White Jazz

10

Scope the party:

The Cocoanut Grove, a society band. Chief Parker, Exley — smiles for our boy: Gas Chamber Bob Gallaudet. Drink waiters, dancing — Meg brought Jack Woods so she could mambo. Dudley Smith, Mayor Poulson, Tom Bethune — no thank-you to me for the tank job.

Newsmen, Dodger execs. Gallaudet grinning, bombed by flashbulbs.

Mingle, look:

George Stemmons, Sr., two Smith goons: Mike Breuning, Dick Carlisle. Read their lips: FED PROBE, FED PROBE. Parker and Exley holding cocktails — talking FED PROBE — bet money. Meg danced Jack by — hoodlums still jazzed her — my fault.

Show-up time: I owed Bob congratulations. Better to wait, get him alone — my bad PR lingered. I watched the crowd, matched thoughts to faces.

Exley — tall, easy to spot. He’d read my 459 report: the Lucille/peeper leads, a bogus addendum — shitcan the job, it’s dead-ended. He said keep going; some part of me rejoiced — I wanted to drag that family through the gutter. Both ends against the middle: I’d told Dan Wilhite I’d go easy.

Inspector George Stemmons, Sr., by the punchbowl — Junior twenty-odd years older. Junior missing since the Georgie Ainge roust — stalemate time — he knew Glenda Bledsoe killed Dwight Gilette. His Kafesjian report: fluff. No john/whore file checks, my Darktown scoop made him too busy: that shakedown outside Bido Lito’s; that confab with a “pretty-boy blond cop.” Pretty boy’s ID: Johnny Duhamel, Dud Smith’s new Mobster Squad lad.

Junior: no way to trust him; no way to dump him off the case just yet.

Solo now:

I checked the stationhouse lists — luck at University — john names, no hooker names connected. I ran them through the DMV and R&I — all phonies — most Vice cops didn’t press for real IDs — no heart to ream pussy prowlers. Luck crapped out — I saved the names to check against — most johns kept the same alias.

Darktown strutter:

I questioned Western Avenue whores, three nights’ worth — no Lucille pic IDs. I checked with the 77th Squad — still no locate on the peeper complaints. I peeped myself: the Kafesjian pad, car-radio jazz to kill boredom. Two nights — family brawls; one night, Lucille alone — a window striptease — the radio pulsed to her movements. Three nights total, no other watchers — make me the only voyeur. That Big Instinct confirmed: prowler/peeper/B&E man — all one man.

Homework, two nights’ worth: Art Pepper, Champ Dineen — listening to what the burglar smashed. My phonograph, the volume torqued: that Instinct solid. One session pushed me back to the house — I tailed Tommy K. down to Bido Lito’s. Tommy: in with his own key, weed bags stashed by slot machines. I called Lester Lake: glom me skinny on Tommy’s known associates.

Happy chatter — the party crowd swelling. Meg and Jack Woods talking — they’d probably start up again. Jack muscled our rent; we cut a percentage deal: his dice game, our West-side vacant. Holding hands: my sister, my hood friend. Exhausted — I shifted to Glenda Overdrive—

Hooked bad — I couldn’t subcontract the Hughes job. Moonlight work: I tailed her, watched for tails on me, ditched some maybes. Movie set skulks, rolling stakeouts:

Glenda raids Hughes’ fuck pads; Glenda donates stolen food to “Dracula’s” rest home. Frequent Glenda guests: Touch V. and Rock Rockwell — Georgie Ainge nowhere in sight. Last night, Good Deed Glenda: foie gras for the oldsters at the Sleepy Glade dump.

R&I — Bledsoe, Glenda Louise:

No wants, no warrants, no prostitution arrests. 12/46: ten days, juvie shoplifting. A Juvenile Hall file note: Glenda beat up an amorous bull dyke.

LAPD Homicide — Dwight William Gilette, DOD 4/19/55 (unsolved) — ZERO ON GLENDA LOUISE BLEDSOE.

Fake reports to Bradley Milteer: Glenda’s thefts deleted, her publicity date lied off — a “friendly outing.” Glenda Overdrive driving me: good scary/scary good.

I edged up to the crowd. Gallaudet had a new haircut: that Jack Kennedy/Welles Noonan style. A nod my way, but no shake — bad-press cops rated low. Walter O’Malley sidled by — Bob almost genuflected. Chavez Ravine, ballpark, ballpark — loud, happy.

“Hello, lad.”

That brogue — Dudley Smith.

“Hello, Dud.”

“A fine evening, is it not? Mark my words, we are celebrating the beginning of a splendid political career.”

An envelope passed: Dodger man to DA’s man. “Bob was always ambitious.”

“Like yourself, lad. And does the prospect of a stadium for our home team thrill you?”

“Not particularly.”

Dud laughed. “Nor I. Chavez Ravine was a splendid place to purchase spic trinkets, but now I fear it will be replaced by traffic jams and more smog. Do you follow baseball, lad?”

“No.”

“Not interested in athletics? Is extracurricular money your only passion?”

“It’s this Jew name I got stuck with.”

Howls — his suitcoat gapped. Check the ordnance: magnum, sap, switchblade. “Lad, you have the power to amuse this old man.”

“I only get funny when I’m bored — and baseball bores me. Boxing’s more my sport.”

“Ah, I should have known. Ruthless men always admire fisticuffs. And I phrase ‘ruthless’ as a compliment, lad.”

“No offense taken. And speaking of boxing, Johnny Duhamel’s working for you, right?”

“Correct, and a splendidly fear-inducing addition to the Mobster Squad he is. I’ve given him work on my fur-robbery job as well, and he is proving himself to be a splendid all-around young policeman. Why do you ask, lad?”

“His name came up. One of my men used to teach at the Academy. Duhamel was a student of his.”

“Ahh, yes. George Stemmons, Jr., am I correct? What a memory for students past that lad must have.”

“That’s him.”

Exley nailed me — a curt nod. Dud caught it: “Go, lad, Chief Exley beckons from across the room. Ah, the gaze of a shark he has.”

“Good seeing you, Dud.”

“My pleasure entirely, lad.”

I walked over. Exley, straight off: “There’s a briefing day after tomorrow. Nine o’clock, all Bureau COs. Be there — we’re going to discuss the Fed probe. Also, I want you to get ahold of the Kafesjian family’s tax records. You’re an attorney — find a loophole.”

“Income tax records require a Federal writ. Why don’t you ask Welles Noonan? It’s his district.”

White knuckles — his wineglass shook. “I read your report, and the john names interest me. I want a trick sweep on Western and Adams tomorrow night. Set it up with University Vice, and detach as many men as you need. I want detailed information on Lucille Kafesjian’s customers.”

“Are you sure you want to risk riling that family with the Feds around the goddamn corner?”

“Do it, Lieutenant. Don’t question my motives or ask why.”

Pissed — I hit the lobby steaming. A phone, a dime — buzz the Bureau.

“Administrative Vice, Officer Riegle.”

“Sid, it’s me.”

“Hi, Skipper. You telepathic? Hollenbeck just left you a message.”

“Hold on, I need you to set something up first.”

“All ears.”

“Call University and set up a trick sweep. Say eight men and two whore wagons. Make it eleven P.M. tomorrow night, Western and Adams, Chief Exley’s authorization.”

Sid whistled. “Care to explain?”

BRAINSTORM:

“And tell the squad lieutenant I need a row of interrogation rooms, and tell Junior Stemmons to meet me at the station, I want him in on this.”

Scribble sounds. “It’s on paper. You want that message now?”

“Shoot.”

“The Pawnshop Detail turned the Kafesjian silverware. Some Mexican tried to pawn it in Boyle Heights, and the shop owner saw our bulletin and stalled him. He’s in custody at Hollenbeck Station.”

I whooped — heads turned. “Call Hollenbeck, Sid. Tell them to put the Mex in a sweat room. I’ll be right over.”

“On it, Skipper.”

Back to the party — Gas Chamber Bob swamped — no way to check out graceful. A blonde swirled by — Glenda — a blink — just some woman.

