L.A. Confidential (14 page)

  Ed's stomach jumped. "Yes, sir. I am."

  "The chief wanted Dudley Smith to work with you, but I talked him out of it. As good as he is, the man is off the deep end on coloreds."

  "Sir, I know how important this is."

  Green lit a cigarette. "Ed, I want confessions. Fifteen of the rounds we retrieved at the Nite Owl were nicked at the strike point, so if we get the guns we've got the case. I want the location of the guns, the location of the car and confessions before we arraign them. We've got seventy-one hours before they see the judge. I want this wrapped up by then. _Clean_."

  Specifics. "Rap sheets on the kids?"

  Green said, "Joyriding and B&E for all three. Peeping Tom beefs for Coates and Fontaine. And they're not kids--Coates is twenty-two, the others are twenty. This is a gas chamber bounce pure and clean."

  "What about the Griffith Park angle? Shell samples to compare, witnesses to the guys letting off the shotguns."

  "Shell samples might be good backup evidence, if we can find them and the coloreds don't confess. The park ranger who called in the complaints is coming down to try for an ID. Ed, Arnie Reddin says you're the best interrogator he's ever seen, but you've never worked anything this--"

  Ed stood up. "I'll do it."

  "Son, if you do, you'll have my job one day."

  Ed smiled--his loose teeth ached. Green said, "What happened to your face?"

  "I tripped chasing a shoplifter. Sir, who's talked to the suspects?"

  "Just the doctor who cleaned them up. Dudley wanted Bud White to have first shot, but--"

  "Sir, I don't think--"

  "Don't interrupt me, I was about to agree with you. No, I want _voluntary_ confessions, so White is out. You've got first shot at all three. You'll be observed through the two-ways, and if you want a partner for a Mutt and Jeff, touch your necktie. There'll be a group of us listening through an outside speaker, and a recorder will be running. The three are in separate rooms, and if you want to play them off on each other, you know the buttons to hit."

  Ed said, "I'll break them."

o        o          o

  His stage: a corridor off the Homicide pen. Three cubicles set up-mirror-fronted, speaker-connected--flip switches and a string of suspects could hear their partners rat each other off. The rooms: six-by-six square, welded-down tables, bolted-down chairs. In 1, 2 and 3: Sugar Ray Coates, Leroy Fontaine, Tyrone Jones. Rap sheets taped to the wall outside--Ed memorized dates, locations, known associates. A deep breath to kill stage fright--in the #1 door.

  Sugar Ray Coates cuffed to a chair, dressed in baggy County denims. Tall, light-complected---close to a mulatto. One eye swollen shut; lips puffed and split. A smashed nose--both nostrils sutured. Ed said, "Looks like we both took a beating."

  Coates squinted--one-eyed, spooky. Ed unlocked his cuffs, tossed cigarettes and matches on the table. Coates flexed his wrists. Ed smiled. "They call you Sugar Ray because of Ray Robinson?"

  No answer.

  Ed took the other chair. "They say Ray Robinson can throw a four-punch combination in one second. I don't believe it myself."

  Coates lifted his arms--they flopped, dead weight. Ed opened the cigarette pack. "I know, they cut off the circulation. You're twenty-two, aren't you, Ray?"

  Coates: "Say what and so what," a scratchy voice. Ed scoped his throat--bruised, finger marks. "Did one of the officers do a little throttling on you?"

  No answer. Ed said, "Sergeant Vincennes? The snazzy dresser guy?"

  Silence.

  "Not him, huh? Was it Denton? Fat guy with a Texas drawl, sounds like Spade Cooley on TV?"

  Coates' good eye twitched. Ed said, "Yeah, I commiserate-- that guy Denton is one choice creep. You see _my_ face? Denton and I went a couple of rounds."

  No bite.

  "Goddamn that Denton. Sugar Ray, you and I look like Robinson and LaMotta after that last fight they had."

  Still no bite.

  "So you're twenty-two, right?"

  "Man, why you ask me that!"

  Ed shrugged. "Just getting my facts straight. Leroy and Tyrone are twenty, so they can't burn on a capital charge. Ray, you should have pulled this caper a couple of years ago. Get life, do a little Youth Authority jolt, transfer to Folsom a big man. Get yourself a sissy, orbit on some of that good prison brew."

  "Sissy" hit home: Coates' hands twitched. He picked up a cigarette, lit it, coughed. "I never truck with no sissies."

  Ed smiled. "I know that, son."

  "I ain't your son, you ofay fuck. You the sissy."

