L.A. Confidential Part 51
Timmy and Billy shared a look: nice people strafed by low cla.s.s. Exley flashed it over. "And, Sergeant--I'll ask the questions."
"Yes, sir. You guys tell the truth. I'll know if you're lying."
Exley sighed. "Just a few questions. First, did you know that Patchett procured call girls for business a.s.sociates?"
Two "Yes" nods. Bud said, "He ran boys, too. You guys ever buy any outside stuff?"
Exley:"Not another word, Sergeant."
Timmy slid closer to Billy. "I won't dignify that last question with an answer."
Bud winked. "You're cute. I ever wind up in stir, I hope you're in my cell."
Billy mimed spitting on the floor. Exley rolled his eyes--G.o.d save us from this heathen. "Moving along. Were you aware that Patchett employed a plastic surgeon to surgically alter his prost.i.tutes to resemble movie stars?"
Timmy said, "Yes," Billy said, "Yes." Exley smiled like that was everyday stuff. "Were you also aware that those prost.i.tutes, both male and female, engaged in other criminal pursuits at Patchett's direction?"
Build them up to "extortion," the Patchett/Hudgens partnership. Exley told him the story: Lorraine/Rita said "This Guy" made Patchett squeeze his "clients," right when Pierce was set to go partners with Hudgens--_right after the Nite Owl killings_. A brainstorm coming--maybe a connector back to Dudley. "Answer the captain, s.h.i.tbirds."
Billy said, "Ed, make him stop. Really, this has gone far enough."
Bud laughed. "_Ed?_ Oops, I forgot, boss. Your daddy's pals with his daddy."
Exley riled for real--flushed, trembling. "White, shut your mouth."
The fruits loved it--smiles, t.i.tters. Exley said, "Gentlemen, please answer the question."
Timmy shrugged. "Be specific. What other 'criminal pursuits'?"
"Specifically blackmail."
Two legs brushing twitched apart--Bud caught it plain. Exley touched his necktie--GO FULL.
Brainstorm: Johnny Stomp as "This Guy." Johnny Stomp an old shake artist, no visible means of support. Crim 101-- Lorraine Malvasi said the squeezes went down May '53-- Dudley's gang had already teamed up with Patchett. "Yeah, _blackmail_. Married johns and pervs and queers are p.r.o.ne to it. It's like an occupational hazard. Ever get squeezed by one of your playmates?"
Now Billy rolled his eyes. "We don't frequent prost.i.tutes. Male or female."
Bud pulled his chair closer. "Well, your sweetie pie here was a known a.s.sociate of a known fruit hustler named Bobby Inge. If it quacks like a duck, it's a duck. So quack, quack, and kick loose with who put the arm on you."
Exley, stern. "Gentlemen, do you know the names of any specific Patchett prost.i.tutes?"
Billy came on butch. "He's a storm trooper, and we don't have to answer his questions."
"The f.u.c.k. You crawl around in sewers, you gotta meet some rats. Ever hear of a cute little twist named Daryl Bergeron? Ever get a yen for a woman and go for his mother? Daryl did-- Trashcan Jack Vincennes has got a s.m.u.t book with pictures of them f.u.c.king on roller skates. You're floating in a sewer on a Popsicle stick you f.u.c.king queer b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, so--"
Valburn: "Ed, make him stop!"
Exley:"Sergeant, enough!"
Bud, dizzy, like a man inside his head was feeding him lines. "The h.e.l.l you say. These geeks are all over Patchett's schemes. One of them's a TV star, one of them's got a famous daddy. Two f.a.ggots with plenty of money just f.u.c.king ripe to be squeezed. That don't play smart to you?"
Exley--KEEP STILL--a finger to his collar. "Sergeant White has a point, although I apologize for his way of expressing it. Gentlemen, just for the record. Have either of you any knowledge of extortion schemes involving Pierce Patchett and/or his prost.i.tutes?"
Timmy Valburn said, "No."
Billy Dieterling said, "No."
Bud got ready to whisper.
Exley leaned forward. "Have either of you ever been threatened with blackmail?"
Two more nos--two queers sweating up a nice cool room. Bud whispered, "Johnny Stompanato."
The f.a.gs froze. Bud said, "_Badge of Honor_ dirt. Is that what he wanted?"
