L.A. Confidential Part 12
Thad Green, Dudley Smith by a floor mike; the men facing them, itchy to go. Bud looked for Ed Exley--a chance to scope out his wounds. No Exley--scotch a rumor he caught the Nite Owl squeal.
Smith grabbed the mike. "Lads, you all know why we're here. 'Nite Owl Ma.s.sacre' hyperbole aside, this is a heinous crime that requires a hard and swift resolution. The press and public will demand it, and since we already have solid leads, we will give it to them.
"There were six people dead in that locker--three men and three women. I have spoken to the Nite Owl's owner, and he told me that three of the dead are likely Patty Chesimard and Donna DeLuca, female Caucasians, the late-shift waitress and cash register girl, and Gilbert Escobar, male Mexican, the cook and dishwasher. The three other victims--two men, one woman-- were almost certainly customers. The cash register and safe were empty and the victims' pockets and handbags were picked clean, which means that robbery was obviously the motive. SID is doing the forensic now--so far they have nothing but rubber glove prints on the cash register and food locker door. No time of death on the victims, but the scant number of customers and another lead we have indicates 3:00 A.M. as the time of the killings. A total of forty-five spent 12-gauge Remington shotgun sh.e.l.ls were found in the locker. This indicates three men with five-shot-capacity pumps, all of them reloading twice. I do not have to tell you how gratuitous forty of those rounds were, lads. We are dealing with stark raving mad beasts here."
Bud looked around. Still no Exley, a hundred men jotting notes. Jack Vincennes in a corner, no notebook. Thad Green took over.
"No blood tracks leading outside. We were hoping for footprints to run eliminations against, but we didn't find any, and Ray Pinker from SID says the forensic will take at least fortyeight hours. The coroner says IDs on the customer victims will be extremely difficult because of the condition of the bodies. But we do have one very hot lead.
"Hollywood Division has taken a total of four crime reports on this, so listen well. Over the past two weeks a carload of Negro youths were seen discharging shotguns into the air up at Griffith Park. There were three of them, and the shotguns were pumps. The punks were not apprehended, but eyeball witnesses ID'd them as driving a 1948 to 1950 Mercury coupe, purple in color. And just an hour ago Lieutenant Smith's canva.s.sing crew found a witness: a news vendor who saw a purple Merc coupe, '48--'50 vintage, parked across from the Nite Owl last night around 3:00 A.M."
The room went loud: a big rumbling. Green gestured for quiet. "It gets better, so listen well. There are no '48 to '50 purple Mercurys on the hot sheet, so it is very doubtful that we're dealing with a stolen car, and the state DMV has given us a registration list on '48 to '50 Mercurys statewide. Purple was an original color on the '48 to '50 coupe models, and those models were favored by Negroes. Over sixteen hundred are registered to Negroes in the State of California, and in Southern California there are only a very few registerM to Caucasians. There are one hundred and fifty-six registered to Negroes in L.A. County, and there are almost a hundred of you men here. We have a list compiled: home and work addresses. The Hollywood squad is cross-checking for rap sheets. I want fifty two-man teams to shake three names apiece. There's a special phone line being set up at Hollywood Station, so if you need information on past addresses or known a.s.sociates, you can call there. If you get hot suspects, bring them here to the Hall. We've got a string of interrogation rooms set up, along with a man to head the interrogations. Lieutenant Smith will give out the a.s.signments in a second, and Chief Parker would like a word with you. Any questions first?"
A man yelled, "Sir, who's running the interrogations?"
Green said, "Sergeant Ed Exley, Hollywood squad."
Catcalls, boos. Parker walked up to the mike. "Enough on that. Gentlemen, just go out and get them. Use all necessary force."
Bud smiled. The real message: kill the n.i.g.g.e.rs clean.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jack's list: George NMI Yelburton, male Negro, 9781 South Beach; Leonard Timothy Bidwell, male Negro, 10062 South Duquesne; Dale William Pritchford, male Negro, 8211 South Normandie.
Jack's temporary partner: Sergeant Cal Denton, Bunco Squad, a former guard at the Texas State Pen.
