Denton prodded him--a gun poke to the ribs. 'Boy, you know what happened last night? Bad juju, and I ain't woofin'. You own a shotgun, boy?'
'Man, I don't need no fuckin' shotgun.'
Denton poked harder. 'Boy, don't you use curse words with me. Now, before we get your pickaninnies out here, you gonna tell me who you lent your automobile to last night?'
'Man, I don' lend my sled to nobody!'
'Then who'd you lend your 12-gauge pump shotguns to? Boy, you spill on that.'
'Man, I tol' you I don't own no shotgun!'
Jack stepped in. 'Tell me about the Purple Pagans. Are they a bunch of guys who like purple cars?'
'Man, that is just a name for our club. I gots a purple car, some other cats in the club gots them too. Man, what is this all about?' Jack took out his DMV sheet--the Merc owners all typed up. 'Leonard, did you read the papers this morning?'
'No. Man, what is--'
'Sssh. You listen to the radio or watch television?'
'I ain't got either of them. What's that--'
'Sssh. Leonard, we're looking for three colored guys who like to pop off shotguns and a Merc like yours, a '48, a '49, or a '50. I know you wouldn't hurt anybody, I saw you fight Gavilan and I like your style. We're looking for some _bad_ guys. Guys with a car like yours, guys who might belong to your club.'
Bidwell shrugged. 'Why should I help you?'
'Because I'll cut my partner loose on you if you don't.'
'Yeah, and you get me a fuckin' snitch jacket, too.'
'No jacket, and you don't have to say anything. Just look at this list and point. Here, read it over.'
Bidwell shook his head. 'They's bad, so I jus' tell you. Sugar Ray Coates, drives a '49 coupe, a beautiful ride. He gots two buddies, Leroy and Tyrone. Sugar loves to party with a shotgun, I heard he gets his thrills shootin' dogs. He tried to get in my club, but we turned him down 'cause he is righteous trash.'
Jack checked his list--bingo on 'Coates, Raymond NMI, 9611 South Central, Room 114.' Denton had his own sheet out. 'Two minutes from here. We haul, we might get there first.'
Hero headlines. 'Let's do it.'
o o o
The Tevere Hotel: an L-shaped walk-up above a washateria. Denton coasted into the lot; Jack saw stairs going up-just one floor of rooms, a wide-open doorway.
Up and in--a short corridor, flimsy-looking doors. Jack drew his piece; Denton pulled two guns: a .38, an ankle rig automatic. They counted room numbers; 114 came up. Denton reared back; Jack reared back; they kicked the same instant. The door flew off its hinges for a pure clean shot: a colored kid jumping out of bed.
The kid put up his hands. Denton smiled, aimed. Jack blocked him--two reflex pulls tore the ceiling. Jack ran in; the kid tried to run; Jack nailed him: gun-butt shots to the head. No more resistance--Denton cuffed his hands behind his back. Jack slipped on brass knucks and made fists. 'Leroy, Tyrone. _Where?_'
The kid dribbled teeth--'One-two-one' came out bloody. Denton yanked him up by his hair; Jack said, 'Don't you fucking kill him.'
Denton spat in his face; shouts boomed down the hall. Jack ran out, around the 'L,' a skid to a stop in front of 121--
A closed door. Background noise huge--no way to take a listen. Jack kicked; wood splintered; the door creaked open. Two coloreds inside--one asleep on a cot, one snoring on a mattress.
Jack walked in. Sirens whirring up very close. The mattress kid stirred--Jack bludgeoned him quiet, bashed the other punk before he could move. The sirens screeched, died. Jack saw a box on the dresser.
Shotgun shells: Remington 12-gauge double-aught buck. A box of fifty, most of them gone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ed skimmed Jack Vincennes' report. Thad Green watched, his phone ringing off the hook.
Solid, concise--Trash knew how to write a good quickie.
