casual.
A pause, click.
A chain of smokes--his throat hurt. The phone rang.
Try a mumble. 'Yeah?'
'Hi, it's Seth up in Bel Air. You feel like bringing something over?'
'Sure.'
'Make it a jug of the wormwood. Make it fast and you made a nice tip.'
'Uh . . . gimme the address again, would ya?'
'Who could forget digs like mine? It's 941 Roscomere, and don't dawdle.'
Jack hung up. Ring ring again.
'Yeah?'
'Lamar, tell Pierce I need to . . . Lamar, is that you, boychik?'
SID HUDGENS.
Lamar--with a tremor. 'Uh, yeah. Who's this?'
Click.
Jack pushed 'Replay.' Hudgens talked, recognition creeped in--
SID KNEW PATCHETF. SID KNEW LAMAR. SID KNEW THE FLEUR-DE-LIS RACKET.
The phone rang--Jack ignored it. Splitsville--grab the tapper, wipe the phone, wipe all the filth he'd touched. Out the door queasy--night air peaking his nerves.
He heard a car revving.
A shot took out the front window; two shots smashed the door.
Jack drew, fired--the car hauling, no lights.
Clumsy: two shots hit a tree and sprayed wood. Three more pulls, no hits, the car fishtailing. Doors opening--eyewitnesses.
Jack got his car--skids, brodies, no lights until Franklin and a main traffic flow. No make on the shooter car: dark, no lights, the cars all around him looked alike: sleek, wrong. A cigarette slowed him down. He drove straight west to Bet Air.
Roscomere Road: twisty, all uphill, mansions fronted by palm trees. Jack found 941, pulled into the driveway.
Circular, looping a big pseudo-Spanish: one story, low slate roof. Cars in a row--a Jag, a Packard, two Caddies, a Rolls. Jack got out--nobody braced him. He hunkered down, took plate numbers.
Five cars: classy, no Fleur-de-Lis bags on plush front seats. The house: bright windows, silk swirls. Jack walked up and looked in.
He knew he'd never forget the women.
One almost Rita Hayworth a la _Gilda_. One almost Ava Gardner in an emerald-green gown. A near Betty Grable--sequined swim-suit, fishnet stockings. Men in tuxedos mingled--background debris. He couldn't stray his eyes from the women.
Astonishing make-believe. Hinton on Patchett: 'He sugarpimps these girls made up to look like movie stars.' 'Made up' didn't cut it: call these women chosen, cultivated, enhanced by an expert. Astonishing.
Veronica Lake walked through the light. Her face wasn't as close: she just oozed that cat-girl grace. Background men flocked to her.
Jack pressed up to the glass. Smut vertigo, real live women. Sid, that door slamming, that line. He drove home, bad vertigo--achy, itchy, jumpy. He saw a _Hush-Hush_ card on his door, 'Malibu Rendezvous' inked on the bottom.
He saw headlines:
DOPED-OUT DOPE CRUSADER SHOOTS INNOCENT CITIZENS!
CELEBRITY COP INDICTED FOR KILLINGS!
GAS CHAMBER FOR THE BIG-TIME BIG V! RICH KID GIRLFRIEND BIDS DEATH ROW AU REVOIR!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
An arm-in-arm entrance--Inez in her best dress and a veil to hide her bruises. Ed kept his badge out--it got them past the press. Attendants formed the guests into lines--Dream-a-Dreamland was open for business.
Inez was awestruck: quick breaths billowed her veil. Ed looked up, down, sideways--every detail made him think of his father.
A grand promenade--Main Drag, USA, 1920--soda fountains, nickelodeons, dancing extras: the cop on the beat, a paperboy juggling apples, ingenues doing the Charleston. The Amazon River: motorized crocodiles, jungle excursion boats. Snow-capped mountains; vendors handing out mouse-ear beanies. The Moochie Mouse Monorail, tropical isles--acres and acres of magic.
They rode the monorail: the first car, the first run. High speed, upside down, right side up--Inez unbuckled herself giggling. The Paul's World toboggan; lunch: hot dogs, snow cones, Moochie Mouse cheese balls.
On to 'Desert Idyll,' 'Danny's Fun House,' an exhibit on outer space travel. Inez seemed to be tiring: gorged on excitement. Ed yawned--his own late night catching up.
A late squeal at the station: a shootout on Cheramoya, no perpetrators caught. He had to go to the scene: an apartment house, shots riddling a downstairs unit. Weird: .38s, .45s retrieved, the living room all shelving-- empty except for some sadomasochist paraphernalia--and no telephone. The building's owner couldn't be traced; the manager said he was paid by mail, cashier's checks, he got a free flop and a C-note a month, so he was happy and didn't ask questions--he couldn't even name the dump's tenant. The condition of the apartment indicated a rapid clean-out--but no one saw a thing. Four hours of report writing--four hours snatched from the Nite Owl.
The exhibit was a bore--a sop to culture. Inez pointed to the ladies' room; Ed stepped outside.
A VIP tour on the promenade--Timmy Valburn shepherding bigwigs. The _Herald_ front page hit him: Dream-a-Dreamland, the Nite Owl, like nothing else mattered.
He tried to reinterrogate Coates, Jones and Fontaine--they would not give him one word. Eyewitnesses responded to the appeal for IDs on the Griffith Park shooters and could not identify the three in custody: they said they 'can't quite be sure.' Vehicle checks now extended to '48--'50 Fords and Chevys-- nothing hot so far. Jockeying for command of the case: Chief Parker supported Dudley Smith, Thad Green pumped up Russ Millard. No shotguns found, no trace of Sugar Ray's Mere. Wallets and purses belonging to the victims were found in a sewer a few blocks from the Tevere Hotel---combine that with the matching shells found in Griffith Park and you got what the papers didn't report: Ellis Loew bullying Parker to bully him: 'It's all circumstantial so far, so have your boy Exley keep working on that Mexican girl, it looks like he's getting next to her, have him talk her into a questioning session under sodium pentothal, let's get some juicy Little Lindbergh details and fix the Nite Owl time frame once and for all.'
Inez sat down beside him. They had a view: the Amazon, plaster mountains. Ed said, 'Are you all right? Do you want to go back?'
'What I want is a cigarette, and I don't even smoke.'
'Then don't start. Inez--'
'Yes, I'll move into your cabin.'
Ed smiled. 'When did you make up your mind?'
Inez tucked her veil under her hat. 'I saw a newspaper in the bathroom, and Ellis Loew was gloating about me. He sounded happy, so I figured I'd put some distance between us. You know, I never thanked you for my bonnet.'
'You don't have to.'
'Yes I do, because I'm naturally bad-mannered around Anglos who treat me nice.'
'If you're waiting for the punch line, there isn't any.'
'Yes, there is. And for the record again, I won't tell you about it, I won't look at pictures, and I won't testify.'
'Inez, I submitted a recommendation that we let you rest up for now.'
'And 'for now's' a punch line, and the other punch line's that you go for me, which is okay, because I've looked better in my time and no Mexican man would ever want a Mexican girl who was gang-raped by a bunch of _negrito putos_, not that I've ever gone for Mexican guys anyway. You know what's scary, Exley?'
'I told you, it's Ed.'
