ellis droned on; Jack flipped the dial--a kibosh on thoughts of Bill McPherson. He caught a happy Broadway tune, thought about him anyway.

_Hush-Hush_ was his idea: McPherson liked colored poon, Sid Hudgens loved writing up jig-fuckers. Ellis Loew knew about it, approved of it, considered it another favor on deposit. McPherson's wife filed for divorce; Loew was satisfied--he took a lead in the polls. Dudley Smith wanted more--and set up the tank job.

An easy parlay:

Dot Rothstein knew a colored girl doing a stretch at Juvenile Hall: soliciting beefs, Dot and the girl kept a thing sizzling whenever she did time. Dot got the little twist sprung; Dudley and his ace goon Mike Breuning fixed up a room at the Lilac View Motel: the most notorious fuck pad on the Sunset Strip, county ground where the city D.A. would be just another john caught with his pants down. McPherson attended a Dining Car soiree; Dudley had Marvell Wilkins--fourteen, dark, witchy-- waiting outside. Breuning alerted the West Hollywood Sheriff's and the press; the Big V dropped chloral hydrates in McPherson's last martini. Mr. D.A. left the restaurant woozy, swerved his Cadillac a mile or so, pulled over at Wilshire and Alvarado and passed out. Breuning cruised up behind him with the bait: Marvell in a cocktail gown. He took the wheel of McPherson's Caddy, hustled Bad Bill and the girl to their tryst spot--the rest was political history.

Ellis Loew wasn't told--he figured he just got lucky. Dot sent Marvell down to Tijuana, all expenses paid--skim off the Woman's Jail budget. McPherson lost his wife and his job; his statch rape charge was dismissed--Marvell couldn't be located. Something snapped inside the Bigggg V--

The snap: one shitty favor over the line. The reason: Dot Rothstein in the ambulance October '47--she knew, Dudley probably knew. If they knew, the game had to be played so the rest of the world wouldn't know--so Karen wouldn't.

He'd been her hero a solid year; somehow the bit got real. He stopped sending the Scoggins kids money, closing out his debt at forty grand--he needed cash to court Karen, being with her gave him some distance on the Malibu Rendezvous. Joan Morrow Loew stayed bitchy; Welton and the old lady grudgingly accepted him--and Karen loved him so hard it almost hurt. Working Ad Vice hurt--the job was a snore, he hot-dogged on dope every time he got a shot. Sid Hudgens didn't call so much--he wasn't a Narco dick now. After the McPherson gig he was glad--he didn't know if he could pull another shakedown.

Karen had her own lies going--they helped his hero bit play true. Trust fund, beach pad paid for by Daddy, grad school. Dilettante stuff: he was thirty-eight, she was twenty-three, in time she'd figure it out. She wanted to marry him; he resisted; Ellis Loew as an in-law meant bagman duty until he dropped dead. He knew why his hero role worked: Karen was the audience he'd always wanted to impress. He knew what she could take, what she couldn't; her love had shaped his performance so that all he had to do was act natural--and keep certain secrets hidden.

Traffic snagged; Jack turned north on Doheny, west on Charleville. 9849--a two-story Tudor--stood a block off Wilshire. Jack double-parked, checked mailboxes.

Six slots: Loretta Downey, five other names--three Mr. & Mrs., one man, one woman. Jack wrote them down, walked to Wilshire, found a pay phone. Calls to R&I and the DMV police information line; two waits. No criminal records on the tenants; one standout vehicle sheet: Christine Bergeron, the mailbox "Miss," four reckless-driving convictions, no license revocation. Jack got extra stats off the clerk: the woman was thirty-seven years old, her occupation was listed as actress/car hop, as of 7/52 she was working at Stan's Drive-in in Hollywood.

Instincts: carhops don't live in Beverly Hills; maybe Christine Bergeron hopped some bones to stretch the rent. Jack walked back to 9849, knocked on the door marked "Manager."

An old biddy opened up. "Yes, young man?"

Jack flashed his badge. "L.A. Police, ma'am. It's about those books you found."

The biddy squinted through Coke-bottle glasses. "My late husband would have seen to justice himself, Mr. Harold Downey had no tolerance for dirty things."

"Did you find those magazines yourself, Mrs. Downey?"

"No, young man, my cleaning lady did. _She_ tore them up and threw them in the trash, where I found them. I questioned Eula about it after I called the Beverly Hills police."

