L.A. Confidential (22 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Bud fed the woman coffee--get her out, go see Stens at the lock-up.

  Carolyn something, she looked okay at the Orbit Lounge, morning light put ten years on her. He picked her up on a flash: he just got the word on Dick, if he couldn't find a woman he was going to find Exley and kill him. She wasn't bad in bed--but he had to think of Inez to charge up enthusiasm, it made him feel cheap, the odds on Inez ever doing it for love were about six trillion to one. He stopped thinking about her--the rest of the night was all bad talk and brandy.

  Carolyn said, "I think I should go."

  "I'll call you."

  The doorbell rang.

  Bud walked Carolyn over. Across the screen: Dudley Smith and a West Valley dick--Joe DiCenzo.

  Dudley smiled; DiCenzo nodded. Carolyn ducked out--like she knew they knew the score. Bud scoped his front room: the fold-out down, a bottle, two tumblers.

  DiCenzo pointed to the bed. "There's his alibi, and I didn't think he did it anyway."

  Bud shut the door. "Did _what?_ Boss, what is this?"

  Dudley sighed. "Lad, I'm afraid I'm the bearer of bad tidings. Last night a young lassie named Kathy Janeway was found in her motel room, raped and beaten to death. Your calling card was found in her purse. Sergeant DiCenzo took the squeal, knew you were a protégé of mine and called me. I visited the crime scene, found an envelope addressed to Miss Janeway, and recognized your rather unformed handwriting immediately. Explain with brevity, lad--Sergeant DiCenzo is heading the investigation and wants you eliminated as a suspect."

  A body shot--little Kathy sobbing. Bud got his lies straight. "I was on the Cathcart background check and this hooker who worked for Cathcart told me the Janeway girl was Cathcart's last squeeze, but he didn't pimp her. I talked to the girl, but she didn't know nothing worth reporting. She told me the hooker was holding cash from Cathcart for her, but she wouldn't kick loose. I shook her down and mailed the money to the kid."

  DiCenzo shook his head. "Do you routinely shake down hookers?"

  Dudley sighed. "Bud has a sentimental weakness for females, and I fmd his account plausible within the limitations of that limitation. Lad, who was this 'hooker' you mentioned?"

  "Cynthia Benavides, a.k.a. 'Sinful Cindy."'

  "Lad, you didn't include mention of her in any of the reports you've filed. Which have been rather threadbare, I might add."

  Lies: hold back on smut, Cathcart's pad tossed, the pimp who sold Kathy to Duke. "I didn't think she was important stuff."

  "Lad, she is a tangential Nite Owl witness. And haven't I taught you to be thorough in your reports?"

  Mad now--Kathy on a morgue slab. "Yeah, you have."

  "And what precisely have you accomplished since that dinner meeting of ours--which is when you _should_ have reported on Miss Janeway and Miss Benavides?"

  "I'm still checking out Lunceford and Cathcart K.A.'s."

  "Lad, Lunceford's known associates are extraneous to this investigation. Have you learned of anything else on Cathcart?"

  "No."

  Dudley to DiCenzo. "Lad, are you satisfied that Bud isn't your man?"

  DiCenzo pulled out a cigar. "I'm satisfied. And I'm satisfied he ain't the smartest human being ever to breathe. White, toss me a bone. Who do you think did the girl?"

  The red sedan: the motel, Cahuenga. "I don't know."

  "A succinct answer. Joe, let me have a few minutes alone with my friend, would you please?"

  DiCenzo walked out smoking; Dudley leaned against the door. "Lad, you cannot shake down prostitutes for money to pay off underaged mistresses. I understand your sentimental attachment to women, and I know that it is an essential component of your policeman's persona, but such overinvolvement cannot be tolerated, and as of this moment you are off the Cathcart and Lunceford checks and back on the Darktown end of the case. Now, Chief Parker and I are convinced that the three Negroes in custody are our perpetrators, or, at the very most, another jigaboo gang is responsible. We still have no murder weapons and no shake on Coates' car, and Ellis Loew wants more evidence for a grand jury presentation. Our fair Miss Soto will not talk, and I'm afraid we must urge her to take pentothal and endure a questioning session. Your job is to check files and question known Negro sex offenders. We need to find the men our unholy three let abuse Miss Soto, and I think the job is right up your alley. Will you do this for me?"

  Big words--more body shots. "Sure, Dud."

  "Good lad. Clock in and out at 77th Street Station, and make your reports more detailed."

  "Sure, Boss."

  Smith opened the door. "I tendered that reprimand with much affection, lad. Do you know that?"

  "Sure."

