L.A. Confidential Part 44

L.A. Confidential Part 44

"Hookers. Spade like young girls?"

"He don't like to kill them, just play hide the tubesteak like you and me."

"_Where is he?_"

"Man, I'm not no snitch."

Backhanded pistolwhips--Perkins yelped, spat teeth. The TV went loud: kids squealing for Kellogg's Cornflakes. Bud shot the screen out.




Deuce snitched: "Check the '0' joints in Chinatown and please f.u.c.kin' leave me alone!"

Kathy said KILL HIM. Bud thought of his mother for the first time in years.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

The doctor said, "I told this to your Captain Exley, and I told him an interview with Mr. Goldman would most likely prove fruitless--the man is simply not lucid most of the time. However, since he insisted on sending you up here, I'll run through it again."

Jack looked around. Camarillo was creepy: lots of geeks, geek artwork on the walls. "Would you? The captain wants a statement from him."

"Well, he'll be lucky to get one. Last July, Mr. Goldman and his confrere Mickey Cohen were attacked with knives and pipes at McNeil Island Prison. Unidentified a.s.sailants apparently, and Cohen was relatively unharmed while Mr. Goldman suffered serious brain damage. Both men were paroled late last year, and Mr. Goldman began to behave quite erratically. Late in December he was arrested for urinating in public in Beverly Hills, and the judge ordered him here for ninety days' observation. We've had him since Christmas and we've just recycled him in for another ninety. Frankly, we can't do a thing with him, and the only thing mysterious is that Mr. Cohen visited and offered to transfer Mr. Goldman to a private treatment facility at his own expense, but Mr. Goldman refused and acted terrified of him. Isn't that odd?"

"Maybe not. Where is he?"

"On the other side of that door. Be gentle with him, please. The man was a gangster, but he's just a sad human being now."

Jack opened the door. A small padded room; Davey Goldman on a long padded bench. He needed a shave; he reeked of Lysol. Slack-jawed Davey scoping a _National Geographic_.

Jack sat beside him--Goldman moved away. Jack said, "This place is the s.h.i.ts. You should've let Mickey spring you."

Goldman picked his nose, ate it.

"Davey, you on the outs with Mickey?"

Goldman held out his magazine--naked Negroes waving spears.

"Cute, and when they start showing white stuff I'll subscribe. Davey, you remember me? Jack Vincennes? I used to work LAPD Narco and we used to run into each other on the Strip."

Goldman scratched his b.a.l.l.s. He smiled, low voltage, n.o.body home.

"Is this an act? Come on, Davey. You and the Mick go way back. You know he'd take care of you."

Goldman squashed an invisible bug. "Not anymore."

A gone man's voice--n.o.body could fake it that good. "Say, Davey, whatever happened to Dean Van Gelder? You remember him, he used to visit you at McNeil."

Goldman picked his nose, wiped it on his feet. Jack said, "Dean Van Gelder. He visited you at McNeil in '53, right around the time these two guys Pete and Bax Englekling visited Mickey. Now you're afraid of Mickey, and Van Gelder clipped a guy named Duke Cathcart and got clipped himself during the world famous Nite Owl f.u.c.king Ma.s.sacre. You got any brains left to talk about that?"

No lights blinked on.

"Come on, Davey. You tell me, you won't feel so sad. Talk to your Uncle Jack."

"Dutchman! Dutch f.u.c.k! Mickey should know to hurt me but he don't. Hub rachmones, Meyer, hub rachmones, Meyer Harris Cohen te absolvo my sins."

His mouth did the talking--the rest of the man came off dead. Jack parlayed: Van Gelder the Dutchman, Yiddish to Latin, something like betrayal. "Come on, keep going. Confess to Father Jack and I'll make it allll better."

Goldman picked his nose; Jack shoved him. "Come on!"

"Dutchman blew it!"

?????--maybe--a jail bid on Duke Cathcart. "Blew what, come on!"

Goldman, a gone monotone. "Franchise boys got theirs three triggers blip blip blip. f.u.c.king slowdown ain't no hoedown, Mickey thinks he'll get the fish but the Irish Cheshire got the fishy and Mickey gets the bones no gravy he is dead meat for the meow monster. Hub rachmones Meyer, I could trust you, not them, it's all on ice but not for us te absolvo . .

?????????? "Who are these guys you're talking about?"

Goldman hummed a tune, off key, familiar. Jack caught the melody: "Take the 'A' Train." "Davey, _talk_ to me."

