L.A. Confidential Part 49
Bud called the DMV, got Stomp's phone number--ten rings, no answer. Two more no-answers: the Cowboy Rhythm Band at the Biltmore, the El Rancho. Kikey Teitlebaum's deli next-- Kikey and Johnny were tight.
A run out Pico, shaking off fumes. A keen edge settling in: get Perkins alone, kill him. Then Exley.
Bud parked, looked in the window. A slow afternoon, pay dirt--Johnny Stomp, Kikey T. at a table.
He walked in. They spotted him, whispered. Years since he'd seen them--Abe was fatter, Stomp still guinea slick.
Kikey waved. Bud grabbed a chair, carried it over. Stomp said, "Wendell White. How's tricks, _paesano?_"
"Tricky. How's tricks with Lana Turner?"
"Trickier. Who told you?"
"Mickey C."
Teitlebaum laughed. "Must have a hole like the Third Street Tunnel. Johnny's leaving for Acapulco with her tonight, and me, I shack with Sadie five-fingers. White, what brings you here? I ain't seen you since d.i.c.k Stens used to work for me."
"I'm looking for Deuce Perkins."
Johnny tap-tapped the table. "So talk to Spade Cooley."
"Spade don't know where he is."
"So why ask me? Mickey tell you Deuce and me are close?" No ritual question: what do you want him for? And fat-mouth Kikey too quiet. "Spade said you and him were acquaintances."
"Acquaintances is right. We go back, _paesano_, so I'll tell you I haven't seen Deuce in years."
Change-up pitch. "You ain't my _paesano_, you wop c.o.c.ksucker." Johnny smiled, maybe relieved, their old cop-snitch game one more time. A look at Kikey--the fat man working on spooked. "Abe, you're tight with Perkins, right?"
"Nix. Deuce is too meshugeneh for me. He's just a guy to say hi to once in a blue f.u.c.king moon."
A lie--Perkins' rap sheet said different. "So maybe I'm confused. I know you guys are tight with Lee Vachss, and I heard him and Deuce are tight."
Kikey laughed--too stagy. "What a yuck. Johnny, I think Wendell here is really confused."
Stomp said, "Oil and water, those two. Tight? What a howl."
_Standing up for Vachss for no reason_. "You guys are the howl. I figured you'd ask me what the grief was right off."
Kikey pushed his plate aside. "It occur to you we just don't care?"
"Yeah, but you guys love to shmooz and milk the grapevine."
"So shmooz."
A rumor: Kikey beat a guy to death for calling him a yid. "I'll shmooz, it's a nice day and I got nothing better to do than hobn.o.b with a greasy wop and a fat yid."
Abe ho-ho-ho'd, cuffed his arm oh-you-kid. "You're a p.i.s.ser. So what do you want Deuce for?"
Bud cuffed him back hard--"None of your f.u.c.king business, Jewboy"--throw a change-up to Johnny. "What are you doing now that Mickey's out?"
Tap, tap, tap----a pinky ring on a bottle of Schlitz. "Nothing you'd be interested in. I got things contained, so don't you worry. What are _you_ doing?"
"I'm on the Nite Owl reopening."
Johnny tap-tapped too hard--his bottle almost tipped. Kikey, working on pale. "You don't think Deuce Perkins . .
Stompanato: "Come on, Abe. Deuce for the Nite Owl, what a howl."
Bud said, "I gotta p.i.s.s," walked to the bathroom. He closed the door, counted to ten, opened it a crack. The s.h.i.tbirds spieling full blast--Abe wiping his face with a napkin. Let the pieces fit in.
Hink: Deuce for the Nite Owl.
Jack V. spotted Vachss, Stomp, Kikey and Perkins at a party--maybe a year pre--Nite Owl.
A Mobster Squad roust, a snitch off Joe Sifakis: _three-man_ trigger gangs clipping Cohen franchise hoods, maverick hoods. The Victory Motel buzzing hard.
Bud grabbed the piece, dropped it, grabbed it.
"Contain."
Dudley's favorite big word--"containment."
