Miciak clawing the rack, up with a cleaver.
I stumbled in close--numb legs--smell the blood--
He stabbed, missed, lurched into the knife rack. She stabbed--his back, his face--blade jabs ripped his cheeks out.
Gurgles/screeches/whines--Miciak dying loud. Knife handles sticking out at odd angles--I threw him down, twisted them, killed him.
Glenda--no screams, this look: SLOW, I've been here before.
o o o
SLOW:
We killed the lights and waited ten minutes--no outside response. Plans then--soft whispers holding each other bloody.
No dining room carpet--luck. We showered and swapped clothes-- Hughes kept a male/female stash. We bagged our own stuff, washed the floor, the rack, the knives.
Blankets in a closet--we wrapped Miciak up and locked him in his car trunk. 1:50 A.M.--out, back--no witnesses. Out and back again--our cars tucked below Mulholland.
A plan, a fall guy: the Wino Will-o-the-Wisp, L.A.'s favorite at-large killer.
Out to Topanga Canyon solo--I drove Miciak's car. Hillhaven Kiddieland Kamp--defunct, wino turf. I flashlight-checked all six cabins--no bums residing.
I stashed the car out of sight.
I wiped it.
Kougar Kub Kabin--dump the body.
I throttled the corpse per the Wisp MO.
I rolled it through sawdust to stuff up the stab wounds. Forensic logic: impacted wounds made knife casting impossible. Hope logic:
Howard Hughes, publicity shy--he might not push to find his man's killer.
I walked back to Pacific Coast Highway. SLOW fear speeding up--
Sporadic tails dogging me.
A tail tonight meant grief forever.
Glenda picked me up at PCH. Back to Mulholland, two cars to my place, bed just to talk.
_Small_ talk--her will held. CinemaScope/Technicolor knife work--I pushed to know she didn't like it.
_______________________________________
I hit the pillow by her face.
I shined the bed light in her eyes.
I told her:
My father shot a dog/I torched his toolshed/he hit my sister/I shot him, the gun jammed/these Two Tony fucks hurt my sister/I killed them/I killed five other men/I took money--what gives you the right to play it so stylish--
Hit the pillow, make her talk--no style, no tears:
She was floating, carhopping, this pretend actress. She was sleeping around for rent money--a guy told Dwight Gilette. He propositioned her: turn tricks for a fifty-fifty split. She agreed, she did it--sad sacks mostly. Georgie Ainge once--no rough stuff from him--but regular beatings from Gilette.
She got mad. She got this pretend-actress idea. buy a gun off Georgie and scare Dwight. Pretend actress with a prop now: a real pistol.
Dwight made her drive his "nieces" to his "brother's" place in Oxnard. It was fun--cute colored toddlers--their pictures on TV a week later.
Two four-year-olds starved, tortured and raped--found dead in an Oxnard sewer.
Pretend actress, errand girl. This real-actress idea:
Kill Gilette--be fore he sends any more kids out to be snuffed.
She did it.
She didn't like it.
You don't skate from things like that--you crawl stylish.
o o o
I held her.
I talked a Kafesjian blue streak
Champ Dineen lulled us to sleep.
o o o
I woke up early. I heard Glenda in the bathroom, sobbing.
_______________________________________
CHAPTER TWENTY
Harris Dulange--fifty, bad teeth: "Since me and the magazine are as clean as a cat's snatch, I will tell you how _Transom_ works. First, we hire hookers or aspiring actresses down on their luck for the photos. The written stuff is by yours truly, the editor-in-chief, or it's scribed by college kids who write out their fantasies in exchange for free issues. It's what _Hush-Hush_ calls 'Sinuendo.' We tack those movie-star initials onto our stories so that our admittedly feeble-minded readers will think, 'Wow, is that really Marilyn Monroe?'"
Tired--I made an early Bureau run for Pinker's sketch. Exley said no all-points distribution--last night left me too fried to fight him.
"Lieutenant, are you daydreaming? I know this isn't the nicest office in the world, but..."
I pulled the June '58 issue out. "Who wrote this father-daughter story?"
"I don't even have to look. If it's plump brunettes hot for some daddy surrogate, it's Champ Dineen."
"_What?_ Do you know who Champ Dineen is?"
"_Was_, because he died some time back. I knew the guy was using a pseudonym."
