The sessions ran late--two widowers, a young man without a woman. Art had a bug on multiple murders--he had his father rehash the Loren Atherton case repeatedly: horror snatches, witness testimony. Preston obliged with psychological theories, grudgingly--he wanted his glory case to stay sealed off, complete, in his mind. Art's old cases were scrutinized--and he reaped the efforts of three fine minds: confessions straight across, 95 percent convictions. But so far his drive to crack criminal knowledge hadn't been challenged--much less sated.
Ed walked down to the parking lot, sleep coming on. "Quack, quack," behind him--hands turned him around.
A man in a kid's mask--Danny Duck. A left-right knocked off his glasses; a kidney shot put him down. Kicks to the ribs drove him into a ball.
Ed curled hard, caught kicks in the face. A flashbulb popped; two men walked away: one quacking, one laughing. Easy IDs: Dick Stensland's bray, Bud White's football limp. Ed spat blood, swore payback.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Russ Millard addressed Ad Vice squad 4--the topic pornography.
"Picture-book smut, gentlemen. There's been a bunch of it found at collateral crime scenes lately: narcotics, bookmaking and prostitution collars. Normally this kind of stuff is made in Mexico, so it's not our jurisdiction. Normally it's an organized crime sideline, because the big mobs have the money to manufacture it and the connections to get it distributed. But Jack Dragna's been deported, Mickey Cohen's in prison and probably too puritanical anyway, and Mo Jahelka's foundering on his own. Stag pix aren't Jack Whalen's style--he's a bookie looking to get his hands on a Vegas casino. And the stuff that's surfaced is too high quality for the L.A. area print mills: Newton Street Vice rousted them, they're clean, they just don't have the facilities to make magazines of this quality. But the backdrops in the pictures indicate L.A. venue: you can see what looks like the Hollywood Hills out some windows, and the furnishings in a lot of the places look like your typical cheap Los Angeles apartments. So our job is to track this filth to its source and arrest whoever made it, posed for it and distributed it."
Jack groaned: the Great Jerk-off Book Caper of 1953. The other guys looked hot to glom the smut, maybe fuel up their wives. Millard popped a Digitalis. "Newton Street dicks questioned everyone at the collateral rousts, and they all denied possessing the stuff. Nobody at the print mills knows where it was made. The mags have been shown around the Bureau and our station vice squads, and we've got zero IDs on the posers. So, gentlemen, look yourself."
Henderson and Kifka had their hands out; Stathis looked ready to drool. Millard passed the smut over. "Vincennes, is there someplace you'd rather be?"
"Yeah, Captain. Narcotics Division."
"Oh? Anyplace else?"
"Maybe working whores with squad two."
"Make a major case, Sergeant. I'd love to sign you out of here."
Oohs, ahhs, cackles, oo-la-las; three men shook their heads no. Jack grabbed the books.
Seven mags, high-quality glossy paper, plain black covers. Sixteen pages apiece: photos in color, black and white. Two books ripped in half, explicit pictures: men and women, men and men, girls and girls. Insertion close-ups: straight, queer, dykes with dildoes. The Hollywood sign out windows; Murphy-bed fuck shots, cheap pads: stucco-swirled walls, the hot plate on a table that came with every bachelor flop in L.A. Par for the stag-book course--but the posers weren't glassy-eyed hopheads, they were good-looking, well-built young kids--nude, costumed: Elizabethan garb, Jap kimonos. Jack put the ripped mags back together for a bingo: Bobby Inge--a male prostitute he'd popped for reefer--blowing a guy in a whalebone corset.
Millard said, "Anybody familiar, Vincennes?"
An angle. "Nothing, Cap. But where did you get these torn-up jobs?"
"They were found in a trash bin behind an apartment house in Beverly Hills. The manager, an old woman named Loretta Downey, found them and called the Beverly Hills P.D. They called us."
"You got an address on the building?"
Millard checked an evidence form. "9849 Charleville. Why?"
"I just thought I'd take that part of the job. I've got good connections in Beverly Hills."
