L.A. Confidential Part 43
"I don't really want your opinion."
"I was leading up to a compliment."
"Some other time, all right?"
"I'll change the subject then. How's Inez Soto handling the publicity? She's been all over the papers."
"She's taking it poorly, and I don't want to talk about her."
"It galls you that I know so much about you. You don't have information to compete."
Move the wedge. "I have Vincennes' deposition."
"Which I suspect you doubt the truth of."
Throw the change-up. "You mentioned that Patchett financed some early Raymond Dieterling films. Can you elaborate on that?"
"'Why? Because your father is a.s.sociated with Dieterling? You see the disadvantages of being the son of a famous man?"
No hink, a deft touch with the knife. "Just a policeman's question."
Lynn shrugged. "Pierce mentioned it to me in pa.s.sing several years ago."
The phone rang--Lynn ignored it. "I can tell you don't want to talk about Jack Vincennes."
"I can tell you do."
"I haven't seen much in the news about him lately."
"That's because he flushed everything he had down the toilet. _Badge of Honor_, his friendship with Miller Stanton, all of it. Sid Hudgens getting murdered didn't help, since _Hush-Hush_ owed half its filth to Vincennes' shakedowns."
Lynn sipped brandy. "You don't like Jack."
"No, but there's part of his deposition that I believe absolutely. Patchett has carbons of Sid Hudgens' private dirt files, including a carbon of a file on Vincennes himself. You can do yourself some good by acknowledging it."
If she bit she'd start now.
"I can't acknowledge it, and the next time we speak I'll have a lawyer. But I can tell you that I think I know what such a file would contain."
First wedge in place. "And?"
"Well, I think the year was 1947. Vincennes got involved in a gunfight at the beach. He was under the influence of narcotics and shot and killed two innocent people, a husband and wife. My source has verification, including the testimony of an ambulance deputy and a notarized statement from the doctor who treated Jack for his wounds. My source has blood test results that show the drugs in his system and testimony from eyewitnesses who didn't come forth. Is that information you'd suppress to protect a brother officer, Captain?"
The Malibu Rendezvous: Trashcan's glory job. The phone rang--Lynn let it go. Ed said, "Jesus Christ," no need to fake.
"Yes. You know, when I read about Vincennes I always thought he had some very dark reasons for persecuting dope users, so I wasn't surprised when I found that out. And, Captain? If Pierce did have file carbons, I'm sure he would have destroyed them."
Her last bit rang fake--Ed played a lie off it. "I know Jack loves dope, it's been a rumor around the Bureau for years. And I know you're lying about the files and I know Vincennes would do anything to get his file back. You and Patchett shouldn't underestimate him."
"The way you've underestimated Bud White?"
Her smile came on like a target--he thought for a second that he'd hit her. She laughed before he could; he leaned in and kissed her instead. Lynn pulled back, then kissed back; they rolled to the floor shedding clothes. The phone rang--Ed kicked it off the hook. Lynn pulled him inside her; they rolled, moved together, trashed furniture. It ended as fast as it started--he could feel Lynn reaching to peak. Seconds apart for that, good enough, rest. His story laid out between sighs, like it was a burden too heavy to carry.
Rogue cop Jack Vincennes, on dope and too hot to handle. He'd do anything to get his file back, he had to get that file. Captain E. J. Exley had to use him for what he knew--but Vincennes was doped up, boozed up, going psycho on him--
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Bud hit L.A. at dawn, off the midnight bus down from Frisco. His city looked strange, new--like everything else in his life.
He got a taxi and dozed; he kept snapping awake to Ellis Loew: "It sounds like a great case, but multiple homicides are tricky and Spade Cooley is a well-known figure. I'll put a D.A.'s Bureau team on it and _you stay out of it for now_." Cut to Lynn: calls, the phone off the hook, smothered. Strange, but like her--when she wanted to sleep she wanted to sleep.
He couldn't believe his life, it was just too G.o.dd.a.m.n amazing.
The cab dropped him off. He found a note on his door-- "Sergeant Duane W. Fisk" on the letterhead.
Sgt. White-- Captain Exley wants to see you immediately (something pertaining to _Whisper_ magazine and a body under a house). Report to l.A. immediately upon your return to Los Angeles.
Bud laughed, packed a bag: clothes, his paper stash--the hooker killings, the Nite Owl--Dudley's for the asking. He threw the note in the toilet, p.i.s.sed on it.
He drove to Gardena, checked into the Victory: a room with clean sheets, a hot plate, no bloodstains on the walls. f.u.c.k sleep-he fixed coffee, worked.
Everything he knew on Spade Cooley--half a longhand page.
Cooley was an Okie fiddler/singer, a skinny guy, maybe late forties. He had a couple of hit records, his TV show was big for a while. His ba.s.s player, Burt Arthur Perkins, a.k.a. "Deuce," did time on a chain gang for sodomy on dogs and was rumored to have a s.h.i.tload of mob K.A.'s.
On the investigation: Lamar Hinton said Spade smoked opium; Spade played the Lariat Room in Frisco--across from Chrissie Renfro's place of death. Chrissie died with "0" in her system; Spade was currently playing the El Rancho Kiub in L.A., close by Lynette Ellen Kendrick's apartment. Lamar Hinton said Dwight Gilette--Kathy Janeway's old pimp-supplied wh.o.r.es for Cooley's parties.
Circ.u.mstantial--but tight.
A phone wired to the wall--Bud grabbed it, called the County Coroner's Office.
"Medical Examinations, Jensen."
"Sergeant White for Dr. Harris. I know he's busy, but tell him it's just one thing."
"Hold, please," click, click, click. "Sergeant, what is it this time?"
