L.A. Confidential (7 page)

  Jack pointed to the hard boys. "Max, the game is my life. You see those guys over there?"

  "Sure. What's that--"

  "Max, that's what the Department calls a known criminal assembly. Perkins is an ex-con wheelman who fucks dogs, and Abe Teitlebaum's on parole. The tall guy with the mustache is Lee Vachss, and he's made for at least a dozen snuffs for Mickey C. The good-looking wop is Johnny Stompanato. I doubt if he's thirty years old, and he's got a racket sheet as long as your arm. I am empowered by the Los Angeles Police Department to roust those cocksuckers on general suspicion, and I'm derelict in my duty for not doing it. Because I'm _playing the game_."

  Pelts waved a cigar. "So keep playing it--but pianissimo on the tough-guy stuff. And look, Miller's bird-dogging your quail. Jesus, you like them young."

  Rumors: Max and high school trim. "Not as young as you."

  "Ha! Go, you fucking gonif. Your girl's looking for you."

  Karen by a wall poster: Brett Chase as Lieutenant Vance Vincent. Jack walked over; Karen's eyes lit up. "God, this is so wonderful! Tell me who everyone is!"

  Full-blast music--Cooley yodeling, Deuce Perkins banging his bass. Jack danced Karen across the floor--over to a corner crammed with arclights. A perfect spot--quiet, a scope on the whole gang.

  Jack pointed out the players. "Brett Chase you already know about. He's not dancing because he's queer. The old guy with the cigar is Max Pelts. He's the producer, and he directs most of the episodes. You danced with Miller, so you know him. The two guys in skivvies are Augie Luger and Hank Kraft--they're grips. The girl with the clipboard is Penny Fulweider, she couldn't quit working even if she wanted to--she's the script supervisor. You know how the sets on the show are so modernistic? Well, the blond guy across from the bandstand is David Mertens, the set designer. Sometimes you'd think he was drunk, but he's not-- he's got some rare kind of epilepsy, and he takes medicine for it. I heard he was in an accident and hit his head, that that started it. He's got these scars on his neck, so maybe that's it. Next to him there's Phil Shenkel, the assistant director, and the guy next to him is Jerry Marsalas, the male nurse who looks after Mertens. Terry Riegert, the actor who plays Captain Jeffries, is dancing with that tall redhead. The guys by the water cooler are Billy Dieterling, Chuck Maxwell and Dick Harwell, the camera crew, and the rest of the people are dates."

  Karen looked straight at him. "It's your milieu, and you love it. And you care about those people."

  "I like them--and Miller's a good friend."

  "Jack, you can't fool me."

  "Karen, this is Hollywood. And ninety percent of Hollywood is moonshine."

  "Spoilsport. I'm gearing myself up to be reckless, so don't put a damper on it."

  Daring him.

  Jack tumbled; Karen leaned into the kiss. They probed, tasted, pulled back the same instant--Jack broke off the clinch dizzy.

  Karen let her hands linger. "The neighbors are still on vacation. We could go feed the cats."

  "Yeah . . . sure."

  "Will you get me a brandy before we go?"

  Jack walked to the food table. Deuce Perkins said, "Nice stuff, Vincennes. You got the same taste as me."

  A skinny cracker in a black cowboy shirt with pink piping. Boots put him close to six-six; his hands were enormous. "Perkins, your stuff sniffs fire hydrants."

  "Spade might not like you talkin' to me that way. Not with that envelope you got in your pocket."

  Lee Vachss, Abe Teitlebaum watching them. "Not another word, Perkins."

  Deuce chewed a toothpick. "Your quiff know you get your jollies shakin' down niggers?"

  Jack pointed to the wall. "Roll up your sleeves, spread your legs."

  Perkins spat out his toothpick. "You ain't that crazy."

  Johnny Stomp, Vachss, Teitlebaum--all in earshot. Jack said, "Kiss the wall, shitbird."

  Perkins leaned over the table, palms on the wall. Jack pulled up his sleeves--fresh tracks--emptied his pockets. Paydirt--a hypo syringe. A crowd forming up--Jack played to it. "Needle marks and that outfit are good for three years State. Hand up the guy who sold you the hypo and you skate."

  Deuce oozed sweat. Jack said, "Squeal in front of your friends and you stroll."

  Perkins licked his lips. "Barney Stinson. Orderly at Queen of Angels."

  Jack kicked his legs out from under him.

  Perkins landed face first in the cold cuts; the table crashed to the floor.