11

Jesus Chasco — fat, Mex — not my peeper. No rap sheet, a ’58 green card running out. Scared — the sweat room sweats.

“Habla inglés, Jesus?”

“I speak English good as you do.”

Skim the crime sheet. “This says you attempted to sell stolen silverware to the Happytime Pawnshop. You told the officers that you didn’t steal the silverware, but you wouldn’t tell them where you got it. Okay, that’s one felony — receiving stolen goods. You gave your car as your address, so that’s a misdemeanor charge — vagrancy. How old are you, Jesus?”

T-shirt and khakis — sweated up. “Forty-three. Why you ask me that?”

“I’m figuring five years in San Quentin, then the boot back to Mexico. By the time you get back here, you might win a prize as the world’s oldest wetback.”

Chasco waved his arms; sweat flew. “I sleep in my car to save money!”

“Yeah, to bring your family up here. Now sit still or I’ll cuff you to your chair.”

He spit on the floor; I dangled my handcuffs eye-level. “Tell me where you got the silverware. If you prove it, I’ll cut you loose.”

“You mean you—”

“I mean you walk. No charges, no nada.”

“Suppose I don’t tell you?”

Wait him out, let him show some balls. Ten seconds — a classic pachuco shrug. “I do custodian work at this motel. It’s on 53rd and Western, called the Red Arrow Inn. It’s... you know, for putas and their guys.”

Tingles. “Keep going.”

“Well... I was fixing the sink in room 19. I found all this nice-looking silver stuck into the bed... you know, the sheets and the mattress all ripped up. I... I figured... I figured the guy who rented the room went crazy... and... and he wouldn’t press no charges if I swiped his stuff.”

Grab the lead: “What does ‘the guy’ look like?”

“I don’t know — a guy. I never seen him. Ask the night clerk, she’ll tell you.”

“She’ll tell both of us.”

“Hey, you said—”

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Balls — two seconds’ worth — another shrug. I cuffed him up loose — keep him friendly.

“Hey, I’m hungry.”

“I’ll get you a candy bar.”

“You said you’d cut me loose!”

“I’m going to.”

“But my car’s back here!”

“Take a bus.”

“Pinche cabrón! Puto! Gabacho maricón!”

A half-hour run. Praise Jesus: no backseat noise, no cuff thrashing. The Red Arrow Inn: connected cabins, two rows, a center driveway. A neon sign: “Vacancy.”

I pulled up to cabin 19: dark, no car out front. Chasco: “I got my master key.”

I unlocked his cuffs. High beams on — he opened 19, backlit nice.

“Come look! Just like I tol’ you, man!”

I walked over. Evidence: doorjamb jimmy marks — recent — fresh splinters. The room itself: small, linoleum floor, no furniture. The bed: slashed sheets, ripped mattress spilling kapok.

“Go get the clerk. Don’t run away, you’ll piss me off.”

Chasco hauled. I scoped the bed close up: fork holes in the mattress, stabs down to the springs. Semen stains — my peeper screamed CATCH ME NOW. I ripped off a sheet swatch — the jizz could be tested for blood type.

“No-good ofay trash!”

I turned around — “Ofay trash dee-stroy my nice bed!” — this jig granny flapping a rent card.

Grab it — “John Smith” — predictable — ten days paid up front, checkout time tomorrow. Granny popped spit; Chasco pointed outside.

I followed him. Jesus, eager: “Carlotta don’t know who rented the room. She said she thinks it’s a young white guy. She said this wino rented the room for him, and the tenant guy said he had to have room 19. She ain’t seen the tenant guy herself. I ain’t either, but listen, I know that wino. You give me five dollars and a ride back to my car and I find him for you.”

Fork it over: two fives, the Lucille pix. “One for you, one for Carlotta. Tell her I don’t want any trouble and ask her if she knows this girl. Then you go find me that wino.”

Chasco ran back, passed the five, flashed the mugs — Moms nodded yes yes yes. Jesus, back to me: “Carlotta said that girl’s like a once-in-a-while — she rent short-timer and don’t fill out no rent card. She said she’s a prostie, and she always ask for number 18, right next to where I found that nice silver. She said the girl likes 18 ’cause she got a street view case the police show up.”

Think:

Room 19, room 18: the peeper peeping Lucille’s trick fucks. Room 19 jimmy marks — make some third party involved?

Granny jiggled a tin can. “For Jehovah. Jehovah get ten percent of all rent money spent on this sinful premises tithed back to him. I gots the slot-machine gambleitis myself, and I kicks back ten percent of my winnings to Jehovah. You a handsome young po-lice, so for one more dollar for Jehovah I give you more skinny on that slummin’, thrill-seekin’ white ho’ Hay-soos showed me them pictures of.”

Fuck it, fork it — Moms fed the can. “I seen that girl at Bido Lito’s, where I was indulgin’ my one-arm-bandit gambleitis to tithe Jehovah. This other po-lice, he was askin’ people at the bar ’bout her. I tol’ him what I tol’ you: she jist a thrill-seekin’, slummin’ white ho’. Later on, after hours, I seen that girl in the pictures do this striptease with this bee-you-tiful mink coat. That other po-lice, he saw it too, but he actin’ cool, like he not a po-lice, an’ he didn’ even stop her from makin’ that disgraceful display, or act like he was too hot and bothered.”

Think — don’t jump yet. “Jesus, go get me that wino. Carlotta, what did that policeman look like?”

Chasco breezed. Moms: “He had light brown hair done up with pomade, an’ he maybe thirty years old. Nice-lookin’, but not as high-steppin’ as you, Mister Po-lice.”

Jump: Darktown Junior lead number two. Reverse jump: Rock Rockwell at Fern Dell — some quiff said Ad Vice was working the Park. Junior copped to it — “a favor” — he owed a pal working Hollywood Vice.

Rattle rattle — I shoved Moms some change. “Listen, have you ever seen the man staying in this room?”

“Praise Jehovah, I seen him from the back.”

“Have you ever seen him with anyone else?”

“Praise Jehovah, no I hasn’t.”

“When was the last time you saw the girl in my photographs?”

“Praise Jehovah, when she did that striptease at Bido’s maybe four, five days ago.”

“When was the last time she brought a trick to this front room here?”

“Praise Jehovah, maybe a week ago.”

“Where does she solicit her tricks?”

“Praise Jehovah, I don’t know.”

“Has she brought the same man more than once? Does she have regular tricks?”

“Praise Jehovah, I has taught myself not to look at the faces of these sinners.”

Chasco walked a piss bum up. “I don’t know, but I think maybe this guy’s not so sharp with questions.”

“This guy”: Mex, Filipino — grime-caked — a tough call. “What’s your name, sahib?”

Mumbles, hiccups — Jesus shushed him. “The cops call him Flame-O, ’cause sometimes he sets himself on fire when he’s drunk.”

Flame-O flashed some scars — Moms took off going “Uggh.” Jesus: “Look, I asked him ’bout that guy he rented the room for, an’ I don’t think he remembers so good. You still gonna drive me—”

Back to room 19 — my blinders on. Throw the lock, eyeball it — zoom — a connecting door.

Room 19 to room 18 — Lucille’s preferred fuck spot. Jamb-ledge jimmy marks — different than the front door marks.

Think:

Peeper hits or tries to hit Lucille’s room.

Peeper trashes his own room, leaves the silver, moves out panicked. Or: different pry marks on peeper’s front door. Say somebody else broke in. Make some third party involved?

I rattled the connecting door — no answer. A shoulder push — slack, give, snap — I rode loose hinges into room 18.

Just like 19 — but no closet door. Something else: ripples on the wall above the bed.

Up close: buckled wallpaper, paste spackling. A square indentation — perforated drywall underneath. Peeled wallpaper — one thin strip, follow the line:

The wall to the connecting door — a drop to the crack under the door.

Odds on:

A bug — planted and removed, the mike above the bed — the peeper voyeurs Lucille, basic electronics skill—

I tore up the room — empty, zero, nothing. Number 19 — dump it twice, closet swag: Jockey shorts tangling up a tape spool.

Panic move-out validated.

