'Jackie, are you back on Narco? I need copy.'
'No, I've got something going with Ad Vice.'
'Something good? Celebrity oriented?'
'I don't know if it's good, but if it gets good you've got it.'
'You sound out of breath, Jackie. You been shtupping?'
Jack coughed--soap bubbles. 'Sid, I'm chasing some smut books. Picture stuff. Fuck shots, but the people don't look like junkies and they're wearing these expensive costumes. It's welldone stuff, and I thought you might have heard something about it.'
'No. No, I've heard bupkis.'
Too quick, no snappy one-liner. 'What about a male prostie named Bobby Inge or a woman named Christine Bergeron? She carhops, maybe peddles it on the side.'
'Never heard of them, Jackie.'
'Shit. Sid, what about independent smut pushers in general. What do you know?'
'Jack, I know that that is secret shit that I know nothing about. And the thing about secrets, Jack, is that everybody's got them. Including you. Jack, I'll talk to you later. Call when you get work.'
The line clicked off.
EVERYBODY'S GOT SECRETS--INCLUDING YOU.
Sid wasn't quite Sid, his exit line wasn't quite a warning.
DOES HE FUCKING KNOW?
Jack drove by Stan's Drive-in, shaky, the windows down to kill the soap smell. Christine Bergeron nowhere on the premises. Back to 9849 Charleville, knock knock on the door of her apartment--no answer, slack between the lock and the doorjamb. He gave a shove; the door popped.
A trail of clothes on the living room floor. The picture frame gone.
Into the bedroom, scared, his gun in the car.
Empty cabinets and drawers. The bed stripped. Into the bathroom.
Toothpaste and Kotex spilled in the shower. Glass shelves smashed in the sink.
Getaway--fifteen-minute style.
Back to West Hollywood--fast. Bobby Inge's door caved in easy; Jack went in gun first.
Clean-out number two--a better job.
A clean living room, pristine bathroom, bedroom showing empty dresser drawers. A can of sardines in the icebox. The kitchen trashcan clean, a fresh paper bag lining it.
Jack tore the pad up: living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen--shelves knocked over, rugs pulled, the toilet yanked apart. He stopped on a flash: garbage cans, full, lined both sides of the street--
There or gone.
Figure an hour-twenty since his run-in with Inge: the fuck wouldn't run straight to his crib. He probably got off the street, cruised back slow, risked the move out with his car parked in the alley. He figured the roust was for his old warrants or the smut gig; he knew he was standing heat and couldn't be caught harboring pornography. He wouldn't risk carrying it in his car--the odds on a shake were too strong. The gutter or the trash, right near the top of the cans, maybe more skin IDs for Big Trashcan Jack.
Jack hit the sidewalk, rooted in trashcans--gaggles of kids laughed at him. One, two, three, four, five--two left before the corner. No lid on the last can; glossy black paper sticking out.
Jack beelined.
Three fuck mags right on top. Jack grabbed them, ran back to his car, skimmed--the kids made goo-goo eyes at the windshield. The same Hollywood backdrops, Bobby Inge with boys and girls, unknown pretties screwing. Halfway through the third book the pix went haywire.
Orgies, hole-to-hole daisy chains, a dozen people on a quiltcovered floor. Disembodied limbs: red sprays off arms, legs. Jack squinted, eye-strain, the red was colored ink, the photos doctored--limb severings faked, ink blood flowing in artful little swirls.
Jack tried for IDs; obscene perfection distracted him: inkbleeding nudes, no faces he knew until the last page: Christine Bergeron and her son fucking, standing on skates planted on a scuffed hardwood floor.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A photograph, dropped in his mailbox: Sergeant Ed Exley bleeding and terrified. No printing on the back, no need for it: Stensland and White had the negative, insurance that he'd never try to break them.
Ed, alone in the squadroom, 6:00 A.M. The stitches on his chin itched; loose teeth made eating impossible. Thirty-odd hours since the moment--his hands still trembled.
Payback.
He didn't tell his father; he couldn't risk the ignominy of going to Parker or Internal Affairs. Revenge on Bud White would be tricky: he was Dudley Smith's boy, Smith just got him a straight Homicide spot and was grooming him for his chief strongarm. Stensland was more vulnerable: on probation, working for Abe Teitlebaum, an ex-- Mickey Cohen goon. A drunk, begging to go back inside.
Payback--already in the works.
Two Sheriff's men bought and paid for: a dip in his mother's trust fund. A two-man tail on Dick Stens, two men to swoop on his slightest probation fuckup.
Payback.
Ed did paperwork. His stomach growled: no food, loose trousers weighted down by his holster. A voice out the squawk box: loud, spooked.
'Squad call! Nite Owl Coffee Shop one-eight-two-four Cherokee! Multiple homicides! See the patrolmen! Code three!'
Ed banged his legs getting up. No other detectives on call--it was his.
o o o
Patrol cars at Hollywood and Cherokee; blues setting up crime scene blockades. No plainclothesmen in sight--he might get first crack.
Ed pulled up, doused his siren. A patrolman ran over. 'Load of people down, maybe some of them women. I found them, stopped for coffee and saw this phony sign on the door, 'Closed for Illness.' Man, the Nite Owl _never_ closes. It was dark inside and I knew this was a hinky deal. Exley, this ain't your squawk, this has gotta be downtown stuff, so--'
Ed pushed him aside, pushed over to the door. Open, a sign taped on: 'Clossed Due to Illness.' Ed stepped inside, memorized.
A long, rectangular interior. On the right: a string of tables, four chairs per. The side wall mural-papered: winking owls perched on street signs. A checkered linoleum floor; to the left a counter--a dozen stools. A service runway behind it, the kitchen in back, fronted by a cook's station: fryers, spatulas on hooks, a platform for laying down plates. At front left: a cash register.
Open, empty--coins on the floor mat beside it.
Three tables in disarray: food spilled, plates dumped; napkin containers, broken dishes on the floor. Drag marks leading back to the kitchen; one high-heeled pump by an upended chair.
Ed walked into the kitchen. Half-fried food, broken dishes, pans on the floor. A wall safe under the cook's counter--open, spiffing coins. Crisscrossed drag marks connecting with the other drag marks, dark black heel smudges ending at the door of a walk-in food locker.
Ajar, the cord out of the socket--no cool air as a preservative. Ed opened it.
Bodies--a blood-soaked pile on the floor. Brains, blood and buckshot on the walls. Blood two feet deep collecting in a drainage trough. Dozens of shotgun shells floating in blood.
NEGRO YOUTHS DRIVING PURPLE '48-'50 MERC COUPE SEENDISCHARGING SHOTGUNS INTO AIR IN GRIFFITH PARK HILLS SEVERAL TIMES OVER PAST TWO WEEKS.
Ed gagged, tried for a body count.
No discernible faces. Maybe five people dead for the cash register and safe take and what they had on them-- 'Holy shit fuck.'
A rookie type--pale, almost green. Ed said, 'How many men outside?'
'I . . . I dunno. Lots.'
'Don't get sick, just get everybody together to start canvassing. We need to know if a certain type of car