"Where did Eula find the books?"

"Well . . . I . . . don't know if I should . . ."

A switcheroo. "Tell me about Christine Bergeron."

Harumph. "That woman! And that boy of hers! I don't know who's worse!"

"Is she a difficult tenant, ma'am?"

"She entertains men at all hours! She roller-skates on the floor in those tight waitress outfits of hers! She's got a no-goodnik son who never goes to school! Seventeen years old and a truant who associates with lounge lizards!"

Jack held out a Bobby Inge mugshot; the biddy held it up to her glasses. "Yes, this is one of Daryl's no-goodnik friends, I've seen him skulking around here a dozen times. Who _is_ he?"

"Ma'am, did Eula find those dirty books in the Bergeron apartment?"

"Well . . ."

"Ma'am, are Christine Bergeron and the boy at home now?"

"No, I heard them leave a few hours ago. I have keen ears to make up for my poor eyesight."

"Ma'am, if you let me into their apartment and I find some more dirty books, you could earn a reward."

"Well . . ."

"Have you got keys, ma'am?"

"Of course I have keys, I'm the manager. Now, I'll let you look if you promise not to touch and I don't have to pay withholding tax on my reward."

Jack took the mugshot back. "Whatever you want, ma'am." The old woman walked upstairs, up to the second-floor units. Jack followed; granny unlocked the third door down. "Five minutes, young man. And be respectful of the furnishings--my brother-in-law owns this building."

Jack walked in. Tidy living room, scratched floor--probably roller-skate tracks. Quality furniture, worn, ill-cared-for. Bare walls, no TV, two framed photos on an end table--publicity-type shots.

Jack checked them out; old lady Downey stuck close. Matching pewter frames--two good-looking people.

A pretty woman--light hair in a pageboy, eyes putting out a cheap sparkle. A pretty boy who looked just like her--extra blond, big stupid eyes. "Is this Christine and her son?"

"Yes, and they are an attractive pair, I'll give them that. Young man, what is the amount of that reward you mentioned?" Jack ignored her and hit the bedroom: through the drawers, in the closet, under the mattress. No smut, no dope, nothing hinky--negligees the only shit worth a sniff.

"Young man, your five minutes are up. And I want a written guarantee that I will receive that reward."

Jack turned around smiling. "I'll mail it to you. And I need another minute or so to check their address book."

"No! No! They could come home at any moment! I want you to leave this instant!"

"Just one minute, ma'am."

"No, no, no! Out with you this second!"

Jack made for the door. The old bat said, "You remind me of that policeman on that television program that's so popular."

"I taught him everything he knows."

o o o

He felt a quickie shaping up.

Bobby Inge rats off the smut peddlers, turns state's, some kind of morals rap on him and Daryl Bergeron: the kid was a minor, Bobby was a notorious fruitfly with a rap sheet full of homopandering beefs. Wrap it up tight: confessions, suspects located, lots of paperwork for Millard. The big-time Big V cracks the big-time filth ring and wings back to Narco a hero.

Up to Hollywood, a loop by Stan's Drive-in----Christine Bergeron slinging hash on skates. Pouty, provocative--the quasihooker type, maybe the type to pose with a dick in her mouth. Jack parked, read the Bobby Inge sheet. Two outstanding bench warrants: traffic tickets, a failure-to-appear probation citation. Last known address 1424 North Hamel, West Hollywood--the heart of Lavender Gulch. Three fruit bars for "known haunts"--Leo's Hideaway, the Knight in Armor, B.J.'s Rumpus Room--all on Santa Monica Boulevard nearby. Jack drove to Hamel Drive, his cuffs out and open.

A bungalow court off the Strip: county turf, "Inge--Apt 6" on a mailbox. Jack found the pad, knocked, no answer. "Bobby, hey, sugar," a falsetto trill--still no bite. A locked door, drawn curtains--the whole place dead quiet. Jack went back to his car, drove south.

Fag bar city: Inge's haunts in a two-block stretch. Leo's Hideaway closed until 4:00; the Knight in Armor empty. The barkeep vamped him--"Bobby who?"--like he really didn't know. Jack hit B.J.'s Rumpus Room.

Tufted Naugahyde inside--the walls, ceiling, booths adjoining a small bandstand. Queers at the bar; the barman sniffed cop right off. Jack walked over, laid his mugshots out face up.