Moms and Jesus outside pitching tantrums.

I shoved through them double time. Granny chucked her tin can at me.

The Bureau — Code 3 — a lab stop, orders: test the sheet-swatch jizz for blood type. My office, my old chem kit — dust the spool.

Smudges — no latent prints. Edgy now, I glommed a tape rig from the storeroom.

Nightwatch lull — the squadroom stood quiet. I shut my door, pressed Play, killed the lights.

Listen:

Static, traffic boom, window shimmy. Outside noises: business at the Red Arrow Inn.

Spook whores talking — ten minutes of pimp/trick rebop. I could SEE IT: hookers outside HER window. Silence, tape hiss, a door slamming. “In advance, sweet” — pause — “Yes, that means now” — Lucille.

“Okay, okay” — a man. A pause, shoes dropped, mattress squeaks — three minutes’ worth. The tape almost out, groans — his climax. Silence, garbled words, Lucille: “Let’s play a little game. Now I’ll be the daughter and you’ll be the daddy, and if you’re reeeeal sweet we can go again no extra.”

Traffic noise, driveway noise, breath. Easy to imagine:

That wall between them.

Surveillance not enough.

My peeper breathing hard — scared to bust down that wall.

12

Static garbled dreams: Lucille talking sex jive to me. The lab, my wake-up call — the jizz tested out 0+. Chills off a late phone stint: Hollywood Vice called Junior’s queer roust story bullshit.

“Horse pucky — whoever told you that lied through his teeth. We’re too busy with the Will-o-the-Wisp to work fruits, and none of our guys have popped Fern Dell Park chicken in over a year.”

Coffee — half a cup — my nerves jangled.

The buzzer — loud.

I opened up — fuck — Bradley Milteer and Harold John Miciak.

Stern looks — their cop colleague in a towel. Miciak scoped my Jap sword scar.

“Come in, gentlemen.”

They shut the door behind them. Milteer: “We came for a progress report.”

I smiled — servile. “I have sources on the movie set accruing information on Miss Bledsoe.”

“You’ve been in Mr. Hughes’ employ for a week, Lieutenant. Frankly, so far you haven’t ‘accrued’ the results he hoped for.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Then please produce results. Are your normal police duties interfering with your work for Mr. Hughes?”

“My police duties aren’t quite normal.”

“Well, be that as it may, you are being paid to secure information on Miss Glenda Bledsoe. Now, Mr. Hughes seems to think that Miss Bledsoe has been pilfering foodstuffs from his actress domiciles. A criminal theft charge will violate her contract, so will you surveil her even more diligently?”

Miciak flexed his hands — no gang tattoos.

“I’ll begin that surveillance immediately, Mr. Milteer.”

“Good. I expect results, Mr. Hughes expects results.”

Miciak — jailhouse eyes, cop-hater fuck.

“First Flats or White Fence, Harold?”

“Uh, what?”

“Those tattoos Mr. Hughes made you burn off.”

“Listen, I’m clean.”

“Sure, Mr. Hughes had your record wiped.”

Milteer: “Lieutenant, really.”

The geek: “Where’d you get that scar, hotshot?”

“A Jap sword.”

“What happened to the Jap?”

“I stuck the sword up his ass.”

Milteer, rolled eyes oh-you-heathens: “Results, Mr. Klein. Harold, come.”

Harold walked. Fist signals back at me — pure White Fence.

Movie-set bustle:

Wine call — Mickey C. doling out T-Bird to his “crew.” “Director” Sid Frizell, “cameraman” Wylie Bullock — poke the head monster’s eyes out with a stick or a knife? Glenda feeding extras sturgeon, read her eyes: “Who’s that guy, I’ve seen him before.”

Rock Rockwell’s trailer — tap the door.

“It’s open!”

I walked in. Cozy: a mattress, one chair. Rockwell cranking push-ups on the floor. THE LOOK: cop, oh fuck.

“It’s not a roust, I’m friends with Touch.”

“Did I hear my name?”

Touch stepped out of the bathroom. No fixtures — just TV sets stacked high. “David, you didn’t see those.”

“See what?”

Rockwell slid up on the mattress; Touch tossed him a towel. “Meg’s my first customer. She told me she wants to put TV’s in all your furnished vacancies so she can raise the rent. Oh, excuse me. Rock Rockwell, David Klein.”

No hello — Rock toweled off. Touch: “Dave, what’s this about?”

Eyes on Rockwell — Touch caught the drift. “He can keep police-type confidences.”

“I had some questions about activities in Fern Dell Park.”

Rockwell scratched the mattress — Touch sprawled beside him. “Vice-type activities?”

I pulled the chair up. “Sort of, and it gets tricky because I think one of my men might be pulling shakedowns in Fern Dell.”

Touch tensed up.

“What? What is it?”

“David, what does this man of yours look like?”

“Five-ten, one-sixty, long sandy hair. Sort of cute — you might like him.”

No laugh — Touch coiled toward Rockwell.

“Come on, tell me. We go back — you know nothing you say leaves this room.”

“Well... since it sort of involves Mickey, and you’re his friend...”

Coax him: “Come on — like the magazine says: ‘off the record.’ ”

Touch stood up, threw a robe on, paced — “Last week, that guy, that... policeman you just described to a T, he rousted me in Fern Dell. I told him who I was, who I knew, including Mickey Cohen, which he was oblivious to. Look, I was cruising — you know what I am, David — Rock and I, we have this arrangement—”

Rockwell — BAM! — out the door pulling on pants.

“It’s the way our kind of people have to be to get along, and this... oh shit, this policeman said he’d seen me installing slots and coin hardware on the Southside a while back, and he said that Fed probe would happen and he’d snitch me to it if I didn’t cooperate with him, so all right, we both know how to do business, David, but this policeman was acting so hopped-up and crazy that I knew he didn’t, so I listened. He said, ‘You must know Darktown pretty well,’ I said yes, I got the impression he was messed up on Bennies or goofballs or both, and then he started rambling about — and I quote you, David — this ‘gorgeous’ — he actually used the word ‘gorgeous’ — other policeman working the Mobster Squad—”

“Gorgeous” Johnny Duhamel. My head throbbed — queer lilt synchronized—

“This policeman, he just kept rambling. He wouldn’t tell me details, he just... kept rambling. He told me this crazy story about a whore in a mink coat stripping and how the gorgeous Mobster Squad cop got panicky and made her stop. David, here’s where it gets strange and funny and sort of... well... incestuous, because the crazy policeman saw that the fur-coat spiel made me just a tad suspicious. He came on strong, and he found a gun on me and threatened me with a concealment charge, and I said the fur thing spooked me because Johnny Duhamel, that sort-of-famous ex-boxer, he tried to sell Mickey a bulk load of hot furs, which Mickey refused. The crazy cop, he laughed and laughed and started muttering ‘Gorgeous Johnny,’ and then he just sort of warned me off and walked away, and David, that policeman, he is one of us, if you catch my drift, dear heart, and I only told you all this because our mutual friend Mickey played just a tad of a supporting role.”

Touch — hands in his robe, out with a piece — bet he almost shoved it up Junior’s ass.

Think:

Junior shakes down a guy at Bido Lito’s.

Hobnobs with Johnny Duhamel — Bido Lito’s.

Scopes out Lucille’s fur strip — Bido Lito’s.

More:

Junior — Kafesjian work fluffed off.

Fern Dell Park shakedowns — faggot Junior — Touch knew the turf — call it a maybe.

Touch: “I don’t want you to tell Mickey what I told you. Duhamel just approached Mickey because he’s Mickey. Mickey doesn’t know anything about that extortionist policeman of yours, I just know it. Dave, are you listening to me?”

“I heard you.”

“You won’t tell Mickey?”

“No, I won’t tell him.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Lots of them.”

Ghost chaser—

The Observatory lot — phone work.

Dime one: Jack Woods — set to bird-dog Junior post-trick sweep. Two: Ad Vice/Sid Riegle/confirmation: everything set, Junior told to stick at University Station. Orders: walk over to Robbery, skim the fur-heist file. Riegle: sure, I’ll call you back.

