'Prove it, Leroy. Where were you guys at 3:00 A.M.?'
'Man, I cain't tell you!'
Ed slapped the table. 'Then you'll burn for the Nite Owl!'
'We didn't do it!'
'Who did you sell the girl to?'
No answer.
'Where is she now?'
No answer.
'Are you afraid of reprisals? You left the girl somewhere, right? «Leroy, where did you leave her, who did you leave her with, she is your only chance to stay out of the fucking gas chamber?»'
'Man, I can't tell you, Sugar, he like to kill me!'
'Leroy, where is she?'
No answer.
'Leroy, you turn state's you'll get out years before Sugar and Tyrone.'
No response.
'Leroy, I'll get you a one-man cell where nobody can hurt you.'
No response.
'Son, you have to tell me. I'm the only friend you've got.'
No response.
'Leroy, are you afraid of the man you left the girl with?'
No answer.
'Son, he can't be as bad as the gas chamber. «Tell me where the girl is».'
The door banged open. Bud White stepped in, threw Fontaine against the wall.
Ed froze.
White pulled out his.38, broke the cylinder, dropped shells on the floor. Fontaine shook head to toe; Ed kept freezing. White snapped the cylinder shut, stuck the gun in Fontaine's mouth. 'One in six. Where's the girl?'
Fontaine chewed steel; White squeezed the trigger twice: clicks, empty chambers. Fontaine slid down the wall; White pulled the gun back, held him up by his hair. '«Where's the girl?»'
Ed kept freezing. White pulled the trigger-another little click. Fontaine, bug-eyed. 'S-ss-sylvester F-fitch, one-o-nine and Avalon, gray corner house please don' hurt me no-'
White ran out.
Fontaine passed out.
Riot sounds in the corridor-Ed tried to stand up, couldn't get his legs.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A four-car cordon: two black-and-whites, two unmarkeds. Sirens to a half mile out; a coast up to the gray corner house.
Dudley Smith drove the lead prowler; Bud rode shotgun reloading his piece. A four-car flank: black-and-whites in the alley, Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle parked streetside-rifles on the gray house door. Bud said, 'Boss, he's mine.'
Dudley winked. 'Grand, lad.'
Bud went in the back way-through the alley, a fence vault. On the rear porch: a screen door, inside hook and eye. He slipped the catch with his penknife, walked in on tiptoes.
Darkness, dim shapes: a washing machine, a blind-covered door-strips of light through the cracks.
Bud tried the door-unlocked--cased it open. A hallway: light bouncing from two side rooms. A rug to walk on; music to give him more cover. He tiptoed up to the first room, wheeled in.
A nude woman spread-eagled on a mattress-bound with neckties, a necktie in her mouth. Bud hit the next room loud.
A fat mulatto at a table-naked, wolfmg Kellogg's Rice Krispies. He put down his spoon, raised his hands. 'Nossir, don't want no trouble.'
Bud shot him in the face, pulled a spare piece-bang bang from the coon's line of fire. The man hit the floor dead spread-a prime entry wound oozing blood. Bud put the spare in his hand; the front door crashed in. He dumped Rice Krispies on the stiff, called an ambulance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jack watched Karen sleep, putting their fight behind him.
Newspaper pix caused it: the Big V and Cal Denton rousting three colored punks-suspects in L.A. 's 'Crime of the Century.' Denton dragged Fontaine by his conk; Big V had neck holds on the other two. Karen said they reminded her of the Scottsboro Boys; Jack told her he saved their goddamned lives, but now that he knew they gang-raped a Mexican girl he wished he'd let Denton kill them outright. The argument deteriorated from there.
Karen slept curled away from him-covered tight like she thought he might hit her. Jack watched her while he dressed; his last two days hit him.
He was off the Nite Owl, back to Ad Vice. Ed Exley's interrogations tentatively cleared the spooks-pending questioning of the woman they'd been abusing. Bud White played some Russian roulette- the three clammed up. So far, there was no way to know if they had time to leave the woman, drive to the Nite Owl, return to Darktown and gang-rape. Maybe Coates or Fontaine left Jones in charge of the girl and pulled the snuffs with other partners. No luck finding the shotguns; Coates' purple Merc was still missing. No restaurant loot found at their hotel; the debris in the incinerator too far gone for blood-on-fabric analysis. The perfume on the jigs' hands skunked a late paraffin test. Huge pressure at the Bureau: solve the fucking case fast.