The barman picked them up. "That's Bobby something. He comes in pretty often."

"How often?"

"Oh, like several times a week."

"The afternoon or the evening?"

"Both."

"'When was the last time he was here?"

"Yesterday. Actually, it was around this time yesterday. Are you--"

"I'm going to sit at one of those booths over there and wait for him. If he shows up, keep quiet about me. Do you understand?"

"Yes. But look, you've cleared the whole dance floor out already."

"Write it off your taxes."

The barkeep giggled; Jack walked over to a booth near the bandstand. A clean view: the front door, back door, bar. Darkness covered him. He watched.

Queer mating rituals:

Glances, tête-à-têtes, out the door. A mirror above the bar: the fruits could check each other out, meet eyes and swoon. Two hours, half a pack of cigarettes--no Bobby Inge.

His stomach growled; his throat felt raw; the bottles on the bar smiled at him. Itchy boredom: at 4:00 he'd hit Leo's Hideaway.

3:53--Bobby Inge walked in.

He took a stool; the barman poured him a drink. Jack walked up.

The barman, spooked: darting eyes, shaky hands. Inge swiveled around. Jack said, "Police. Hands on your head."

Inge tossed his drink. Jack tasted scotch; scotch burned his eyes. He blinked, stumbled, tripped blind to the floor. He tried to cough the taste out, got up, got blurry sight back--Bobby Inge was gone.

He ran outside. No Bobby on the sidewalk, a sedan peeling rubber. His own car two blocks away.

Liquor brutalizing him.

Jack crossed the street, over to a gas station. He hit the men's room, threw his blazer in a trashcan. He washed his face, smeared soap on his shirt, tried to vomit the booze taste out--no go. Soapy water in the sink--he swallowed it, guzzled it, retched.

Coming to: his heart quit skidding, his legs firmed up. He took off his holster, wrapped it in paper towels, went back to the car. He saw a pay phone--and made the call on instinct.

Sid Hudgens picked up. "_Hush-Hush_, off the record and on the QT."

"Sid, it's Vincennes."

"Jackie, are you back on Narco? I need copy."

"No, I've got something going with Ad Vice."

"Something good? Celebrity oriented?"

"I don't know if it's good, but if it gets good you've got it."

"You sound out of breath, Jackie. You been shtupping?"

Jack coughed--soap bubbles. "Sid, I'm chasing some smut books. Picture stuff. Fuck shots, but the people don't look like junkies and they're wearing these expensive costumes. It's welldone stuff, and I thought you might have heard something about it."

"No. No, I've heard bupkis."

Too quick, no snappy one-liner. "What about a male prostie named Bobby Inge or a woman named Christine Bergeron? She carhops, maybe peddles it on the side."

"Never heard of them, Jackie."

"Shit. Sid, what about independent smut pushers in general. What do you know?"

"Jack, I know that that is secret shit that I know nothing about. And the thing about secrets, Jack, is that everybody's got them. Including you. Jack, I'll talk to you later. Call when you get work."

The line clicked off.

EVERYBODY'S GOT SECRETS--INCLUDING YOU.

Sid wasn't quite Sid, his exit line wasn't quite a warning.

DOES HE FUCKING KNOW?

Jack drove by Stan's Drive-in, shaky, the windows down to kill the soap smell. Christine Bergeron nowhere on the premises. Back to 9849 Charleville, knock knock on the door of her apartment--no answer, slack between the lock and the doorjamb. He gave a shove; the door popped.

A trail of clothes on the living room floor. The picture frame gone.

Into the bedroom, scared, his gun in the car.

Empty cabinets and drawers. The bed stripped. Into the bathroom.

Toothpaste and Kotex spilled in the shower. Glass shelves smashed in the sink.

Getaway--fifteen-minute style.

Back to West Hollywood--fast. Bobby Inge's door caved in easy; Jack went in gun first.

Clean-out number two--a better job.

A clean living room, pristine bathroom, bedroom showing empty dresser drawers. A can of sardines in the icebox. The kitchen trashcan clean, a fresh paper bag lining it.

Jack tore the pad up: living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen--shelves knocked over, rugs pulled, the toilet yanked apart. He stopped on a flash: garbage cans, full, lined both sides of the street--

There or gone.

