L.A. Confidential Part 21
Pierce Patchett, fifty-something, "some kind of legit businessman."
Jack found a pay phone, called R&I, the DMV. A make: Pierce Morehouse Patchett, DOB 6/30/02, Grosse Pointe, Michigan. No criminal record, 1184 Gretna Green, Brentwood. Three minor traffic violations since 1931.
Not much. Sid Hudgens next--f.u.c.k his s.m.u.t hink. A busy signal, a buzz to Morty Bendish at the _Mirror_.
"City Room, Bendish."
"Morty, it's Jack Vincennes."
"The Big V! Jack, when are you going back to the Narco Squad? I need some good dope stories."
Morty wanted shtick. "As soon as I get squeaky-clean Russ Millard off my case and make a case for him. And _you_ can help."
"Keep talking, I'm all ears."
"Pierce Patchett. Ring a bell?"
Bendish whistled. "What's this about?"
"I can't tell you yet. But if it breaks his way, you've got the exclusive."
"You'd feed me before you feed Sid?"
"Yeah. Now I'm all ears."
Another whistle. "There's not much, but what there is is choice. Patchett's a big handsome guy, maybe fifty, but he looks thirty-eight. He goes back maybe twenty-five years in L.A. He's some kind of judo or jujitsu expert, he's either a chemist by trade or he was a chemistry major in college. He's worth a boatload of greenbacks, and I know he lends money to businessman types at thirty percent interest and a cut of their biz, I know he's bankrolled a lot of movies under the table. Interesting, huh? Now try this on: he's rumored to be some kind of periodic heroin sniffer, rumored to dry out at Terry Lux's clinic. All in all, he's what you might wanta call a powerful behind-the-scenes strange-o."
Terry Lux--plastic surgeon to the stars. Sanitarium boss: booze, dope cures, abortions, detoxification heroin available--the cops looked the other way, Terry treated L.A. politicos free. "Morry, that's all you've got?"
"Ain't that enough? Look, what I don't have, Sid might. Call him, but remember I got the exclusive."
Jack hung up, called Sid Hudgens. Sid answered: "_Hush-Hush_. Off the record and on the QT."
"It's Vincennes."
"Jackie! You got some good Nite Owl scoop for the Sidster?"
"No, but I'll keep an ear down."
"Narco skinny maybe? I want to put out an all-hophead issue--shvartze jazz musicians and movie stars, maybe tie it in to the Commies, this Rosenberg thing has got the public running hot with a thermometer up their a.s.s. You like it?"
"It's cute. Sid, have you heard of a man named Pierce Patchett?"
Silence--seconds ticking off long. Sid, too Sid-like. "Jackie, all I know on the man is that he is very wealthy and what I like to call 'Twilight.' He ain't queer, he ain't Red, he don't know anybody I can use in my quest for prime sinuendo. Where'd you hear about him?"
Bulls.h.i.tting him--he could taste it. "A s.m.u.t peddler told me."
Static--breath catching sharp. "Jack, s.m.u.t is from hunger, strictly for sad sacks who can't get their ashes hauled. Leave it alone and write when you get work, _gabishe?_"
Hang up--bang!--a door slamrning, cutting you off, some line you couldn't cross back to. Jack drove to the Bureau, MALIBU RENDEZVOUS stamped on that door.
The Ad Vice pen stood empty, just Millard and Thad Green in a huddle by the cloakroom. Jack checked the a.s.signment board-- more no-leads--walked around to the supply room on the QT. Unlocked--easy to pull off a s.n.a.t.c.h. Downwind: the high bra.s.s talking Nite Owl.
"Russ, I know you want in. But Parker wants Dudley."
"He's too volatile on Negroes, Chief. We both know it."
"You only call me 'Chief' when you want something, _Captain_."
Millard laughed. "Thad, the sappers found matching spents in Griffith Park, and I heard 77th Street turned the wallets and purses. Is that true?"
"Yes, an hour ago, in a sewer. Blood-caked, print-wiped. SID matched to the victims' blood. It's the coloreds, Russ. I know it."
"I don't think it's the ones in custody. Do you see them leaving a rape scene on the southside, then driving the girl around to let their friends abuse her, _then_ driving all the way to Hollywood to pull the Nite Owl job--when two of them are high on barbiturates?"
"It's a stretch, I'll admit that. We need to nail down the outside rapists and get Inez Soto to talk. So far she's refused. But Ed Exley is working on her, and Ed Exley is very good."
"Thad, I won't let my ego get in the way. I'm a captain, Dudley's a lieutenant. We'll share the command."
"I worry about your heart."
"A heart attack five years ago doesn't make me a cripple."
Green laughed. "I'll talk to Parker. Jesus, you and Dudley. What a pair."
Jack found what he wanted: a tape recorder/phone tapper, bolt-on style, headphones. He hustled it out a side door, no witnesses.
