L.A. Confidential (34 page)

  Stathis got up. "I won't, but I feel bad about Vincennes. I heard he's topping out his twenty in a few months. Maybe he vamoosed 'cause shooting those heist guys got to him."

  Ed said, "Good day, Sergeant."

o        o          o

  Something old, wrong.

  Ed sat with his door open. Gold-braided flags just outside-- opportunities knocked.

  Vmcennes might have dirt on Bud White.

  Instincts: Trash running scared in the spring of '53.

  Connect the "skin-book caper" to the Nite Owl.

  Inez Soto's indictment--he killed three innocent men.

  If he cut Vincennes a break on his l.A. investigation--

  Ed hit the intercom. "Susan, get me District Attorney Loew."

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Mickey Cohen said, "I got my own problems to worry about. The fershtunkener Nite Owl case and fershtunkener dirty books I don't know from the Bible, another book I never read. That rebop bored me five years ago, now it is an even further distance from hunger. I got my own problems, such as look at my poor baby."

  Bud looked. A raggedy-assed bulldog by the Mickster's fireplace--wheezing, his tail in a splint. Cohen said, "That is Mickey Cohen, Jr., my heir who is not long for this canine world. A bomb attempt in November he survived, though a goodly number of my Sy Devore suits did not. His poor tail has remained steadily infected and his appetite is dyspeptic. Cops resurrecting old grief is not good for his health."

  "Mr. Cohen--"

  "I like a man who addresses me with proper decorum. What did you say your name was again?"

  "Sergeant White."

  "Sergeant White then, I will tell you there is no end to the grief in my life. I am like Jesus your goy savior carrying the weight of the world on his back. Back in prison these fershtunkener goons attack me and my man Davey Goldman, Davey gets his brains scrambled, gets paroled and starts walking around in public with his shlong hanging out, it's big, I don't blame him for advertising, but the Beverly Hills cops ain't so enlightened and now he's doing ninety days observation at the Camarillo nut bin. As if that is not enough grief for your yiddisher Jesus to undergo, then feature that while I was in prison some colleagues looking after my interests were bumped off by persons unknown. And now my old boys won't form back together with me. My God, Kikey T., Lee Vachss, Johnny Stompanato--"

  Kill the tirade. "I know Johnny Stomp."

  Cohen hit the roof. "Ferstunkener Johnny, Judas from the best-selling Bible is his middle name! Lana Turner is his Jezebel and not his Mary Magdalene, his cock leads him to grovel for her like a dowsing rod. Granted, he is even better hung than Davey G., but my blessed Jesus I took him away from being a two-bit extortionist and made him my bodyguard, and now he refuses to re-enlist, he'd rather nosh grease at Kikey's fucking deli and hobnob with Deuce Perkins, who I have it on good authority plays hide the salami with members of the canine persuasion. Did you say your name was White?"

  "That's right, Mr. Cohen."

  "Wendell White? _Bud_ White?"

  "That's me."

  "Boychik, why didn't you tell me?"

  Cohen Junior pissed in the fireplace. Bud said, "I didn't think you'd heard of me."

  "Heard, shmeard, word gets out. Word is you're Dudley Smith's lad. Word is you and the Dudster and a couple of his other hard boys been keeping L.A. safe for democracy while this so-called crime drought's been going on. A motel in Gardena, a little blackjack work to the kidneys, va va va voom. Maybe now, maybe if I can get my old guys to quit noshing grease and associating with dog fuckers, I can get business going again. I should be nice to you so's you and the Dudster reciprocate. So what's with this Nite Owl rehash?"

  His pitch--canned. "I heard how the Englekling brothers visited you up at McNeil, how they talked up Duke Cathcart's deal. I was thinking that you or Davey Goldman might have talked it up on the yard and word got out that way."

  Mickey said, "Nix. Not possible, 'cause I never told Davey. True, I am well known for my cell business confabs, but not a soul on this earth did I tell. I told that guy Exley that when we sbmoozed on the topic years ago. And here's a bonus insight from the Mickster. It is my considered opinion that dirty books are a high-profit item worth killing innocent bystanders over only if an established high-profit market already exists. Give the fucking Nite Owl up, those shvartzes the hero kid bumped took the ticket and probably did the job anyway."

  Bud said, "I don't think Duke Cathcart was killed at the Nite Owl. I think it was a guy impersonating him. I think the guy killed Cathcart, took over his identity and wound up at the Nite Owl. I was thinking the whole thing got started up at McNeil."