Three male Negroes in custody: Raymond 'Sugar Ray' Coates, Leroy Fontaine, Tyrone Jones. Treated for wounds received while resisting arrest; snitched by another male Negro-- who described Coates as a shotgun toter who liked to blast dogs. Coates was on the DMV sheet; the informant stated that he ran with two other men--'Tyrone and Leroy'--also living at the Tevere Hotel. The three were arrested in their underwear; Vincennes turned them over to prowl car officers responding to shots fired and searched their rooms for evidence. He found a fifty-unit box of Remington 12-gauge double-aught shotgun shells, forty-odd missing--but no shotguns, no rubber gloves, no bloodstained clothing, no large amounts of cash or coins and no other weaponry. The only clothing in the rooms: soiled T-shirts, boxer shorts, neatly pressed garments covered by dry cleaner's cellophane. Vincennes checked the incinerator in back of the hotel; it was burning--the manager told him he saw Sugar Coates dump a load of clothes in at approximately 7:00 this morning. Vincennes said Jones and Fontaine appeared to be inebriated or under the influence of narcotics--they slept through gunfire and the general ruckus of Coates resisting arrest. Vincennes told late-arriving patrolmen to search for Coates' car--it was not in the parking lot or anywhere in a three-block radius. An APB was issued; Vincennes stated that all three suspects' hands and arms reeked of perfume--a paraffin test would be inconclusive.
Ed laid the report on Green's desk. 'I'm surprised he didn't kill them.'
The phone rang--Green let it keep going. 'More headlines this way, he's shacking with Ellis Loew's sister-in- law. And if the coons doused their paws with perfume to foil a paraffin test, we can thank Jack for that--he gave that little piece of information to _Badge of Honor_. Ed, are you up for this?'
Ed's stomach jumped. 'Yes, sir. I am.'
'The chief wanted Dudley Smith to work with you, but I talked him out of it. As good as he is, the man is off the deep end on coloreds.'
'Sir, I know how important this is.'
Green lit a cigarette. 'Ed, I want confessions. Fifteen of the rounds we retrieved at the Nite Owl were nicked at the strike point, so if we get the guns we've got the case. I want the location of the guns, the location of the car and confessions before we arraign them. We've got seventy-one hours before they see the judge. I want this wrapped up by then. _Clean_.'
Specifics. 'Rap sheets on the kids?'
Green said, 'Joyriding and B&E for all three. Peeping Tom beefs for Coates and Fontaine. And they're not kids--Coates is twenty-two, the others are twenty. This is a gas chamber bounce pure and clean.'
'What about the Griffith Park angle? Shell samples to compare, witnesses to the guys letting off the shotguns.'
'Shell samples might be good backup evidence, if we can find them and the coloreds don't confess. The park ranger who called in the complaints is coming down to try for an ID. Ed, Arnie Reddin says you're the best interrogator he's ever seen, but you've never worked anything this--'
Ed stood up. 'I'll do it.'
'Son, if you do, you'll have my job one day.'
Ed smiled--his loose teeth ached. Green said, 'What happened to your face?'
'I tripped chasing a shoplifter. Sir, who's talked to the suspects?'
'Just the doctor who cleaned them up. Dudley wanted Bud White to have first shot, but--'
'Sir, I don't think--'
'Don't interrupt me, I was about to agree with you. No, I want _voluntary_ confessions, so White is out. You've got first shot at all three. You'll be observed through the two-ways, and if you want a partner for a Mutt and Jeff, touch your necktie. There'll be a group of us listening through an outside speaker, and a recorder will be running. The three are in separate rooms, and if you want to play them off on each other, you know the buttons to hit.'
Ed said, 'I'll break them.'
o o o
His stage: a corridor off the Homicide pen. Three cubicles set up-mirror-fronted, speaker-connected--flip switches and a string of suspects could hear their partners rat each other off. The rooms: six-by-six square, welded-down tables, bolted-down chairs. In 1, 2 and 3: Sugar Ray Coates, Leroy Fontaine, Tyrone Jones. Rap