Dusk, Cheramoya Avenue: Hollywood, a block off Franklin. 5261: a Tudor four-flat, two pads upstairs, two down. No lights--probably too late to glom "Chester" the day man. Jack rang the B buzzer--no response. An ear to the door, a listen--no sounds, period. In with the key.
Jackpot: one glance told him Hinton played it straight--no cleanout. Pervert f.u.c.king Utopia--floor-to-ceiling shelves jammed with goodies.
Maryjane: leaf, prime buds. Pills--bennies, goofb.a.l.l.s, red devils, yellow jackets, blue heavens. Patent dope: laudanum, codeine mixtures, catchy brand names: Dreamscope, Hollywood Sunrise, Martian Moonglow. Absinthe, pure alcohol in pints, quarts, half gallons. Ether, hormone pills, envelopes of cocaine, heroin. Film cans, s.m.u.tty t.i.tles: _Mr. Big d.i.c.k_, _a.n.a.l Love_, _Gang Bang_, _High School Rapist_, _Rape Club_, _Virgin c.o.c.ksucker_, _Hot Negro Love_, _f.u.c.k Me Tonite_, _Susie's b.u.t.thole Deelite_, _Boys in Love_, _Locker Room l.u.s.t_, _Blow the Man Down_, _Jesus Porks the Pope_, _c.o.c.ksucker's Paradise_, _Cornholers Meet the Ramrod Boys_, _Rex the Randy Rottweiler_. Old stag books: T.J. venues, women sucking c.o.c.k, boys sucking c.o.c.k, up-the-hole close-ups. Dusty--not a hot item; empty s.p.a.ces alongside, maybe the good s.m.u.t, his s.m.u.t, was piled there: make Lamar for cleaning that out? Why? The rest of the s.h.i.t spelled felony time to the year 2000. Snapshots-- candid-type pix--real-life movie stars in the raw. Lupe Velez, Gary Cooper, Johnny Weissmuller, Carole Landis, Clark Gable, Tallulah Bankhead m.u.f.f-diving, corpses going 69 on morgue slabs. A color pic: Joan Crawford and a notoriously well hung Samoan extra named "O.K. Freddy" f.u.c.king. d.i.l.d.oes, dog collars, whips, chains, amyl nitrite poppers, panties, bra.s.sieres, c.o.c.k rings, catheters, enema bags, black lizard pumps with six-inch heels and a female mannequin covered by a tarp-- plasterboard, rubber lips, glued-on pubic hair, a s.n.a.t.c.h made from a garden hose.
Jack found the bathroom and p.i.s.sed. A mirror threw his face back: old, strange. He went to work: tapper to the phone, the oldie s.m.u.t skimmed.
Cheap stuff, probably Mex-made: spic hairstyles on skinny junkie posers. Vertigo: he felt swirly, like a good hop jolt. The dope on the shelves made him drool; he mixed Karen in with the pictures. He paced the room, tapped a hollow place, pulled up the rug. Bingo on a cute hidey-hole: a bas.e.m.e.nt, stairs leading to an empty black s.p.a.ce.
The phone rang.
Jack hit the tapper, picked up. "Hi. Whatever You Desire"-- Lamar Hinton mimicked.
Click, a hang-up, he shouldn't have used the slogan. A half hour pa.s.sed--the phone rang. "Hi, it's Lamar"--casual.
A pause, click.
A chain of smokes--his throat hurt. The phone rang.
Try a mumble. "Yeah?"
"Hi, it's Seth up in Bel Air. You feel like bringing something over?"
"Sure."
"Make it a jug of the wormwood. Make it fast and you made a nice tip."
"Uh . . . gimme the address again, would ya?"
"Who could forget digs like mine? It's 941 Roscomere, and don't dawdle."
Jack hung up. Ring ring again.
"Yeah?"
"Lamar, tell Pierce I need to . . . Lamar, is that you, boychik?"
SID HUDGENS.
Lamar--with a tremor. "Uh, yeah. Who's this?"
Click.
Jack pushed "Replay." Hudgens talked, recognition creeped in-- SID KNEW PATCHETF. SID KNEW LAMAR. SID KNEW THE FLEUR-DE-LIS RACKET.
The phone rang--Jack ignored it. Splitsville--grab the tapper, wipe the phone, wipe all the filth he'd touched. Out the door queasy--night air peaking his nerves.
He heard a car revving.
A shot took out the front window; two shots smashed the door.
Jack drew, fired--the car hauling, no lights.
Clumsy: two shots. .h.i.t a tree and sprayed wood. Three more pulls, no hits, the car fishtailing. Doors opening--eyewitnesses.
Jack got his car--skids, brodies, no lights until Franklin and a main traffic flow. No make on the shooter car: dark, no lights, the cars all around him looked alike: sleek, wrong. A cigarette slowed him down. He drove straight west to Bet Air.
Roscomere Road: twisty, all uphill, mansions fronted by palm trees. Jack found 941, pulled into the driveway.