Tick tick tick — my pulse outran my watch. Eleven minutes, Sid with stale news:

No suspects, fences leaned on — no furs surfacing. Three to five men, a truck, solid knowhow: electronics and toolworking. Dud Smith ruled out fraud — no profit motive — Sol Hurwitz packed low payoff-rate insurance. Sid — “Why the interest?” — cut him off, work dime three — a Personnel clerk who owed me.

My offer: your debt wiped for a file check: Officer John Duhamel. He agreed; I asked one question: did Duhamel possess technical expertise?

I held the line — twenty long minutes. Results: Duhamel, cum laude grad — engineering — USC, ’56. Straight-A average — rah, rah, fellow Trojan.

Duhamel — possible fur thief. Possible partners: Reuben Ruiz and his brothers — Reuben and Johnny fought amateur together. Nix it on instinct: Ruiz boosted pads, ditto his brothers — the family topped out at auto theft. More likely:

Dudley co-opts Johnny to the fur heist; Johnny gloms some solo leads and gloms some furs. Smart into dumb — he offers Mickey Cohen the goods — the kid doesn’t know Mickey’s scuffling.

My scuffle — rat him to Dud? — think it through. Tick tick tick — not yet — too circumstantial. My priority: sort Junior and Johnny out, ease Junior off Glenda.

Ghost chaser.

Glenda.

Results.

Time before the trick sweep — tail her.

The park road — wait her out.

Her routine: drive home at 2:00, pilfer later. Time to kill, time to think—

Easy: my “crush” stretched me too thin — catch her stealing and snitch her — TODAY. Kicks: get her a Commie lawyer enraged at big money — Morton Diskant, just the ticket. Arraignment, trial — Glenda pays cunthound Morty off in trade. “Guilty,” State time, Dave Klein there with flowers when they boot her.

Play the radio, drift.

Bop — maybe queer cops prowling Darktown — too jangly, too frantic. Skim the dial, ballads — “Tennessee Waltz” — Meg. ’51, that song, the Two Tonys — Jack Woods probably knew the whole story. Him and Meg back on; I dumped a witness and she got suspicious — and Jack wouldn’t shit her. She’d know, she’d be scared, she’d forgive me. Her and Jack — I wasn’t jealous — call him dangerous and safe — safer than me.

Back to bop — jangly good now — think:

Lucille on tape: “I’ll be the daughter and you’ll be the daddy.” Lucille, nude: fleshy like this boot camp whore I had. Big-band tunes, the war, schoolgirl Glenda — close her out—

Noon, 1:00, 1:30 — I snoozed and woke up cramped. Stomach growls, a piss in the weeds. Early: her Vette zooming by with the top down.

I rolled — a brown Chevy cut between us — weird familiar. Squint, make the driver: Harold John Miciak.

Three-car tail string — absurd.

Up to the Observatory; down to street level. Glenda carefree, her scarf billowing. Pissed: hit the siren, ream that shitbird.

Miciak gunned it — bumper-to-bumper close. Glenda looked around; he looked around — sixty miles an hour, kill the siren, hit the mike: “Police! Pull over now!”

He swerved, banged the curb, stalled out. Glenda slowed down and stopped.

I got out.

Miciak got out.

Glenda watched — see it her way:

This big goon walks up shouting; this shoulder-holster shirtsleeves guy shouts back: “This is mine! You’ll get your results! Tell your fucking boss that!”

The goon stutters, kicks the ground, U-turns off.

The cop goes back to his car — his B-movie goddess is gone.

Time to kill, time to figure her route. I tried due east: Hughes’ Glendale fuck pad.

I drove there. Paydirt: a Tudor mansion flanked by airplane-shaped hedges. A circular driveway — her Vette by the door.

I pulled up. Drizzling — I got out and touched the rain. Glenda walked out carrying groceries.

She saw me.

I just stood there.

She tossed me a tin of caviar.

13

Western and Adams — the whores briefed nice — quasi-deputies for the night.

Bluesuits out in force: popping tricks, impounding trick cars.

Prostie vans behind Cooper’s Donuts; Vice bulls bagging IDs. Men stationed southbound and northbound — hot to foil sex prowlers hot to rabbit.

My perch: Copper’s roof. Ordnance: binoculars, a bullhorn.

Dig the panic:

Johns soliciting whores — cops grabbing them. Vehicles impounded, van detainment — fourteen fish bagged so far, prelim Q&A:

“You married?”

“You on parole or probation?”

“You like it white or colored? Sign this waiver, we might cut you loose at the station.”

No Lucille K.

Some clown tried to run — a rookie plugged his back tires.

Epidemic boo-hoo — “DON’T TELL MY WIFE!” Leg-shackle clangs — the prostie vans shook.

Luck — whores mixed fifty-fifty: white girls, coons. Fourteen tricks arrested — all Caucasian.

Panic down below: Shriners bagged en masse. Five men, fez hats flying — a whore grabbed one and pranced.

I hit the bullhorn: “We’ve got nineteen! Let’s close it down!”

The station — dawdle over — let Sid Riegle work setup. Luck: Junior’s Ford by the squadroom door. Headlight signals goosed me walking in: Jack Woods, contingency tail man.

Squadroom, muster room, jail. I badged the jailer — click/whoosh — the door opened. Down the catwalk, turn the corner: the swish tank facing the drunk tank. Drunks and tricks hooting at the floorshow: drag queens masturbating.

Riegle outside the bars, marking nametags. He shook his head — too much noise to talk.

I scanned the fish — shit — nothing peeper-aged. Fuck it — I hit the show-up room.

Chairs, a height strip stage: one-way glass lit up harsh. Rap sheets and IDs laid out for me — I checked them against my john alias list.

No crossovers — expected — I’d run the fake names through the DMV. No real-name spinoffs; driver’s license ages thirty-eight and up — my peeper ten years older minimum. Six tricks misdemeanor rap-sheeted — no Peeping Toms, burglars, sex fiends. A cover note: sixteen out of nineteen men were married.

Riegle walked in. I said, “Where’s Stemmons?”

“He’s waiting in one of the interrogation rooms. Dave, is the scoop on this real? J.C. Kafesjian’s daughter is some kind of prostie?”

“It’s true, and don’t ask me what Exley wants, and don’t tell me how the Department doesn’t need this shit with the Feds nosing around.”

“I was gonna mention it, but I think I’ll stay on your good side. One thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I saw Dan Wilhite in the watch commander’s office. Given what he is to the Kafesjians, I’d say he’s more than a little pissed.”

“Shit, that’s more shit I don’t need.”

Sid smiled. “Yeah, but it’s a duck shoot — they all signed the false-arrest waivers.”

I smiled back. “Move them in.”

Riegle walked back out; I grabbed the intercom mike. Shackle clang, shackle shuffle — whore chasers lit up on stage.

“Good evening, gentlemen, and listen closely” — the speaker kicked on loud.

“You have all been arrested for soliciting for purposes of prostitution, a California Penal Code violation punishable by up to a year in the Los Angeles County Jail. Gentlemen, I can make this easy or I can make this one of the worst experiences of your life, and the way I play it depends entirely on you.”

Blinks, shuffles, dry sobs — sad sacks all in a row. I read my john list and scoped reactions:

“John David Smith, George William Smith — come on, be original. John Jones, Thomas Hardesty — that’s more like it. D. D. Eisenhower — come on, that’s beneath you. Mark Wilshire, Bruce Pico, Robert Normandie — street names, come on. Timothy Crenshaw, Joseph Arden, Lewis Burdette — he’s a baseball player, right? Miles Swindell, Daniel Doherty, Charles Johnson, Arthur Johnson, Michael Montgomery, Craig Donaldson, Roger Hancock, Chuck Sepulveda, David San Vicente — Jesus, more street names.”

Fuck — I couldn’t scan faces that quick.

“Gentlemen, here’s where it gets either easy or very difficult. The Los Angeles Police Department wishes to spare you grief, and frankly your illegal extramarital pursuits do not concern us that greatly. Essentially, you have been detained to aid us in a burglary investigation. A young woman known to occasionally sell her services on South Western Avenue is involved, and I need to isolate men who have purchased those services.”