  Ed laughed. "You know the drill, I'll give you that. You've done juvie time, you know I'm the nice guy cop trying to get you to talk. That fucking Tyrone, I almost believed him. Denton must have knocked a few of my screws loose. How could I fall for a line like that?"

  "Say what, man? What line you mean?"

  "Nothing, Ray. Let's change the subject. What did you do with the shotguns?"

  Coates rubbed his neck--shaky hands. "What shotguns?"

  Ed leaned close. "The pumps you and your friends were shooting in Griffith Park."

  "Don't know 'bout no shotguns."

  "You don't? Leroy and Tyrone had a box of shells in their room."

  "That their bidness."

  Ed shook his head. "That Tyrone, he's a pisser. You did the Casitas Youth Camp with him, didn't you?"

  A shrug. "So what and say what?"

  "Nothing, Ray. Just thinking out loud."

  "Man, why you talkin' 'bout Tyrone? Tyrone's bidness is Tyrone's bidness."

  Ed reached under the table, found the audio switch for room 3. "Sugar, Tyrone told me you went sissy up at Casitas. You couldn't do the time so you found yourself a big white boy to look after you. He said they call you 'Sugar' because you gave it out so sweet."

  Coates hit the table. Ed hit the switch. "Say what, _Sugar?_"

  "Say I _took_ it! _Tyrone_ give it! Man, I was the fuckin' boss jocker on my dorm! Tyrone the sissy! Tyrone give it for candy bars! Tyrone love it!"

  Switch back up. "Ray, let's change the subject. Why do you think you and your friends are under arrest?"

  Coates fmgered the cigarette pack. "Some humbug beef, maybe like dischargin' firearms inside city limit, some humbug like that. Wha's Tyrone say 'bout that?"

  "Ray, Tyrone said lots of things, but let's get to meat and potatoes. Where were you at 3:00 A.M. last night?"

  Coates chained a smoke butt to tip. "I was at my crib. Asleep."

  "Were you on hop? Tyrone and Leroy must have been, they were passed out while those officers arrested you. Some crime partners. Tyrone calls you a fairy, then him and Leroy sleep through you getting beat up by some cracker shitbird. I thought you colored guys stuck together. Were you hopped up, Ray? You couldn't take what you did, so you got yourself some dope and--"

  "Take what! What you mean! Tyrone and Leroy fuck with them goofballs, not me!"

  Ed hit the 2 and 3 switches. "Ray, you protected Tyrone and Leroy up at Casitas, didn't you?"

  Coates coughed out a big rush of smoke. "You ain't woofin' I did. Tyrone give his boodie and Leroy so scared he almos' throw hisself off the roof and drink hisself blind on pruno. Stupid down home niggers got no more sense than a fuckin' dog."

  Switches back up. "Ray, I heard you like to shoot dogs."

  A shrug. "Dogs got no reason to live."

  "Oh? You feel that way about people, too?"

  "Man, what you sayin'?"

  Switches down. "Well, you must feel that way about Leroy and Tyrone."

  "Shit, Leroy and Tyrone almos' too stupid to live."

  Switches up. "Ray, where's the shotguns you were shooting in Griffith Park?"

  "They--I . . . I don't own no shotguns."

  "Where's your 1949 Mercury coupe?"

  "I let . . . it just be safe."

  "Come on, Ray. A cherry rig like that? Where is it? I'd keep a nice sled like that under lock and key."

  "I said it safe!"

  Ed slapped the table--two palms flat down. "Did you sell it? Ditch it? It's a felony transport car. Ray, don't you think--"

  "I didn't do no felony!"

  "The hell you say! Where's the car?"

  "I ain't sayin'!"

  "Where's the shotguns?"

  "I ain't--I don't know!"

  "Where's the car?"

  "I ain't sayin'!"

  Ed drummed the table. "Why, Ray? You got shotguns and rubber gloves in the trunk? You got wallets and purses and blood all over the seats? Listen to me, you dumb son of a bitch, I'm trying to save you a gas chamber bounce like your buddies-- they're underage and you're not, and somebody has to fry for this--"

  "I don't know what you talkin' 'bout!"

  Ed sighed. "Ray, let's change the subject."

  Coates lit another cigarette. "I don' like your subjects."

  "Ray, why were you burning clothes at 7:00 this morning?"

  Coates trembled. "Say what?"