Valburn started to speak--Billy shushed him. Exley: SLOW. The dizzy head man said NO. "Did he have dirt on your father? The great f.u.c.king Raymond Dieterling?"
Exley shot the cut-off sign. The dizzy man showed his face: d.i.c.k Stens sucking gas. "_Dirt_. Wee Willie Wennerholm, Loren Atherton and the kiddie murders. _Your father_."
Billy trembled, pointed to Exley. "_His_ father!"
Four-way stares-cut off by Valburn sobbing. Billy helped him up, embraced him. Exley said, "Get out. Now. You're free to go."
He looked sad more than mad or scared.
Billy walked Timmy out. Bud walked to the window. Exley walked over, talked to a hand mike. "Duane, Valburn and Dieterling are on their way. You and Don tail them."
Bud scoped him--a little taller, half his bulk. Something made him say, "I shouldn't have done that."
Exley looked out the window. "It'll be over soon. All of it." Bud looked down. Fisk and Kleckner stood by the door; the queers. .h.i.t the sidewalk running. The l.A. men chased--a bus held them back. The bus zoomed by--no Billy and Timmy. Fisk and Kleckner stood in the street looking stupid.
Exley started laughing.
Something made Bud laugh.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
They rehashed old times; Stanton drank room service bubbly. Jack laid out his pitch: Patchett/ Hudgens, s.m.u.t, heroin, the Nite Owl. He could tell Miller knew something; he could tell he wanted to spill it.
Old touches: how he taught Miller to play a cop; how he took Miller down to Central Avenue to get laid and wound up rousting Art Pepper. Gallaudet poked his head in, said Max Pelts was clean--Max stories ate up another hour. Miller got misty-- '58 would be the show's last season. Too bad they lost touch with each other, but the Big V was acting too crazy, a pariah in the Industry. White and Exley arguing next door--Jack cut to it.
"Miller, is there something you're dying to tell me?"
"I don't know, Jack. It's old rebop."
"This mess _goes_ back. You know Patchett, don't you?"
"How'd you know that?"
"Educated guess. And the captain's file said Patchett bankrolled some old Dieterling films."
Stanton checked his gla.s.s--empty. "Okay, I know Patchett from way back. It's some story, but I don't see how it applies to what you're interested in."
Jack heard the side door sc.r.a.pe carpet. "All I know is that you've been dying to tell me ever since I said the word 'Patchett."'
"d.a.m.n, I don't feel like a cop around you. I feel like a fat actor about to lose his series."
Jack looked away-cut the man slack. Stanton said, "You know I was the chubby kid in Dieterling's serials way back when. Willie Wennerholm, Wee Willie, he was the big star. I used to see Patchett at the studio school, and I knew he was some kind of Dieterling business partner, because our tutor had a crush on him and told all the kids who he was."
"And?"
"And Wee Wiffie was kidnapped from the school and chopped up by Dr. Frankenstein. You know the case, it was famous. The police picked up this guy Loren Atherton. They said he killed Willie and all these other children. Jack, this is the hard part."
"So tell it fast."
Very fast. "Mr. Dieterling and Patchett came to me. They gave me tranquilizers and told me I had to come along with this older boy and visit a police station. I was fourteen, the older boy was maybe seventeen. Patchett and Mr. Dieterling coached me, and we went to the station. We talked to Preston Exley, he was a detective back then. We told him just what Patchett and Mr. Dieterling told us to-that we'd seen Atherton prowling around the studio school. We identified Atherton and Exley believed us."
An actor's pause. Jack said, "G.o.ddammit, _and?_"
Slower. "I never saw the older boy again, and I can't even remember his name. Atherton was convicted and executed, and I wasn't asked to testify at his trial. It got to be '39, right in there. I was still in the Dieterling stable, but I was a boy ingenue. Mr. Dieterling had this little studio contingent go out to the opening of the Arroyo Seco Freeway, just a publicity appearance. Preston Exley, he was a big-shot contractor now, and he cut the ribbon. I heard Mr. Dieterling, Patchett and Terry Lux, you know him, talking."
Pins and needles. "Miller, come on."
