"Yes."
"Concisely put. And in that concise attorney's manner of yours, what would you say is behind it?"
"Politics. Bob Gallaudet for the Republicans, Welles Noonan for the Democrats."
"Yes, strange bedfellows. And ironic that the Federal Government should be represented by a man with fellow-traveler tendencies. I understand that that man spat in your face, lad."
"You've got good eyes out there, Dud."
"Twenty-twenty vision, all my boys. Lad, do you hate Noonan? It's safe to say that he"--wink--"considers you negligent in the matter of Sanderline Johnson's unscheduled flight."
I winked back. "He thinks I bought him the ticket."
Ho, ho, ho. "Lad, you dearly amuse this old man. By any chance were you raised Catholic?"
"Lutheran."
"Aah, a Prod. Christianity's second string, God bless them. Do you still believe, lad?"
"Not since my pastor joined the German-American Bund."
"Aah, Hitler, God bless him. A bit unruly, but frankly I preferred him to the Reds. Lad, did your second-string faith feature an equivalent to confession?"
"No."
"A pity, because at this moment our interrogation rooms are filled with confessees and confessors, that grand custom being utilized to offset any untoward publicity this Federal business might foist upon the Department. Brass tacks, lad. Dan Wilhite has told me of Chief Exley's potentially provocative fixation on the Kafesjian family, with you as his agent provocateur. Lad, will you confess your opinion of what the man wants?"
Sidestep: "I don't like him any more than you do. He got chief of detectives over you, and I wish to hell you'd gotten the job."
"Grand sentiments, lad, which of course I share. But what do you think the man is doing?"
Feed him--my Johnny snitch prelim. "I think--maybe--he's sacrificing Narco to the Feds. It's a largely autonomous division, and _maybe_ he's certain that the Fed probe will prove successful enough to require a scapegoat that will protect the rest of the Department _and_ Bob Gallaudet. Exley is two things: intelligent and ambitious. I've always thought that he'll get tired of police work and try politics himself, and we know how tight he is with Bob. I think--_maybe_--he's convinced Parker to let Narco go, with his eye on his own goddamn future."
"A brilliant interpretation, lad. And as for the Kafesjian burglary itself, and your role as Exley's chosen investigating officer?"
I ticked points: "You're right, I'm an agent provocateur. Chronologically: Sanderline Johnson jumps, and now Noonan hates me. The Southside Fed probe is already rumored, and the Kafesjian burglary occurs coincident to it. Coincident to _that_, I operate a pinko politician who's enamored of Noonan. Now, the Kafesjian burglary is nothing--it's a pervert job. But the Kafesjians are scum personified and tight with the LAPD's most autonomous and vulnerable division. At first I thought Exley was operating Dan Wilhite, but now I think he put me out there to draw heat. I'm out there, essentially getting nowhere on a worthless pervert 459. It's a one--I mean _two_-man job, and if Exley _really_ wanted the case cleared he would have put out a half-dozen men. I think he's running me. He's playing off my reputation and running me."
Dudley, beaming: "Salutary, lad--your intelligence, your lawyer-sharp articulation. Now, what does Sergeant George Stemmons, Jr., think of the job? My sources say he's been behaving rather erratically lately."
Spasms--don't flinch. "You mean your source Johnny Duhamel. Junior taught him at the Academy."
"Johnny's a good lad, and your colleague Stemmons should trim his disgraceful sideburns to regulation length. Did you know that I co-opted Johnny to the Hurwitz investigation?"
"Yeah, I'd heard. Isn't he little green for a case like that?"
"He's a grand young copper, and I heard that you yourself sought to command the job."
"Robbery's clean, Dud. I'm looking out for too many friends working Ad Vice."
Ho-ho, wink-wink. "Lad, your powers of perception have just won you the undying friendship of a certain Irishman named Dudley Liam Smith, and I am frankly amazed that two bright lads such as ourselves have remained merely acquaintances all these many years."
SNITCH DUHAMEL.
DO IT NOW.