  "Say this. You, Leroy and Tyrone were arrested this morning. None of you had last night's clothes with you. You were seen burning a big pile of clothes at 7:00. Add that to the fact that you hid the car that you, Tyrone and Leroy were cruising around in last night. Ray, it doesn't look good, but if you give me something good to give the D.A., it'll make me look good and I'll say, 'Sugar Ray wasn't a punk like his sissy partners.' Ray, just give me something."

  "Such as what, since I innocent of all this rebop you shuckin' me with."

  Ed flipped 2 and 3. "Well, you've said bad things about Leroy and Tyrone, you've implied that they're hopheads. Let's try this: where do they get their stuff?"

  Coates stared at the floor. Ed said, "The D.A. hates hop pushers. And you met Jack Vincennes, the Big V."

  "Crazy fuckin' fool."

  Ed laughed. "Yeah, Jack is a little on the crazy side. Personally, I think anyone who wants to ruin their life with narcotics should have the right, it's a free country. But Jack's good buddies with the new D.A., and they've both got hard-ons for hop pushers. Ray, give me one to give the D.A. Just a little one."

  Coates hooked a finger; Ed let the switches up and leaned in. Sugar Ray, a whisper. "Roland Navarette, lives on Bunker Hill. Runs a hole-up for parole 'sconders and sells red devils, and that ain't for the fuckin' D.A., that's 'cause Tyrone shoot off his fat fuckin' mouth."

  Switches down. "All right, Ray. You've told me that Roland Navarette sells barbiturates to Leroy and Tyrone, so now we're making some progress. And you're scared shitless, you know this is gas chamber stuff and you haven't even asked me what it's all about. Ray, you have a big guilty sign around your neck."

  Coates cracked his knuckles; his good eye darted, ifickered. Ed killed the audio. "Ray, let's change the subject."

  "How 'bout baseball, motherfucker?"

  "No, let's talk about pussy. Did you get laid last night or did you put that perfume on yourself to fuck up a paraffm test?"

  Heebie-jeebie shakes.

  Ed said, "Where were you at 3:00 last night?"

  No answer, more shakes.

  "Strike a nerve, Sugar Ray? _Perfume?_ _Women?_ Even a piece of shit like you has to have some women he cares about. You got a mother? Sisters?"

  "Man, don't you talk 'bout my mother!"

  "Ray, if I didn't know you I'd say you were protecting some nice girl's virtue. She was your alibi, you were shacked somewhere. But Tyrone and Leroy have got that same perfume on their mitts, and I'm betting against a gang bang, I'm betting you learned about paraffin tests up in road camp, I'm betting you've got just enough decency to feel some guilt over killing three innocent women."

  "I AINT KILLED NOBODY!"

  Ed pulled out the morning _Herald_. "Patty Chesimard, Donna DeLuca and one unidentified. Read this while I take a breather. When I come back you'll get the chance to tell me about it and make a deal that just might save your life."

  Coates, Tremor City--all twitches, soaked denims. Ed threw the paper in his face and walked out.

  Thad Green in the hall; Dudley Smith, Bud White at the listening post. Green said, "We got an eyeball confirmation from that ranger--those were the guys in Griffith Park. And you were great."

  Ed smelled his own sweat. "Sir, Coates was hiked on the women. I can feel it."

  "So can I, so just keep going."

  "Have we turned the guns or the car?"

  "No, and the 77th Street squad is shaking down their relatives and K.A.'s. We'll get them."

  "I want to lean on Jones next. Will you do something for me?"

  "Name it."

  "Set up Fontaine. Unlock his cuffs and let him read the morning paper."

  Green pointed to the #3 mirror. "_He'll_ break soon. Sniveling bastard."

  Tyrone Jones--weeping, a piss puddle on the floor by his chair. Ed looked away. "Sir, have Lieutenant Smith read the paper into his speaker, nice and slow, especially the lines about the car spotted by the Nite Owl. I want this guy primed to fold."

  Green said, "You've got it." Ed checked out Tyrone Jones--dark-skinned, flabby, pockmarked. Bawling--cuffed in, welded down.

  A whistle up the hail. Dudley Smith spoke into a microphone--silent lip movements. Ed fixed on Jones.

  The kid twisted, heaved, buckled, like a film clip they showed at the Academy: an electric chair malfunction, a dozen jolts before the man fried. A sharp whistle up the corridor--Jones slumped, legs splayed, chin down.

  Ed walked in. "Tyrone, Ray Coates ratted you off. He said the Nite Owl was your idea, he said you got the idea while you were cruising Griffith Park. Tyrone, tell me about it. I think it was Ray's idea. He made you do it. Tell me where the guns and car are and I think we can save your life."

  No answer.