Figure an hour-twenty since his run-in with Inge: the fuck wouldn't run straight to his crib. He probably got off the street, cruised back slow, risked the move out with his car parked in the alley. He figured the roust was for his old warrants or the smut gig; he knew he was standing heat and couldn't be caught harboring pornography. He wouldn't risk carrying it in his car--the odds on a shake were too strong. The gutter or the trash, right near the top of the cans, maybe more skin IDs for Big Trashcan Jack.

Jack hit the sidewalk, rooted in trashcans--gaggles of kids laughed at him. One, two, three, four, five--two left before the corner. No lid on the last can; glossy black paper sticking out.

Jack beelined.

Three fuck mags right on top. Jack grabbed them, ran back to his car, skimmed--the kids made goo-goo eyes at the windshield. The same Hollywood backdrops, Bobby Inge with boys and girls, unknown pretties screwing. Halfway through the third book the pix went haywire.

Orgies, hole-to-hole daisy chains, a dozen people on a quiltcovered floor. Disembodied limbs: red sprays off arms, legs. Jack squinted, eye-strain, the red was colored ink, the photos doctored--limb severings faked, ink blood flowing in artful little swirls.

Jack tried for IDs; obscene perfection distracted him: inkbleeding nudes, no faces he knew until the last page: Christine Bergeron and her son fucking, standing on skates planted on a scuffed hardwood floor.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A photograph, dropped in his mailbox: Sergeant Ed Exley bleeding and terrified. No printing on the back, no need for it: Stensland and White had the negative, insurance that he'd never try to break them.

Ed, alone in the squadroom, 6:00 A.M. The stitches on his chin itched; loose teeth made eating impossible. Thirty-odd hours since the moment--his hands still trembled.

Payback.

He didn't tell his father; he couldn't risk the ignominy of going to Parker or Internal Affairs. Revenge on Bud White would be tricky: he was Dudley Smith's boy, Smith just got him a straight Homicide spot and was grooming him for his chief strongarm. Stensland was more vulnerable: on probation, working for Abe Teitlebaum, an ex--Mickey Cohen goon. A drunk, begging to go back inside.

Payback--already in the works.

Two Sheriff's men bought and paid for: a dip in his mother's trust fund. A two-man tail on Dick Stens, two men to swoop on his slightest probation fuckup.

Payback.

Ed did paperwork. His stomach growled: no food, loose trousers weighted down by his holster. A voice out the squawk box: loud, spooked.

"Squad call! Nite Owl Coffee Shop one-eight-two-four Cherokee! Multiple homicides! See the patrolmen! Code three!"

Ed banged his legs getting up. No other detectives on call--it was his.

o o o

Patrol cars at Hollywood and Cherokee; blues setting up crime scene blockades. No plainclothesmen in sight--he might get first crack.

Ed pulled up, doused his siren. A patrolman ran over. "Load of people down, maybe some of them women. I found them, stopped for coffee and saw this phony sign on the door, 'Closed for Illness.' Man, the Nite Owl _never_ closes. It was dark inside and I knew this was a hinky deal. Exley, this ain't your squawk, this has gotta be downtown stuff, so--"

Ed pushed him aside, pushed over to the door. Open, a sign taped on: "Clossed Due to Illness." Ed stepped inside, memorized.

A long, rectangular interior. On the right: a string of tables, four chairs per. The side wall mural-papered: winking owls perched on street signs. A checkered linoleum floor; to the left a counter--a dozen stools. A service runway behind it, the kitchen in back, fronted by a cook's station: fryers, spatulas on hooks, a platform for laying down plates. At front left: a cash register.

Open, empty--coins on the floor mat beside it.

Three tables in disarray: food spilled, plates dumped; napkin containers, broken dishes on the floor. Drag marks leading back to the kitchen; one high-heeled pump by an upended chair.

Ed walked into the kitchen. Half-fried food, broken dishes, pans on the floor. A wall safe under the cook's counter--open, spiffing coins. Crisscrossed drag marks connecting with the other drag marks, dark black heel smudges ending at the door of a walk-in food locker.

Ajar, the cord out of the socket--no cool air as a preservative. Ed opened it.

Bodies--a blood-soaked pile on the floor. Brains, blood and buckshot on the walls. Blood two feet deep collecting in a drainage trough. Dozens of shotgun shells floating in blood.