His motel pitch: "containing," "profit dispensation," "obstreperous Italian you've dealt with in the past"--Johnny Stomp an old snitch who hated him. Dud hot for his "full disclosure"; the Lamar Hinton roust--a shakedown for Nite Owl information, Dot Rothstein there, Kikey Teitlebaum's cousin-- Bud washed his face, walked back calm. Stomp said, "Have a good one?"
"Yeah, and you're right. I want Deuce for some old warrants, but I got a hunch on the Nite Owl."
Calm Johnny: "Oh, yeah?"
Calm Kikey: "Some new shvoogies, right? All I know's what I read in the papers."
Bud: "Maybe, but if it wasn't some new n.i.g.g.e.rs, then that purple car by the Nite Owl was a plant. Take care, guys. If you see Deuce, tell him to call me at the Bureau."
Calm Johnny tap-tap-tapped.
Calm Kikey coughed, popped sweat.
Calm Bud, not so calm: out to the car, around the corner to a pay phone. The P.C. Bell police number, one long f.u.c.king wait.
"Uh, yes, who's requesting?"
"Sergeant White, LAPD. It's a trace job."
"For when, Sergeant?"
"_For now_. It's a homicide priority, private lines and pay phones at a restaurant. _It's now_."
"One second, please."
Transfer click-click-clicks--a new woman. "Sergeant, what exactly do you need?"
No Calm Bud. "Abe's Noshery at Pico and Veteran. All calls out on all phones for the next fifteen G.o.dd.a.m.n minutes. Lady, don't hump me on this."
"We can't initiate actual traces, Officer."
"Just who the calls are to, G.o.dd.a.m.n it."
"Well, if it _is_ a homicide priority. What is your number now?"
Bud read off the phone. "GRanite 48112."
Harumph. "Fifteen minutes then. And next time allow us more operating leeway."
Bud hung up--Dudley Dudley Dudley Dudley Dudley--hard time cut off by _brrrinnngg_. He grabbed the phone, fumbled it, cradled it. "Yeah?"
"Two calls. One to DUnkirk 32758--a Miss Dot Rothstein holds that number. The second to AXminster 46811, the residence of a Mr. Dudley L. Smith."
Bud dropped the receiver. The clerk babbled from someplace safe and calm that he'd never see again--no Lynn, no safety in a badge.
Captain Dudley Liam Smith for the Nite Owl.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Jack Vincennes confessed.
He confessed to knocking up a girl at the St. Anatole's Orphan Home, to killing Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins. He confessed to tank-jobbing Bill McPherson with a hot little n.i.g.g.e.r girl, to planting dope on Charlie Parker, to shaking down hopheads for _Hush-Hush_ Magazine. He tried to jerk out of bed and raise his hands to form the Stations of the Cross. He babbled something like hub rachmones, Mickey, and b.u.mp b.u.mp b.u.mp b.u.mp the cute train. He confessed to beating up junkies, to running bag for Ellis Loew. He begged his wife to forgive him for f.u.c.king wh.o.r.es who looked like women in dirty picture books. He confessed that he loved dope and was unfit to love Jesus.
Karen Vincennes stood by weeping: she couldn't listen, she had to listen. Ed tried to shoo her out--she wouldn't let him. He called the Bureau from outside Arrowhead; Fisk gave him the word: Pierce Patchett shot and killed last night, his mansion torched, burned to the ground. Fireman had discovered Vincennes in the backyard--smoke inhalation, rips in his bulletproof vest. They got him to Central Receiving, a doctor took a blood sample. The results: Trashcan on a test flight, a heroin/antipsychotic drug compound. He'd live, he'd be fine--when the OD in his system flushed out.
A nurse swabbed Vincennes' face; Karen fretted Kleenex. Ed checked Fisk's memo: "Inez Soto called. No info on R.D. $ dealings. R.D. suspicious of queries?? ?--she was cryptic--D.W."
Ed crumpled it, tossed it. Vincennes went in barefoot--while he was shacked with Lynn. Somebody killed Patchett, left them both to burn.
Burned like Exley father and son--Bud White holding the torch.
He couldn't look at Karen.
"Captain, I've got something."
Fisk in the hallway. Ed walked over, led him away from the door. "What is it?"
