Trashcan walked up, sat down. No preims. 'You're calling it in?'
'I'm meeting with Parker tomorrow. I'm sure he's going to announce a reopening.'
Vincennes laughed. 'Then don't look so grim. If you're crazy enough to want it, at least act happy.'
Ed placed six shell casings on the table. 'Three of these are target rounds I retrieved from your last range practice, three are rounds I took out of a Hollywood Division evidence locker. Identical lands and grooves. April '53, Jack. You remember that shootout on Cheramoya?'
Trash grabbed the table. 'Keep going.'
'Pierce Patchett owns that building on Cheramoya, and it's a nicely hidden ownership. S&M gear was found on the premises, and Patchett is a K.A. of Lynn Bracken, Bud White's girlfriend, who you denied knowing. You were working a smut job for Ad Vice then, and smut and sadomasochist paraphernalia are in the same ballpark. The last time we talked you admitted that Hudgens had a file on you, that that was why you were all over the place then. Here's my big leap, so correct me if I'm wrong. Bracken and Patchett were K.A.'s of Hudgens.'
Vincennes dug his hands in--the table shook. 'So you're a smart fucker. So what?'
'So did Bud White know Hudgens?'
'No, I don't think--'
'What does White have on Patchett and Bracken?'
'I don't know. Exley, look--'
'No, _you_ look. And you answer me. Did you get Hudgens' file on you?'
Trashcan, sweating. 'Yeah, I did.'
'Who from?'
'The Bracken woman.'
'How did you get it out of her?'
'Deposition threat. I wrote out a deposition on her and Patchett, everything I put together about them. I made carbons and stashed them in safe-deposit boxes.'
'And you--'
'Yeah, I've still got them. And they've still got a carbon on me.'
Educated guess. 'And Patchett was pushing that smut you were chasing?'
'Yeah. Exley, look--'
'No, Vincennes, _you_ look. Do you still have copies of the smut books?'
'I've got the depositions and the books. You want them, I get my evidence suppression wiped. And half the Nite Owl collar.'
'A third. There's no way to make the case without White.'
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Room 6 at Victory. Dudley, a muscle creep chained to the hot seat. Dot Rothstein ogling _Playboy_. Bud watched her scope cheesecake: a bull-dyke cop in a Hughes Aircraft jumpsuit.
Dudley skimmed a rap sheet. 'Lamar Hinton, age thirty-one. One ADW conviction, a former telephone company employee strongly suspected of installing bootleg bookie lines for Jack 'The Enforcer' Whalen. A parole absconder since April 1953. Lad, I think it is safe to refer to you as an organized crime associate, thus someone in need of reeducation in the ways of polite society.'
Hinton licked his lips; Dudley smiled. 'You came along peacefully, which is to your credit. You did not give us a song and dance about your civil rights, which, since you don't have any, speaks well of your intelligence. Now, my job is to deter and contain organized crime in Los Angeles, and I have found that physical force often serves as the most persuasive corrective measure. Lad, I will ask questions, you will answer them. If I am satisfied with your answers, Sergeant Wendell White will remain in his chair. Now, why did you abscond your parole in April 1953?'
Hinton stuttered. Bud threw backhands--eyes on the wall so he wouldn't have to see. Left/right/left/right/left/right--Dot flashed the cut-off sign.
Cease fire. Dudley: 'A little admonishing to show you what Sergeant White is capable of. Now, from here on in I will accommodate your stammer. Do you recall the question? Why did you abscond your parole in April 1953?'
Stut-stut-stutter: Hinton with his eyes squeezed shut.
'Lad, we're waiting.'
Hinton: 'H-h-had b-b-blow t-town.'
'Ah, grand. And what precipitated your need to leave?'
'J-just w-woman t-t-trouble.'
'Lad, I don't believe you.'
'Th-th-the t-truth.'
Dudley nodded. Bud threw backhands--pulled, fake full force. Dot said, 'This boy could take a lot of grief. Come on, sugar, make it easy on yourself. April '53. Why'd you blow town?'
Bud heard Breuning and Carlisle next door. It hit him: 4/53--the Nite Owl.
'Lad, I overestimated the power of your memory, so let me help it along. Pierce Patchett. You were acquainted with him back then, weren't you?'
Bud, chills: evidence suppression, he shouldn't know Patchett existed--
Hinton jerked, thrashed.
'Ah, grand, I think we touched a nerve.'
Dot sighed. 'God, such muscles. I should have such muscles.'
Dudley howled.
Kill the chills: he's on the reopening--maybe Hinton works in. _If he knew about my evidence dance I wouldn't be here_.
Dot sapped Hinton: the arms, the knees. Muscles took it stoic: no yelps, no whimpers.
Dudley laughed. 'Lad, you have a high threshold for discomfort. Comment on the following, please: Pierce Patchett, Duke Cathcart and pornography. Be concise or Sergeant White will test that threshold.'
Hinton, no stutter. 'Fuck you, Irish cocksucker.'
Ho, ho, ho. 'Lad, you're a regular Jack Benny. Wendell, show our organized crime associate your opinion of unsolicited comedy acts.'
Bud grabbed Dot's sap. 'What are you looking for, boss?'
'Full and docile cooperation.'
'Is this the Nite Owl? You said Duke Cathcart.'
'I want full and docile cooperation on all topics. Have you objections to that?'
Dot said, 'White, just do it. God, I should have such muscles.' Bud got close. 'Let me play him solo. Just a couple minutes.' 'A return to your old methods, lad? It's been a while since you evinced enthusiasm for this kind of work.'
Bud whispered. 'I'm gonna let him think he can take me, then shiv him. You and Dot wait outside, okay?'
Dudley nodded, walked Dot out. Bud turned the radio on: a commercial, used-car values at Yeakel Olds.
Hinton rattled his chains. 'Fuck you, fuck that Irish guy and fuck that fucking diesel dyke.'
Bud pulled up a chair. 'I don't like this stuff, so you be good and give me some answers on the side and I'll tell the man to cut you loose. You got that? No parole roust.'
'Fuck you.'
'Hinton, I think you know Pierce Patchett, and maybe you knew Duke Cathcart. You can tell me some side stuff and I'll--'
'Fuck your mother.'
Bud threw Hinton and his chair across the room. The hot seat landed sideways--slats popped off. Shelves collapsed--the radio broke, spewing static.
Bud uprighted the chair one-handed. Hinton pissed his pants. Bud heard himself talking, a weird voice like a brogue. 'Give me some pimp stuff, lad. Cathcart, a coon named Dwight Gilette-- they both ran this girl Kathy Janeway. She got snuffed and I don't like that. You got information on them, _lad?_'
Eyeball to eyeball--Hinton's wide wide. No stutter, don't rile the fucking animal. 'Sir, I just had this driver