NEGRO YOUTHS DRIVING PURPLE '48-'50 MERC COUPE SEENDISCHARGING SHOTGUNS INTO AIR IN GRIFFITH PARK HILLS SEVERAL TIMES OVER PAST TWO WEEKS.

Ed gagged, tried for a body count.

No discernible faces. Maybe five people dead for the cash register and safe take and what they had on them-- "Holy shit fuck."

A rookie type--pale, almost green. Ed said, "How many men outside?"

"I . . . I dunno. Lots."

"Don't get sick, just get everybody together to start canvassing. We need to know if a certain type of car was seen around here tonight."

"S-s-sir, there's this Detective Bureau man wants to see you."

Ed walked out. Dawn up: fresh light on a mob scene. Patrolmen held back reporters; rubberneckers swarmed. Horns blasted; motorcycles ran interference: meat wagons cut off by the crowd. Ed looked for high brass; newsmen shouting questions stampeded him.

Pushed off the sidewalk, pinned to a patrol car. Flashbulbs pop pop pop--he turned so his bruises wouldn't show. Strong hands grabbed him. "Go home, lad. I've been given the command here."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The first all-Bureau call-in in history-every downtown-based detective standing ready. The chief's briefing room jammed to the rafters.

Thad Green, Dudley Smith by a floor mike; the men facing them, itchy to go. Bud looked for Ed Exley--a chance to scope out his wounds. No Exley--scotch a rumor he caught the Nite Owl squeal.

Smith grabbed the mike. "Lads, you all know why we're here. 'Nite Owl Massacre' hyperbole aside, this is a heinous crime that requires a hard and swift resolution. The press and public will demand it, and since we already have solid leads, we will give it to them.

"There were six people dead in that locker--three men and three women. I have spoken to the Nite Owl's owner, and he told me that three of the dead are likely Patty Chesimard and Donna DeLuca, female Caucasians, the late-shift waitress and cash register girl, and Gilbert Escobar, male Mexican, the cook and dishwasher. The three other victims--two men, one woman-- were almost certainly customers. The cash register and safe were empty and the victims' pockets and handbags were picked clean, which means that robbery was obviously the motive. SID is doing the forensic now--so far they have nothing but rubber glove prints on the cash register and food locker door. No time of death on the victims, but the scant number of customers and another lead we have indicates 3:00 A.M. as the time of the killings. A total of forty-five spent 12-gauge Remington shotgun shells were found in the locker. This indicates three men with five-shot-capacity pumps, all of them reloading twice. I do not have to tell you how gratuitous forty of those rounds were, lads. We are dealing with stark raving mad beasts here."

Bud looked around. Still no Exley, a hundred men jotting notes. Jack Vincennes in a corner, no notebook. Thad Green took over.

"No blood tracks leading outside. We were hoping for footprints to run eliminations against, but we didn't find any, and Ray Pinker from SID says the forensic will take at least fortyeight hours. The coroner says IDs on the customer victims will be extremely difficult because of the condition of the bodies. But we do have one very hot lead.

"Hollywood Division has taken a total of four crime reports on this, so listen well. Over the past two weeks a carload of Negro youths were seen discharging shotguns into the air up at Griffith Park. There were three of them, and the shotguns were pumps. The punks were not apprehended, but eyeball witnesses ID'd them as driving a 1948 to 1950 Mercury coupe, purple in color. And just an hour ago Lieutenant Smith's canvassing crew found a witness: a news vendor who saw a purple Merc coupe, '48--'50 vintage, parked across from the Nite Owl last night around 3:00 A.M."

The room went loud: a big rumbling. Green gestured for quiet. "It gets better, so listen well. There are no '48 to '50 purple Mercurys on the hot sheet, so it is very doubtful that we're dealing with a stolen car, and the state DMV has given us a registration list on '48 to '50 Mercurys statewide. Purple was an original color on the '48 to '50 coupe models, and those models were favored by Negroes. Over sixteen hundred are registered to Negroes in the State of California, and in Southern California there are only a very few registerM to Caucasians. There are one hundred and fifty-six registered to Negroes in L.A. County, and there are almost a hundred of you men here. We have a list compiled: home and work addresses. The Hollywood squad is cross-checking for rap sheets. I want fifty two-man teams to shake three names apiece. There's a special phone line being set up at Hollywood Station, so if you need information on past addresses or known associates, you can call there. If you get hot suspects, bring them here to the Hall. We've got a string of interrogation rooms set up, along with a man to head the interrogations. Lieutenant Smith will give out the assignments in a second, and Chief Parker would like a word with you. Any questions first?"