I flashed Pinker's sketch. Dulange deadpanned it: "Who's this?"
"Odds are it's the man who wrote those stories. Haven't you seen him?"
"No. We only talked on the phone. Nice-looking picture, though. Surprising. I figured the guy would be a troll."
"Did he say his real name was Richie? That might be a lead on his ID."
"No. We only talked on the phone once. He said his name was Champ Dineen, and I thought, 'Copacetic, and only in L.A.' Lieutenant, let me ask you. Does the Champster have a voyeur fetish?"
"Yes."
Dulange--nodding, stretching: "Say eleven months ago, around Christmas, this pseudo-Champ guy calls me up out of the blue. He says he's got access to some good _Transom_-type stuff, something like a whorehouse peek. I said, 'Swell, send me a few samples, maybe we can do business.' So... he sent me two stories. There was a P0-box return address, and I thought, 'What? He's on the lam or he lives in a post office box?'"
"Go on."
"So the stuff was good. _Cash good_--and I rarely pay for text, just pictures. Anyway, it was two girlie-daddy stories, and the dialogue introductions were realistic, like he eavesdropped on this sick game stuff. The accompanying stories weren't so hot, but I sent him a C-note off the books and a note: 'Keep the fires stoked, I like your stuff.'"
"Did he send the stories in handwritten?"
"Yes."
"Did you keep them?"
"No, I typed them over, then tossed them."
"You did that every time he sent stories in?"
"That's right. Four issues featuring the Champ, four times I typed the stuff up and tossed it. That was June '58 you showed me, plus the Champ also made it in February '58, May '58 and September '58. You want copies? I can have the warehouse send them to you, maybe take a week."
"No sooner?"
"The wetbacks they got working there? For them a week's Speedy Gonzales."
I laid a card down. "Send them to my office."
"Okay, but you'll be disappointed."
"Why?"
"The Champ's a one-trick jockey. It's all quasi-incest stuff featuring plump brunettes. I think I'll start editing him and change things around. Rita Hayworth looking to bang father surrogates is spicier, don't you think?"
"Sure. Now, what about a contributors' file?"
He tapped his head. "Right here. We're cramped for space in the plush offices of _Transom_ magazine."
Itchy--thinking Glenda. "Do you pay the man by check?"
"No, always cash. When we talked on the phone he said cash only. Lieutenant, you're getting antsy, so I'll tell you. Check P0 box 5841 at the main downtown post office. That's where I send the gelt. It's always cash, and if you're thinking of finking me to the IRS, don't--because the Champ man is covered under various petty-cash clauses."
Hot--the A.M. sweats. "How did he sound that one time you talked to him?"
"Like a square punk who always wanted to be a hepcat jazz musician. Say, did you know that my kid brother was a suspect in the Black Dahlia case?"
o o o
PO box stakeout?--too time-consuming. Glom a writ to bag the contents?--ditto. Bust the box open?--yes----call Jack Woods.
Phone dimes:
Jack--no answer. Meg--tap our property account for ten grand cash. Okay, no "Why?", news: She and Jac
k were an item again. I resisted a cheap laugh: give _him_ the ten--he's killing Junior for me.
Shot/shivved/bludgeoned--picture it--Junior dead.
Pincushion Miciak--seeing it/_feeling_ it: knife blades snagged on his spine.
More calls:
Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle--77th, the Bureau--no luck. Picture Lester Lake scared shitless--cops out to frame him.
Picture Glenda: "Shit, David, you caught me crying."
I drove down to Darktown--a name-tossing run. Bars and early-open jazz clubs--go.
Names:
Tommy Kafesjian, Richie--an old Tommy friend? Tilly Hopewell-- consort--Tommy and the late Wardell Knox. My wild card: Johnny Duhamel--ex-fighter cop.
Names tossed to:
B-girls, hopheads, loafers, juice friends, bartenders. My tossbacks: Richie--straight deadpans. White Peeping Toms--clitto. Tilly Hopewell-- junkie talk--she was an ex-hype off a recent hospital cure. Wardell Knox--"He dead and I don't know who did it." Schoolboy Johnny-- boxing IDs only.
My peeper sketch: zero IDs.
Dusk--more clubs open. More name tosses--zero results--I checked slot-machine traffic on reflex. A coin crew at the Rick Rack--white/s pic-- Feds across the street, camera ready. Mickey slot men on film--Suicide Mickey.