  The room let out one big breath.

  Jack walked outside, groups breaking up to let him through. Karen by the car, shivering. "Did you have to do that?"

  He'd sweated his shirt clean through. "Yeah, I did."

  "I wish I hadn't seen it."

  "So do I."

  "I guess reading about things like that are one thing and seeing them is another. Would you try to--"

  Jack put his arms around her. "I'll keep that stuff separate from you."

  "But you'll still tell me your stories?"

  "No . . . yeah, sure."

  "I wish we could turn back the clock on tonight."

  "So do I. Look, do you want some dinner?"

  "No. Do you still want to go see the cats?"

o        o          o

  There were three cats--friendly guys who tried to take over the bed while they made love. Karen called the gray one Pavement, the tabby Tiger, the skinny one Ellis Loew. Jack resigned himself to the entourage--they made Karen giggle, he figured every laugh put Deuce Perkins further behind them. They made love, talked, played with the cats; Karen tried a cigarette--and coughed her lungs out. She begged for stories; Jack borrowed from the exploits of Officer Wendell White and spun gentler versions of his own cases: minimum strongarm, lots of sugar daddy--the bighearted Big V, protecting kids from the scourge of dope. At first the lies were hard--but Karen's warmth made them easier and easier. Near dawn, the girl dozed off; he stayed wide awake, the cats driving him crazy. He kept wishing she'd wake up so he could tell her more stories; he got little jolts of worry: that he'd never remember all the phony parts, she'd catch him in whoppers, it would blow their deal sky high. Karen's body grew warmer as she slept; Jack pressed closer to her. He fell asleep getting his stories straight.

CHAPTER TEN

  A corridor forty feet long, both sides lined with benches: scuffed, dusty, just hauled up from some storage hole. Packed: men in plainclothes and uniform, most of them reading--newspapers screaming _Bloody Christmas_. Bud thought of him and Stens front page smeared: nailed by the spics and their lawyers. He'd gotten his call to appear at 4:00 A.M., pure I.A. scare tactics. Dick across the hall--back from the dry-out farm, into the jug. Six Internal Affairs interviews apiece--neither of them had snitched. A regular Christmas reunion, the gang's all here--except Ed Exley.

  Time dragged, traffic flowed: interrogation room grillings. Elmer Lentz dropped a bomb: the radio said the grand jury requested a presentation--all the officers at Central Station 12/25/5 1 were to stand a show-up tomorrow, prisoners would be there to ID the roughnecks. Chief Parker's door opened; Thad Green stepped outside. "Officer White, please."

  Bud walked over; Green pointed him in. A small room: Parker's desk, chairs facing it. No wall mementoes, a gray-tinted mirrors--maybe a two-way. The chief behind his desk, in uniform, four gold stars on his shoulders. Dudley Smith in the middle chair; Green back in the chair nearest Parker. Bud took the hot seat--a spot where all three men could see him. Parker said, "Officer, you know Deputy Chief Green, and I'm sure you know of Lieutenant Smith. The lieutenant has been serving me as an advisor during this crisis we've been having."

  Green lit a cigarette. "Officer, you're being given a last chance to cooperate. You've been questioned repeatedly by Internal Affairs, and you've repeatedly refused to cooperate. Normally, you would have been suspended from duty. But you're a fine detective, and Chief Parker and I are convinced that your actions at the party were relatively blameless. You were provoked, Officer. You were not wantonly violent like most of the men accused."

  Bud started to talk; Smith cut him off. "Lad, I'm sure that I speak for Chief Parker in this, so I will take the liberty of stating it without ellipses. It's a danm pity that the six scum who assaulted our brother officers weren't shot on the spot, and the violence visited upon them I deem mild. But, parenthetically, police officers who cannot control their impulses have no business being police officers, and the shenanigans perpetrated by the men outside have made the Los Angeles Police Department a laughingstock. This cannot be tolerated. Heads must roll. We must have cooperative policemen witnesses to offset the damage done to the Department's image--an image that has vastly improved under the leadership of Chief Parker. We have one major policeman witness already, and Deputy D.A. Ellis Loew stands firm in his desire not to prosecute LAPD officers-- even if the grand jury hands down true bills. Lad, will you testify? For the Department, not the prosecution."

  Bud checked the mirror--a two-way for sure--make D.A.'s Bureau goons taking notes. "No, sir. I won't."