"On the topic of friendship, lad, I understand that you and Bob Gallaudet are quite close."
Hallway noise--grunts/thuds/"Dave Klein my friend!"
Lester--sweat box row.
I sprinted over--door number 3 was just closing. Check the window-- Lester handcuffed, dribbling teeth--Breuning and Carlisle swinging saps overtime.
Shoulder wedge-I snapped the door clean.
Breuning--distracted--huh?
Carlisle--blood-fogged glasses.
Out of breath, pitch the lie: "He was with me when Wardell Knox was killed."
Carlisle: "Was that a.m. or p.m.?"
Breuning: "Hey, Sambo, try to sing 'Harbor Lights' now."
Lester spat blood and teeth in Breuning's face.
Carlisle balled his fists--I kicked his legs out. Breuning yelped, bloodblind--I sapped his knees.
That brogue:
"Lads, you'll have to release Mr. Lake. Lieutenant, bless you for expediting justice with your splendid alibi."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dear Mr. Hughes, Mr. Milteer:
On the dates of 11/11, 11/12 and 11/13/58, Glenda Bledsoe participated in actively publicizing performers currently under contract to Variety International Pictures, a clear legal breach of her contract with Hughes Aircraft, Tool Company, Productions et aI. Specifically, Miss Bledsoe allowed herself to be photographed and interviewed with actors Rock Rockwell and Salvatore "Touch" Vecchio, on matters pertaining to their acting careers outside the production/publicity confines of _Attack of the Atomic Vampire_, the motion picture all three are currently involved with. Specifics will follow in a subsequent note, but you should now be advised that Miss Bledsoe's Hughes contract is legally voided: she can be sued in civil court, dunned for financial damages and blackballed from future studio film appearances under various clauses of her Hughes contract. My continued surveillance of Miss Bledsoe has revealed no instances of actress domicile theft; if items are missing from those premises, most likely they have been stolen by local youths employing loose window access: such youths would know that the domiciles were intermittently occupied and take their thievery from there. Please inform me if you wish me to continue surveilling Miss Bledsoe; be advised that you now have enough information to proceed with all legal dispatch.
Respectfully,
David D. Klein
Dawn--the trailer. Glenda sleeping; Lester curled up outside by the spaceship.
I stepped out; Lester stirred and gargled T-Bird. Confab: the camera boss and director.
"Come on, Sid, this time the head vampire _plucks_ the guy's eyes out."
"But Mickey's afraid I'm making things too gruesome. I ... I don't know."
"Jesus Christ, you take the extra and pour some fake blood in his eyes."
"Wylie, _you_ come on. Let me have coffee before I start thinking gore at six-forty-nine in the morning."
Lester weaved over--cut, bruised. "I always wanted to be a movie star. Maybe I stick aroun' an extra day or so, play the Negro vampire."
"No, Breuning and Carlisle will be looking for you. They didn't pin Wardell Knox on you, but they'll find something."
"I don't feel so much like runnin'."
"_You do it_. I told you last night: call Meg and tell her I said she should stake you. You want to end up dead for resisting arrest some goddamn night when you think they've forgotten about it?"
"No, I don't think I do. Say, Mr. Klein, I never thought I'd see the day Mr. Smith gave me a break."
I winked a la Dudley. "He likes my style, lad."
Lester strolled back to his bottle. The director fisheyed me--I strolled to the trailer, nonchalant.
Glenda was reading my note. "David, this could kill--I mean _ruin_ me in the film business."
"We have to give t
hem something. If they believe it, they won't press theft charges. And it diverts attention from the actress pads."
"There's been nothing on TV or in the papers."
"The more time goes by, the better. Hughes might report him missing, and the body will be found sooner or later. Either way, we might or might not be questioned. I had words with him, so I'm more likely to be a pro forma suspect. I can handle it, and I know you can handle it. We're. . . oh shit."
"We're _professionals?_"
"Don't be so cruel, it's too early."
She took my hands. "When can _we_ go public?"
"We may have already. I shouldn't have stayed so late, and we should probably cool things for a while."
