L.A. Confidential (45 page)

  Yorkin bobbed his head yes yes yes. "Test pilot! I flew for him! Test pilot!"

  Ed unlocked his cuffs. "Say that again."

  Yorkin rubbed his neck. "Guinea pig."

  "What?"

  "I let him test horse on me. Here and there, a little at a time."

  "Start over. Slowly."

  Yorkin coughed. "Pierce got this heroin stolen off this Cohen-- Jack Dragna deal years ago. This guy Buzz Meeks left some with these guys Pete and Bar Englekling, just a sample, and they gave it to their father, who was some kind of chemistry hotshot. He taught Pierce in college, and he laid the shit off to him and died, a heart attack or something. This other guy, I don't know his name so don't ask me, he killed Meeks or something like that. He got the rest of the shit, like eighteen pounds' worth. Pierce has been developing compounds with the stuff for years. He wants to make the cheapest and the safest and the best. I just . . . I just take some test pops."

  Astounding lines crossing. "You were making deliveries for Fleur-de-Lis five years ago, right?"

  "Right, yeah, sure."

  "You and Lamar Hinton."

  "I ain't seen Lamar in years, you can't pin Lamar's shit on me!"

  Ed grabbed the spare chair, brandished it. "I don't want to. Give me an answer on this, and if I like it I'll owe you a solid. It's a test and you're a test pilot, so you should do well. Who shot at Jack Vincennes outside the Hollywood drop back in '53?"

  Yorkin cringed. "Me. Pierce told me to clip him. I shouldn't of done it by the drop. I fucked up and Pierce got pissed."

  Patchett nailed: attempted murder on a police officer. "What did he do to you for that?"

  "He tested me bad. He gave me all these bad compounds he said he had to eliminate. He made me take these bad fucking flights."

  "So you hate him for it."

  "Man, Pierce ain't like regular people. I hate him, but I dig him too."

  Ed pushed the chair away. "Do you remember the Nite Owl shootings?"

  "Sure, years ago. What's that got to do--"

  "Never mind, and here's the important thing. If you fill this in for me, I'll give you a written immunity statement and put you up in protective custody until Patchett's down. Smut, Chester. You remember those orgy books Fleur-de-Lis was running five years ago?"

  Yorkin bobbed his head yes.

  "The ink blood on the pictures, do you remember that?"

  Yorkin smiled--snitching eager now. "I know that story good. Pierce is going down for real?"

  Ten hours from the script. "Maybe tonight."

  "Then fuck him for all those bad flights."

  "Chester, just tell me slowly."

  Yorkin stood up, worked the kinks from his legs. "You know what's a bitch about Pierce? He'd say all these things around me when I was on a flight, like I was harmless 'cause I couldn't remember nothing he said."

  Ed got out his notebook. "Try to tell it in order."

  Yorkin rubbed his throat, coughed. "Okay, Pierce had this old string of girls that he let go, this was around when we were moving them picture books. Some guy, I don't know his name, he talked some of the girls and their johns into posing for them pictures. He made books out of them and went to Pierce to get money to move the books wide, you know, he promised Pierce a cut. Pierce, he liked the idea, but he didn't want to expose his girls or their johns. He bought a bunch of the books off the guy to move through Fleur-de-Lis, you know, just a close distribution he called it, like a test market, he figured he could keep track of the stuff that way."

  Old lines crossing: the close distribution wasn't that close, Ad Vice retrieved throwaway copies--Vincennes to the case. "Keep going, Chester."

  "Well, the guy who made the stuff, somehow he weaseled some info on the Englekling brothers out of Pierce, how they had this printing press place and was always bent for money. He found himself a front man, and the front man, he approached the brothers. You know, a plan to make the shit bulk and move it."

  The front man: Duke Cathcart. Zigzag lines from Cohen to the brothers, the brothers to Patchett, back on a sideswipe: Mickey at McNeil Island--then Goldman and Van Gelder. _Line the heroin to the pornography_. "Chester, how do you know all this?"

  Yorkin laughed. "I'd be on a mainline flight and Pierce, he'd be on safe old white horse up the nose. He'd just jaw at me like I some kind of dog you talk to."

  "So Patchett and the smut are dead, right? All he's interested in is pushing the heroin."

  "Nix. That guy who brought Pierce the eighteen pounds years ago? Well, he's got a hard-on for the smut. He's got lists of all these rich perverts and all these contacts in South America. Him and Pierce, they sat on the original pictures for years, then they had some new books made up who-knows-where. They got the shit in a warehouse someplace, I don't know where, just waiting to go. I think Pierce was waiting for some kind of heat to die down."

