L.A. Confidential (15 page)

  No response.

  "Son, six people are dead and somebody has to pay. It can be you or it can be Ray."

  No answer.

  "Tyrone, he called you a queer. He called you a sissy and a homo. He said you took it up the--"

  "I DIDN' KILL NOBODY!"

  A strong voice--Ed almost jumped back. "Son, we have witnesses. We have evidence. Coates is confessing right now. He's saying you planned the whole thing. Son, save yourself. The guns, the car. _Tell me where they are_."

  "I didn' kill nobody!"

  "Sssh. Tyrone, do you know what Ray Coates said about you?"

  Jones lifted his head. "I know he lie."

  "I think he lied, too. I don't think you're a queer. I think he's a queer, because he hates women. I think he liked killing those women. I think you feel bad about--"

  "We didn' kill no women!"

  "Tyrone, where were you last night at 3:00 A.M.?"

  No answer.

  "Tyrone, why did Sugar Ray hide his car?"

  No answer.

  "Tyrone, why did you guys hide the shotguns you were shooting in Griffith Park? We have a witness who ID'd you on that."

  No answer. Jones lolled his head-eyes shut, spilling tears.

  "Son, why did Ray burn the clothes you guys were wearing last night?"

  Jones keening now--animal stuff.

  "They had blood on them, didn't they? You killed six goddamn people, you got sprayed. Ray did the clean-up, he tidied the loose ends, _he's_ the one who hid the shotguns, he's the boss man, he's been giving the orders since you were giving out butthole up at Casitas. Spill, goddamn you!"

  "WE DIDN' KILL NOBODY! I AINT NO FUCKIN' QUEER!"

  Ed circled the table--walking fast, talking slow. "Here's what I think. I think Sugar Ray's the boss, Leroy's just a dummy, you're the fat boy Sugar likes to tease. You all did road camp together, you and Sugar Ray got popped for Peeping Tom. Sugar liked looking at girls, you liked looking at boys. You both like looking at white folks, because that is the colored man's forbidden fruit. You had your 12-gauge pumps, you had your snazzy '49 Merc, you had some red devils you bought off Roland Navarette. You were up in Hollywood, white folks' neck of the woods. Sugar was teasing you about being fruit, you kept saying it was just because there were no girls around. Sugar says prove it, prove it, and you guys start peeping. You're getting mad, you're all flying on hop, it's late at night and there's nothing to look at, all those nice white folks have their curtains down. You drive by the Nite Owl, there's these nice white people inside-- and it is just too fucking much to take. Poor fat sissy Tyrone, he takes over. He leads his boys into the Nite Owl. Six people are there--three of them women. You drag them into the locker, you hit the cash register and make the cook open the safe. You take their billfolds and purses and you spill some perfume on your hands. Sugar says, 'Touch the girlies, sissy. Prove you ain't queer.' You can't do it so you start shooting and everybody starts shooting and you love it because finally you're more than a poor queer fat little nigger and--"

  "NO! NO NO NO NO NO NO!"

  "Yes! Where's the guns? You fucking confess and turn over the evidence or you'll go to the fucking gas chamber!"

  "No! Didn' kill nobody!"

  Ed hit the table. "Why'd you ditch the car?"

  Jones lashed his head, spraying sweat.

  "Why'd you burn the clothes?"

  No answer.

  "Where did the perfume come from?"

  No answer.

  "Did Sugar and Leroy rape the women first?"

  "No!"

  "Oh? You mean all three of you did?"

  "We didn' kill nobody! We wasn't even there!"

  "Where were you?"

  No answer.

  "Tyrone, where were you last night?"

  Jones sobbed; Ed gripped his shoulders. "Son, you know what's going to happen if you don't talk. So for God's sake admit what you did."

  "Didn' kill nobody. None of us. Wasn't even there."

  "Son, you did."

  "No!"

  "Son, you did, so tell me."

  "We didn'!"

  "Hush now. Just tell me--_nice and slowly_."

  Jones started babbling. Ed knelt by his chair, listened.

  He heard: "Please God, I just wanted to lose my cherry"; he heard: "Didn't mean to hurt her so's we'd have to die." He heard: "Not right punish what we didn' do . . . maybe she be okay, she don't die so I don't die, 'cause I ain't no queer." He felt himself buzzing, electric chair, a sign on top: THEY DIDN'T DO IT.

  Jones slipped into a reverie--Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Father Divine. Ed hit the #2 cubicle.