  Parker scanned a sheet of paper. "Officer, you picked a man up by the neck and tried to bash his brains out. That looks very bad, and even though you were verbally provoked, the action stands out more than most of the abuse heaped on the prisoners. That goes against you. But you were heard muttering 'This is a goddamned disgrace' when you left the cellblock, which is in your favor. Now, do you see how appearing as a voluntary witness could offset the disadvantages caused by your . imaginative show of force?"

  A snap: Exley's their boy, _he_ heard me, locked in the storeroom. "Sir, I won't testify."

  Parker flushed bright red. Smith said, "Lad, let's talk turkey. I admire your refusal to betray fellow officers, and I sense that loyalty to your partner is what stands behind it. I admire that especially, and Chief Parker has authorized me to offer you a deal. If you testify as to Dick Stensland's actions and the grand jury hands down a bill against him, Stensland will serve no time in jail if convicted. We have Ellis Loew's word on that. Stensland will be dismissed from the Department without pension, but his pension will be paid to him sub rosa, through monies diverted from the Widows and Orphans Fund. Lad, will you testify?"

  But stared at the mirror. "Sir, I won't testify."

  Thad Green pointed to the door. "Be at Division 43 grand jury chambers tomorrow at 9:00. Be prepared to stand in a show-up and be called to testify. If you refuse to testify, you'll receive a subpoena and be suspended from duty pending a trial board. Get out of here, White."

  Dudley Smith smiled--very slightly. Bud shot the mirror a stiff middle finger.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Streaks and smudges on the two-way----expressions came off blurred. Thad Green tough to read; Parker simple--he turned ugly colors. Dudley Smith-- lexophile with a brogue--too calculated to figure. Bud White too _too_ easy: the chief quoted, "This is a goddamned disgrace"; a big thought balloon popped up: "Ed Exley is the stool pigeon." The middle finger salute was just icing.

  Ed tapped the speaker; static crackled. The closet was hot-- but not stifling like the Central Jail storeroom. He thought of his last two weeks.

  He'd played it brass balls with Parker, presenting all three depositions, agreeing to testify as the Department's key witness. Parker considered his assessment of the situation brilliant, the mark of an exemplary officer. He gave the least damaging of the three statements to Ellis Loew and his favorite D.A.'S investigator, a young law school graduate--Bob Gallaudet. The blame was shifted, more than deservedly, to Sergeant Richard Stensland and Officer Wendell White; less deservedly to three men with their pensions already secured. The chief's reward to his exemplary witness: a transfer to a detective squadroom--a huge promotion. With the lieutenant's exam aced, within a year he would stand as Detective Lieutenant E. J. Exley.

  Green left the office; Ellis Loew and Gallaudet walked in. Loew and Parker conferred; Gallaudet opened the door. "Sergeant Vincennes, please"--static out of the speaker.

  Trashcan Jack: sleek in a chalk-striped suit. No amenities--he took the middle seat checking his watch. A look passed--Trash, Ellis Loew. Parker eyed the new fish, an easy read--pure contempt. Gallaudet stood by the door, smoking.

  Loew said, "Sergeant, we'll get right to it. You've been very cooperative with l.A., which is to your credit. But nine witnesses have identified you as hitting Juan Carbijal, and four drunk tank prisoners saw you carrying in a case of rum. You see, your notoriety preceded you. Even drunks read the scandal sheets."

  Dudley Smith took over. "Lad, we need your notoriety. We have a stellar witness who will tell the grand jury that you hit back only after being hit, and since that is probably the truth, further prisoner testimony will vindicate you. But we need you to admit bringing the liquor the men got drunk on. Admit to that interdepartmental infraction and you'll get off with a trial board. Mr. Loew guarantees a quashed criminal indictment should one arise."

  Trashcan kept still. Ed read in: Bud White brought most of the booze, he's afraid to inform on him. Parker said, "There will have to be a large shake-up within the Department. Testify, and you'll receive a minor trial board, no suspension, no demotion. I'll guarantee you a light slap on the wrist--a transfer to Administrative Vice for a year or so."

  Vincennes to Loew. "Ellis, have I got any more truck with you on this? You know what working Narco means to me."

  Loew flinched. Parker said, "None, and there's more. You'll have to stand in the show-up tomorrow, and we want you to testify against Officer Krugman, Sergeant Tucker and Officer Pratt. All three men have already earned their pensions. Our key witness will testify roundly, but you can plead ignorance to questions directed at the other men. Frankly, we must sate the public's clamor for blood by giving up some of our own."