Smith opened the door. 'I tendered that reprimand with much affection, lad. Do you know that?'
'Sure.'
'Grand. You are much in my thoughts, lad. Chief Parker has given me approval on a new containment measure, and I've already signed on Dick Carlisle and Mike Breuning. Once we close the Nite Owl, I'm going to ask you to join us.'
'That sounds good, Boss.'
'Grand. And, lad? I'm sure you know that Dick Stensland was arrested and Ed Exley had a part in it. You are not to retaliate. Do you understand?'
The red sedan-call it a maybe.
Cathcart's pad tossed and wiped, his clothes prowled-?????
Sinful Cindy: Duke's smut peddler pipe dream.
Feather Royko on Duke: 'Hopped up on some new biz.'
The Dukey shtick man trying to recruit B-girls. Ad Vice checked out: zero on their smut job. Trashcan Jack V., ace report padder, asked for a transfer to the Nite Owl-he said the job was from hunger. Russ Millard's last c.o.'s summary: 86 the gig-call it a wash.
He lied to Dudley and strolled on it.
If he'd ratted little Kathy to Juvie she'd be reading a movie mag somewhere.
THE PIMP WHO SOLD HER TO DUKE: 'THIS GUY MADE ME DO IT WITH GUYS.'
EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY EXLEY-
Sinful Cindy's rap sheet-four known haunt whore bars listed. Her pad first-no Cindy. Hal's Nest, the Moonmist Lounge, the Firefly Room, the Cinnabar at the Roosevelt-no Cindy. An old Vice cop's story: whores congregating at Tiny Naylor's Drive-in-the carhops scouted tricks for them. Over to Tiny's, Cindy's De Soto outside-a food tray hooked to the door.
Bud parked beside her. Cindy saw him, dumped her tray, rolled up her window. Wham-the De Soto in reverse. Bud sprinted, popped the hood, yanked the distributor-the car stalled dead.
Cindy rolled down her window. 'You stole my money! You ruined my lunch!'
Bud dropped a five on her lap. 'Lunch is on me.'
'Mister big shot! Mister big spender!'
'Kathy Janeway got raped and beaten to death. Give on the guy who used to pimp her, give on her tricks.'
Cindy put her head on the wheel. The horn beeped; she came back up pale, no tears. 'Dwight Gilette. He's some kind of colored guy passing. I don't know nothing about her old tricks.'
'Gilette drive a red car?'
'I don't know.'
'You got an address?'
'I heard he lives in this tract in Eagle Rock. It's white only, so he plays it that way. But I know he didn't kill her.'
'How do you figure?'
'He's a swish. He's careful about his hands, and he'd never put it in a girl.'
'Anything else?'
'He carried a knife. His girls call him 'Blue Blade' 'cause his name's Gilette.'
'You don't seem surprised Kathy got it that way.'
Cindy touched her eyes-bone dry. 'She was born for it. Dukey softened her up, so she quit hating men. A few more years and she would've learned. Shit, I should have treated her better.'
'Yeah, me too.'
Eagle Rock, an R &I check: Dwight Gilette, a.k.a. 'Blade,' a.k.a. 'Blue Blade,' 3245 Hibiscus, Eagle's Aerie Housing Development. Six suborning arrests, no convictions, listed as a male Caucasian-if he was a shine he was passing with style. Bud found the tract, the street: cozy stucco cubes, Hibiscus a prime spot: a smoggy L.A. view.
3245: peach paint job, steel flamingos on the lawn, a blue sedan in the driveway. Bud walked up, pushed the buzzer-jingly chimes sounded.
A high-yellow guy opened up. Thirtyish, short, plump, slacks and a silk shirt with a Mr. B. collar. 'I heard on the radio, so I thought you fellows might be coming by. The radio said midnight, and I have an alibi. He lives a block away and I can have him here toot-sweet. Kathy was a sweet kid and I don't know who'd do a thing like that. And don't you fellows usually come in pairs?'
'You finished?'
'No. My alibi is my lawyer, he still lives a block away and he's very well placed in the American Civil Liberties Union.'
Bud shouldered him into the house, whistled.
Fruit heaven: deep pile rugs, Greek god statues. Male nudes on the wall-paint on velvet flocking. Bud said, 'Cute.'
Gilette pointed to the phone. 'Two seconds or I call my attorney.'
Quick throw. 'Duke Cathcart. You sold Kathy to him, right?'
'Kathy was headstrong, Duke made me an offer. Duke's dead in that awful Nite Owl thing, so don't tell me you suspect me of that.'
No hink. 'I heard Duke was pushing smut. You hear that?'
'Smut is declasse and the answer is no.'
More no hink. 'Give me some trade talk on Duke. What've you heard?'