"Well, they do call you 'Trashcan.' All right, follow up in Beverly Hills. Henderson, you and Kifka try to locate the arrestees in the crime reports and try to find out again where they got the stuff--I'll get you carbons in a minute. Tell them there'll be no additional charges filed if they talk. Stathis, take that filth by the costume supply companies and see if you can get a matchup to their inventory, then fmd out who rented the costumes the . . . performers were wearing. Let's try it this way first--if we have to go through mugshots for IDs we'll lose a goddamn week. Dismissed, gentlemen. Roll, Vincennes. And don't get sidetracked--this is Ad Vice, not Narco."
o o o
Jack rolled: R&I, Bobby Inge's file, his angle flushed out: Beverly Hills, see the old biddy, see what he could find out and concoct a hot lead that told him what he already knew--Bobby Inge was guilty of conspiracy to distribute obscene material, a felony bounce. Bobby would snitch his co-stars and the guys who took the pix--one major class transfer requirement dicked.
The day was breezy, cool; Jack took Olympic straight west. He kept the radio going; a newscast featured Ellis Loew: budget cuts at the D.A.'s Office. Ellis droned on; Jack flipped the dial--a kibosh on thoughts of Bill McPherson. He caught a happy Broadway tune, thought about him anyway.
_Hush-Hush_ was his idea: McPherson liked colored poon, Sid Hudgens loved writing up jig-fuckers. Ellis Loew knew about it, approved of it, considered it another favor on deposit. McPherson's wife filed for divorce; Loew was satisfied--he took a lead in the polls. Dudley Smith wanted more--and set up the tank job.
An easy parlay:
Dot Rothstein knew a colored girl doing a stretch at Juvenile Hall: soliciting beefs, Dot and the girl kept a thing sizzling whenever she did time. Dot got the little twist sprung; Dudley and his ace goon Mike Breuning fixed up a room at the Lilac View Motel: the most notorious fuck pad on the Sunset Strip, county ground where the city D.A. would be just another john caught with his pants down. McPherson attended a Dining Car soiree; Dudley had Marvell Wilkins--fourteen, dark, witchy-- waiting outside. Breuning alerted the West Hollywood Sheriff's and the press; the Big V dropped chloral hydrates in McPherson's last martini. Mr. D.A. left the restaurant woozy, swerved his Cadillac a mile or so, pulled over at Wilshire and Alvarado and passed out. Breuning cruised up behind him with the bait: Marvell in a cocktail gown. He took the wheel of McPherson's Caddy, hustled Bad Bill and the girl to their tryst spot--the rest was political history.
Ellis Loew wasn't told--he figured he just got lucky. Dot sent Marvell down to Tijuana, all expenses paid--skim off the Woman's Jail budget. McPherson lost his wife and his job; his statch rape charge was dismissed--Marvell couldn't be located. Something snapped inside the Bigggg V--
The snap: one shitty favor over the line. The reason: Dot Rothstein in the ambulance October '47--she knew, Dudley probably knew. If they knew, the game had to be played so the rest of the world wouldn't know--so Karen wouldn't.
He'd been her hero a solid year; somehow the bit got real. He stopped sending the Scoggins kids money, closing out his debt at forty grand--he needed cash to court Karen, being with her gave him some distance on the Malibu Rendezvous. Joan Morrow Loew stayed bitchy; Welton and the old lady grudgingly accepted him--and Karen loved him so hard it almost hurt. Working Ad Vice hurt--the job was a snore, he hot-dogged on dope every time he got a shot. Sid Hudgens didn't call so much--he wasn't a Narco dick now. After the McPherson gig he was glad--he didn't know if he could pull another shakedown.
Karen had her own lies going--they helped his hero bit play true. Trust fund, beach pad paid for by Daddy, grad school. Dilettante stuff: he was thirty-eight, she was twenty-three, in time she'd figure it out. She wanted to marry him; he resisted; Ellis Loew as an in-law meant bagman duty until he dropped dead. He knew why his hero role worked: Karen was the audience he'd alway
s wanted to impress. He knew what she could take, what she couldn't; her love had shaped his performance so that all he had to do was act natural--and keep certain secrets hidden.
Traffic snagged; Jack turned north on Doheny, west on Charleville. 9849--a two-story Tudor--stood a block off Wilshire. Jack double-parked, checked mailboxes.
