L.A. Confidential (4 page)

  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."