  Rank: sweat, cigarette smoke. Leroy Fontaine--big, dark, processed hair, his feet up on the table. Ed said, "Be smarter than your friends. Even if you killed her, it's not as bad as killing six people."

  Fontaine tweaked his nose--bandaged, spread over half his face. "This newspaper shit ain't shit."

  Ed closed the door, scared. "Leroy, you'd better hope she was with you at the coroner's estimated time of death."

  No answer.

  "Was she a hooker?"

  No answer.

  "Did you kill her?"

  No answer.

  "You wanted Tyrone to lose his cherry, but things got out of hand. Isn't that right?"

  No answer.

  "Leroy, if she's dead and she was colored you can cop a plea. If she was white you might have a chance. Remember, we can make you for the Nite Owl, and we can make it stick. Unless you convince me you were somewhere else doing something bad, we'll nail you for what's in that newspaper."

  No answer--Fontaine cleaned his nails with a matchbook.

  A big lie. "If you kidnapped her and she's still alive, that's not a Little Lindbergh violation. It's not a capital charge."

  No answer.

  "Leroy, where are the guns and the car?"

  No answer.

  "Leroy, is she still alive?"

  Fontaine smiled--Ed felt ice on his spine. "If she's still alive, she's your alibi. I won't kid you, it could get bad: kidnap, rape, assault. But if you eliminate yourself on the Nite Owl now, you'll save us time and the D.A. will like you for it. Kick loose, Leroy. Do yourself a favor."

  No answer.

  "Leroy, look how it can go both ways. I think you kidnapped a girl at gunpoint. You made her bleed up the car, so you hid the car. She bled on your clothes, so you burned the clothes. You got her perfume all over yourselves. If you didn't do the Nite Owl, I don't know why you hid the shotguns, maybe you thought she could identify them. Son, if that girl is alive she is the only chance you've got."

  Fontaine said, "I thinks she alive."

  Ed sat down. "_You think?_"

  "Yeah, I thinks."

  "Who is she? _Where is she?_"

  No answer.

  "Is she colored?"

  "She Mex."

  "What's her name?"

  "I don' know. College-type bitch."

  "Where did you pick her up?"

  "I don' know. Eastside someplace."

  "Where did you assault her?"

  "I don' know . . . old building on Dunkirk somewheres."

  "Where's the car and the shotguns?"

  "I don' know. Sugar, he took care of them."

  "If you didn't kill her, why did Coates hide the shotguns?"

  No answer.

  "Why, Leroy?"

  No answer.

  "Why, son? Tell me."

  No answer.

  Ed hit the table. "Tell me, goddammit!"

  Fontaine hit the table--harder. "Sugar, he poked her with them guns! He 'fraid it be evidence!"

  Ed closed his eyes. "Where is she now?"

  No answer.

  "Did you leave her at the building?"

  No answer.

  Eyes open. "Did you leave her someplace else?"

  No answer.

  Leaps: none of the three had cash on them, call their money evidence--stashed when Sugar burned the clothes. "Leroy, did you sell her out? Bring some buddies by that place on Dunkirk?"

  "We . . . we drove her 'roun'."

  "Where? Your friends' pads?"

  "Tha's right."

  "Up in Hollywood?"

  "We didn' shoot them people!"

  "Prove it, Leroy. Where were you guys at 3:00 A.M.?"

  "Man, I cain't tell you!"

  Ed slapped the table. "Then you'll burn for the Nite Owl!"

  "We didn't do it!"

  "Who did you sell the girl to?"

  No answer.

  "Where is she now?"

  No answer.

  "Are you afraid of reprisals? You left the girl somewhere, right? _Leroy, where did you leave her, who did you leave her with, she is your only chance to stay out of the fucking gas chamber?_"

  "Man, I can't tell you, Sugar, he like to kill me!"

  "Leroy, where is she?"

  No answer.

  "Leroy, you turn state's you'll get out years before Sugar and Tyrone."

  No response.

  "Leroy, I'll get you a one-man cell where nobody can hurt you."

  No response.

  "Son, you have to tell me. I'm the only friend you've got."

  No response.

  "Leroy, are you afraid of the man you left the girl with?"

  No answer.

  "Son, he can't be as bad as the gas chamber. _Tell me where the girl is_."

  The door banged open. Bud White stepped in, threw Fontaine against the wall.

  Ed froze.

  White pulled out his .38, broke the cylinder, dropped shells on the floor. Fontaine shook head to toe; Ed kept freezing. White snapped the cylinder shut, stuck the gun in Fontaine's mouth. "One in six. Where's the girl?"