The coroner was trying to ID the patron victims, working from dental abstracts and their physical stats cross-checked against missing persons bulletins, call-ins. Made: the cook/dishwasher, waitress, cash register girl; nothing yet on the three customers, the autopsies showed no sexual abuse on the women. Maybe Coates/Jones/Fontaine weren't the triggers; Dudley Smith on the job-his men bracing armed robbers, nuthouse parolees, every known L.A. geek with a gun jacket. The news vendor who spotted the purple Merc across from the Nite Owl was requestioned; now he said it could have been a Ford or a Chevy. Ford and Chevy registrations being checked; now the park ranger who ID'd the spooks said he wasn't sure. Ed Exley told Green and Parker the purple car might have been placed by the Nite Owl to put the onus on the jigs; Dudley pooh-poohed the theory-he said it was probably just a coincidence. A sure-thing case unraveling into a shitload of possibilities.
Huge press coverage-Sid Hudgens had already called-zero hink on the smut, nothing like 'We've «all» got secrets.' A heroic version of the arrests for fifty scoots-Sid hung up quick.
The Nite Owl cost him a day on the smut. He'd checked the squadroom postings: no leads, none of the other men tracked the skit. He filed a phony report himself: nothing on Christine Bergeron and Bobby Inge, nothing on the other mags he found: Nothing on his filth dreams: his sweetheart Karen orgied up.
Jack kissed Karen's neck, hoping she'd wake up and smile.
No luck.
Canvassing first.
Charleville Drive, questions, no luck: none of the tenants in Christine Bergeron's building heard the woman and her son move out; none knew a thing about the men she entertained. The adjoining apartment houses-ditto straight across. Jack called Beverly Hills High, learned that Daryl Bergeron was a chronic truant who hadn't attended classes in a week; the vice-principal said the boy kept to himself, didn't cause trouble-he was never in school «to» cause trouble. Jack didn't tell him Daryl was too tired to cause trouble: fucking your mother on roller skates takes a lot out of a kid.
His next call: Stan's Drive-in. The manager told him Chris Bergeron splitsvilled day before yesterday, two seconds after getting a phone call. No, he didn't know who the caller was; yes, he would buzz Sergeant Vmcennes if she showed up; no, Chris did not unduly fraternize with customers or receive visitors while carhopping.
Out to West Hollywood.
Bobby Inge's place, talks-fellow tenants and neighbors. Bobby paid his rent on time, kept to himself, nobody saw him move out. The swish next door said he 'played the field-he wasn't seeing anyone in particular.' Tweaks: 'smut books,' 'Chris Bergeron,' 'this little twist Daryl'-the fruit deadpanned him cold.
Call West Hollywood dead-after B.J.'s Rumpus Room Bobby wouldn't be caught near the fag-bar strip. Jack grabbed a hamburger, checked his Inge rap sheet-no K.A.'s listed. He studied his private filth stash, hard to concentrate, the contradictions in the pictures kept distracting him.
Attractive posers, trashy backdrops. Beautiful costumes that made you look twice at disgusting homo action. Artful orgy shots: inked-in blood, bodies connected over quilts-pix that made you squint to see female forms held in check by too much explicitness-the sex organ extravaganza made you want to see the women plain nude. The shit was pornography manufactured for money-but somewhere in the process an artist was involved.
A brainstorm.
Jack drove to a dime store, bought scissors, Scotch tape, a drawing pad. He worked in the car: faces cut from the mags, taped to the paper, men and women separated, repeats placed together to make IDs easier. Downtown to the Bureau for matchups: stag pix to Caucasian mug books. Four hours of squinting: eyestrain, zero identifications. Over to Hollywood Station, their separate Vice mugs, another zero; the West Hollywood Sheriff's Substation made zero number three. Bobby Inge aside, his smut beauties were virgins-no criminal records.
4:30 P.M.-Jack felt his options dwindling fast. Another idea caught: check Bobby Inge through the DMV; check Chris Bergeron through again-a complete paper prowl. R &I/Inge one more time-updates on his sheet.
He hit a pay phone, made the calls. Bobby Inge was DMV clean: no citations, no court appearances. Complete Bergeron paper: traffic violation dates, the names of her surety bond guarantors. R &I's only Inge update: a year-old bail report. One name crossed over-Bergeron to Inge.
Bail on an Inge prostie charge-fronted by Sharon Kostenza, 1649 North Havenhurst, West Hollywood. The same woman paid a Bergeron reckless-driving bond.
Jack called R &I back, ran Sharon Kostenza and her address through-no California criminal record. He told the clerk to check the forty-eight-state list; that took a full ten minutes. 'Sorry, Sarge. Nothing at all on the name.'
Back to the DMV; a shocker: no one named Sharon Kostenza possessed or had ever possessed a California driver's license. Jack drove to North Havenhurst -the address 1649 did not exist.
Brain circuits: prostie Bobby Inge, Kostenza bailed him on a prostie beef, prosties used phony names, prosties posed for stag pix. North Havenhurst a longtime call-house block- He started