Riegle up on stage, mug shots out.

“Gentleman, we can legally hold you for seventy-two hours prior to arraigning you in Misdemeanor Court. You are entitled to one phone call apiece, and should you decide to call your wives, you might tell them that you are being held at University Station on one-eighteen-dash-six-zero charges: soliciting for purposes of prostitution. I understand that you might be reluctant to do that, so listen closely, I’ll only say it once.”

Rumbles — breath fogged the glass.

“Officer Riegle will show you photographs of that young woman. If you have purchased her services, take two steps forward. If you have seen her streetwalking, but haven’t purchased her services, raise your right hand.”

Pause a beat.

“Gentlemen, legitimate confirmations will get all of you released within several hours, with no charges filed. If none of you admit to purchasing this woman’s services, then I will conclude that either you are lying or simply that none of you have ever seen her or dallied with her, which means in either case that all nineteen of you will be subjected to intensive questioning, and all nineteen of you will be booked, held for seventy-two hours and arraigned on soliciting charges. You will be held during that time in the facility that we reserve here for homosexual prisoners, i.e. the queer tank, where those nigger queens were shaking their dicks at you. Gentlemen, if any of you do admit to dallying with the young lady, and your statements convince us that you are telling the truth, you will in no way be criminally charged and your disclosures will be kept in the strictest confidence. Once we are convinced, you will all be released and allowed to claim your confiscated property and impounded cars. Your cars are being held at a County lot nearby, and as a reward for your cooperation you will not be charged the standard impound fee. Again: we want the truth. You cannot lie your way out of here by claiming that you fucked her when you didn’t — your lies won’t wash. Sid, pass the mugs.”

Handoff: Riegle to a scrawny granddad type.

Dizzy, lawyer high — David Klein, Juris Doctor.

I looked down, held a breath, looked up: one Shriner and one lounge lizard stood forward. I checked driver’s license pix and matched up names:

Shriner: Willis Arnold Kaltenborn, Pasadena. Lizard: Vincent Michael Lo Bruto, East L.A. A rap sheet check, paydirt on the wop: child-support skips.

Sid walked in. “We did it.”

“Yeah, we did. Stemmons is waiting, right?”

“Right, and the tape recorder’s in with him. The fourth booth down, he’s there.”

“Put Kaltenborn in number 5, and the greaseball in with Junior. Take the rest of them back to the drunk tank.”

“Feed them?”

“Candy bars. And no phone calls — a smart attorney could wangle writs. Where’s Wilhite?”

“I don’t know.”

“Keep him away from the sweat rooms, Sid.”

“Dave, he’s a captain.”

“Then... shit, just do it.”

Riegle strolled out — pissed. I strolled, itchy — over to sweat box row.

Standard six-by-eights, peekaboo glass. Booth 5: fez man Kaltenborn. Number 4: Lo Bruto, Junior, a tape rig on the table.

Lo Bruto rocked his chair; Junior squirmed. Touch V.’s take: Junior doped up at Fern Dell. The Ainge roust, a late make: dope eyes. Worse now — pin slits.

Open the door, slam it. Junior nodded — half lurch.

I sat down. “What do they call you — Vince? Vinnie?”

Lo Bruto picked his nose. “The ladies call me Mr. Big Dick.”

“That’s what they call my partner here.”

“Yeah? The nervous, silent type. He must get a lot.”

“He does, but we’re not here to discuss his sex life.”

“Too bad, ’cause I got time. The old lady and the kids are in Tacoma, so I coulda done the whole seventy-two hours, but I figured, why spoil it for the other guys? Look, I fucked her, so why beat around the bush, no pun intended.”

I slid him cigarettes. “I like you, Vinnie.”

“Yeah, then call me Vincent. And save your money, ’cause I quit on March 4, 1952.”

Junior stripped the pack. Shot nerves: three swipes at a match.

I leaned back. “How many times did you go with that girl?”

“Once.”

“Why just once?”

“Once qualifies as strange. More than once you might as well pop your old lady for all the surprises you get with whoo-ers.”

“You’re a smart guy, Vincent.”

“Yeah, then why am I a security guard for a buck twenty an hour?”

Junior smoking — huge drags. I said, “You tell me.”

“I don’t know — I get to choke my mule on the Mighty Man Agency’s time. It’s a living.”

Hot — I took off my jacket. “So you solicited that girl just once, right?”

“Right.”

“Had you seen her around before?”

“No.”

“Have you seen her since?”

“There hasn’t been no since. Jesus Christ, I get paid, I go cruising for some strange and some punk kid cop strongarms me. Jesus fucking—”

“Vincent, what attracted you to that girl?”

“She was white. I got no taste for nigger stuff. I’m not prejudiced, I just don’t dig it. Some of my best friends are nig — I mean Negroes, but I don’t go for dark cooze.”

Junior smoking — hot — he kept his coat on.

Lo Bruto: “Your partner don’t talk much.”

“He’s tired. He’s been working undercover up in Hollywood.”

“Yeah? Wow, now I know why he’s such a pussy bandit. Man-oh-Manischewitz, they say the snatch grows fine up there.”

I laughed. “It does, but he’s been working fruits. Say, partner, remember how you popped those queers in Fern Dell? Remember — you helped out that Academy pal of yours?”

“Sure” — dry-mouthed, scratchy.

“Jesus, partner, it must have made you sick. Did you stop for some poon on the way home, just to get rid of the TASTE?”

Sweaty knuckle pops — his sleeves dropped. WRIST TRACKS — he tugged his cuff links to hide them.

Lo Bruto: “Hey, I thought this was my show.”

“It is. Sergeant Stemmons, any questions for Vincent?”

“No” — dry, fretting those cuff links.

I smiled. “Let’s get back to the girl.”

Lo Bruto: “Yeah, let’s do that.”

“Was she good?”

“Strange is strange. She was better than the wife, but not as good as the amateur stuff handsome here probably gets.”

“He likes them blond and gorgeous.”

“We all do, but I’m lucky to get it plain old Caucasian.”

Junior stroked his gun, spastic-handed.

“So how was she better than your wife?”

“She moved around more, and she liked to talk dirty.”

“What did she call herself?”

“She didn’t tell me no name.”

Lucille’s window striptease — use it. “Describe the girl naked.”

Fast: “Chubby, low-slung tits. Big brown nipples, like she maybe had some paisan blood.”

Tilt — he knew. “What was she wearing when you picked her up?”

“Hip huggers — you know, pedal pushers.”

“Where did you screw her?”

“In the snatch, where else?”

“The location, Vincent.”

“Oh. I... uh... I think it was a dive called the Red Arrow Inn.”

I tapped the tape rig. “Listen close, Vincent. There’s a man on this, but I don’t think it’s you. Just tell me if the girl talked up any similar stuff.”

Lo Bruto nodded; I punched Play. Static hiss, “Now I’ll be the daughter and you’ll be the daddy, and if you’re reeeeal sweet we can go again no extra.”

I hit Stop. Junior — no reaction. Lo Bruto: “Boy, that sick kitten is just full of surprises.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she didn’t make me wear a safe.”

“Maybe she uses a diaphragm.”

“Nyet. Trust Mr. Big Dick, these girls always go the rubber route.”

“And she didn’t?”

“What can I tell you, she let this jockey ride bareback. And let me tell you, paisan, my big sausage works. Witness the goddamn offspring that got me slaving to feed them.”

A guess: scrape jobs made Lucille sterile. “What about that tape?”

“What about it?”

“Did the girl talk up any of that daddy-daughter stuff with you?”

“No.”

“But you said she talked dirty.”

Tee-hee. “She said I was the biggest. I said they don’t call me Mr. Big Dick for nothing. She said she’s liked them big since way back when, and I said, ‘Way back when to a kid like you means last week.’ She said something like ‘You’d be surprised.’ ”

Junior tugged his cuff links. Tweak him: “This Lucille sounds like a Fern Dell Park faggot, partner. Big dicks, that’s a queer fixation. You’ve worked fruits more than me, wouldn’t you say so?”