Cop-issue Plymouths out thick--Feds, LAPD. Intermittent heebiejeebies--tails on me LAST NIGHT?
I stopped at a pay phone. Out of dimes--I used slugs.
Glenda--my place, her place--no answer. Jack Woods--no answer. Over to Bido Lito's--toss names, toss shit--I got nothing but sneers back.
Two-drink minimum--I grabbed a stool and ordered two scotches. Voodoo eyes: wall-to-wall niggers.
I downed the juice fast--two drinks, no more. Scotch warm, this idea: wait for Tommy K. and shove him outside. Do you fuck your sister/does your father fuck your sister--brass knucks until he coughed up family dirt.
The barman had drink three ready--I said no. A combo setting up-I waved the sax man over. He agreed: twenty dollars for a Champ Dineen medley.
Lights down. Vibes/drums/sax/trumpet--go.
Themes--loud/fast, soft/slow. Soft--the barman talked mythic Champ Dineen.
Dig:
He came out of nowhere. He looked white--but rumor made his bloodlines mongrel. He played piano and bass sax, wrote jazz and cut a few sides. Handsome, jumbo hung: he fucked in whorehouse peek shows and never had his picture taken. Champ in love: three rich-girl sisters, their mother. Four mistresses--four children born--a rich cuckold daddy shot the Champ Man dead.
A drink on the bar--I bolted it. _My_ mythic peeper-dig _his_ story, just maybe:
Whorehouse peek equals _Transom_; family intrigue equals KAFESJIAN.
I ran outside--across the street to a phone bank. Jack Woods' number, three rings--"Hello?"
"It's me."
"Dave, don't ask. I'm still looking for him."
"Keep going, it's not that."
"What is it?"
"It's another two grand if you want it. You know the all-night post office downtown?"
"Sure."
"Box 5841. You break in and bring me the contents. Wait until three o'clock or so, you'll get away clean."
Jack whistled. "You've got Fed trouble, right? Some kind of seizure writ won't do it, so--"
"Yes or no?"
"Yes. I like you in trouble, you're generous. Call me tomorrow, all right?"
I hung up. My memory jolted--_plate_ numbers. Jack's work--those Junior shakedownees he spotted. I dug my notebook out and buzzed the DMV.
Slow--read the numbers off, wait. Cold air juked my booze rush and cleared my head--pusher shakedown victims--potential Junior/Tommy snitchers.
My readout:
Patrick Dennis Orchard, male caucasian--1704½ S. Hi Point; Leroy George Carpenter, male negro--819 W. 71st Street, #114; Stephen NMI Wenzel, male caucasian, 1811 S. St. Andrews, #B.
Two white men--surprising. Think: Lester Lake shot me Tilly Hopewell's address. There, grab it: 8491 South Trinity, 406.
Close by--I got there quick. A four-story walk-up-I parked curbside.
No lift--I walked up for real. 406--push the buzzer.
Spyhole clicks. "Who is it?"
"Police."
Chain noise, the door open. Tilly: a thirtyish high yellow, maybe half white.
"Miss Hopewell?"
"Yes"--no coon drawl.
"It's just a few questions."
She walked backward-dead cowed. The front room: shabby, clean. "Are you from the Probation?"
I closed the door. "LAPD."
Goosebumps: "Narco?"
"Administrative Vice."
She whipped papers off the TV. "I'm clean. I had my Nalline test today. See?"
"I don't care."
"Then . . ."
"Let's start with Tommy Kafesjian."
Tilly backed up, brushed a chair, plunked down. "Say what, Mr. Police?"
"Say what shit, you're not that kind of colored. _Tommy Kafesjian_."
"I know Tommy."
"And you've been intimate with him."
"Yes."
"And you've been intimate with Wardell Knox and Lester Lake."
"That's true, and I'm not the kind of colored who thinks it's all a big sin, either."
"Wardell's dead."
"I know that."
"Tommy killed him."
"Tommy's evil, but I'm not saying he killed Wardell. And if he did, he's LAPD protected, so I'm not giving away anything you don't already know."
"You're a smart girl, Tilly."
"You mean for colored I'm smart."
"Smart's smart. Now give me a motive for Tommy killing Wardell. Was it bad blood over you?"