"Until when?"
"Until we're cleared on Miciak."
"That's the first time we've said his name."
"We haven't really talked about it at all."
"No, we've been too busy sharing secrets. What about alibis?"
"For up to two weeks you were home alone. After two weeks you don't remember--nobody remembers that long."
"There's something else bothering you. I could tell last night."
Neck prickles--I blurted it. "It's the Kafesjian job. I was questioning a girl who knows Tommy K., and she said Lucille did call jobs for Doug Ancelet."
"I don't think I knew her. The girls never used their real names, and if I knew someone similar to the way you described her, I would have told you. Are you going to question him?"
"Yeah, today."
"When did she work for Doug?"
"_Doug?_"
Glenda laughed. "_I_ worked for Doug briefly, after the Gilette thing, and you're disturbed that I used to do what I did."
"No--I just don't want you connected to any of this."
Lacing our fingers--"I'm not, except that I'm connected to you"-- squeezing tighter--"So _go_. It's Premier Escorts, 481 South Rodeo, next to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel."
I kissed her. "You make things worse, then you make them better."
"No, it's just that you like your trouble in smaller doses."
"You've got me."
"I'm not so sure. And be careful with Doug. He used to pay off the Beverly Hills Police."
I walked--lightheaded. Lester serenaded winos by the spaceship-- "Harbor Lights"--the gap-toothed version.
o o o
Phone news:
Woods spotted Junior in Darktown--then lost him running a red light. Jack--irked, going back out: "It looks like he's living in his car. He had his badge pinned to his coat, like he's a fucking Wild West sheriff, and I saw him buying gas with two big automatics shoved down his pants."
Bad, but:
He hit box 5841-check under his doormat, grab the key, check his mail slot. "Four envelopes, Dave. Jesus, I thought you were sending me after jewels or something. And you owe me-"
I hung up and drove over. There: the key, the slot, four letters. Back to my car--Champ Dineen mail.
Two letters sealed, two slit. I opened the sealed ones--both from _Transom_ to Champ--recent postmarks. Inside: fifty-dollar bills, notes: "Champ--Thanx mucho, Harris"; "Champ--Thanx, man!"
Two slit--left for safekeeping?--no return address, Christmas '57 postmarks. Eleven months P0 box stashed--why?
December 17, 1957
My Dear Son,
I am so sad to be apart from you this holiday season. Circumstances have not been kind in the keeping us together department for several years now. The others of course do not miss you the way I do, which makes me miss you more and makes me miss the pretend happy family that we once had years ago.
The strange life that you have chosen to live is a strange comfort to me, though. I don't miss the housekeeping money I send you and it's like a secret joke when your father reads my itemized household expense lists with large "miscellaneous" amounts that I refuse to explain. He, of course, considers you just someone in hiding from the real responsibilities of life. I know that the circumstances of our family life and theirs too has done something to you. You cannot live the way other people do and I love you for not pretending to. Your musical interests must give you comfort and I always buy the records you tell me to buy even though the music is not normally the type of music I enjoy. Your father and sisters ignore the records and suspect that I buy them only to be in touch with you in this difficult absence of yours, but they don't know that they are direct recommendations! I only listen to them when the others are out and with all the lights off in the house. Every day I intercept the mailman before he gets to our house so the others will not know that you are contacting me. This is our secret. We are new to living this way, you and me, but even if we have to live this way always like long lost pen pals living in the same city I will do it because I understand the terrible things this long history of insanity both our families has endured has done to you. I understand and I don't judge you. That is my Christmas gift to you.
Love,
Mother
Neat handwriting, ridged paper--non-print-sustaining. No Richie confirmation; "Long history of insanity/both our families." My peeper: mother/father/sisters. "Circumstances of our family life and theirs too has done something to you."