Hot seat — Junior squirmed.

“Wouldn’t you say so, Sergeant?”

“Y-yeah, s-sure” — hoarse.

Back to Big Dick. “So the girl wore pedal pushers, right?”

“Right.”

“Did she mention a guy perved on her, maybe peeping her trick assignations?”

“No.”

“And she wore pedal pushers?”

“Yeah, I told you that already.”

“What else did she wear?”

“I don’t know. A blouse, I think.”

“What about a fur coat?”

Hophead nerves — Junior twitched a cuff link clean off.

“No, no fur coat. I mean, Christ, she’s a Western Avenue whoo-er.”

Change-up: “So you said the girl talked dirty to you.”

“Yeah. She said Mr. Big Dick sure deserved his nickname.”

“Forget about your dick. Did she talk dirty besides that?”

“She said she was screwing some guy named Tommy.”

Tingles/goosebumps. “Tommy who?”

“I don’t know, she didn’t say no last name.”

“Did she say he was her brother?”

“Come on, that’s crazy.”

“ ‘Come on’? You remember that tape that I just played you?”

“So that was a game. Daddy and daughter don’t mean brother, and white people don’t do that kind of stuff. It’s a sin, it’s an infamia, it’s—”

Hit the table. “Did she say he was her brother?”

“No.”

“Did she say his last name?”

“No” — soft — scared now.

“Did she say he was perved on her?”

“No.”

“Did she say he was a musician?”

“No.”

“Did she say he sold narcotics?”

“No.”

“Did she say he paid her for it?”

“No.”

“Did she say he was a burglar?”

“No.”

“A peeper, a voyeur?”

“No.”

“Did she say what he did?”

“No.”

“Did she talk about her family?”

“No.”

“Did she describe this guy?”

“No.”

“Did she say he chased colored girls?”

“No. Officer, look—”

I slapped the table — Big Dick crossed himself.

“Did she mention a man named Tommy Kafesjian?”

“No.”

“Fur coats?”

“No.”

“Fur-coat robberies?”

Junior squirming, scratching his hands.

“Officer, she just said she was banging this guy Tommy. She said he wasn’t that good, but he turned her out, and you always pack a torch for the guy who took your cherry.”

I froze.

Junior jumped bolt upright — that cuff link rolled under the door.

Itchy scratchy nerves — he jerked the door open. Standing outside: Dan Wilhite. Hall speaker blinks — he’d heard.

“Klein, come here.”

I stepped forward. Wilhite jabbed my chest — I bent his hand back. “This is my case. You don’t like it, take it up with Exley.”

Narco goons right there — I let him go. Junior tried to waltz — I pulled him back.

Wilhite — pale, popping spit bubbles.

His boys flushed — wicked pissed, spoiling to trash me.

Lo Bruto: “Jesus, I’m hungry.”

I shut the door.

“Hey, I’m starved. Can I have a sandwich or something?”

I hit the intercom. “Sid, bring the other man in.”

Lo Bruto out, Kaltenborn in: this fat geek wearing a fez. Junior sulked and hid his eyes.

The geek — “Please, I don’t want any trouble” — his voice half-ass familiar.

I hit Play.

Lucille: “In advance, sweet.” Pause. “Yes, that means now.”

Kaltenborn winced — hot potato.

Pause, “Okay, okay” — more familiar. Mattress squeaks, grunts — Fats sobbed along.

Lucille: “Let’s play a little game. Now I’ll be the daughter and you’ll be the daddy, and if you’re reeeeal sweet we can go again no extra.”

Big sobs.

I pushed Stop. “Was that you, Mr. Kaltenborn?”

Sobs, nods. Junior squirmed — junkie shitbird.

“Quit crying, Mr. Kaltenborn. The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we’ll let you go.”

His fez slid down cockeyed. “Lydia?”

“What?”

“My wife, she won’t...”

“This is strictly confidential. Is that you on the tape, Mr. Kaltenborn?”

“Yes, yes it is. Did... did the police record that...”

“That illegal extramarital assignation? No, we didn’t. Do you know who did?”

“No, of course not.”

“Did you play the daddy?”

Muffled, sob-choked: “Yes.”

“Then tell me about it.”

Fretting the fez — twisting it, stroking it. “I wanted to go again, so the girl put on her clothes and begged me to rip them off. She said, ‘Rip my clothes off, Daddy.’ I did it, and we went again, and that’s all. I don’t know her name — I never saw her before and I haven’t seen her since. This is all just a terrible coincidence. That girl was the only prostitute I ever trafficked with, and I was at a meeting with my Shrine brothers to discuss our charity fish fry when one of them asked me if I knew where prostitutes could be procured, so I—”

“Did the girl talk about a man named Tommy?”

“No.”

“A brother named Tommy?”

“No.”

“A man who might be following her, or tape-recording her or eavesdropping on her?”

“No, but I—”

“But what?”

“But I heard a man in the room next to us crying. Maybe it was my imagination, but it was as if he was listening to us. It was as if what he heard disturbed him.”

Peeper bingo.

“Did you see the man?”

“No.”

“Did you hear him say or mutter specific words?”

“No.”

“Did the girl mention other members of her family?”

“No, she just said what I told you and what you played me on that tape. Officer... where did you get that? I... I don’t want my wife to hear—”

“Are you sure she didn’t mention a man named Tommy?”

“Please, Officer, you’re shouting!”

Change-up: “I’m sorry, Mr. Kaltenborn. Sergeant, do you have any questions?”

Sergeant — this gun-fondling hophead — “N-no” — watch his hands.

“Mr. Kaltenborn, did the girl wear a FUR COAT?”

“No, she wore tight toreador pants and some sort of inexpensive wrap.”

“Did she say she dug STRIPTEASE?”

“No.”

“Did she say she frequented a Negro club named BIDO LITO’S?”

“No.”

“Did she say that peeling off a HOT FUR COAT was ecstasy?”

“No. What are you—?”

Junior dropped his hands — watch for a quick draw.

“Mr. Kaltenborn, did she say she knew a GORGEOUS BLOND POLICEMAN who used to be a boxer?”

“No, she didn’t. I... I don’t understand the thrust of these questions, Officer.”

“Did she say she knew a shakedown-artist cop with a THRUST for young blond guys?”

RABBIT—

Out the door, down the hall — Junior, his piece unholstered. Outside, chase him, sprint—

He made his car — heaving breathless. I grabbed him, pinned his gun hand, bent his head back.

“I’ll let you slide on all of it. I’ll pull you off the Kafesjian job before you fuck things up worse. We can trade off right now.”

Greasy pomade hair — he thrashed his head free. Stray headlights hit this dope face oozing spittle: “That cunt killed Dwight Gilette, and you’re suppressing it. Ainge left town, and maybe I got the gun she fired. You’re queer for that cunt and I think you pushed that witness out the window. No trade, and you just watch me take you and that cunt down.”

I grabbed his neck and dug in to kill him. Obscene — his breath, his lips curled to bite. I edged back — slack — a knee slammed me. Down, sucking wind, kicked prone — tires spinning gravel.

Headlights: Jack Woods in tail pursuit.

West L.A., 3:00 A.M. Junior’s building — four street-level units — no lights on. No Junior Ford parked nearby — pick the lock, hit the lights.

Aches groin to ribcage — hurt him, kill him. I left the lights on — let him show.

Bolt the door, walk the pad.

Living room, dinette, kitchen. Matched wood — fastidious. Neatness, grime: squared-off furniture, dust.

The sink: moldy food, bugs.

The icebox: amyl nitrite poppers.

Butt-filled ashtrays — Junior’s brand — lipstick-smudged.

Bathroom, bedroom: grime, makeup kit — the lipstick color matched the butts. A waste basket: red-lip-blotted tissue overflowing. An unmade bed, popped poppers on the sheets. I flipped the pillow: a silencer-fitted Luger and shit-caked dildo underneath.

Paperbacks on the nightstand: Follow the Boys, The Greek Way, Forbidden Desire.

A padlocked trunk.