Circular, looping a big pseudo-Spanish: one story, low slate roof. Cars in a row--a Jag, a Packard, two Caddies, a Rolls. Jack got out--n.o.body braced him. He hunkered down, took plate numbers.
Five cars: cla.s.sy, no Fleur-de-Lis bags on plush front seats. The house: bright windows, silk swirls. Jack walked up and looked in.
He knew he'd never forget the women.
One almost Rita Hayworth a la _Gilda_. One almost Ava Gardner in an emerald-green gown. A near Betty Grable--sequined swim-suit, fishnet stockings. Men in tuxedos mingled--background debris. He couldn't stray his eyes from the women.
Astonishing make-believe. Hinton on Patchett: "He sugarpimps these girls made up to look like movie stars." "Made up" didn't cut it: call these women chosen, cultivated, enhanced by an expert. Astonishing.
Veronica Lake walked through the light. Her face wasn't as close: she just oozed that cat-girl grace. Background men flocked to her.
Jack pressed up to the gla.s.s. s.m.u.t vertigo, real live women. Sid, that door slamming, that line. He drove home, bad vertigo--achy, itchy, jumpy. He saw a _Hush-Hush_ card on his door, "Malibu Rendezvous" inked on the bottom.
He saw headlines: DOPED-OUT DOPE CRUSADER SHOOTS INNOCENT CITIZENS!
CELEBRITY COP INDICTED FOR KILLINGS!
GAS CHAMBER FOR THE BIG-TIME BIG V! RICH KID GIRLFRIEND BIDS DEATH ROW AU REVOIR!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
An arm-in-arm entrance--Inez in her best dress and a veil to hide her bruises. Ed kept his badge out--it got them past the press. Attendants formed the guests into lines--Dream-a-Dreamland was open for business.
Inez was awestruck: quick breaths billowed her veil. Ed looked up, down, sideways--every detail made him think of his father.
A grand promenade--Main Drag, USA, 1920--soda fountains, nickelodeons, dancing extras: the cop on the beat, a paperboy juggling apples, ingenues doing the Charleston. The Amazon River: motorized crocodiles, jungle excursion boats. Snow-capped mountains; vendors handing out mouse-ear beanies. The Moochie Mouse Monorail, tropical isles--acres and acres of magic.
They rode the monorail: the first car, the first run. High speed, upside down, right side up--Inez unbuckled herself giggling. The Paul's World toboggan; lunch: hot dogs, snow cones, Moochie Mouse cheese b.a.l.l.s.
On to "Desert Idyll," "Danny's Fun House," an exhibit on outer s.p.a.ce travel. Inez seemed to be tiring: gorged on excitement. Ed yawned--his own late night catching up.
A late squeal at the station: a shootout on Cheramoya, no perpetrators caught. He had to go to the scene: an apartment house, shots riddling a downstairs unit. Weird: .38s, .45s retrieved, the living room all shelving--empty except for some sadom.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t paraphernalia--and no telephone. The building's owner couldn't be traced; the manager said he was paid by mail, cashier's checks, he got a free flop and a C-note a month, so he was happy and didn't ask questions--he couldn't even name the dump's tenant. The condition of the apartment indicated a rapid clean-out--but no one saw a thing. Four hours of report writing--four hours s.n.a.t.c.hed from the Nite Owl.
The exhibit was a bore--a sop to culture. Inez pointed to the ladies' room; Ed stepped outside.
A VIP tour on the promenade--Timmy Valburn shepherding bigwigs. The _Herald_ front page hit him: Dream-a-Dreamland, the Nite Owl, like nothing else mattered.
He tried to reinterrogate Coates, Jones and Fontaine--they would not give him one word. Eyewitnesses responded to the appeal for IDs on the Griffith Park shooters and could not identify the three in custody: they said they "can't quite be sure." Vehicle checks now extended to '48--'50 Fords and Chevys-- nothing hot so far. Jockeying for command of the case: Chief Parker supported Dudley Smith, Thad Green pumped up Russ Millard. No shotguns found, no trace of Sugar Ray's Mere. Wallets and purses belonging to the victims were found in a sewer a few blocks from the Tevere Hotel---combine that with the matching sh.e.l.ls found in Griffith Park and you got what the papers didn't report: Ellis Loew bullying Parker to bully him: "It's all circ.u.mstantial so far, so have your boy Exley keep working on that Mexican girl, it looks like he's getting next to her, have him talk her into a questioning session under sodium pentothal, let's get some juicy Little Lindbergh details and fix the Nite Owl time frame once and for all."
Inez sat down beside him. They had a view: the Amazon, plaster mountains. Ed said, "Are you all right? Do you want to go back?"
"What I want is a cigarette, and I don't even smoke."
"Then don't start. Inez--"
"Yes, I'll move into your cabin."
Ed smiled. "When did you make up your mind?"