  Cohen rolled his eyes. "Not with me it didn't, boychik, 'cause I told nobody, and I can't feature Pete and Bar stopping to spread the word out on the yard. Where'd this clown Cathcart live?"

  "Silverlake."

  "Then dig up the Silverlake Hills. Maybe you'll find a nice vintage stiff."

  A flash--San Berdoo, Sue Lefferts' mother at her pad--eyes darting to a built-on room. "Thanks, Mr. Cohen."

  Cohen said, "Forget the fershtunkener Nite Owl."

  Cohen Junior took a bead on Bud's crotch.

o        o          o

  San Bernardino, Hilda Leffertr. Last time she shoved him out pronto; this time he'd hit on the boyfriend: Susan Nancy was seen with a guy matching Duke Cathcart's description--press, intimidate.

  A two-hour run. The San Berdoo Freeway would be working soon--cut the trip in half. Exley Senior to Junior: the coward knew about him and Inez, his look the other day spelled it plain. They were both biding their time. But if things fell his way he'd hit harder--Exley would _never_ tag him for the brains to hit smart.

  Hilda Lefferts lived in a dump: a shingle shack with a cinder block add-on. Bud walked up, checked out the mailbox. Good intimidation stuff: Lockheed pension check, Social Security check, County Relief check. He pushed the buzzer.

  The door opened a crack. Hilda Lefferts looked over the chain. "Told you before, now I'll say it again. I'm not buying what you're selling, so let my poor daughter rest in peace."

  Bud fanned out the checks. "County Relief told me to hold these back until you cooperate. No tickee, no washee."

  Hilda squealed; Bud popped the chain, walked in. Hilda backed away. "Please. I need that money."

  Susan Nancy smiled down from four walls: vamp poses on a nightclub floor. Bud said, "Come on, be nice, huh? You remember what I tried to ask you last time? Susan had a boyfriend here in San Berdoo right before she moved to L.A. You looked scared when I told you before, you look scared now. _Come on_. Five minutes on that and I'm gone. And nobody's gonna know."

  Hilda, eyeball circuits: the checks, the add-on room. "Nobody?"

  Bud forked over Lockheed. "Nobody. Come on. I'll give you the other two after you tell me."

  Hilda spoke straight to her daughter--the picture by the door. "Susie, you told me you met the man at a cocktail lounge and I told you I didn't approve. You said he was a nice man who'd paid his debt to society, but you wouldn't tell me his name. I saw you with him one day, and you called him Don or Dean or Dick or Dee, and he said, 'No, Duke. Get used to it.' Then I was out one day and old Mrs. Jensen next door saw you with the man here at the house and thought she heard a ruckus . . ."

  Match it: "debt to society" equals "ex-con." "Did you ever learn the man's name?"

  "No, I didn't. I . . ."

  "Did Susan know two brothers named Englekling? They lived here in San Bernardino."

  Hilda squinted at the picture. "Oh, Susie. No, I don't think I know that name."

  "Did Susan's boyfriend ever mention the name 'Duke Cathcart' or mention a pornography business?"

  "No! Cathcart was the name of one of the dead people where Susie died, and Susie was a good girl who would never associate with filth!"

  Bud forked over County Relief. "Easy now. Tell me about the ruckus."

  Hilda, tears coming on. "I came home the next day, and I thought I saw dried blood on the floor of the new den, I'd just had it built with the money from my husband's insurance policy. Susan and the man came back and acted nervous. The man crawled around under the house and called a Los Angeles phone number, then he and Susan Nancy left. A week later she was killed . . . and . . . I, well, I thought all that suspicious behavior meant the killings . . . I just thought of conspiracies and reprisals, and when that nice man who became such a hero came by a few days later with his background check, I just stayed quiet."

  Goose bumps: Susie Lefferts' boyfriend the Cathcart impersonator. "The ruckus": the boyfriend kills Cathcart--probably in San Berdoo to talk to the Engleklings. Susie at the Nite Owl, scoping out some kind of meeting, the boyfriend playing Cathcart--which meant the killers never saw the real Cathcart face-to-face.

  THE BOYFRIEND CRAWLING AROUND UNDER THE HOUSE.

  Bud got the phone, the operator, an L.A. number: P.C. Bell police information. A clerk came on. "Yes, who's requesting?"

  "Sergeant W. White, LAPD. I'm in San Bernardino at RAnchview 04617. I need a list of all calls to Los Angeles from that number, say from March 20 to April 12, 1953. Got that?"

