L.A. Confidential (2 page)

  Bud rogered, grabbed his cuffs. Back to the house and an outside circuit box--switches tapped until the lights popped off. Santa's sled stayed lit; Bud grabbed an outlet cord and yanked. The display hit the ground: exploding reindeer.

  Kinnard ran out, tripped over Rudolph. Bud cuffed his wrists, bounced his face oh the pavement. Ralphie yelped and chewed gravel; Bud launched his wife beater spiel. "You'll be out in a year and a half, and I'll know when. I'll find out who your parole officer is and get cozy with him, I'll visit you and say hi. You touch her again I'm gonna know, and I'm gonna get you violated on a kiddie raper beef. You know what they do to kiddie rapers up at Quentin? Huh? The Pope a fuckin' guinea?"

  Lights went on--Kinnard's wife was futzing with the fuse box. She said, "Can I go to my mother's?"

  Bud emptied Ralphie's pockets--keys, a cash roll. "Take the car and get yourself fixed up."

  Kinnard spat teeth. Mrs. Ralphie grabbed the keys and peeled a ten-spot. Bud said, "Merry Christmas, huh?"

  Mrs. Ralphie blew a kiss and backed the car out, wheels over blinking reindeer.

o        o          o

  Avenue 53--Code 2 no siren. A black-and-white just beat him; two blues and Dick Stensland got out and huddled.

  Bud tapped his horn; Stensland came over. "Who's there, partner?"

  Stensland pointed to a shack. "The one guy on the air, maybe more. It was maybe four spics, two white guys did our guys in. Brownell and Helenowski. Brownell's maybe got brain damage, Helenowski maybe lost an eye."

  "Big maybes."

  Stens reeked: Listerine, gin. "You want to quibble?"

  Bud got out of the car. "No quibble. How many in custody?"

  "Goose. We get the first collar."

  "Then tell the blues to stay put."

  Stens shook his head. "They're pals with Brownell. They want a piece."

  "Nix, this is ours. We get them booked, we write it up and make the party by watch change. I got three cases: Walker Black, Jim Beam and Cutty."

  "Exley's assistant watch commander. He's a nosebleed, and you can bet he don't approve of on-duty imbibing."

  "Yeah, and Frieling's _the_ watch boss, and he's a fucking drunk like you. So don't worry about Exley. And I got a report to write up first--so let's just do it."

  Stens laughed. "Aggravated assault on a woman? What's that--six twenty-three point one in the California Penal Code? So I'm a fucking drunk and you're a fucking do-gooder."

  "Yeah, and you're ranking. So now?"

  Stens winked; Bud walked flank--up to the porch, gun out. The shack was curtained dark; Bud caught a radio ad: Felix the Cat Chevrolet. Dick kicked the door in.

  Yells, a Mex man and woman hauling. Stens aimed head high; Bud blocked his shot. Down a hallway, Bud close in, Stens wheezing, knocking over furniture. The kitchen--the spics deadended at a window.

  They turned, raised their hands: a pachuco punk, a pretty girl maybe six months pregnant.

  The boy kissed the wall--a pro friskee. Bud searched him: Dinardo Sanchez ID, chump change. The girl boo-hooed; sirens scree'd outside. Bud turned Sanchez around, kicked him in the balls. "For ours, Pancho. And you got off easy."

  Stens grabbed the girl. Bud said, "Go somewhere, sweetheart. Before my friend checks your green card."

  "Green card" spooked her--_madre mia! Madre mia!_ Stens shoved her to the door; Sanchez moaned. Bud saw blues swarm the driveway. "We'll let them take Pancho in."

  Stens caught some breath. "We'll give him to Brownell's pals." Two rookie types walked in--Bud saw his out. "Cuff him and book him. APO and resisting arrest."

  The rookies dragged Sanchez out. Stens said, "You and women. What's next? Kids and dogs?"

  Mrs. Ralphie--all bruised up for Christmas. "I'm working on it. Come on, let's move that booze. Be nice and I'll let you have your own bottle."

CHAPTER TWO

  Preston Exley yanked the drop-cloth. His guests oohed and ahhed; a city councilman clapped, spilled eggnog on a society matron. Ed Exley thought: this is not a typical policeman's Christmas Eve.

  He checked his watch--8:46--he had to be at the station by midnight. Preston Exley pointed to the model.