Sitting prim--this junkie schoolmarm. "Tommy and Wardell could never get that fired up over a woman. I'm not saying Tommy killed him, but if he killed him, it's because Wardell was behind on some kind of dope payment. Which doesn't mean anything to you, considering the Christmas baskets Mr. J.C. Kafesjian sends downtown."
Change-up: "Do you like Lester Lake?"
"Of course I do."
"You don't want to see him get popped for a murder he didn't commit, do you?"
"No, but who says that's going to happen? Any plain fool can tell Lester's not the kind of man who could kill anybody."
"Come on, you know things don't work that way."
Getting antsy--raw off that dope cure. "Why do you care so much about Lester?"
"We help each other out."
"You mean you're the slum man Lester snitches for? You want to help him out, fix his bathtub."
Change-up: "Johnny Duhamel."
"Now I'll say 'say what' for real. Johnny who?"
Name toss: "Leroy Carpenter . . . Stephen Wenzel . . . Patrick Orchard. . . . Let's try a policeman named George Stemmons, Jr."
Cigarettes on a tray close by--Tilly reached trembly.
Kick it over, set her off--
"That Junior is trash! Steve Wenzel's my friend, and that Junior trash stole his bankroll and his speedballs and called him a white nigger! That Junior talked this crazy talk to him! I saw that crazy Junior man popping goofballs right out in the open by this club!"
Flash it--_my_ bankroll. "_What crazy talk?_ Come on, you're just off the cure, you know you can use a fix. _Come on, what crazy talk?_"
"I don't know! Steve just said crazy nonsense!"
"What else did he tell you about Junior?"
"Nothing else! He just said what I told you!"
"Patrick Orchard, Leroy Carpenter. _Do you know them?_"
"No! I just know Steve! And I don't want a snitch jacket!"
Twenty, forty, sixty--I dropped cash on her lap. "Tommy and his sister Lucille. Anything ugly. Tommy will never know you told me."
Dope eyes now--fuck fear. "Tommy said that sometimes Lucille whores. He said that a man in Stan Kenton's band recommended her to this Beverly Hills call-girl man. Doug something. . . Doug Ancelet? Tommy said that Lucille worked for that man for a while lik
e several years ago, but he fired her because she gave these tricks of hers the gonorrhea."
Recoil: Glenda, ex--Ancelet girl. My peeper tape--the trick to Lucille-- "that little dose you gave me."
Tilly: dope eyes, new money.
o o o
Carpenter/Wenzel/Orchard--I swung an address circuit south/ northwest. Nobody home--circuit south, crack the wind wings-cold air cleared my head.
Make Junior dead or dead soon--faggot-smear him postmortem. Leak queer dirt to _Hush-Hush_--taint his Glenda dirt. Retoss his pad, dump evidence-pump his shakedown victims. Work Kafesjian 459--and tie in Junior dirty. Question mark: his Exley file.
Brain circuits:
Exley proffers my Kafesjian payoff: Robbery Division CO. It's a shiv to Dudley Smith, the fur-job boss--the perp his "protégé" Johnny Duhamel.
Johnny and Junior--heist partners?
My instinct: unlikely.
Reflex instinct: hand Johnny up to Dud-deflect Exley's shiv, curry Dud's favor.
South, hit the gas: talk had Smith working 77th. Over--newsmen outside-a captain grandstanding:
Ignore Negro-victim 187s--never!
Watch for zealous justice soon!
Door guards kept reporters out: civilians verboten, zealotry wrapped.
I badged in. Sweat box row was packed: nigger suspects, two cop teams twirling saps.
"Lad."
Smith in the bullpen doorway. I walked over; he shot me a bonecrusher shake. "Lad, was it me you came to see?"
Sidestep: "I was looking for Breuning and Carlisle."
"Ahh, grand. Those bad pennies should turn up, but in the meantime share a colloquy with old Dudley."
Chairs right there-I grabbed two.
"Lad, in my thirty years and four months as a policeman I have never seen anything quite like this Federal business. You've been on the Department how long?"
"Twenty years and a month."
"Ah, grand, with your wartime service included, of course. Tell me, lad, is there a difference between killing Orientals and white men?"
"I've never killed a white man."
Dud winked--oh, you kid. "Nor have I. Jungle bunnies account for the seven men I have killed in the line of duty, stretching a point to allow for them as human. Lad, this Federal business is damningly provocative, isn't it?"