Davey sang. "b.u.mpa--b.u.mp b.u.mp b.u.mp b.u.mp b.u.mp b.u.mp b.u.mp b.u.mp the cute train b.u.mp b.u.mp b.u.mp b.u.mp the cute train."

???????????????????--worse, like his brain had padded walls. "Davey, just talk."

Geek talk: "Bzz, bzz bzz talking bug to hear. Betty, Benny bug to listen, Barney bug. Hub rachmones Meyer my dear friend."

????????? into just maybe something: The Engleklings saw Cohen _in his cell_, pitched him on Duke Cathcart's s.m.u.t scheme. Mickey swore he did not tell a soul. Goldman found out about it, decided to crash the racket, dispatched Dean Van Gelder to snuff Cathcart--or maybe buy in on the deal. ????????--How--??????--DID HE HAVE A BUG PLANTED IN COHEN'S CELL?

"Davey, _tell me about the bug_."

Goldman started humming "In the Mood."

The doctor opened the door. "That's it, Officer. You've bothered this man long enough."

Exley okayed it on the phone: a run to McNeil to check for evidence of bugging apparatus in Mickey Cohen's former cell. The Ventura County Airport was a few miles away--he was to fly to Puget Sound, take a cab to the pen. Bob Gallaudet would have a Prison's Bureau man there to run liaison--the McNeil administrators pampered Cohen, probably took bribes for the service, might not cooperate without a push. Exley called the bug theory a long shot; he ranted that Bud White was missing--Fisk and Kleckner were out looking for him, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was probably running from his _Whisper_ piece and the body in San Berdoo-- Fisk left him a note, mentioned the discovery. Parker said Dudley Smith was studying the Englekling case file and would report on it soon; Lynn Bracken was still holding back. Jack said, "What do we do about that?" Exley said, "The Dining Car at midnight. We'll discuss it."

Scary Captain Ed closing ominous.

Jack drove to Ventura, caught his ffight--Exley called ahead, vouchered his ticket. A stewardess handed out newspapers; he grabbed a _Times_ and _Daily News_ and read Nite Owl.

Dudley's boys were ripping up Darktown, hauling in known Negro offenders, looking for the _real_ punks popping shotguns in Griffith Park. Pure bulls.h.i.t: whoever planted the weapons in Ray Coates' car planted the matching sh.e.l.ls in the park, feeding off location leads in the press-only pros would have the brains and the b.a.l.l.s to do it. Mike Breuning and d.i.c.k Carlisle were running a command post at 77th Street Station--the entire squad and twenty extra men from Homicide detached to work the case. No way were crazed darkies guilty--it was starting to look like 1953 all over again. The _Daily News_ showed photos: Central Avenue swarmed by placard-waving boogies, the house Exley bought Inez Soto. A dandy shot in the _Times_--Inez outside Ray Dieterling's place in Laguna, shielding her eyes from flashbulbs.

Jack kept reading.

The State Attorney General's Office issued a statement: Ellis Loew outfoxed them by planting a restraining order, but they were still interested in the case and would intercede when the order lapsed--unless the LAPD solved the Nite Owl mess to the satisfaction of the Los Angeles County Grand Jury within a suitable period of time. LAPD issued a press release--a detailpacked doozie on Inez Soto's 1953 gang rape accompanied by a heartwarming rendition of how Captain Ed Exley helped her rebuild her life. Exley's old man got a treatment: the Daily News played up the completion of the Southern California freeway system and reported a late-breaking rumor--Big Preston was soon to announce his candidacy in the governor's race, a scant two and a half months before the Republican primary, the eleventh-hour announcement strategy a ploy to capitalize on upcoming freeway brouhaha. How would his son's bad press affect his chances?

Jack measured his own chances. He was back on with Karen because she saw he was trying; the best way to keep it going was to cash in his twenty, grab his pension, get out of L.A. The next two months would be a sprint dodging bullets: the reopening, what Patchett and Bracken had on him. Odds you couldn't figure--for a sprinter he was scared and tired--and starting to feel old. Exley had sprint moves in mind--late dinner meets weren't his style. Bracken and Patchett might deal his dirt in; Parker might quash it to protect the Department. But Karen would know, and what was left of the marriage would go down--because she could just barely take that she'd married a drunk and a bagman. "Murderer" was one bullet they both couldn't dodge.

Three hours in the air; three hours pent up thinking. The plane touched down at Puget Sound; Jack caught a cab to McNeil.