"Nort Layman completed the autopsy. Patchett's cause of death was five .30-30 slugs fired from two different rifles. Ray Pinker ran ballistics tests and came up with a match to an old Riverside County bulletin. May of '55, unsolved with no leads, I checked. Two men gunned down outside a tavern. It looked like a gangland job."
All coming down to the heroin. "That's all you've got?"
"No. Bud White tore up a dope den in Chinatown and beat three Chinamen half to death. He came in asking questions, badged them and went crazy. One of them ID'd his personnel photo. Thad Green called l.A. on it, and I caught the squeal. Pickup order, sir? I know you want him and Chief Green said it's your call."
Ed almost laughed. "No, no pickup order."
"Sir?"
"I said no, so cut it off there. And you and Kleckner do this for me. Contact Miller Stanton, Max Pelts, Timmy Valburn and Billy Dieterling. Have them come to my office tonight at 8:00 for questioning. Tell them I'm the investigating officer, and if they want no publicity, then bring no lawyers. And get me Homicide's file on the old Loren Atherton case. Seal it, Sergeant. I don't want you to look at it."
"Sir..."
Ed turned away. Karen in the doorway, dry-eyed. "Do you think Jack did those things?"
"Yes."
"He musm't know that I know. Will you promise not to tell him?"
Ed nodded, looked in the room. The Big V begged for communion.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
A file room at the main DMV-- boxes stacked shoulder-high. A confirmation search--a riff on Johnny and Kikey's last hink. Riff in, out, back, around--he was so high he could think it through and prowl registration records at the same time.
Make Stomp, Teitlebaum and Lee Vachss for the Nite Owl triggers; make them the shooter gang b.u.mping upstart mobsters and Cohen franchise holders. Deuce Perkins was part of the gang--the others didn't know he beat hookers to death--they'd consider it amateur s.h.i.t, wouldn't tolerate it. Dudley was the leader--he couldn't be anything else. All his job offer stuff was a try at recruiting him; the Lamar Hinton roust was Dud frosting out loose ends on the Patchett side of things--make Patchett and Smith some kind of K.A.'s, make Hinton dead, Breuning and Carlisle part of the gang. "Contain," "Contained," "Containment," "Profit Dispensation." Call it Dudley trying to control the L.A. rackets--and pin the Nite Owl on a new bunch of jigs.
Bud tore through boxes: auto registrations, early April '53. Schoolboy thinkmhe figured the car by the Nite Owl was a plant; the shotguns in Coates' car, the sh.e.l.ls in Griffith Park, both plants--the killers followed the case, got lucky on the Merc, found some boogies to take the heat. Wrong--LAPD conspirators were in on the job. They read crime reports, got hipped to some joyriding spooks firing shotguns--lay the onus on them-- they figured the arresting officers would kill them, case closed.
So they got themselves a car that matched the crime report description. They made sure it was spotted near the Nite Owl. They wouldn't steal a car--cops wouldn't risk a late night roust. They didn't buy a purple car--they bought a different colored one and painted it.
Bud kept working. No logic to the file mess: Mercs, Chevies, Caddies, L.A., Sacramento, Frisco, whoever registered the car would've used a phony name. One luck-out: the registers' race, DOB and physical stats listed on cards attached to the initial purchase carbons. Facts to eliminate against, like he learned in school: '48--'50 Mercs, Southern California purchasers, stats that matched to Dudley, Stomp, Vachss, Teitlebaum, Perkins, Carlisle and Breuning. Hours of digging, a pile inches thick--then a strange one that felt warm.
1948 primer-gray Merc coupe, purchased April 10, 1953. Register: Margaret Louise March, W.F., DOB 7/23/18, brown and brown, 5 '9", 215 lbs. Register's address: 1804 East Oxford, Los Angeles. Phone number: NOrmandie 32758.
Warm to scalding--Fat Dot Rothstein's specs. Oxford ran north-south--not east-west. The call to Dot from the Noshery-- DU-32758--the dumb d.y.k.e tacked her own number onto a different exchange.
And bought herself some purple paint.
Bud whooped, punched the air, kicked boxes. Two cases made in one day--if anyone believed him. All dressed up and no one to kill. Circ.u.mstantial Dudley evidence--no hard proof. Dudley too well placed to fall, n.o.body who cared like he did.