December 24, 1957
Dear Son,
Merry Christmas even though I don't feel the Christmas spirit and even though the jazz Christmas albums you told me to buy didn't cheer me up, because the melodies were so out of kilter to my more traditional ear. I just feel tired. Maybe I have iron poor blood like on the Geritol TV commercials, but I think it is more like an accumulation that has left me physically exhausted on top of the other. I feel like I want it to be over. I feel more than anything else like I just don't want to know any more. Three months ago I said I was close to doing it and it spurred you to do a rash thing. I don't want to do that again. Sometimes when I play some of the prettier songs on the records you suggest to me I think that heaven will be like that and I get close. Your sisters are no comfort. Since your father gave me what that prostitute gave him I can only use him for his money, and if I had my druthers I would give you all the money anyway. Write to me. The mail gets bollixed up at Xmastime, but I'll be watching for the postman at all different times.
Love,
Mother
Sisters/music/well-heeled father.
Mother suicidal--close three months before--"it spurred you to do a rash thing."
"Your father gave me what that prostitute gave him."
The peeper tape, Trick Man to Lucille: "that little dose you gave me."
Doug Ancelet fires Lucille--"She gave these tricks of hers the gonorrhea."
Snap call:
The peeper taped Lucille and _his own father_.
"Insanity."
"Both our families."
"Our family life and _theirs_ too has done something to you."
I drove home, changed, grabbed the tape rig, extra sketches and my john list. A pay-phone stop, a call to Exley--I pitched him hard, no explanation:
Leroy Carpenter/Steve Wenzel/Patrick Orchard--I want them. Send squadroom men out--_I want those pushers detained_.
Exley agreed--grudgingly. Agreed too: Wilshire Station detention. Suspicious: Why not 77th?
Unsaid:
I'm having a cop killed/I don't want Dudley Smith around--he's too close to this fur-thief cop--
"I'll implement it, Lieutenant. But I want a full report on your interrogations."
"Yes, sir!"
10:30 A.M.--Premier Escorts should be open.
Out to Beverly Hills--Rodeo off the Beverly Wilshire. Open: a groundfloor suite, a receptionist.
"Doug Ancelet, please."
"Are you a client?"
"A potential one."
"May I ask who recommended you?"
"Peter Bondurant"--pure bluff--a big-time whorehound.
Behind us: "Karen, if he knows Pete, send him in."
I walked back. A nice office--dark wood, golf prints. An old man dressed for golf, PR smile on.
"I'm
Doug Ancelet."
"Dave Klein."
"How is Pete, Mr. Klein? I haven't seen him in a dog's age."
"He's busy. Between his work for Howard Hughes and _Hush-Hush_ he's always on the run."
Pseudo-warm: "God, the stories that man has. You know, Pete has been both a client for several years _and_ a talent scout for companions for Mr. Hughes. In fact, we've introduced Mr. Hughes to several young ladies who've gone on to become contract actresses for him."
"Pete gets around."
"He does indeed. My God, he's the man who verifies the veracity of those scurrilous stories in that scurrilous scandal rag. Has he explained how Premier Escorts works?"
"Not in detail."
Practiced: "It's by word of mouth exclusively. People know people, and they recommend us. We operate on a principle of relative anonymity, and all our clients use pseudonyms and call us when they wish to have an introduction made. That way we don't have their real names or phone numbers on file. We have picture files on the young ladies we send out on dates, and they use appropriately seductive pseudonyms themselves. With the exception of a few clients like Pete, I doubt that I know a halfdozen of my clients and girls by their real names. Those picture files on the girls also list the pseudonyms of the men they've dated, to aid us in making recommendations. Anonymity. We accept only cash as payment, and I assure you, Mr. Klein--I've forgotten your real name already."
Tweak him: "Lucille Kafesjian."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Another client mentioned her to me. A sexy brunette, a little on the plump side. Frankly, he said she was great. Unfortunately, he also said that you dismissed her for giving your clients venereal disease."
"Unfortunately, I've dismissed a few girls for that offense, and one of them did use an Armenian surname. Who was the client who mentioned her?"
"A man in Stan Kenton's band."
Eyeing me--copwise now. "Mr. Klein, what do you do for a living?"