A man yelled, "Sir, who's running the interrogations?"

Green said, "Sergeant Ed Exley, Hollywood squad."

Catcalls, boos. Parker walked up to the mike. "Enough on that. Gentlemen, just go out and get them. Use all necessary force."

Bud smiled. The real message: kill the niggers clean.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Jack's list:

George NMI Yelburton, male Negro, 9781 South Beach; Leonard Timothy Bidwell, male Negro, 10062 South Duquesne; Dale William Pritchford, male Negro, 8211 South Normandie.

Jack's temporary partner: Sergeant Cal Denton, Bunco Squad, a former guard at the Texas State Pen.

Denton's car down to Darktown, the radio humming: jazz on the "Nite Owl Massacre." Denton hummed: Leonard Bidwell used to fight welterweight, he saw him go ten with Kid Gavilan--he was one tough shine. Jack brooded on his backto-Narco ticket: Bobby Inge, Christine Bergeron gone, no smut leads from the other squad guys. The orgy pix--beautiful in a way. His own private leads, fucked up by some crazy spooks killing six people for a couple hundred bucks. He could still taste the booze, still hear Sid Hudgens: "We've all got secrets."

Snitch call-ins first: his, Denton's. Shine stands, pool halls, hair-processing parlors, storefront churches--informants palmed, leaned on, queried. The Darktown shuffle--purple car/shotgun rebop, hazy, distorted--riffraff gone on Tokay and hair tonic. Four hours down, no hard names, back to the names on the list.

9781 Beach--a tar-paper shack, a purple '48 Merc on the lawn. The car stood sans wheels, a rusted axle sunk in the grass. Denton pulled up. "Maybe that's their alibi. Maybe they fucked up the car after they did the Nite Owl so we'd think they couldn't drive it nowhere."

Jack pointed over. "There's weeds wrapped around the brake linings. Nobody drove that thing up to Hollywood last night."

"You think?"

"I think."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Denton hauled to the South Duquesne address--another tar-paper dive. A purple Mercury in the driveway--a coon coach featuring fender skirts, mud flaps, "Purple Pagans" on a hood plaque. Bolted to the porch: a heavy bag/speed bag combo. Jack said, "There's your welterweight."

Denton smiled; Jack walked up, pushed the buzzer. Dog barks inside--a real monster howling. Denton stood flank: the driveway, a bead on the door.

A Negro man opened up: wiry, a tough hump restraining a mastiff. The dog growled; the man said, "This 'cause I ain' paid my alimony? That a goddamn p0-lice offense?"

"Are you Leonard Timothy Bidwell?"

"That's right."

"And that's your car in the driveway?"

"That's right. And if you a po-lice doin' repos on the side you barkin' up the wrong tree, 'cause my baby is paid for outright with my purse from my losin' effort 'gainst Johnny Saxton."

Jack pointed to the dog. "Put him back inside and close the door, walk out and put your hands on the wall."

Bidwell did it extra slow; Jack frisked him, turned him around. Denton walked over. "Boy, you like 12-gauge pumps?"

Bidwell shook his head. "Say what?"; Jack threw a change-up. "Where were you last night at 3:00 A.M.?"

"Right here at my crib."

"By yourself? If you got laid you got lucky. Tell me you got lucky, before my buddy gets pissed."

"I gots custody of my kids fo' the week. They was with me."

"Are they here?"

"They asleep."

Denton prodded him--a gun poke to the ribs. "Boy, you know what happened last night? Bad juju, and I ain't woofin'. You own a shotgun, boy?"

"Man, I don't need no fuckin' shotgun."

Denton poked harder. "Boy, don't you use curse words with me. Now, before we get your pickaninnies out here, you gonna tell me who you lent your automobile to last night?"

"Man, I don' lend my sled to nobody!"

"Then who'd you lend your 12-gauge pump shotguns to? Boy, you spill on that."

"Man, I tol' you I don't own no shotgun!"

Jack stepped in. "Tell me about the Purple Pagans. Are they a bunch of guys who like purple cars?"

