won't inform on him, that it would be stupid for you to do it.'
'Stupid is my middle name. What else does Patchett think?'
'He's waiting for you to mention money.'
'I don't do shakedowns.'
'Then why--'
'Maybe I'm just fucking curious.'
'So be it. Do you know who Dr. Terry Lux is?'
'Sure, he runs a dry-out farm in Malibu. He's dirty to the core.'
'Correct on both counts, and he's also a plastic surgeon.'
'He did a plastic on Patchett, right? Nobody his age looks that young.'
'I don't know about that. What Terry Lux _does_ do is alter girls for Pierce's little studio. There's Ava and Kate and Rita and Betty. Read that as Gardner, Hepburn, Hayworth and Grable. Pierce finds girls with middling resemblances to movie stars, Terry performs plastic surgery for exact resemblances. Call them Pierce's concubines. They sleep with Pierce and selected clients-- men who can help him put together movie and business deals. Perverse? Perhaps. But Pierce takes a cut of all his girls' earnings and invests it for them. He makes his girls quit the life at thirty--no exceptions. He doesn't let his girls use narcotics and he doesn't abuse them, and I owe him a great deal. Can your policeman's mentality grasp those contradictions?'
Bud said, 'Jesus fucking Christ.'
'No, Mr. White. Pierce Morehouse Patchett.'
'Lux cut you to look like Veronica Lake?'
Lynn touched her hair. 'No, I refused. Pierce loved me for it. I'm really a brunette, but the rest is me.'
'And how old are you?'
'I'll be thirty next month, and I'll be opening up a dress shop. See how time changes things? If you'd met me a month from now, I wouldn't be a whore. I'd be a brunette who didn't look quite so much like Veronica Lake.
'Jesus Christ.'
'No, Lynn Margaret Bracken.'
Too quick--almost a blurt. 'Look, I want to see you again.'
'Are you asking me for a date?'
'Yeah, because I can't afford what Patchett charges.'
'You could wait a month.'
'No, I can't.'
'No more shoptalk, then. I don't want to be somebody's suspect.'
Bud made a check mark in the air: Patchett crossed off for Kathy and the Nite Owl. 'Deal.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Mickey Cohen's cell.
Gallaudet laughed: velvet-covered bed, velvet-flocked shelves, commode with a velvet-flocked seat. Heat through a wall vent--Washington State, still cold in April. Ed was tired: they talked to Jack 'The Enforcer' Whalen, eliminated him, flew a thousand miles. 1:00 A.M.--two cops waiting for a psychopathic hoodlum busy with a late pinochle game. Gallaudet patted Cohen's pet bulldog: Mickey Cohen, Jr., snazzy in a velvetflocked sweater. Ed checked his Whalen notes.
Rambling--they couldn't shut him up. Whalen laughed off the Englekling theory, digressed on L.A. organized crime.
Mob activity in a general lull since Mickey C. hit stir. The insider view: the Mick power broke, Swiss bank money tucked away--cash to rebuild with. Morris Jahelka, Cohen underboss, given a fiefdom--he promptly blew it, investing badly, no funds to pay his men. Whalen said _he_ was doing well and offered his Cohen theory.
He figured Mickey was parceling out bookmaking, loansharking, dope and prostitution franchises--small, choosy who they dealt with; when paroled he'd consolidate, grab the money the franchise men invested for him, rebuild. Whalen based his theory on hink: Lee Vachss, ex-Cohen trigger, seemed to have gone legit; Johnny Stompanato and Abe Teitlebaum ditto--two wrong-o's who couldn't walk a straight line. Make all three of them still on the grift--maybe safeguarding Cohen's interests. Chief Parker--afraid the lull might lead to Mafia encroachment-- just fielded a new front line against out-of-town muscle: Dudley Smith and two of his goons set up shop at a motel in Gardena: they beat gang guys half to death, stole their money for police charity contributions, put them back on the bus, train or plane to wherever they came from--all very much on the QT.