Six slots: Loretta Downey, five other names--three Mr. & Mrs., one man, one woman. Jack wrote them down, walked to Wilshire, found a pay phone. Calls to R&I and the DMV police information line; two waits. No criminal records on the tenants; one standout vehicle sheet: Christine Bergeron, the mailbox "Miss," four reckless-driving convictions, no license revocation. Jack got extra stats off the clerk: the woman was thirty-seven years old, her occupation was listed as actress/car hop, as of 7/52 she was working at Stan's Drive-in in Hollywood.
Instincts: carhops don't live in Beverly Hills; maybe Christine Bergeron hopped some bones to stretch the rent. Jack walked back to 9849, knocked on the door marked "Manager."
An old biddy opened up. "Yes, young man?"
Jack flashed his badge. "L.A. Police, ma'am. It's about those books you found."
The biddy squinted through Coke-bottle glasses. "My late husband would have seen to justice himself, Mr. Harold Downey had no tolerance for dirty things."
"Did you find those magazines yourself, Mrs. Downey?"
"No, young man, my cleaning lady did. _She_ tore them up and threw them in the trash, where I found them. I questioned Eula about it after I called the Beverly Hills police."
"Where did Eula find the books?"
"Well . . . I . . . don't know if I should . . ."
A switcheroo. "Tell me about Christine Bergeron."
Harumph. "That woman! And that boy of hers! I don't know who's worse!"
"Is she a difficult tenant, ma'am?"
"She entertains men at all hours! She roller-skates on the floor in those tight waitress outfits of hers! She's got a no-goodnik son who never goes to school! Seventeen years old and a truant who associates with lounge lizards!"
Jack held out a Bobby Inge mugshot; the biddy held it up to her glasses. "Yes, this is one of Daryl's no-goodnik friends, I've seen him skulking around here a dozen times. Who _is_ he?"
"Ma'am, did Eula find those dirty books in the Bergeron apartment?"
"Well . . ."
"Ma'am, are Christine Bergeron and the boy at home now?"
"No, I heard them leave a few hours ago. I have keen ears to make up for my poor eyesight."
"Ma'am, if you let me into their apartment and I find some more dirty books, you could earn a reward."
"Well . . ."
"Have you got keys, ma'am?"
"Of course I have keys, I'm the manager. Now, I'll let you look if you promise not to touch and I don't have to pay withholding tax on my reward."
Jack took the mugshot back. "Whatever you want, ma'am." The old woman walked upstairs, up to the second-floor units. Jack followed; granny unlocked the third door down. "Five minutes, young man. And be respectful of the furnishings--my brother-in-law owns this building."
Jack walked in. Tidy living room, scratched floor--probably roller-skate tracks. Quality furniture, worn, ill-cared-for. Bare walls, no TV, two framed photos on an end table--publicity-type shots.
Jack checked them out; old lady Downey stuck close. Matching pewter frames--two good-looking people.
A pretty woman--light hair in a pageboy, eyes putting out a cheap sparkle. A pretty boy who looked just like her--extra blond, big stupid eyes. "Is this Christine and her son?"
"Yes, and they are an attractive pair, I'll give them that. Young man, what is the amount of that reward you mentioned?" Jack ignored her and hit the bedroom: through the drawers, in the closet, under the mattress. No smut, no dope, nothing hinky--negligees the only shit worth a sniff.
"Young man, your five minutes are up. And I want a written guarantee that I will receive that reward."
Jack turned around smiling. "I'll mail it to you. And I need another minute or so to check their address book."
"No! No! They could come home at any moment! I want you to leave this instant!"
"Just one minute, ma'am."
"No, no, no! Out with you this second!"
Jack made for the door. The old bat said, "You remind me of that policeman on that television program that's so popular."
"I taught him everything he knows."
o o o
He felt a quickie shaping up.
Bobby Inge rats off the smut peddlers, turns state's, some kind of morals rap on him and Daryl Bergeron: the kid was a minor, Bobby was a notorious fruitfly with a rap sheet full of homopandering beefs. Wrap it up tight: confessions, suspects located, lots of paperwork for Millard. The big-time Big V cracks the big-time filth ring and wings back to Narco a hero.