  The clerk said, "I copy." Seconds, two minutes plus, the clerk back on. "Three calls, Sergeant. April 2 and April 8, all to the same number, HO-21 118. That's a pay phone, the corner of Sunset and Las Palmas."

  Bud hung up. Phone booth calls a half mile from the Nite Owl; the deal or the meet worked out--extra cautious.

  Hilda fretted Kleenex. Bud saw a flashlight on an end table. He grabbed it, ran with it.

  Outside to the add-on, a foundation crawispace--one tight fit. Down, under, in.

  Dirt, wood pilings, a long burlap sack up ahead. Smells: mothballs, rot. An elbow crawl to the bag--mothballs and rot getting stronger. He poked the sack, saw a rat's nest explode.

  All around him: rats blinded by light.

  Bud ripped burlap. In with the flashlight, rats, a skull caked with gristle. Drop the flash, rip two-handed, rats and mothballs in his face. A huge rip, a bullet hole in the skull, a skeleton hand out a sleeve--"D.C." on flannel.

  He crawled out gulping air. Hilda Lefferts was right there. Her eyes said, "Please God, not that."

  Clean air; clean daylight almost blinding. White light gave him the idea--his shiv at Exley.

  A scandal mag leak. A guy at _Whisper_ owed him--a pinko rag, they bled for Commies and jigs and hated cops.

  Hilda, about to shit her drawers. "Was . . . there . . . anything under there?"

  "Nothing but some rats. I want you to stay put, though. I'm gonna bring back some mugshots for you to look at."

  "May I have that last check?"

  The envelope--flecked with rat droppings. "Here. Compliments of Captain Ed Exley."

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  A nice interrogation room-- no bolted-down chairs, no piss smell. Jack looked at Ed Exley. "I knew I was in the shit, but I didn't think I rated the top dog."

  Exley: "You're probably wondering why you haven't been suspended."

  Jack stretched. His uniform chafed--he hadn't worn it since 1945. Exley looked creepy--skinny, gray-haired, rimless glasses that made his eyes come off brutal. "I was wondering. My guess is Ellis had seconds thoughts on the complaint he filed. Bad publicity and all that."

  Exley shook his head. "Loew considers you a liability to his career and his marriage, and leaving that crime scene and assaulting that officer are enough in themselves to warrant a suspension and a dismissal."

  "Yeah? Then why haven't I been suspended?"

  "Because for the moment I've interceded with Loew and Chief Parker. Any other questions?"

  "Yeah, where's the tape recorder and the steno?"

  "I didn't want them here."

  Jack pulled his chair up. "Captain, what _do_ you want?"

  "I'll throw that back at you. Do you want to flush your career down the toilet or would you like to skate for a few months and cash Out your twenty?"

  Easy: Karen's face when he told her. "Okay, I'll play. Now what do you want?"

  Exley leaned close. "In the spring of '53 your friend and business associate Sid Hudgens was murdered and two detectives who worked the case under Russ Millard told me you referred to Hudgens as 'scum' and were visibly agitated on the morning his body was discovered. During this time frame Dudley Smith asked you to tail Bud White, and you agreed. During this time frame the Nite Owl case was active and you worked a pornography investigation with Ad Vice and repeatedly submitted no-lead reports, when your long-standing procedure was to jam every report you wrote full of filler. During this time two men, Peter and Barter Englekling, came forward to offer state's evidence on an alleged pornography link to the Nite Owl. Russ Millard queried you on it, you went along with your 'no leads' routine. Throughout the smut investigation you repeatedly urged that the job be dropped. Those same two detectives, Sergeants Fisk and Kieckner, overheard you urging Ellis Loew to soft-pedal the Hudgens investigation, and one of your fellow Ad Vice officers recalls you as being atypically nervous throughout the smut job and absent from the squadroom for unusually long periods of time. Put it all together for me, would you, Jack?"

  Ten counts guilty--he knew he was gawking, blinking, twitching. "How . . . the . . . fuck did you . . ."

  "It doesn't matter. Now let's hear your interpretation of what I want."

  Jack caught some breath. "Okay, so I tailed Bud White. Dud was afraid he'd go apeshit over some hooker snuff, 'cause White had that tendency where young stuff was concerned. Okay, so I tailed him and didn't pick up anything worth a damn. You and White hate each other, everyone knows it. You figure someday he'll try to get you for your job on Dick Stensland and you'll cut me slack with Loew and Parker in exchange for some dirt on him. _Is that what you want?_"

  "Call that twenty percent of it and give me something you learned about White."