Whalen concluded:
_He's_ allowed to operate because somebody had to provide gambling services or a bunch of crazy independents would shoot L.A. to shit. 'Containment'--a Dudley S. word--said it all: the police establishment knew he only shot when shot at; _he played the game_. The idea of him or Mickey blasting six people over jack-off books was pure bullshit. Still, things were too quiet, shit had to be brewing.
Mickey Cohen, Jr., yipped; Ed looked up. Mickey Cohen walked in, holding a box of dog biscuits. He said, 'I have never killed no man that did not deserve killing by the standards of our way of life. I have never distributed no obscene shit to be used for the purpose of masturbation and only took a confabulation with Pete and Bar Englekling because of my fondness for their late father, may God rest his soul even though he was a fucking kraut. I do not kill innocent bystanders because it's a mitzvah not to and because I adhere to the Ten Commandments except when it is bad for business. Warden Hopkins told me why you was here and I made you wait because you must be stupid morons to make me for this vicious and stupid caper, obviously the handiwork of stupid shvartzcs. But since Mickey Junior likes you I will give you five minutes of my time. Come to Daddy, bubeleh!'
Gallaudet howled. Cohen knelt on the floor, put a biscuit in his mouth. The dog ran to him, grabbed the biscuit, kissed him. Mickey nuzzled the beast; Cohen Junior squealed, pissed. Ed saw a man on the catwalk: Davey Goldman, Mickey's chief accountant, at McNeil on his own tax beef.
Goldman sidled away. Gallaudet said, 'Mickey, the Englekling brothers said you went crazy when they mentioned Duke Cathcart was behind their idea.'
Cohen spat biscuit crumbs. 'Are you familiar with the old saying 'blowing off steam'?'
Ed said, 'Yes, but what about other names? Did the Engleklings mention any other names besides Cathcart?'
'No, and Cathcart I never met myself. I heard he had a statch rape jacket, so I judged him on that. The Bible says, 'Judge not, lest ye be judged,' so since I am willing to be judged, I say, 'Judge on, 0 Mickster.''
'Did you give the brothers any advice on setting up a distribution system?'
'No! As God and my beloved Mickey Junior are my witnesses, no!'
Gallaudet: 'Mick, here's the key question. Did you talk up the deal on the yard? Who else did you tell about it?'
'I told nobody! Jerk-off books are from sin and hunger! I even chased Davey away when those meshugeneh brothers came calling! Davey's my ears, that's how much I respect the cardinal virtue of confidentiality!'
Gallaudet said, 'Ed, I called Russ Millard while you were talking to the warden. He said he checked with his Ad Vice guys on the pornography job, and they've got nothing. No Cathcart, no leads on the books. Russ went through all the Nite Owl field reports and got nothing. Bud White background checked Cathcart, and he reported nothing. Ed, Susie Lefferts from San Berdoo is just a coincidence. Cathcart couldn't make a smut deal happen if he tried. This whole thing was the Engleklings' buying out of some old warrants and a dog show.'
Ed nodded. Mickey Cohen, Sr., cradled Mickey Cohen, Jr. 'Fathers and Sons are food for thought, are they not a veritable feast? My canine offspring and me, old Doe Franz and his gap-toothed white trash lowlifes. Franz was a chemical genius, great things he did for the drool case mentally disturbed. When a boatload of Big H was stole from me way back, I thought of Franz, and how if I had his brains instead of my own poetic genius I would have recreated my own white powder to sell. Go home, boychiks. Dirty books will not win you your murder case. It's the shvartzes, it's the fucking shvoogies.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Bottles: whisky, gin, brandy. Flashing signs: Schlitz, Pabst Blue Ribbon. Sailors downing cold beers, happy folks juicing their lights out. Hudgens' pad a block away--booze would give him the guts. He knew it before he tailed Bud White--now he had a thousand times the reason.
The barman yelled, 'Last call.' Jack killed his club soda, pressed the glass to his neck. His day hit him--