  No new lines crossed. A phrase sunk in: _profit motive_. Pornography by itself was chancy; twenty pounds of heroin _developed_ meant millions. Yorkin said, "One more 'case you get antsy on my deal. Pierce has got him a booby-trapped safe by his house. He's got money, dope, all kinds of stuff stashed there."

  Ed kept thinking MONEY.

  Yorkin: "Hey, talk to me! You want the new drop address? 8819 Linden, Long Beach. Exley, talk to me!"

  "Steak in your cell, Chester. You've earned it."

o        o          o

  Fresh lines--Ed pulled Fisk's and Kleckner's summaries, added the Yorkin/Malvasi revelations.

  Heroin and pornography lined. "The Guy" who made the smut books as Sid Hudgens' killer, his front man Duke Cathcart--killed by Dean Van Gelder, ordered killed or merely approached by Davey Goldman--who learned of the smut proposal via the bug in Mickey Cohen's cell. Cohen omnipresent--his stolen heroin ended up with both the Engleklings and "The Man" who brought Patchett the eighteen pounds of "H" for development, "The Man" who also loved pornography and convinced Patchett to manufacture new books from the 1953 prototypes. An instinct: Cohen was Mr. Patsy going back eight years, in and out of jail, a focal point who never dealt his own hand into the welter of cases. A line to a conclusion: the Nite Owl killings were semiprofessional at least, an attempt to take over the heroin and pornography rackets of Pierce Patchett. Cathcart, attempting to push the smut on his own, was the focus of the kiffings. Did he misrepresent his importance to the wrong people, or did the shooters deliberately take out Van Gelder, knowing or not knowing he was a Cathcart impersonator? Lines to organized crime intrigue, semipro at least, with all mob lines dead or incapacitated: Franz Englekling and sons--dead, Davey Goldman a vegetable, Mickey Cohen befuddled by the action going on around him. A question line: who clipped Pete and Bar Englekling? The terror line: Loren Atherton, 1934. How could it be?

  Fisk rapped on the door. "Sir, I brought Lux and Geisler back."

  "And?"

  "Geisler gave me a prepared statement."

  "Read it."

  Fisk pulled Out a sheet. "'Pertaining to my relationship with Pierce Morehouse Patchett, I, Terence Lux, M.D., do offer the following notarized statement. To wit: my relationship with Pierce Patchett is professional: i.e., I have performed extensive plastic surgery on a number of male and female acquaintances of his, perfecting already existing resemblances to exact resemblances of several notable actors and actresses. Unsubstantiated rumors hold that Patchett employs these young people for purposes of prostitution, but I have no conclusive evidence that this is true. Duly sworn,' et cetera."

  Ed said, "Not good enough. Duane, you take Yorkin and Rita Hayworth across the street and book them. Aiding and Abetting, and leave the arrest dates blank. Allow them one phone call each, then go down to Long Beach and seize 8819 Linden. That's a Fleur-de-Lis drop, and I'm sure Patchett's cleaned it out, but do it anyway. If you find the place virgin, bust it up and leave the door open."

  Fisk swallowed. "Uh, sir? Bust it up? And no booking date on our suspects?"

  "_Bust it up. Make a statement. And don't question my orders_."

  Fisk said, "Uh, yes, sir." Ed closed the door, buzzed Kleckner. "Don, send Dr. Lux and Mr. Geisler in."

  "Yes, sir," loud on the intercom. Whispered: "They're pissed, Captain. Thought you should know."

  Ed opened the door. Geisler and Lux walked up--brusque.

  No handshakes. Geisler said, "Franidy, that lunch didn't begin to cover the hourly rate I'm going to have to charge Dr. Lux. I think it's reprehensible that he came here voluntarily and was kept waiting so long."

  Ed smiled. "I apologize. I accept the formal statement you offered and I have no real questions for Dr. Lux. I have just one favor to ask and a large one to grant in return. And send me your bill, Mr. Geisler. You know I can afford it."

  "I know your father can. Continue, please. You're holding my interest so far."

  Ed to Lux. "Doctor, I know who you know and you know who I know. And I know you deal in legal morphine cures. Help me with something and I'll pledge my friendship."

  Lux cleaned his nails with a scalpel. "The _Daily News_ says you're obsolescent."

  "They're mistaken. Pierce Patchett and heroin, Doctor. I'll settle for rumors and I won't ask for your sources."