A wall photo: Lieutenant Dave Klein in LAPD dress blues. Track queer thinking, zoooom:

I’m not married.

No woman heat pre-Glenda.

Meg — he couldn’t know.

The Luger smiling — “Go ahead, shoot something.”

I fired, point-blank silent: shattered glass/ripped plaster/ripped ME. I shot the trunk — splinters/cordite haze — the lock flew.

I tore in. Neat paper stacks — fastidious Junior. Slow, inventory them pro—

Carbons:

Johnny Duhamel’s Personnel file. Dudley Smith fitness reports — all Class A. Co-opt requests — Johnny to the fur job — fur-heist references checkmarked. Strange: Johnny never worked Patrol — he moved straight to the Bureau post-Academy.

More Duhamel — boxing programs — beefcake deluxe. Academy papers, Evidence 104 — Junior told Reuben Ruiz he taught Johnny. Straight A’s, blind fag love — Duhamel’s prose style stunk. More fur-job paper: Robbery reports, figure Junior scooped Dudley — he made Johnny as the thief and Dud never tumbled.

A formal statement: Georgie Ainge rats Glenda on the Dwight Gilette 187. Lieutenant D. D. Klein suppresses the evidence; Junior tags the motive: lust. Grab those pages, safe-deposit-box info underneath: figure Junior had backup statements stashed at some bank. No mention of the gun or Glenda’s prints on a gun — maybe Junior stashed the piece as a hole card.

Plaster dust settling — my shots grazed some pipes. Miscellaneous folders, file cards:

Folder number one — Chief Ed Exley clippings — the Nite Owl job. Number two — odd Exley cases ’53–’58. Concise — the Times, Herald — fastidious.

WHY?

The cards — LAPD FIs — four-by-six field questioning forms. “Name,” “Location,” “Comments” — filled in shorthand. I read through them and interpreted:

All locations “F.D.P.” — make that Fern Dell Park. Initials, no names. Numbers — California Penal Code designations — lewd and lascivious behavior.

Comments: homo coitus interruptus, Junior levies on-the-spot fines — cash, jewelry, reefers.

Sweaty, close to breathless. Three cards clipped together — initials “T.V.” Comments: the Touch Vecchio roust — credit Junior with extortion skill:

Touch calls Mickey C. power-broke and desperate. He’s hot to do something “on his own”; he’s got his own shakedown gig brewing. Feature: Chick Vecchio to pork famous women; Touch to pork celebrated fruits. Pete Bondurant to take pix and apply the strongarm: cough up or Hush-Hush gets the negatives.

Chills — bad juju. The phone — once, stop, once — Jack’s signal.

I grabbed the bedside extension. “Yeah?”

“Dave, listen. I tailed Stemmons to Bido Lito’s. He met J.C. and Tommy Kafesjian in this back room they’ve got there. I saw them shake him for a wire, and I caught a few words before they shut the window.”

“What?”

“What I heard was Stemmons talking. He offered to protect the Kafesjian family — he actually said ‘family’ — from you and somebody else, I couldn’t catch the name.”

Maybe Exley — that clip file. “What else?”

“Nothing else. Stemmons walked out the front door counting money, like Tommy and J.C. just palmed him. I tailed him down the street, and I saw him badge this colored guy. I think the guy was selling mary jane, and I think he palmed Stemmons.”

“Where is he now?”

“Heading your way. Dave, you owe me—”

I hung up, dialed 111, got Georgie Ainge’s listing. Dial it, two rings, a message: “The number you have reached has been disconnected.” Junior’s story held: Ainge blew town.

Options:

Stall him, threaten to rat him as a homo. Maim him, trade him: depositions and print gun for no exposé.

Shit logic — psychos don’t barter.

I doused the lights, packed the Luger. Kill him/don’t kill him. Pendulum: if he walks in on the wrong swing he’s dead.

Think — queer pinup fever — psycho Junior hates heartthrob Glenda.

Time went nutso.

My ribs ached.

The morning paper hit the door — I shot a chair. Bullet logic: this grief for a woman I never even touched.

I walked outside. Dawn — milkman witnesses nixed murder.

I dropped the Luger in a trashcan.

I primped — don’t think, just do it.

14

I knocked; she answered. My move — she moved first. “Thanks for yesterday.”

Set ready: gown and raincoat. My move — she moved first. “It’s David Klein, right?”

“Who told you?”

She held the door open. “I saw you on the set, and I saw you following me a few times. I know what unmarked police cars look like, so I asked Mickey and Chick Vecchio about you.”

“And?”

“And I’m wondering what you want.”

I walked in. Nice stuff — maybe fuck-pad furnished. TVs by the couch — Vecchio stash.

“Be careful with those televisions, Miss Bledsoe.”

“Tell your sister that. Touch told me he sold her a dozen of them.”

I sat on the couch — hot Philcos close by. “What else did he tell you?”

“That you’re a lawyer who dabbles in slum property. He said you turned down a contract at MGM because strikebreaking appealed to you more than acting.”

“Do you know why I was following you?”

She pulled a chair up — not too close. “You’re obviously working for Howard Hughes. When I left him, he threatened to violate my contract. You obviously know Harold Miciak, and you obviously don’t like him. Mr. Klein, did you...?”

“Scare off Georgie Ainge?”

“Yes.”

I nodded. “He’s a pervert, and fake kidnaps never work.”

“How did you know about it?”

“Never mind. Do Touch and his boyfriend know I scared him away?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good, then don’t tell them.”

She lit a cigarette — the match shook. “Did Ainge talk about me?”

“He said you used to be a prostitute.”

“I was also a carhop and Miss Alhambra, and yes, I used to work for a call service in Beverly Hills. A very expensive one, Doug Ancelet’s.”

Shake her: “You worked for Dwight Gilette.”

Stylish — that cigarette prop helped. “Yes, and I was arrested for shoplifting in 1946. Did Ainge mention anything—”

“Don’t tell me things you might regret.”

A smile — cheap — not that smile. “So you’re my guardian angel.”

I kicked a TV over. “Don’t patronize me.”

Not a blink: “Then what do you want me to do?”

“Quit stealing from Hughes, apologize to him and fulfill the stipulations of your contract.”

Her raincoat slid off — bare shoulders, knife scars. “Never.”

I leaned closer. “You’ve gone as far as you can on looks and charm, so use your brains and do the smart thing.”

Smiling: “Don’t you patronize me.”

That smile — I smiled back. “Why?”

“Why? Because I was dismissable to him. Because last year I was carhopping and one of his ‘talent scouts’ saw me win a dance contest. He got me an ‘audition,’ which consisted of me taking off my brassiere and posing for pictures, which Mr. Hughes liked. Do you know what it’s like to get screwed by a man who keeps naked pictures of you and six thousand other girls in his Rolodex?”

“Nice, but I’m not buying.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I think you got bored and moved on. You’re an actress, and the style angle of jilting Howard Hughes appealed to you. You figured you could get yourself out of trouble, because you’ve been in shitloads of trouble before.”

“Why, Mr. Klein?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you putting yourself to such trouble to keep me out of trouble?”

“I can appreciate style.”

“No, I don’t believe you. And what else did Georgie Ainge say about me?”

“Nothing. What else did the Vecchio brothers say about me?”

Laughing: “Touch said he used to have a crush on you. Chick said you’re dangerous. Mickey said he’s never seen you with a woman, so maybe that rules out the standard reason for your being interested in me. I’m only thinking that there must be a payoff involved somewhere.”

Scope the room — books, art — taste she got somewhere. “Mickey’s on the skids. If you thought you traded Hughes up for a big-time gangster, you’re wrong.”

She chained cigarettes. “You’re right, I miscalculated.”

“Then square things with Hughes.”

“Never.”

“Do it. Get us both out of trouble.”

“No. Like you said, I’ve been in trouble before.”

Zero fear — daring me to say I KNOW.

“You should see yourself on camera, Miss Bledsoe. You’re laughing at the whole thing, and it’s real stylish. Too bad the movie’s headed for drive-ins in Dogdick, Arkansas. Too bad no men who can help your career will see it.”

A flush — one split second. “I’m not as beholden to men as you think I am.”