Gilette stood one hip jutting. 'I heard a guy was asking around about Duke, coming on like Duke, maybe thinking about crashing his stable, not that he had much of a stable left, I've heard. Now will you please leave me alone before I call my friend?'
The phone rang-Gilette walked to the kitchen, grabbed an extension. Bud walked in slow. Nice stuff: Frigidaire, coil burner stove on full blast: eggs, boiling water, stew.
Gilette made kissy sounds, hung up. 'Are «you» still here?'
'Nice pad, Dwight. Business must be good.'
'Business is excellent, thank you very much.'
'Good. I need skinny on Kathy's old tricks, so cough up your whore book.'
Gilette hit a switch above the sink. A motor growled; he shoved scrapings down a garbage hole. Bud flipped the switch up. 'Your whore book.'
'No, «nein, nyet» and never.'
Bud hooked him to the gut. Gilette rolled with it, grabbed a knife, swung. Bud sidestepped, kicked at his balls. Gilette doubled up; Bud hit the garbage switch. The motor «scree'd»; Bud jammed the queer's knife hand down the chute.
SCREEEE-the sink shot back blood, bone. Bud yanked the hand out minus fingers-SCREEEEE fifty times louder. Stumps to the burner coils, stumps to the icebox sizzling. 'GIVE ME THE FUCKING WHORE BOOK'-through a SCREEEEEEEE echo chamber.
Gilette, eyes rolling back. 'Drawer… by TV… ambulance.'
Bud dropped him, ran to the living room. Empty drawers, back to the kitchen-Gilette on the floor eating paper.
Choke hold: Gilette spat out a half-chewed page. Bud picked up the wad, stumbled outside, burned flesh making him gag. He smoothed the paper out: names, phone numbers-smeared, two legible: Lynn Bracken, Pierce Patchctt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jack at his desk, counting lies.
At work: a string of dead-end reports; legit zeros from the other squad guys totaled luck: Millard wanted to dump the smut job. Count duty no-shows as lies-he'd spent a full day chasing names- matches to the cars in Bel Air. Four names tagged; no luck at a modeling agency specializing in movie star lookalikes-none of the girls came close to his beauties. Put the names aside, chalk up the day as a wash-Sid Hudgens made pursuit a dead issue. He just wanted to see the women again- add that one to his lies to Karen.
They spent the morning at her beach place. Karen wanted to make love; he put her off with bullshit: he was distracted, he'd asked to be detached to the Nite Owl because justice was so important. Karen tried to undress him; he told her he had a sprained back; he didn't say he wasn't interested because all he wanted to do was use her, make her do it with other women, recreate fuck book scenarios. His biggest lie: he didn't tell her that he'd fmally stepped in shit that didn't turn to clover, that he'd played an angle that played him back to the gas chamber door, that his home-to- Narco ticket read adios, lovebirds- because she'd trace 10/24/47 to all his other lies and his carefully constructed nice-guy Big V would go down in flames.
He didn't tell her he was terrified. She didn't sense it-his front was still strong.
Other fronts holding-dumb luck.
Sid hadn't called, his monthly «Hush-Hush» came on schedule- no note, some 'sinuendo' on Max Peltz and teenage poon- nothing scary. He checked the report on the Fleur-de-Lis shootout: bright boy Ed Exley caught the squeal. Exley baffled: no make on the drop-pad tenants, the shelves cleaned out-only some bondage shit left-make the rest of the filth down the hidey-hole. Make Lamar Hinton for the shots-a free ride-the Big V was off the case, the Big V had a new mission.
Sid Hudgens knew Pierce Patchett and Fleur-de-Lis; Sid Hudgens knew the Malibu Rendezvous. Sid had a load of private dirt files stashed. The Big V's job: find «his» file, destroy it.
Jack checked his plate list, names matched to DMV pics.
Seth David Krugliak, the owner of the Bel Air manse-fat, oily, a movie biz lawyer. Pierce Morehouse Patchett, Fleur-de-Lis Boss-Mr. Debonair. Charles Walker Champlain, investment banker-shaved head, goatee. Lynn Margaret Bracken, age twenty-nine- Veronica Lake. No criminal records.
'Hello, lad.'
Jack swiveled around. 'Dud, how are you? What brings you to Ad Vice?'
'A confab with Russ Millard, my colleague on the Nite Owl now. And on that topic, I heard you want in.'
'You heard right. Can you swing it?'
Smith passed him a mimeo sheet. 'I already have, lad. You're to join in the search for Coates' car. Every garage within the radiu3 on this page is to be checked-with or without the owner's consent. You're to begin immediately.'
A map carbon: southside L.A. in street grids. 'Lad, I need a personal favor.'