  Geisler and Lux went into a huddle--a step out the door, whispers. Lux broke it off. "I've heard Pierce is connected to some very bad men who want to control the heroin trade in Los Angeles. He's quite the chemist, you know, and he's been developing a special blend for years. Hormones, antipsychotic strains, quite a brew. I've heard it puts regular heroin to shame, and I heard it's ready to be manufactured and sold. One in my column, Captain. Jerry, take the man at his word and send him my bill."

o        o          o

  Semipro, pro--his new lines all spelled HEROIN. Ed called Bob Gallaudet, left a message with his secretary: Nite Owl maybe breaking--call me. A picture on his desk hooked him: Inez and his father at Arrowhead. He called Lynn Bracken.

  "Hello?"

  "Lynn, it's Exley."

  "God, hello."

  "You didn't go to Patchett, did you?"

  "Did you think I would? Were you setting me up to?"

  Ed laid the picture face down. "I want you to get out of L.A. for a week or so. I have a place at Lake Arrowhead, you can stay there. Leave this afternoon."

  "Is Pierce . . ."

  "I'll tell you later."

  "Will you come up?"

  Ed checked the Vincennes script. "As soon as I set something up. Have you seen White?"

  "He came and went, and I don't know where he is. Is he all right?"

  "Yes. No, shit, I don't know. Meet me at Fernando's on the lake. It's right by my place. Say six?"

  "I'll be there."

  "I figured you'd take some convincing."

  "I've already convinced myself of lots of things. Leaving town just makes it easier."

  "_Why_, Lynn?"

  "The party was over, I guess. Do you think keeping your mouth shut's a heroic act?"

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Bud woke up at the Victory. Dusk out the window--he'd slept through half a night and a day. He rubbed his eyes; Spade Cooley locked right back on him. He smelled cigarette smoke, saw Dudley sitting by the door.

  "Bad dreams, lad? You were thrashing a bit."

  Nightmare: Inez trashed by the press, his fault--what he did to nail Exley.

  "Lad, in repose you reminded me of my daughters. And you know I care for you no less."

  He'd sweated the sheets through. "What's with the job? What's next?"

  "Next you listen. I've long been involved in containing hard crime so that myself and a few colleagues might someday enjoy a profit dispensation, and that day will soon be arriving. As a colleague, you will share handsomely. Grand means will be in our hands, lad. Imagine the means to keep the nigger filth sedated and extrapolate from there. One obstreperous Italian you've dealt with in the past is involved, and I think you can be particularly useful in keeping him in line."

  Bud stretched, cracked his knuckles. "I meant the reopening. Talk straight, okay?"

  "Edmund Jennings Exley is as straight as I can be. He's trying to prove bad things against Lynn, lad. Salt on all the old wounds he's given you."

  Live wires buzzing. "You knew about us. I should've known."

  "There is precious little I don't know, and nothing I would not do for you. Coward Exley has touched the only two women you've loved, lad. Think of grand ways to hurt him."

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  They made love straight off-- Ed knew they'd have to talk if they didn't, Lynn seemed to sense the same thing. The cabin was musty, the bed unmade--stale from last time with Inez. Ed kept the lights on: the more he saw, the less he'd think. It helped him through the act; counting Lynn's freckles kept him from peaking. Slow on the act, both of them, making up for their tumble off the couch. Lynn had bruises; Ed knew they came from Bud White. For a tightrope act they were gentle; their long embrace after felt like payback for their lies. When they started talking they'd never stop. Ed wondered who'd say "Bud White" first.

  Lynn said it. Bud was the fulcrum that convinced her to lie to Patchett: the police investigation was a joke, they were grasping at straws. White knew of Patchett's milder doings, she was afraid he'd get in trouble if Pierce fought back. Pierce might try to buy his friendship, he thought everyone had a price tag, he didn't know her Wendell couldn't be bought. Bud got her thinking; the more she thought the more she hurt; a certain police captain kissing a certain ex-whore at the only moment she would have let him just added to the party's over, Pierce made me but he's bad deep down, if I let him go then maybe I'll get back some of the good things he's killed in me. Ed winced through the words, knew he couldn't return her candor--now Jack Vincennes was going in barefoot, he'd counted on Lynn to push Patchett to panic, past Fisk taking a fire axe to the drop, past his people grilled and arrested. Lynn met his silence with words--excerpts from her diary, a show-and-tell for fugitive lovers her pronouncement. Funny, sad--old tricks derided, a monologue on carhop hookers that almost had him laughing. Lynn on Inez and Bud White--he loved her here and there and mostly at a distance because her rage was worse than his, drained him, a night here and there was all he could take. No jealousy--so his own jealousy jumped up, almost forced him to shout questions: heroin and extortion, astounding audacious perversion, just how much do you know? The gift she gave him wouldn't let him; soft hands on his chest made him throw out a parity in candor before he started interrogating or lying just to have something to say.