“I didn’t say you liked it, I just meant you know it’s the game.”

“Like being a bagman and a strikebreaker?”

“Yeah, wholesome stuff. Like you and Mickey Cohen.”

Smoke rings — nice. “I’m not sleeping with him.”

“Good, because guys have been trying to kill him for years, and it’s the people around him who get hurt.”

“He was something once, wasn’t he?”

“He had style.”

“Which we both know you appreciate.”

This portrait on a shelf — a ghoul woman. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Vampira. She’s the hostess of an awful horror TV show. I used to carhop her, and she gave me pointers on how to act in your own movie when you’re in someone else’s movie.”

Shaky hands — I wanted to touch her.

“Are you fond of Mickey, Mr. Klein?”

“Sure. He had it once, so it’s rough to see him diving for scraps.”

“Do you think he’s desperate?”

“Attack of the Atomic Vampire?”

Glenda laughed and coughed smoke. “It’s worse than you think. Sid Frizell is putting in all this gore and incest, so Mickey’s afraid they’ll have to book it straight into drive-ins to make a profit.”

I fixed the TV pile. “Be smart and go back to Hughes.”

“No. Frizell’s directing some stag films on the side, though. He has a place in Lynwood fixed up with mirrored bedrooms, so maybe I could get work there.”

“Not your style. Does Mickey know about it?”

“He’s pretending he doesn’t, but Sid and Wylie Bullock have been talking it up. Mr. Klein, what are you going to do about this?”

Shelves packed tight — college texts. I opened one — comp stuff, doodling: a heart circling “G.B. & M.H.”

“Yes, I stole those. What are you going—”

“What happened to M.H.?”

That smile. “He got another girl pregnant and died in Korea. David—”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just pull out and set you up with an attorney. But the best you can hope for is a violated contract and no criminal charges.”

“And the worst?”

“Howard Hughes is Howard Hughes. One word to the DA gets you indicted for grand theft.”

“Mickey said you’re friends with the new DA.”

“Yeah, he used to study my crib sheets in law school, and Hughes put two hundred grand in his slush fund.”

“David—”

“It’s Dave.”

“I like David better.”

“No, my sister calls me that.”

“So?”

“Let it rest.”

The phone rang — Glenda picked up. “Hello?... Yes, Mickey, I know I’m late... No, I’ve got a cold... Yes, but Sid and Wylie can shoot around my scenes... No, I’ll try to come in this afternoon... Yes, I won’t forget our dinner... No — goodbye, Mickey.”

She hung up. I said, “M.H. took off, but Mickey won’t.”

“Well, he’s lonely. Four of his men have disappeared, and I think he knows they’re dead. Business was business, but I think he misses them more than anything else.”

“He’s still got Chick and Touch.”

A breeze — Glenda shivered. “I don’t know why they stay. Mickey has this scheme to have them seduce famous people. It’s so un-Mickey it’s pathetic.”

“Pathetic” — Junior’s notes confirmed. Glenda — shivers, goosebumps.

I grabbed her raincoat and held it out — she stood up smiling.

Touching her.

She slid the coat on; I pulled it back and touched her scars. Glenda: this slow turn around to kiss me.

Day/night/morning — the phone off the hook, the radio low. Talk, music — soft ballads lulled Glenda sleepy. Losing her brought it ALL back.

She slept hard, stirred hungry. Yawns, smiles — open eyes caught me scared. Kisses kept her from asking; the whole no-payoff feel kept me breathless.

Pressed hard together — no thoughts. Her breath peaking — no thoughts. Inside her when her eyes said don’t hold back — no queers, no peepers, no dope-peddler-daughter whores taunting me.

15

“... and they are out there, within our jurisdiction, superseding our jurisdiction. So far as we know, there are seventeen Federal agents and three Deputy U.S. Attorneys backstopping Welles Noonan. Noonan has not requested an LAPD liaison, so we must fully assume that this is a hostile investigation aimed at discrediting us.”

Chief William H. Parker speaking. Standing by: Bob Gallaudet, Ed Exley. Seated: all stationhouse commanders and Detective Division COs. Missing: Dan Wilhite, Dudley Smith — Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle pinch-hitting.

Eerie — no Narco men. Odd — no Dudley.

Exley at the mike: “The chief and I view this ‘investigation’ as conceived for political gain. Federal agents are not city policemen and certainly not conversant with the realities of maintaining order in Negro-inhabited sectors. Welles Noonan wishes to discredit both the Department and our colleague Mr. Gallaudet, and Chief Parker and I have agreed on measures to limit his success. I will be briefing each of you division heads individually, but before I commence I’ll hit some key points you should all be aware of.”

I yawned — bed-bruised, exhausted. Exley: “Division commanders should tell their men, both plainclothes and uniform: muscle and/or palm your informants and tell them not to cooperate with any Federal agents they might encounter. Along those lines, I want Southside club and bar owners visited. ‘Visited’ is a euphemism, gentlemen. ‘Visited’ means that the station COs at Newton, University and 77th Street should send intimidating plainclothesmen around to tell the owners that since we overlook certain infractions of theirs, they should overlook speaking candidly to the Feds. The Central Vagrant Squad will follow a parallel line: they will round up local derelicts to insure their silence vis-à-vis enforcement measures that quasi-liberals like Noonan might consider overzealous. The 77th Squad is to politely muscle white swells out of the area — we want no well-connected people federally entrapped. Robbery and Homicide Division detectives are currently sifting through recent Negro-on-Negro unsolved homicides, with an eye toward presenting indictment-ready evidence to Mr. Gallaudet — we want to counter Noonan’s charge that we let colored 187s lie doggo. And finally, I think it’s safe to say that the Feds might raid the slot and vending-machine locations controlled by Mickey Cohen. We will let them do this, and we will let Cohen take the fall. Central Vice has destroyed all the coin-hardware complaints that we’ve ignored, and we can always say that we didn’t know those machines existed.”

Implied: Mickey didn’t yank his Southside coin. Warn him — again — tell Jack Woods to pull his Niggertown book.

Parker walked out; Exley coughed — crypto-embarrassed. “The chief has never liked white women fraternizing with Negroes, and he’s hard-nosed the club owners down there who encourage it. Sergeant Breuning, Sergeant Carlisle — you men make sure that those club owners don’t talk to the Feds.”

Smirks — Dudley’s boys loved strongarm. Exley: “That’s all for now. Gentlemen, please wait outside my office, I’ll be down to brief you individually. Lieutenant Klein, please remain seated.”

Gavel bangs — meeting adjourned. A big exit; Gallaudet slipped me a note.

Exley walked over. Brusque: “I want you to stay on the Kafesjian burglary. I’m thinking of stepping it up, and I want a detailed report on the trick sweep.”

“Why wasn’t Narco represented at this meeting?”

“Don’t question my measures.”

“One last time: the Kafesjians are prime Fed meat. They’re twenty years dirty with the Department. Rattling their cage is suicidal.”

“One last time: don’t question my motives. One last time: you and Sergeant Stemmons stay on the case full priority.”

“Was there any specific reason why you wanted Stemmons on this job?”

“No, he just seemed like the logical choice.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he works closely with you at Ad Vice, and he had excellent ratings as an evidence teacher.”

Deadpan — a tough read. “I can’t believe this personal-involvement routine. Not from you.”

“Make it personal yourself.”

Tight reins — don’t laugh. “It’s getting there.”

“Good. Now what about the family’s known associates?”

“I’ve got my best snitch looking into it. I spoke to a man named Abe Voldrich, but I don’t think he knows anything about the burglary.”

“He’s a longtime Kafesjian KA. Maybe he has some family background information.”

“Yeah, but what do you want — a burglary suspect or family dirt?”

No retort — he walked. I checked Gallaudet’s note:

Dave—

I understand your need to protect certain friends of yours who have Southside business dealings, and I think Chief Exley’s fix on the Kafesjians is a bit untoward. Please do what you can to protect the LAPD’s Southside interests, especially in light of this damn Fed probe. And please, without telling Chief Exley, periodically update me on the Kafesjian investigation.