Denton's car down to Darktown, the radio humming: jazz on the "Nite Owl Ma.s.sacre." Denton hummed: Leonard Bidwell used to fight welterweight, he saw him go ten with Kid Gavilan--he was one tough shine. Jack brooded on his backto-Narco ticket: Bobby Inge, Christine Bergeron gone, no s.m.u.t leads from the other squad guys. The orgy pix--beautiful in a way. His own private leads, f.u.c.ked up by some crazy spooks killing six people for a couple hundred bucks. He could still taste the booze, still hear Sid Hudgens: "We've all got secrets."
Snitch call-ins first: his, Denton's. Shine stands, pool halls, hair-processing parlors, storefront churches--informants palmed, leaned on, queried. The Darktown shuffle--purple car/shotgun rebop, hazy, distorted--riffraff gone on Tokay and hair tonic. Four hours down, no hard names, back to the names on the list.
9781 Beach--a tar-paper shack, a purple '48 Merc on the lawn. The car stood sans wheels, a rusted axle sunk in the gra.s.s. Denton pulled up. "Maybe that's their alibi. Maybe they f.u.c.ked up the car after they did the Nite Owl so we'd think they couldn't drive it nowhere."
Jack pointed over. "There's weeds wrapped around the brake linings. n.o.body drove that thing up to Hollywood last night."
"You think?"
"I think."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
Denton hauled to the South Duquesne address--another tar-paper dive. A purple Mercury in the driveway--a c.o.o.n coach featuring fender skirts, mud flaps, "Purple Pagans" on a hood plaque. Bolted to the porch: a heavy bag/speed bag combo. Jack said, "There's your welterweight."
Denton smiled; Jack walked up, pushed the buzzer. Dog barks inside--a real monster howling. Denton stood flank: the driveway, a bead on the door.
A Negro man opened up: wiry, a tough hump restraining a mastiff. The dog growled; the man said, "This 'cause I ain' paid my alimony? That a G.o.dd.a.m.n p0-lice offense?"
"Are you Leonard Timothy Bidwell?"
"That's right."
"And that's your car in the driveway?"
"That's right. And if you a po-lice doin' repos on the side you barkin' up the wrong tree, 'cause my baby is paid for outright with my purse from my losin' effort 'gainst Johnny Saxton."
Jack pointed to the dog. "Put him back inside and close the door, walk out and put your hands on the wall."
Bidwell did it extra slow; Jack frisked him, turned him around. Denton walked over. "Boy, you like 12-gauge pumps?"
Bidwell shook his head. "Say what?"; Jack threw a change-up. "Where were you last night at 3:00 A.M.?"
"Right here at my crib."
"By yourself? If you got laid you got lucky. Tell me you got lucky, before my buddy gets p.i.s.sed."
"I gots custody of my kids fo' the week. They was with me."
"Are they here?"
"They asleep."
Denton prodded him--a gun poke to the ribs. "Boy, you know what happened last night? Bad juju, and I ain't woofin'. You own a shotgun, boy?"
"Man, I don't need no f.u.c.kin' shotgun."
Denton poked harder. "Boy, don't you use curse words with me. Now, before we get your pickaninnies out here, you gonna tell me who you lent your automobile to last night?"
"Man, I don' lend my sled to n.o.body!"
"Then who'd you lend your 12-gauge pump shotguns to? Boy, you spill on that."
"Man, I tol' you I don't own no shotgun!"
Jack stepped in. "Tell me about the Purple Pagans. Are they a bunch of guys who like purple cars?"
"Man, that is just a name for our club. I gots a purple car, some other cats in the club gots them too. Man, what is this all about?" Jack took out his DMV sheet--the Merc owners all typed up. "Leonard, did you read the papers this morning?"
"No. Man, what is--"
"Sssh. You listen to the radio or watch television?"
"I ain't got either of them. What's that--"
"Sssh. Leonard, we're looking for three colored guys who like to pop off shotguns and a Merc like yours, a '48, a '49, or a '50. I know you wouldn't hurt anybody, I saw you fight Gavilan and I like your style. We're looking for some _bad_ guys. Guys with a car like yours, guys who might belong to your club."
Bidwell shrugged. "Why should I help you?"
"Because I'll cut my partner loose on you if you don't."
"Yeah, and you get me a f.u.c.kin' snitch jacket, too."
"No jacket, and you don't have to say anything. Just look at this list and point. Here, read it over."