"One thing off your autopsy report."
"You're not even a county officer."
"Stomach and bloodstream contents on Lynette Kendrick. Come on, huh?"
"That's easy, because Kendrick won our best stomach award last week. Are you ready? Frankfurters with sauerkraut, french fries, Coca-Cola, opium, sperm. Jesus, what a last supper."
Bud hung up. Ellis Loew said stay out of it. Kathy Janeway said GO.
He drove to the Strip, put the M.O. together.
First the El Rancho Klub, closed, "Spade Cooley and His Cowboy Rhythm Band Appearing Nitely." A publicity still by the door: Spade, Deuce Perkins, three other cracker types. No heavily ringed fingers; a lead rubber-stamped at the bottom: "Represented by Nat Penzler a.s.sociates, 653 North La Cienega, Los Angeles."
Across the street: the Hot Dog Hut, kraut dogs and fries on the menu. Down the Strip by Crescent Heights: a well-known prostie stroll. A mile south at Melrose and Sweetzer: Lynette Ellen Kendrick's apartment.
Easy: Spade picked her up late, no witnesses. He had the food and the dope, suggested a cozy all-nighter, took Lynette home. They got high, chowed down--Spade beat her to death, raped her three times postmortem.
Bud hooked south to La Cienega. 653: a redwood A-frame, "Nat Penzler a.s.soc." by the mailbox. The door propped open; a girl inside making coffee.
Bud walked in. The girl said, "Yes, can I help you?"
"The boss around?"
"Mr. Penzler's on the telephone. Can I help you?"
One connecting door--"N.P." bra.s.s-stamped. Bud pushed it open; an old man yelled, "Hey! I'm on a call! What are you, a bill collector? Hey, Gail! Give this clown a magazine!"
Bud flashed his badge. The man hung up the phone, pushed back from his desk. Bud said, "You're Nat Penzler?"
"Call me Natsky. Are you looking for representation? I could get you work playing thugs. You have that Neanderthal look currently in vogue."
Let it go. "You're Spade Cooley's agent, right?"
"Right. You want to join Spade's band? Spade's a moneymaker, but my shvartze cleaning lady sings better than him, so maybe I can get you a spot, a bouncer gig at the El Rancho at least. Lots of trim there, boychik. A moose like you could get reamed, steamed and dry-cleaned."
"You through, pops?"
Penzler flushed. "Mr. Natsky to you, caveman."
Bud shut the door. "I need to see Cooley's booking records going back to '51. You want to do this nice or not?"
Penzler got up, blocked his filing cabinets. "Showtime's over, G.o.dzilla. I never divulge client information, even under threat of a subpoena. So amscray and come back for lunch sometime, say on the twelfth of never."
Bud tore the phone cord from the wall; Penzler slid the top drawer open. "No rough stuff, please, caveman! I do my best work with my face!"
Bud thumbed folders, hit "Cooley, Donnell Clyde," dumped it on the desk. A picture hit the blotter: Spade, four rings on ten fingers. Pink sheets, white sheets, then blue sheets--booking records clipped by year.
Penzler stood by muttering. Bud matched dates.
Jane Mildred Hamsher, 3/8/51, San Diego-Spade there at the El Cortez Sky Room. April '53, Kathy Janeway, the Cowboy Rhythm Band at Bido Lito's--South L.A. Sharon, Sally, Chrissie Virginia, Maria up to Lynette: Bakersfield, Needles, Arizona, Frisco, Seattle, back to L.A., shifting personnel listed on pay cards: Deuce Perkins playing ba.s.s most of the time, drum and sax guys coming and going, Spade Cooley always headlining, in those cities on those DODs.
Blue sheets dripping wet--his own sweat. "Where's the band staying?"
Penzler: "The Biltmore, and you didn't get it from Natsky."
"That's good, 'cause this is Murder One and I wasn't here."
"I am like the Sphinx, I swear to you. My G.o.d, Spade and his lowlife crew. My G.o.d, do you know what he grossed last year?"
He called the lead in to Ellis Loew; Loew hit the roof: "I told you to stay out! I've got three _civilized_ men on it, and I'll tell them what you've got, but you stay out and get back to the Nite Owl, _do you understand me?_"
He understood: Kathy Janeway kept saying GO.
The Biltmore.
He forced himself to drive there slow, park by the back entrance, politely ask the clerk where to find Mr. Cooley's party. The clerk said, "The El Presidente Suite, floor nine"; he said "Thank you" so calm that everything went into slow motion and he thought for a second he was swimming.
The stairs were like swimming upstream--Little Kathy kept saying KILL HIM. The suite: double doors, gold-filigreed-- eagles, American flags. He jiggled the k.n.o.b, the doors opened.
High sw.a.n.k gone white trash--three crackers pa.s.sed out on the floor. Booze empties, dumped ashtrays, no Spade.
Connecting doors--the one on the right featured noise. Bud kicked it in.
Deuce Perkins in bed watching cartoons. Bud pulled his gun. "Where's Cooley?"
Perkins popped in a toothpick. "On a drunk, which is where I'm goin'. You want to see him, come to the El Rancho tonight. Chances are he'll show up."
"The f.u.c.k, he's the headliner."
"Most times. But Spade's been erratic lately, so I been film' in. I sing good as him and I'm better lookin', so n.o.body seems to mind. Now, you want to get out of here and leave me alone with my entertainment?"
"Where's he drinking?"
"Put that gun away, junior. The worse you got him for's nonpayment of child support, and Spade always pays sooner or later."
"Nix, this is Murder One, and I heard he likes opium."
Perkins coughed out his toothpick. "What'd you say?"