  "Grand. You are much in my thoughts, lad. Chief Parker has given me approval on a new containment measure, and I've already signed on Dick Carlisle and Mike Breuning. Once we close the Nite Owl, I'm going to ask you to join us."

  "That sounds good, Boss."

  "Grand. And, lad? I'm sure you know that Dick Stensland was arrested and Ed Exley had a part in it. You are not to retaliate. Do you understand?"

o        o          o

  The red sedan--call it a maybe.

  Cathcart's pad tossed and wiped, his clothes prowled--?????

  Sinful Cindy: Duke's smut peddler pipe dream.

  Feather Royko on Duke: "Hopped up on some new biz."

  The Dukey shtick man trying to recruit B-girls. Ad Vice checked out: zero on their smut job. Trashcan Jack V., ace report padder, asked for a transfer to the Nite Owl--he said the job was from hunger. Russ Millard's last c.o.'s summary: 86 the gig--call it a wash.

  He lied to Dudley and strolled on it.

  If he'd ratted little Kathy to Juvie she'd be reading a movie mag somewhere.

  THE PIMP WHO SOLD HER TO DUKE: "THIS GUY MADE ME DO IT WITH GUYS."

  EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY--

o        o          o

  Sinful Cindy's rap sheet--four known haunt whore bars listed. Her pad first--no Cindy. Hal's Nest, the Moonmist Lounge, the Firefly Room, the Cinnabar at the Roosevelt--no Cindy. An old Vice cop's story: whores congregating at Tiny Naylor's Drive-in--the carhops scouted tricks for them. Over to Tiny's, Cindy's De Soto outside--a food tray hooked to the door.

  Bud parked beside her. Cindy saw him, dumped her tray, rolled up her window. Wham--the De Soto in reverse. Bud sprinted, popped the hood, yanked the distributor--the car stalled dead.

  Cindy rolled down her window. "You stole my money! You ruined my lunch!"

  Bud dropped a five on her lap. "Lunch is on me."

  "Mister big shot! Mister big spender!"

  "Kathy Janeway got raped and beaten to death. Give on the guy who used to pimp her, give on her tricks."

  Cindy put her head on the wheel. The horn beeped; she came back up pale, no tears. "Dwight Gilette. He's some kind of colored guy passing. I don't know nothing about her old tricks."

  "Gilette drive a red car?"

  "I don't know."

  "You got an address?"

  "I heard he lives in this tract in Eagle Rock. It's white only, so he plays it that way. But I know he didn't kill her."

  "How do you figure?"

  "He's a swish. He's careful about his hands, and he'd never put it in a girl."

  "Anything else?"

  "He carried a knife. His girls call him 'Blue Blade' 'cause his name's Gilette."

  "You don't seem surprised Kathy got it that way."

  Cindy touched her eyes--bone dry. "She was born for it. Dukey softened her up, so she quit hating men. A few more years and she would've learned. Shit, I should have treated her better."

  "Yeah, me too."

o        o          o

  Eagle Rock, an R&I check: Dwight Gilette, a.k.a. "Blade," a.k.a. "Blue Blade," 3245 Hibiscus, Eagle's Aerie Housing Development. Six suborning arrests, no convictions, listed as a male Caucasian--if he was a shine he was passing with style. Bud found the tract, the street: cozy stucco cubes, Hibiscus a prime spot: a smoggy L.A. view.

  3245: peach paint job, steel flamingos on the lawn, a blue sedan in the driveway. Bud walked up, pushed the buzzer--jingly chimes sounded.

  A high-yellow guy opened up. Thirtyish, short, plump, slacks and a silk shirt with a Mr. B. collar. "I heard on the radio, so I thought you fellows might be coming by. The radio said midnight, and I have an alibi. He lives a block away and I can have him here toot-sweet. Kathy was a sweet kid and I don't know who'd do a thing like that. And don't you fellows usually come in pairs?"

  "You finished?"

  "No. My alibi is my lawyer, he still lives a block away and he's very well placed in the American Civil Liberties Union."

  Bud shouldered him into the house, whistled.

  Fruit heaven: deep pile rugs, Greek god statues. Male nudes on the wall--paint on velvet flocking. Bud said, "Cute."

  Gilette pointed to the phone. "Two seconds or I call my attorney."

  Quick throw. "Duke Cathcart. You sold Kathy to him, right?"

  "Kathy was headstrong, Duke made me an offer. Duke's dead in that awful Nite Owl thing, so don't tell me you suspect me of that."

  No hink. "I heard Duke was pushing smut. You hear that?"

  "Smut is déclassé and the answer is no."

  More no hink. "Give me some trade talk on Duke. What've you heard?"