Bidwell shook his head. "They's bad, so I jus' tell you. Sugar Ray Coates, drives a '49 coupe, a beautiful ride. He gots two buddies, Leroy and Tyrone. Sugar loves to party with a shotgun, I heard he gets his thrills shootin' dogs. He tried to get in my club, but we turned him down 'cause he is righteous trash."
Jack checked his list--bingo on "Coates, Raymond NMI, 9611 South Central, Room 114." Denton had his own sheet out. "Two minutes from here. We haul, we might get there first."
Hero headlines. "Let's do it."
The Tevere Hotel: an L-shaped walk-up above a washateria. Denton coasted into the lot; Jack saw stairs going up-just one floor of rooms, a wide-open doorway.
Up and in--a short corridor, flimsy-looking doors. Jack drew his piece; Denton pulled two guns: a .38, an ankle rig automatic. They counted room numbers; 114 came up. Denton reared back; Jack reared back; they kicked the same instant. The door flew off its hinges for a pure clean shot: a colored kid jumping out of bed.
The kid put up his hands. Denton smiled, aimed. Jack blocked him--two reflex pulls tore the ceiling. Jack ran in; the kid tried to run; Jack nailed him: gun-b.u.t.t shots to the head. No more resistance--Denton cuffed his hands behind his back. Jack slipped on bra.s.s knucks and made fists. "Leroy, Tyrone. _Where?_"
The kid dribbled teeth--"One-two-one" came out b.l.o.o.d.y. Denton yanked him up by his hair; Jack said, "Don't you f.u.c.king kill him."
Denton spat in his face; shouts boomed down the hall. Jack ran out, around the "L," a skid to a stop in front of 121-- A closed door. Background noise huge--no way to take a listen. Jack kicked; wood splintered; the door creaked open. Two coloreds inside--one asleep on a cot, one snoring on a mattress.
Jack walked in. Sirens whirring up very close. The mattress kid stirred--Jack bludgeoned him quiet, bashed the other punk before he could move. The sirens screeched, died. Jack saw a box on the dresser.
Shotgun sh.e.l.ls: Remington 12-gauge double-aught buck. A box of fifty, most of them gone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ed skimmed Jack Vincennes' report. Thad Green watched, his phone ringing off the hook.
Solid, concise--Trash knew how to write a good quickie.
Three male Negroes in custody: Raymond "Sugar Ray" Coates, Leroy Fontaine, Tyrone Jones. Treated for wounds received while resisting arrest; snitched by another male Negro-- who described Coates as a shotgun toter who liked to blast dogs. Coates was on the DMV sheet; the informant stated that he ran with two other men--"Tyrone and Leroy"--also living at the Tevere Hotel. The three were arrested in their underwear; Vincennes turned them over to prowl car officers responding to shots fired and searched their rooms for evidence. He found a fifty-unit box of Remington 12-gauge double-aught shotgun sh.e.l.ls, forty-odd missing--but no shotguns, no rubber gloves, no bloodstained clothing, no large amounts of cash or coins and no other weaponry. The only clothing in the rooms: soiled T-shirts, boxer shorts, neatly pressed garments covered by dry cleaner's cellophane. Vincennes checked the incinerator in back of the hotel; it was burning--the manager told him he saw Sugar Coates dump a load of clothes in at approximately 7:00 this morning. Vincennes said Jones and Fontaine appeared to be inebriated or under the influence of narcotics--they slept through gunfire and the general ruckus of Coates resisting arrest. Vincennes told late-arriving patrolmen to search for Coates' car--it was not in the parking lot or anywhere in a three-block radius. An APB was issued; Vincennes stated that all three suspects' hands and arms reeked of perfume--a paraffin test would be inconclusive.
Ed laid the report on Green's desk. "I'm surprised he didn't kill them."
The phone rang--Green let it keep going. "More headlines this way, he's shacking with Ellis Loew's sister-in-law. And if the c.o.o.ns doused their paws with perfume to foil a paraffin test, we can thank Jack for that--he gave that little piece of information to _Badge of Honor_. Ed, are you up for this?"
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? Sh.e.l.l samples to compare, witnesses to the guys letting off the shotguns."
"Sh.e.l.l 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 b.u.t.tons to hit."
Ed said, "I'll break them."
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 a.s.sociates. 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."