  It took up half his den: an amusement park filled with papier-mâché mountains, rocket ships, Wild West towns. Cartoon creatures at the gate: Moochie Mouse, Scooter Squirrel, Danny Duck--Raymond Dieterling's brood--featured in the _Dream-a-Dream Hour_ and scores of cartoons.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Dream-a-Dreamland. Exley Construction will build it, in Pomona, California, and the opening date will be April 1953. It will be the most sophisticated amusement park in history, a self-contained universe where children of all ages can enjoy the message of fun and goodwill that is the hallmark of Raymond Dieterling, the father of modern animation. Dream-a-Dreamland will feature all your favorite Dieterling characters, and it will be a haven for the young and young at heart."

  Ed stared at his father: fifty-seven coming off forty-five, a cop from a long line of cops holding forth in a Hancock Park mansion, politicos giving up their Christmas Eve at a snap of his fingers. The guests applauded; Preston pointed to a snowcapped mountain. "Paul's World, ladies and gentlemen. An exact-scale replica of a mountain in the Sierra Nevada. Paul's World will feature a thrilling toboggan ride and a ski lodge where Moochie, Scooter and Danny will perform skits for the whole family. And who is the Paul of Paul's World? Paul was Raymond Dieterling's son, lost tragically as a teenager in 1936, lost in an avalanche on a camping trip--lost on a mountain just like this one here. So, out of tragedy, an affirmation of innocence. And, ladies and gentlemen, every nickel out of every dollar spent at Paul's World will go to the Children's Polio Foundation."

  Wild applause. Preston nodded at Timmy Valburn--the actor who played Moochie Mouse on the _Dream-a-Dream Hour_--always nibbling cheese with his big buck teeth. Valburn nudged the man beside him; the man nudged back.

  Art De Spain caught Ed's eye; Valburn kicked off a Moochie routine. Ed steered De Spain to the hallway. "This is a hell of a surprise, Art."

  "Dieterling's announcing it on the _Dream Hour_. Didn't your dad tell you?"

  "No, and I didn't know he knew Dieterling. Did he meet him back during the Atherton case? Wasn't Wee Willie Wennerhoim one of Dieterling's kid stars?"

  De Spain smiled. "I was your dad's lowly adjutant then, and I don't think the two great men ever crossed paths. Preston just knows people. And by the way, did you spot the mouse man and his pal?"

  Ed nodded. "Who is he?"

  Laughter from the den; De Spain steered Ed to the study. "He's Billy Dieterling, Ray's son. He's a cameraman on _Badge of Honor_, which lauds our beloved LAPD to millions of television viewers each week. Maybe Timmy spreads some cheese on his whatsis before he blows him."

  Ed laughed. "Art, you're a pisser."

  De Spain sprawled in a chair. "Eddie, ex-cop to cop, you say words like 'pisser' and you sound like a college professor. And you're not really an 'Eddie,' you're an 'Edmund."'

  Ed squared his glasses. "I see avuncular advice coming. Stick in Patrol, because Parker made chief that way. Adniinistrate my way up because I have no command presence."

  "You've got no sense of humor. And can't you get rid of those specs? Squint or something. Outside of Thad Green, I can't think of one Bureau guy who wears glasses."

  "God, you miss the Department. I think that if you could give up Exley Construction and fifty thousand a year for a spot as an LAPD rookie, you would."

  De Spain lit a cigar. "Only if your dad came with me."

  "Just like that?"

  "Just like that. I was a lieutenant to Preston's inspector, and I'm still a number two man. It'd be nice to be even with him."

  "If you didn't know lumber, Exley Construction wouldn't exist."

  "Thanks. And get rid of those glasses."

  Ed picked up a framed photo: his brother Thomas in uniform--taken the day before he died. "If you were a rookie, I'd break you for insubordination."

  "You would, too. What did you place on the lieutenant's exam?"

  "First out of twenty-three applicants. I was the youngest applicant by eight years, with the shortest time in grade as a sergeant and the shortest amount of time on the Department."

  "And you want the Detective Bureau."

  Ed put the photo down. "Yes."

  "Then, first you have to figure a year minimum for an opening to come up, then you have to realize that it will probably be a Patrol opening, then you have to realize that a transfer to the Bureau will take years and lots of ass kissing. You're twenty-nine now?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you'll be a lieutenant at thirty or thirty-one. Brass that young create resentment. Ed, all kidding aside. You're not one of the guys. You're not a strongarm type. _You're not Bureau_. And Parker as Chief has set a precedent for Patrol officers to go all the way. Think about that."

  Ed said, "Art, I want to work cases. I'm connected and I won the Distinguished Service Cross, which some people might construe as strongarm. And I will _have_ a Bureau appointment."

  De Spain brushed ash off his cummerbund. "Can we talk turkey, Sunny Jim?"