"Man, that is just a name for our club. I gots a purple car, some other cats in the club gots them too. Man, what is this all about?" Jack took out his DMV sheet--the Merc owners all typed up. "Leonard, did you read the papers this morning?"

"No. Man, what is--"

"Sssh. You listen to the radio or watch television?"

"I ain't got either of them. What's that--"

"Sssh. Leonard, we're looking for three colored guys who like to pop off shotguns and a Merc like yours, a '48, a '49, or a '50. I know you wouldn't hurt anybody, I saw you fight Gavilan and I like your style. We're looking for some _bad_ guys. Guys with a car like yours, guys who might belong to your club."

Bidwell shrugged. "Why should I help you?"

"Because I'll cut my partner loose on you if you don't."

"Yeah, and you get me a fuckin' snitch jacket, too."

"No jacket, and you don't have to say anything. Just look at this list and point. Here, read it over."

Bidwell shook his head. "They's bad, so I jus' tell you. Sugar Ray Coates, drives a '49 coupe, a beautiful ride. He gots two buddies, Leroy and Tyrone. Sugar loves to party with a shotgun, I heard he gets his thrills shootin' dogs. He tried to get in my club, but we turned him down 'cause he is righteous trash."

Jack checked his list--bingo on "Coates, Raymond NMI, 9611 South Central, Room 114." Denton had his own sheet out. "Two minutes from here. We haul, we might get there first."

Hero headlines. "Let's do it."

o o o

The Tevere Hotel: an L-shaped walk-up above a washateria. Denton coasted into the lot; Jack saw stairs going up-just one floor of rooms, a wide-open doorway.

Up and in--a short corridor, flimsy-looking doors. Jack drew his piece; Denton pulled two guns: a .38, an ankle rig automatic. They counted room numbers; 114 came up. Denton reared back; Jack reared back; they kicked the same instant. The door flew off its hinges for a pure clean shot: a colored kid jumping out of bed.

The kid put up his hands. Denton smiled, aimed. Jack blocked him--two reflex pulls tore the ceiling. Jack ran in; the kid tried to run; Jack nailed him: gun-butt shots to the head. No more resistance--Denton cuffed his hands behind his back. Jack slipped on brass knucks and made fists. "Leroy, Tyrone. _Where?_"

The kid dribbled teeth--"One-two-one" came out bloody. Denton yanked him up by his hair; Jack said, "Don't you fucking kill him."

Denton spat in his face; shouts boomed down the hall. Jack ran out, around the "L," a skid to a stop in front of 121--

A closed door. Background noise huge--no way to take a listen. Jack kicked; wood splintered; the door creaked open. Two coloreds inside--one asleep on a cot, one snoring on a mattress.

Jack walked in. Sirens whirring up very close. The mattress kid stirred--Jack bludgeoned him quiet, bashed the other punk before he could move. The sirens screeched, died. Jack saw a box on the dresser.

Shotgun shells: Remington 12-gauge double-aught buck. A box of fifty, most of them gone.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ed skimmed Jack Vincennes' report. Thad Green watched, his phone ringing off the hook.

Solid, concise--Trash knew how to write a good quickie.

Three male Negroes in custody: Raymond "Sugar Ray" Coates, Leroy Fontaine, Tyrone Jones. Treated for wounds received while resisting arrest; snitched by another male Negro-- who described Coates as a shotgun toter who liked to blast dogs. Coates was on the DMV sheet; the informant stated that he ran with two other men--"Tyrone and Leroy"--also living at the Tevere Hotel. The three were arrested in their underwear; Vincennes turned them over to prowl car officers responding to shots fired and searched their rooms for evidence. He found a fifty-unit box of Remington 12-gauge double-aught shotgun shells, forty-odd missing--but no shotguns, no rubber gloves, no bloodstained clothing, no large amounts of cash or coins and no other weaponry. The only clothing in the rooms: soiled T-shirts, boxer shorts, neatly pressed garments covered by dry cleaner's cellophane. Vincennes checked the incinerator in back of the hotel; it was burning--the manager told him he saw Sugar Coates dump a load of clothes in at approximately 7:00 this morning. Vincennes said Jones and Fontaine appeared to be inebriated or under the influence of narcotics--they slept through gunfire and the general ruckus of Coates resisting arrest. Vincennes told late-arriving patrolmen to search for Coates' car--it was not in the parking lot or anywhere in a three-block radius. An APB was issued; Vincennes stated that all three suspects' hands and arms reeked of perfume--a paraffin test would be inconclusive.