"I'll never forget what they said, Jack. Patchett told Lux, 'I've got the chemicals to keep him from hurting anybody and you plasticked him.' Lux said, 'And I'll get him a keeper.' Mr. Dieterling, I'll never forget the way his voice sounded. He said, 'And I gave Preston Exley a scapegoat he believes in beyond Loren Atherton. And I think the man owes me too much now to hurt me."'
Jack touched himself--he thought he'd stopped breathing. Breathing behind him--strained. Eyes on Exley and White in the doorway--up close to each other frozen.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Now all his lines crossed in ink.
Red ink mutilations. An inkwell spilling blood. Cartoon characters on a marquee with Raymond Dieterling, Preston Exley, an all-star criminal cast. Ink colors: red, green for bribe money. Black for mourning--the dead supporting players. White and Vincennes knew, they'd probably tell Gallaudet--he kicked them out of the hotel knowing it. He could warn his father or not warn his father and the end would be the same. He could keep going or sit in this room and watch his life explode on television.
Long hours down--he couldn't reach for the phone. He turned on the TV, saw his father at a freeway ceremony, stuck his gun in his mouth while the man mouthed plat.i.tudes. The trigger half back--fade to a commercial. He emptied four rounds, spun the cylinder, put the barrel to his head. He squeezed the trigger twice, empty chambers, he couldn't believe what he'd done. He threw his piece out the window--a wino grabbed it off the sidewalk, shot up the sky. He laughed, sobbed, punched himself out on the furniture.
More hours down doing nothing.
The phone rang--Ed flailed for it blind. "Uh . . . yes?"
"Captain, you there? It's Vincennes."
"I'm here. What is it?"
"I'm at the Bureau with White. We just caught a squeal and grabbed it. 2206 North New Hampshire, Billy Dieterling's house. Billy and an unknown male dead. Fisk rolled on it already. Cap, _are you there?_"
No no no--yes. "I'm going . . . I'll be there."
"Will do. And by the way, White and I didn't tell Gallaudet what Stanton said. Thought you should know that."
"Thank you, Sergeant."
"Thank White. He's the one you had to worry about."
Fisk met him there--a mock Tudor lit by headlights--blackand-whites, crime lab cars on the lawn.
Ed ran up; Fisk spoke shorthand. "Neighbor woman heard screams, waited half an hour and called. She saw a man run out, get into Billy Dieterling's car and take off. He hit a tree down the block, got out and ran. I took a statement. White, male, early forties, average build. Sir, brace yourself."
Flashbulb pops inside. Ed said, "_Seal it here_. No Homicide, no station cops. No press, and I don't want Dieterling's father to find out. Have Kleckner seal the car and go get me Timmy Valburn. _Find him. Now_."
"Sir, they blew our tail. I feel bad about this, like it's our fault."
"It doesn't matter, just do what I told you."
Fisk ran to his car; Ed walked in, looked.
Billy Dieterling on a white couch soaked red. A knife in his throat; two knives in his stomach. His scalp on the floor, stuck to the carpet with an icepick. A few feet away: a fortyish white man--disemboweled, eviscerated, knives in his cheeks, two kitchen forks in his eyes. Drug capsules soaking in floor blood.
No artful desecrations--his man was past it now.
Ed walked into the kitchen. Patchett to Lux '39: "I've got the chemicals to keep him from hurting anybody, and you plasticked him." Cupboards dumped; forks and spoons on the floor. Ray Dieterling '39: "A scapegoat he believes in." b.l.o.o.d.y footprints in and out--his man made trips for more adornment. Lux: "I'll get him a keeper." A scalp section in the sink. "Preston Exley, he was a big-shot contractor now." A b.l.o.o.d.y handprint on the wall, a psycho pa.s.sion job for Crim 101's all-time list.
Ed squinted at the print--ridges and whirls showed plainly. Psycho oblivion: his man pressed his hand there to leave an imprimatur.
Back to the living room. Trashcan Jack in the middle of a half dozen lab techs. Bad flashbulb glare, no Bud White.
Trash said, "The other man's Jerry Marsalas. He's a male nurse, and he's sort of the keeper of this guy on the _Badge of Honor_ crew. David Mertens, the set designer. Very quiet, he's got epilepsy or something like that."
"Plastic surgery scars?"
"Graft scars all over his neck and back. I saw him with his shirt off once."