  The endearment rankled. "Of course."

  "Well . . . you're good, and in time you might be really good. And I don't doubt your killer instinct for a second. But your father was ruthless and likable. And you're not, so . .

  Ed made fists. "So, Uncle Arthur? Cop who left the Department for money to cop who never would--what's your advice?"

  De Spain ifinched. "So be a sycophant and suck up to the right men. Kiss William H. Parker's ass and pray to be in the right place at the right time."

  "Like you and my father?"

  "_Touché_, Sunny Jim."

  Ed looked at his uniform: custom blues on a hanger. Razorcreased, sergeant's stripes, a single hashmark. De Spain said, "Gold bars soon, Eddie. And braid on your cap. And I wouldn't jerk your chain if I didn't care."

  "I know."

  "And you _are_ a goddamned war hero."

  Ed changed the subject. "It's Christmas. You're thinking about Thomas."

  "I keep thinking I could have told him something. He didn't even have his holster flap open."

  "A purse snatcher with a gun? He couldn't have known." De Spain put out his cigar. "Thomas was a natural, and I always thought he should be telling me things. That's why I tend to spell things out for you."

  "He's twelve years dead and I'll bury him as a policeman."

  "I'll forget you said that."

  "No, remember it. Remember it when I make the Bureau. And when Father offers toasts to Thomas and Mother, don't get maudlin, it ruins him for days."

  De Spain stood up, flushing; Preston Exley walked in with snifters and a bottle.

  Ed said, "Merry Christmas, Father. And congratulations."

  Preston poured drinks. "Thank you. Exley Construction tops the Arroyo Seco Freeway job with a kingdom for a glorified rodent, and I'll never eat another piece of cheese. A toast, gentlemen. To the eternal rest of my son Thomas and my wife Marguerite, to the three of us assembled here."

  The men drank; De Spain fixed refills. Ed offered his father's favorite toast: "To the solving of crimes that require absolute justice."

  Three more shots downed. Ed said, "Father, I didn't know you knew Raymond Dieterling."

  Preston smiled. "I've known him in a business sense for years. Art and I have kept the contract secret at Raymond's request--he wants to announce it on that infantile television program of his."

  "Did you meet him during the Atherton case?"

  "No, and of course I wasn't in the construction business then. Arthur, do you have a toast to propose?"

  De Spain poured short ones. "To a Bureau assignment for our soon-to-be lieutenant."

  Laughter, hear-hears. Preston said, "Joan Morrow was inquiring about your love life, Edmund. I think she's smitten."

  "Do you see a debutante as a cop's wife?"

  "No, but I could picture her married to a ranking policeman."

  "Chief of Detectives?"

  "No, I was thinking more along the lines of commander of the Patrol Division."

  "Father, Thomas was going to be your chief of detectives, but he's dead. Don't deny me my opportunity. Don't make me live an old dream of yours."

  Preston stared at his son. "Point taken, and I commend you for speaking up. And granted, that was my original dream. But the truth is that I don't think you have the eye for human weakness that makes a good detective."

  His brother: a math brain crazed for pretty girls. "And Thomas did?"

  "Yes."

  "Father, I would have shot that purse snatcher the second he went for his pocket."

  De Spain said, "Goddammit"; Preston shushed him. "That's all right. Edmund, a few questions before I return to my guests. One, would you be willing to plant corroborative evidence on a suspect you knew was guilty in order to ensure an indictment?"

  "I'd have to--"

  "Answer yes or no."

  "I . . . no."

  "Would you be willing to shoot hardened armed robbers in the back to offset the chance that they might utilize flaws in the legal system and go free?"

  "I . . ."

  "Yes or no, Edmund."

  "No."

  "And would you be willing to beat confessions out of suspects you knew to be guilty?"

  "No."

  "Would you be willing to rig crime scene evidence to support a prosecuting attorney's working hypothesis?"

  "No."

  Preston sighed. "Then for God's sake, stick to assignments where you won't have to make those choices. Use the superior inteffigence the good Lord gave you."

  Ed looked at his uniform. "I'll use that intelligence as a detective."

  Preston smiled. "Detective or not, you have qualities of persistence that Thomas lacked. You'll excel, my war hero."

  The phone rang; De Spain picked it up. Ed thought of rigged Jap trenches--and couldn't meet Preston's eyes. Dc Spain said, "It's Lieutenant Frieling at the station. He said the jail's almost full, and two officers were assaulted earlier in the evening. Two suspects are in custody, with four more outstanding. He said you should clock in early."