Up to Hollywood, a loop by Stan's Drive-in----Christine Bergeron slinging hash on skates. Pouty, provocative--the quasihooker type, maybe the type to pose with a dick in her mouth. Jack parked, read the Bobby Inge sheet. Two outstanding bench warrants: traffic tickets, a failure-to-appear probation citation. Last known address 1424 North Hamel, West Hollywood--the heart of Lavender Gulch. Three fruit bars for "known haunts"--Leo's Hideaway, the Knight in Armor, B.J.'s Rumpus Room--all on Santa Monica Boulevard nearby. Jack drove to Hamel Drive, his cuffs out and open.
A bungalow court off the Strip: county turf, "Inge--Apt 6" on a mailbox. Jack found the pad, knocked, no answer. "Bobby, hey, sugar," a falsetto trill--still no bite. A locked door, drawn curtains--the whole place dead quiet. Jack went back to his car, drove south.
Fag bar city: Inge's haunts in a two-block stretch. Leo's Hideaway closed until 4:00; the Knight in Armor empty. The barkeep vamped him--"Bobby who?"--like he really didn't know. Jack hit B.J.'s Rumpus Room.
Tufted Naugahyde inside--the walls, ceiling, booths adjoining a small bandstand. Queers at the bar; the barman sniffed cop right off. Jack walked over, laid his mugshots out face up.
The barman picked them up. "That's Bobby something. He comes in pretty often."
"How often?"
"Oh, like several times a week."
"The afternoon or the evening?"
"Both."
"'When was the last time he was here?"
"Yesterday. Actually, it was around this time yesterday. Are you--"
"I'm going to sit at one of those booths over there and wait for him. If he shows up, keep quiet about me. Do you understand?"
"Yes. But look, you've cleared the whole dance floor out already."
"Write it off your taxes."
The barkeep giggled; Jack walked over to a booth near the bandstand. A clean view: the front door, back door, bar. Darkness covered him. He watched.
Queer mating rituals:
Glances, tête-à-têtes, out the door. A mirror above the bar: the fruits could check each other out, meet eyes and swoon. Two hours, half a pack of cigarettes--no Bobby Inge.
His stomach growled; his throat felt raw; the bottles on the bar smiled at him. Itchy boredom: at 4:00 he'd hit Leo's Hideaway.
3:53--Bobby Inge walked in.
He took a stool; the barman poured him a drink. Jack walked up.
The barman, spooked: darting eyes, shaky hands. Inge swiveled around. Jack said, "Police. Hands on your head."
Inge tossed his drink. Jack tasted scotch; scotch burned his eyes. He blinked, stumbled, tripped blind to the floor. He tried to cough the taste out, got up, got blurry sight back--Bobby Inge was gone.
He ran outside. No Bobby on the sidewalk, a sedan peeling rubber. His own car two blocks away.
Liquor brutalizing him.
Jack crossed the street, over to a gas station. He hit the men's room, threw his blazer in a trashcan. He washed his face, smeared soap on his shirt, tried to vomit the booze taste out--no go. Soapy water in the sink--he swallowed it, guzzled it, retched.
Coming to: his heart quit skidding, his legs firmed up. He took off his holster, wrapped it in paper towe
ls, went back to the car. He saw a pay phone--and made the call on instinct.
Sid Hudgens picked up. "_Hush-Hush_, off the record and on the QT."
"Sid, it's Vincennes."
"Jackie, are you back on Narco? I need copy."
"No, I've got something going with Ad Vice."
"Something good? Celebrity oriented?"
"I don't know if it's good, but if it gets good you've got it."
"You sound out of breath, Jackie. You been shtupping?"
Jack coughed--soap bubbles. "Sid, I'm chasing some smut books. Picture stuff. Fuck shots, but the people don't look like junkies and they're wearing these expensive costumes. It's welldone stuff, and I thought you might have heard something about it."
"No. No, I've heard bupkis."
Too quick, no snappy one-liner. "What about a male prostie named Bobby Inge or a woman named Christine Bergeron? She carhops, maybe peddles it on the side."
"Never heard of them, Jackie."
"Shit. Sid, what about independent smut pushers in general. What do you know?"
"Jack, I know that that is secret shit that I know nothing about. And the thing about secrets, Jack, is that everybody's got them. Including you. Jack, I'll talk to you later. Call when you get work."
The line clicked off.
EVERYBODY'S GOT SECRETS--INCLUDING YOU.