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.'
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 sheets taped to the wall outside-Ed memorized dates, locations, known associates. A deep breath to kill stage fright-in the #1 door.
Sugar Ray Coates cuffed to a chair, dressed in baggy County denims. Tall, light-complected--close to a mulatto. One eye swollen shut; lips puffed and split. A smashed nose-both nostrils sutured. Ed said, 'Looks like we both took a beating.'
Coates squinted-one-eyed, spooky. Ed unlocked his cuffs, tossed cigarettes and matches on the table. Coates flexed his wrists. Ed smiled. 'They call you Sugar Ray because of Ray Robinson?'
No answer.
Ed took the other chair. 'They say Ray Robinson can throw a four-punch combination in one second. I don't believe it myself.'
Coates lifted his arms-they flopped, dead weight. Ed opened the cigarette pack. 'I know, they cut off the circulation. You're twenty-two, aren't you, Ray?'
Coates: 'Say what and so what,' a scratchy voice. Ed scoped his throat-bruised, finger marks. 'Did one of the officers do a little throttling on you?'
No answer. Ed said, 'Sergeant Vincennes? The snazzy dresser guy?'
Silence.
'Not him, huh? Was it Denton? Fat guy with a Texas drawl, sounds like Spade Cooley on TV?'
Coates' good eye twitched. Ed said, 'Yeah, I commiserate- that guy Denton is one choice creep. You see «my» face? Denton and I went a couple of rounds.'
No bite.
'Goddamn that Denton. Sugar Ray, you and I look like Robinson and LaMotta after that last fight they had.'
Still no bite.
'So you're twenty-two, right?'
'Man, why you ask me that!'
Ed shrugged. 'Just getting my facts straight. Leroy and Tyrone are twenty, so they can't burn on a capital charge. Ray, you should have pulled this caper a couple of years ago. Get life, do a little Youth Authority jolt, transfer to Folsom a big man. Get yourself a sissy, orbit on some of that good prison brew.'
'Sissy' hit home: Coates' hands twitched. He picked up a cigarette, lit it, coughed. 'I never truck with no sissies.'
Ed smiled. 'I know that, son.'
'I ain't your son, you ofay fuck. You the sissy.'
Ed laughed. 'You know the drill, I'll give you that. You've done juvie time, you know I'm the nice guy cop trying to get you to talk. That fucking Tyrone, I almost believed him. Denton must have knocked a few of my screws loose. How could I fall for a line like that?'
'Say what, man? What line you mean?'
'Nothing, Ray. Let's change the subject. What did you do with the shotguns?'
Coates rubbed his neck-shaky hands. 'What shotguns?'
Ed leaned close. 'The pumps you and your friends were shooting in Griffith Park.'
'Don't know 'bout no shotguns.'
'You don't? Leroy and Tyrone had a box of shells in their room.'
'That their bidness.'
Ed shook his head. 'That Tyrone, he's a pisser. You did the Casitas Youth Camp with him, didn't you?'
A shrug. 'So what and say what?'
'Nothing, Ray. Just thinking out loud.'
'Man, why you talkin' 'bout Tyrone? Tyrone's bidness is Tyrone's bidness.'
Ed reached under the table, found the audio switch for room 3. 'Sugar, Tyrone told me you went sissy up at Casitas. You couldn't do the time so you found yourself a big white boy to look after you. He said they call you 'Sugar' because you gave it out so sweet.'
Coates hit the table. Ed hit the switch. 'Say what, «Sugar?»'
'Say I «took» it! «Tyrone» give it! Man, I was the fuckin' boss jocker on my dorm! Tyrone the sissy! Tyrone give it for candy bars! Tyrone love it!'
Switch back up. 'Ray, let's change the subject. Why do you think you and your friends are under arrest?'
Coates fmgered the cigarette pack. 'Some humbug beef, maybe like dischargin' firearms inside city limit, some humbug like that. Wha's Tyrone say 'bout that?'
'Ray, Tyrone said lots of things, but let's get to meat and potatoes. Where were you at 3:00 A.M. last night?'
Coates chained a smoke butt to tip. 'I was at my crib. Asleep.'
'Were you on hop? Tyrone and Leroy must have been, they were passed out while those officers arrested you. Some crime partners. Tyrone calls you a fairy, then him and Leroy sleep through you getting beat up by some cracker shitbird. I thought you colored guys stuck together. Were you hopped up, Ray? You couldn't take what you did, so you got yourself some dope and-'
'Take what! What you mean! Tyrone and Leroy fuck with them goofballs, not me!'
Ed hit the 2 and 3 switches. 'Ray, you protected Tyrone and Leroy up at Casitas, didn't you?'
Coates coughed out a big rush of smoke. 'You ain't woofin' I did. Tyrone give his boodie and Leroy so scared he almos' throw hisself off the roof and drink hisself blind on pruno. Stupid down
