L.A. Confidential (12 page)

  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 towels, 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.

  Sid wasn't quite Sid, his exit line wasn't quite a warning.

  DOES HE FUCKING KNOW?

  Jack drove by Stan's Drive-in, shaky, the windows down to kill the soap smell. Christine Bergeron nowhere on the premises. Back to 9849 Charleville, knock knock on the door of her apartment--no answer, slack between the lock and the doorjamb. He gave a shove; the door popped.

  A trail of clothes on the living room floor. The picture frame gone.

  Into the bedroom, scared, his gun in the car.

  Empty cabinets and drawers. The bed stripped. Into the bathroom.

  Toothpaste and Kotex spilled in the shower. Glass shelves smashed in the sink.

  Getaway--fifteen-minute style.

  Back to West Hollywood--fast. Bobby Inge's door caved in easy; Jack went in gun first.

  Clean-out number two--a better job.

  A clean living room, pristine bathroom, bedroom showing empty dresser drawers. A can of sardines in the icebox. The kitchen trashcan clean, a fresh paper bag lining it.

  Jack tore the pad up: living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen--shelves knocked over, rugs pulled, the toilet yanked apart. He stopped on a flash: garbage cans, full, lined both sides of the street--

  There or gone.

  Figure an hour-twenty since his run-in with Inge: the fuck wouldn't run straight to his crib. He probably got off the street, cruised back slow, risked the move out with his car parked in the alley. He figured the roust was for his old warrants or the smut gig; he knew he was standing heat and couldn't be caught harboring pornography. He wouldn't risk carrying it in his car--the odds on a shake were too strong. The gutter or the trash, right near the top of the cans, maybe more skin IDs for Big Trashcan Jack.

  Jack hit the sidewalk, rooted in trashcans--gaggles of kids laughed at him. One, two, three, four, five--two left before the corner. No lid on the last can; glossy black paper sticking out.

  Jack beelined.

  Three fuck mags right on top. Jack grabbed them, ran back to his car, skimmed--the kids made goo-goo eyes at the windshield. The same Hollywood backdrops, Bobby Inge with boys and girls, unknown pretties screwing. Halfway through the third book the pix went haywire.

  Orgies, hole-to-hole daisy chains, a dozen people on a quiltcovered floor. Disembodied limbs: red sprays off arms, legs. Jack squinted, eye-strain, the red was colored ink, the photos doctored--limb severings faked, ink blood flowing in artful little swirls.

  Jack tried for IDs; obscene perfection distracted him: inkbleeding nudes, no faces he knew until the last page: Christine Bergeron and her son fucking, standing on skates planted on a scuffed hardwood floor.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A photograph, dropped in his mailbox: Sergeant Ed Exley bleeding and terrified. No printing on the back, no need for it: Stensland and White had the negative, insurance that he'd never try to break them.

  Ed, alone in the squadroom, 6:00 A.M. The stitches on his chin itched; loose teeth made eating impossible. Thirty-odd hours since the moment--his hands still trembled.

  Payback.

  He didn't tell his father; he couldn't risk the ignominy of going to Parker or Internal Affairs. Revenge on Bud White would be tricky: he was Dudley Smith's boy, Smith just got him a straight Homicide spot and was grooming him for his chief strongarm. Stensland was more vulnerable: on probation, working for Abe Teitlebaum, an ex--Mickey Cohen goon. A drunk, begging to go back inside.

  Payback--already in the works.

  Two Sheriff's men bought and paid for: a dip in his mother's trust fund. A two-man tail on Dick Stens, two men to swoop on his slightest probation fuckup.

  Payback.

  Ed did paperwork. His stomach growled: no food, loose trousers weighted down by his holster. A voice out the squawk box: loud, spooked.

  "Squad call! Nite Owl Coffee Shop one-eight-two-four Cherokee! Multiple homicides! See the patrolmen! Code three!"

  Ed banged his legs getting up. No other detectives on call--it was his.

o        o          o

  Patrol cars at Hollywood and Cherokee; blues setting up crime scene blockades. No plainclothesmen in sight--he might get first crack.

  Ed pulled up, doused his siren. A patrolman ran over. "Load of people down, maybe some of them women. I found them, stopped for coffee and saw this phony sign on the door, 'Closed for Illness.' Man, the Nite Owl _never_ closes. It was dark inside and I knew this was a hinky deal. Exley, this ain't your squawk, this has gotta be downtown stuff, so--"

  Ed pushed him aside, pushed over to the door. Open, a sign taped on: "Clossed Due to Illness." Ed stepped inside, memorized.

  A long, rectangular interior. On the right: a string of tables, four chairs per. The side wall mural-papered: winking owls perched on street signs. A checkered linoleum floor; to the left a counter--a dozen stools. A service runway behind it, the kitchen in back, fronted by a cook's station: fryers, spatulas on hooks, a platform for laying down plates. At front left: a cash register.

  Open, empty--coins on the floor mat beside it.

  Three tables in disarray: food spilled, plates dumped; napkin containers, broken dishes on the floor. Drag marks leading back to the kitchen; one high-heeled pump by an upended chair.

  Ed walked into the kitchen. Half-fried food, broken dishes, pans on the floor. A wall safe under the cook's counter--open, spiffing coins. Crisscrossed drag marks connecting with the other drag marks, dark black heel smudges ending at the door of a walk-in food locker.

  Ajar, the cord out of the socket--no cool air as a preservative. Ed opened it.

  Bodies--a blood-soaked pile on the floor. Brains, blood and buckshot on the walls. Blood two feet deep collecting in a drainage trough. Dozens of shotgun shells floating in blood.