Ugly: a gray monolith on a gray rock island. Gray walls, gray fog, barbed wire at the edge of gray water. Jack got out at the guard hut; the gatekeeper checked his ID, nodded. Steel gates slid back into stone.

Jack walked in. A wiry little man met him in the sallyport. "Sergeant Vincennes? I'm Agent G.o.ddard, Prison's Bureau."

A good handshake. "Did Exley tell you what it's about?"

"Bob Gallaudet did. You're on the Nite Owl and related conspiracy cases and you think Cohen's cell might have been bugged. We're looking for evidence to support that theory, which I don't think is so farfetched."

"Why?"

They walked bucking wind-G.o.ddard talked above it. "Cohen got the royal treatment here, Goldman too. Privileges up the wazoo, unlimited visitors and not too much scrutiny on the stuff brought into their tier, so a bug could have been planted. Are you thinking Goldman crossed Mickey?"

"Something like that."

"Well, could be. They had cells two doors apart, on a tier Mickey requested, because half the cells had ruined plumbing and you couldn't house inmates in them. You'll see, I've got the whole row vacated and closed off."

Checkpoints, the blocks--six-story tiers linked by catwalks. Upstairs to a corridor--eight empty cells. G.o.ddard said, "The penthouse. Quiet, underpopulated and a nice day room for the boys to play cards in. We have an informant who says Cohen got approval on the inmates placed up here. Can you feature the cheek of that?"

Jack said, "Jesus, you're good. And fast."

"Well, Exley and Gallaudet carry weight, and the powers that be here didn't have time to prepare. Now check the goodies I brought."

On the day room table: crowbars, chisels, mallets, a long thin pole with a hook at the end. On a blanket: a tape recorder, a tangle of wires. G.o.ddard said, "First we tear this tier up. I admit it's a long shot, but I brought a recorder along in case we find tape."

"I'd call that a maybe. Goldman and Cohen got paroled last fall, but they got bushwacked in July and Davey got his brains scrambled. I'm thinking if he was the one monitoring the tape then maybe he was too wet-brained to pull the machine."

"Enough gabbing. Let's dig."

They dug.

G.o.ddard plumbed a line from the heat duct in Cohen's cell to the heat duct in Goldman's, marked a line on the ceilings of the two cells in between, started probing with a mallet and chisel. Jack pried a protection plate off the duct on Mickey's wall, banged around inside the chute with the hook device. Nothing but hollow tin walls, no wires just inside. Frustrating: it was the logical place to plant a microphone. Heat boomed out the duct; Jack changed his mind, Washington was cold, the heat would be on too much of the time, drowning out conversation. He checked the walls and ceiling for other conduits--nothing--then the area around the vent. Irregularly applied s.p.a.ckling dotted with pinholes right by the protector plate; he smashed his mallet until half the wall came down and a small s.p.a.ckle-covered microphone dangling off a wire came loose. The wire jerked from his hand, straight back into the wall. Five seconds later G.o.ddard stood there holding it--attached to a tape recorder covered with plastic. "Halfway between the cells, a little hidey-hole right off the vent. Let's listen, huh?"

They fired it up in the day room. G.o.ddard hooked up his machine, changed spools, pushed b.u.t.tons--tape-recorded tape.

Static, a dog yipping, "There, there, bubeleh"--Mickey Cohen's voice. G.o.ddard said, "They let him keep a dog in his cell. Only in America, huh?"

Cohen: "Quit licking your schnitzel, little precious." More yips, a long silence, a click-off sound. G.o.ddard said, "I was timing it. Voice-activated mike. Five minutes and it goes off automatically."

Jack brushed plaster off his hands. "How'd Goldman get in to change the tape?"

"He must have had some kind of hook thing, like that pole I gave you. The grate on his heat vent was loose, so we know somebody was poking around in there. Jesus, this thing has been in there how long? And Goldman had to have help, this is no one-man operation. Listen, here that click?"

Another click, a strange voice: "For how much? I'll have that guard place the bet." Cohen: "A thousand on Basilio, that little guinea is mean. And take a run by the infirmary and see Davey, my G.o.d a G.o.dd.a.m.n turnip those goons turned him into, I swear I will live to see them in a vegetable puree." Overlapping voices, mumbles, Mickey cooing, his dog yipping.

Nail the time: Goldman and Cohen had been attacked; Mickey laid down an early bet on the Robinson-Basilio fight last September, he was probably out by then--he got down before the odds dropped.