  Fontaine chewed steel; White squeezed the trigger twice: clicks, empty chambers. Fontaine slid down the wall; White pulled the gun back, held him up by his hair. "_Where's the girl?_"

  Ed kept freezing. White pulled the trigger--another little click. Fontaine, bug-eyed. "S-ss-sylvester F-fitch, one-o-nine and Avalon, gray corner house please don' hurt me no-"

  White ran out.

  Fontaine passed out.

  Riot sounds in the corridor--Ed tried to stand up, couldn't get his legs.

CHAPTER TWENTY

  A four-car cordon: two black-and-whites, two unmarkeds. Sirens to a half mile out; a coast up to the gray corner house.

  Dudley Smith drove the lead prowler; Bud rode shotgun reloading his piece. A four-car flank: black-and-whites in the alley, Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle parked streetside--rifles on the gray house door. Bud said, "Boss, he's mine."

  Dudley winked. "Grand, lad."

  Bud went in the back way--through the alley, a fence vault. On the rear porch: a screen door, inside hook and eye. He slipped the catch with his penknife, walked in on tiptoes.

  Darkness, dim shapes: a washing machine, a blind-covered door--strips of light through the cracks.

  Bud tried the door--unlocked---cased it open. A hallway: light bouncing from two side rooms. A rug to walk on; music to give him more cover. He tiptoed up to the first room, wheeled in.

  A nude woman spread-eagled on a mattress--bound with neckties, a necktie in her mouth. Bud hit the next room loud.

  A fat mulatto at a table--naked, wolfmg Kellogg's Rice Krispies. He put down his spoon, raised his hands. "Nossir, don't want no trouble."

  Bud shot him in the face, pulled a spare piece--bang bang from the coon's line of fire. The man hit the floor dead spread--a prime entry wound oozing blood. Bud put the spare in his hand; the front door crashed in. He dumped Rice Krispies on the stiff, called an ambulance.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Jack watched Karen sleep, putting their fight behind him.

  Newspaper pix caused it: the Big V and Cal Denton rousting three colored punks--suspects in L.A.'s "Crime of the Century." Denton dragged Fontaine by his conk; Big V had neck holds on the other two. Karen said they reminded her of the Scottsboro Boys; Jack told her he saved their goddamned lives, but now that he knew they gang-raped a Mexican girl he wished he'd let Denton kill them outright. The argument deteriorated from there.

  Karen slept curled away from him--covered tight like she thought he might hit her. Jack watched her while he dressed; his last two days hit him.

  He was off the Nite Owl, back to Ad Vice. Ed Exley's interrogations tentatively cleared the spooks--pending questioning of the woman they'd been abusing. Bud White played some Russian roulette--the three clammed up. So far, there was no way to know if they had time to leave the woman, drive to the Nite Owl, return to Darktown and gang-rape. Maybe Coates or Fontaine left Jones in charge of the girl and pulled the snuffs with other partners. No luck finding the shotguns; Coates' purple Merc was still missing. No restaurant loot found at their hotel; the debris in the incinerator too far gone for blood-on-fabric analysis. The perfume on the jigs' hands skunked a late paraffin test. Huge pressure at the Bureau: solve the fucking case fast.

  The coroner was trying to ID the patron victims, working from dental abstracts and their physical stats cross-checked against missing persons bulletins, call-ins. Made: the cook/dishwasher, waitress, cash register girl; nothing yet on the three customers, the autopsies showed no sexual abuse on the women. Maybe Coates/Jones/Fontaine weren't the triggers; Dudley Smith on the job--his men bracing armed robbers, nuthouse parolees, every known L.A. geek with a gun jacket. The news vendor who spotted the purple Merc across from the Nite Owl was requestioned; now he said it could have been a Ford or a Chevy. Ford and Chevy registrations being checked; now the park ranger who ID'd the spooks said he wasn't sure. Ed Exley told Green and Parker the purple car might have been placed by the Nite Owl to put the onus on the jigs; Dudley pooh-poohed the theory--he said it was probably just a coincidence. A sure-thing case unraveling into a shitload of possibilities.

  Huge press coverage--Sid Hudgens had already called--zero hink on the smut, nothing like "We've _all_ got secrets." A heroic version of the arrests for fifty scoots--Sid hung up quick.

  The Nite Owl cost him a day on the smut. He'd checked the squadroom postings: no leads, none of the other men tracked the skit. He filed a phony report himself: nothing on Christine Bergeron and Bobby Inge, nothing on the other mags he found: Nothing on his filth dreams: his sweetheart Karen orgied up.