Ed laid the report on Green's desk. "I'm surprised he didn't kill them."

The phone rang--Green let it keep going. "More headlines this way, he's shacking with Ellis Loew's sister-in-law. And if the coons doused their paws with perfume to foil a paraffin test, we can thank Jack for that--he gave that little piece of information to _Badge of Honor_. Ed, are you up for this?"

Ed's stomach jumped. "Yes, sir. I am."

"The chief wanted Dudley Smith to work with you, but I talked him out of it. As good as he is, the man is off the deep end on coloreds."

"Sir, I know how important this is."

Green lit a cigarette. "Ed, I want confessions. Fifteen of the rounds we retrieved at the Nite Owl were nicked at the strike point, so if we get the guns we've got the case. I want the location of the guns, the location of the car and confessions before we arraign them. We've got seventy-one hours before they see the judge. I want this wrapped up by then. _Clean_."

Specifics. "Rap sheets on the kids?"

Green said, "Joyriding and B&E for all three. Peeping Tom beefs for Coates and Fontaine. And they're not kids--Coates is twenty-two, the others are twenty. This is a gas chamber bounce pure and clean."

"What about the Griffith Park angle? Shell samples to compare, witnesses to the guys letting off the shotguns."

"Shell samples might be good backup evidence, if we can find them and the coloreds don't confess. The park ranger who called in the complaints is coming down to try for an ID. Ed, Arnie Reddin says you're the best interrogator he's ever seen, but you've never worked anything this--"

Ed stood up. "I'll do it."

"Son, if you do, you'll have my job one day."

Ed smiled--his loose teeth ached. Green said, "What happened to your face?"

"I tripped chasing a shoplifter. Sir, who's talked to the suspects?"

"Just the doctor who cleaned them up. Dudley wanted Bud White to have first shot, but--"

"Sir, I don't think--"

"Don't interrupt me, I was about to agree with you. No, I want _voluntary_ confessions, so White is out. You've got first shot at all three. You'll be observed through the two-ways, and if you want a partner for a Mutt and Jeff, touch your necktie. There'll be a group of us listening through an outside speaker, and a recorder will be running. The three are in separate rooms, and if you want to play them off on each other, you know the buttons to hit."

Ed said, "I'll break them."

o o o

His stage: a corridor off the Homicide pen. Three cubicles set up-mirror-fronted, speaker-connected--flip switches and a string of suspects could hear their partners rat each other off. The rooms: six-by-six square, welded-down tables, bolted-down chairs. In 1, 2 and 3: Sugar Ray Coates, Leroy Fontaine, Tyrone Jones. Rap sheets taped to the wall outside--Ed memorized dates, locations, known associates. A deep breath to kill stage fright--in the #1 door.

Sugar Ray Coates cuffed to a chair, dressed in baggy County denims. Tall, light-complected---close to a mulatto. One eye swollen shut; lips puffed and split. A smashed nose--both nostrils sutured. Ed said, "Looks like we both took a beating."

Coates squinted--one-eyed, spooky. Ed unlocked his cuffs, tossed cigarettes and matches on the table. Coates flexed his wrists. Ed smiled. "They call you Sugar Ray because of Ray Robinson?"

No answer.

Ed took the other chair. "They say Ray Robinson can throw a four-punch combination in one second. I don't believe it myself."

Coates lifted his arms--they flopped, dead weight. Ed opened the cigarette pack. "I know, they cut off the circulation. You're twenty-two, aren't you, Ray?"

Coates: "Say what and so what," a scratchy voice. Ed scoped his throat--bruised, finger marks. "Did one of the officers do a little throttling on you?"

No answer. Ed said, "Sergeant Vincennes? The snazzy dresser guy?"

Silence.

"Not him, huh? Was it Denton? Fat guy with a Texas drawl, sounds like Spade Cooley on TV?"

Coates' good eye twitched. Ed said, "Yeah, I commiserate-- that guy Denton is one choice creep. You see _my_ face? Denton and I went a couple of rounds."

No bite.

"Goddamn that Denton. Sugar Ray, you and I look like Robinson and LaMotta after that last fight they had."