Click off, click on, forty-six minutes of Mickey and at least two other men playing cards, mumbling, flushing the toilet. The used tape almost gone; click off, click on, the f.u.c.king dog yowling.

Mickey: "Six years and ten months here and to lose Davey's redoubtable brain right before I leave. Such tsurus to go home on. Mickey Junior, quit licking your putt, you faigeleh."

A strange voice: "Get him a b.i.t.c.h, and he won't have to."

Cohen: "My G.o.d to be so nimble and so hung, like Heifetz on the fiddle with his shlong that dog is, and hung like Johnny Stompanato to boot. And on the topic of boots, I read Hedda Hopper's column and see Johnny's putting the boots to Lana Turner, such a crush he's had for so long, she must have a c.u.n.t like chinchilla."

The strange-voice man cracked up. Cohen: "Enough already, you brownnoser, save some for Jack Benny. Johnny I need now, Johnny I can't locate 'cause he's playing bury the brisket with movie stars. My franchise guys keep getting clipped and I need Johnny to put an ear down for who, but that big d.i.c.k dago c.u.n.t-bandit is nowhere! I want those c.o.c.ksuckers clipped! I want those s.h.i.tbirds who hurt Davey to cease residence on this earth!"

Mickey cough, cough, coughed. Strange Voice: "How about Lee Vachss and Abe Teitlebaum? You could put them on it."

Cohen: "Such a shmendrik you are for a confidant, but you do play cribbage good. No, Abe has grown too soft to work muscle, too much grease noshed at his deli, such grease clogs the arteries that inspire mayhem, and Lee Vachss loves death too much to be discerning. Lana, what a s.n.a.t.c.h she must have, like cashmere."

The tape ran out. G.o.ddard said, "Mickey sure does have a verbal style, but what did all that have to do with the Nite Owl case?"

"How's 'nothing' sound?"

CHAPTER SIXTY

One wall of his den was now a graph: Nite Owl related case players connected by horizontal lines, vertical lines linking them to a large sheet of cardboard blocked off into information sections--events culled from Vincennes' deposition. Ed wrote margin notes; his father's call still hammered him: "Edmund, I'm running for governor. Your recent notoriety may have hurt me, but put that aside. I don't want the Atherton case resurrected in print and tied to your various cases, and I don't want Ray Dieterling bothered. I want you to direct all your queries along those lines to me, and between the two of us we'll work things out."

He agreed. It rankled. It made him feel like a child--like sleeping with Lynn Bracken made him feel whorish. And too many Dieterling names were popping up on the graph.

Ed crossed lines.

Sid Hudgens lined to the ink s.m.u.t Vincennes found in '53; the s.m.u.t lined to Pierce Patchett. Line to: Christine Bergeron, her son Daryl and Bobby Inge, s.m.u.t posers who disappeared almost concurrent with the Nite Owl. Have Fisk and Kleckner initiate a new search for them; attempt to identify the other posers--one more time. Put the s.m.u.t/Hudgens line to the Atherton case aside, former Inspector Preston Exley would make discreet inquiries when asked.

A theoretical line--Pierce Patchett to Duke Cathcart. Lynn Bracken denied it, a lie, Vincennes' deposition had Patchett pushing the s.m.u.t Cathcart planned to distribute--_but who made it?_ Hudgens to Patchett and Bracken: the dirtmonger was terrified that Vincennes was nosing around Fleur-de-Lis; Lynn told Jack that Patchett and Hudgens were going in on a gig together, she now denied it, another lie. He needed another graph just to chart lies--he didn't have a room big enough to hold it.

More lines: Davey Goldman to Dean Van Gelder to Duke Cathcart and Susan Nancy Lefferts--incomprehensible until Vincennes reported back from McNeil Island, and Bud White, obviously hiding out, was questioned on what he might be suppressing. Vocational lines--Patchett, the Englekling brothers and their father possessed chemistry backgrounds; Patchett, a reputed heroin sniffer, had plastic surgery connections to Dr. Terry Lux, the owner of a booze/dope sanitarium. Dudley Smith's report to Parker stated that Pete and Bax Englekling were tortured to death with corrosive chemicals, no other details added. Conclusion: the link to decipher every interconnected line had to be Patchett--his wh.o.r.es, his s.m.u.t posers, Patchett the conduit to the man who made the blood s.m.u.t, killed Hudgens and formed the final line stretching back to 1934 and his own father's glory case.

Too many lines to ignore.