  Gilette stood one hip jutting. "I heard a guy was asking around about Duke, coming on like Duke, maybe thinking about crashing his stable, not that he had much of a stable left, I've heard. Now will you please leave me alone before I call my friend?"

  The phone rang--Gilette walked to the kitchen, grabbed an extension. Bud walked in slow. Nice stuff: Frigidaire, coil burner stove on full blast: eggs, boiling water, stew.

  Gilette made kissy sounds, hung up. "Are _you_ still here?"

  "Nice pad, Dwight. Business must be good."

  "Business is excellent, thank you very much."

  "Good. I need skinny on Kathy's old tricks, so cough up your whore book."

  Gilette hit a switch above the sink. A motor growled; he shoved scrapings down a garbage hole. Bud flipped the switch up. "Your whore book."

  "No, _nein, nyet_ and never."

  Bud hooked him to the gut. Gilette rolled with it, grabbed a knife, swung. Bud sidestepped, kicked at his balls. Gilette doubled up; Bud hit the garbage switch. The motor _scree'd_; Bud jammed the queer's knife hand down the chute.

  SCREEEE--the sink shot back blood, bone. Bud yanked the hand out minus fingers--SCREEEEE fifty times louder. Stumps to the burner coils, stumps to the icebox sizzling. "GIVE ME THE FUCKING WHORE BOOK"--through a SCREEEEEEEE echo chamber.

  Gilette, eyes rolling back. "Drawer . . . by TV . . . ambulance."

  Bud dropped him, ran to the living room. Empty drawers, back to the kitchen--Gilette on the floor eating paper.

  Choke hold: Gilette spat out a half-chewed page. Bud picked up the wad, stumbled outside, burned flesh making him gag. He smoothed the paper out: names, phone numbers--smeared, two legible: Lynn Bracken, Pierce Patchctt.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Jack at his desk, counting lies.

  At work: a string of dead-end reports; legit zeros from the other squad guys totaled luck: Millard wanted to dump the smut job. Count duty no-shows as lies--he'd spent a full day chasing names--matches to the cars in Bel Air. Four names tagged; no luck at a modeling agency specializing in movie star lookalikes--none of the girls came close to his beauties. Put the names aside, chalk up the day as a wash--Sid Hudgens made pursuit a dead issue. He just wanted to see the women again-- add that one to his lies to Karen.

  They spent the morning at her beach place. Karen wanted to make love; he put her off with bullshit: he was distracted, he'd asked to be detached to the Nite Owl because justice was so important. Karen tried to undress him; he told her he had a sprained back; he didn't say he wasn't interested because all he wanted to do was use her, make her do it with other women, recreate fuck book scenarios. His biggest lie: he didn't tell her that he'd fmally stepped in shit that didn't turn to clover, that he'd played an angle that played him back to the gas chamber door, that his home-to-Narco ticket read adios, lovebirds-- because she'd trace 10/24/47 to all his other lies and his carefully constructed nice-guy Big V would go down in flames.

  He didn't tell her he was terrified. She didn't sense it--his front was still strong.

  Other fronts holding--dumb luck.

  Sid hadn't called, his monthly _Hush-Hush_ came on schedule-- no note, some "sinuendo" on Max Peltz and teenage poon-- nothing scary. He checked the report on the Fleur-de-Lis shootout: bright boy Ed Exley caught the squeal. Exley baffled: no make on the drop-pad tenants, the shelves cleaned out--only some bondage shit left--make the rest of the filth down the hidey-hole. Make Lamar Hinton for the shots--a free ride--the Big V was off the case, the Big V had a new mission.

  Sid Hudgens knew Pierce Patchett and Fleur-de-Lis; Sid Hudgens knew the Malibu Rendezvous. Sid had a load of private dirt files stashed. The Big V's job: find _his_ file, destroy it.

  Jack checked his plate list, names matched to DMV pics.

  Seth David Krugliak, the owner of the Bel Air manse--fat, oily, a movie biz lawyer. Pierce Morehouse Patchett, Fleur-de-Lis Boss--Mr. Debonair. Charles Walker Champlain, investment banker--shaved head, goatee. Lynn Margaret Bracken, age twenty-nine--Veronica Lake. No criminal records.

  "Hello, lad."

  Jack swiveled around. "Dud, how are you? What brings you to Ad Vice?"

  "A confab with Russ Millard, my colleague on the Nite Owl now. And on that topic, I heard you want in."

  "You heard right. Can you swing it?"

  Smith passed him a mimeo sheet. "I already have, lad. You're to join in the search for Coates' car. Every garage within the radiu3 on this page is to be checked--with or without the owner's consent. You're to begin immediately."

  A map carbon: southside L.A. in street grids. "Lad, I need a personal favor."