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-again.
Millard says Duke Cathcart was involved in some scheme to push «his» smut.
Bud White visits Lynn Bracken, one of the lookalike whores. He stays inside two hours; the whore walks him out. He tails White home, starts thinking evidence: White knows Bracken, she knows Pierce Patchett, he knows Hudgens. Sid knows about the Malibu Rendezvous, Dudley Smith probably knows. Big Dud's reason for the tail job: White bent out of shape on a «hooker» snuff.
Pulsing beer signs: neon monsters. Brass knucks in the car, the Sidster might fold, kick loose with his file-
Jack bolted: Hudgens' place, no lights on, Sid's Packard at the curb. The door-brass knucks for a knocker.
Thirty seconds-nothing. Jack tried the door-no give- shouldered the jamb. The door popped open.
That smell.
Slow motion: handkerchief out, gun out, elbow to the wall- the switch, no prints. Switch down, lights on.
Sid Hudgens hacked up on the floor-a rug soaked black, the floor a blood slick.
Arms and legs severed, out at weird angles off his torso.
Split open crotch to neck, bones showing white through red.
Cabinets upended behind him-folders dumped on a clean patch of rug.
Jack bit his arms to kill screams.
No blood tracks, say the killer got out the back door. Hudgens naked, coated red-black. Limbs off his torso, strands of gore at the cut points, swirls like his inked-in fuck books-
Jack bolted.
Around the house, down the driveway. The back door: ajar, spilling light. Inside: a water-slick floor-no blood prints, tracks covered. He walked in, found grocery bags under the sink. Shaky steps to the living room. File cabinet dirt: folders, folders, folders-one, two, three, four, five bags-two trips to his car.
A quiet L.A. street at 2:20 A.M., calm down mumbo jumbo.
Fifty trillion people had motives. Nobody knew he'd seen the inked-in books. The mutilations would get written off-just psycho stuff.
«He had to find his file».
Jack doused lights, sawed the front door with his handcuffs- let them think it's a burglar. He took off, no destination, just driving.
Just driving wore thin. He found a motel strip, a hot-sheet flop: Oscar's Sleepytime Lodge.
He paid a week's rent, hauled his bags in, took a shower and put his stale clothes back on. A cockroach palace: bugs, grease on the wall above the bed. He smelled himseffi stale working on foul. He locked the door, prowled dirt.
«Hush-Hush» back issues, clippings, pilfered police documents. Files: Montgomery Clift as the smallest dick in Hollywood, Errol Flynn as a Nazi agent. A hot item: Flynn and some homo writer named Truman Capote. Commies, Commie sympathizers, celebrity spook fuckers ranging from Joan Crawford to former D.A. Bill McPherson. Hopheads galore: shit on Charlie Parker, Anita O'Day, Art Pepper, Tom Neal, Barbara Payton, Gail Russell. Intact «Hush-Hush» articles: 'Mafia Ties to the Vatican!!!,' 'Lavender Liturgy: Is 'Rock' Hudson Really 'Rockette'?,' 'Grasshopper Alert: Beware of Hollywood's Tea Bag Babies.' Complete files, too tame to be Hudgens' secret stash-Commies, queers, lezbos, dopesters, satyrs, nymphos, misogynists, mobbought politicos.
Nothing on Sergeant Jack Vincennes.
Nothing on «Badge of Honor»-a big Hudgens fixation-he knew Sid had a file on Brett Chase.
Strange.
More strange: «Hush-Hush» ran a smear on Max Peltz-there was nothing on him.
Nothing on Pierce Patchett, Lynn Bracken, Lamar Hinton, Fleur-de-Lis.
Jack measured his filth pile. Big-make the killer a file thief, if he got any files it wasn't many-his pile looked like it would jam the cabinets to bursting.
ALIBI.
Jack stuffed his files in the closet. 'Do Not Disturb' on the door, back to his apartment.
5:10 A.M.
Under the knocker: 'Jack-remember our date Thurs.' 'Jack sweetie-are you hibernating? XXXX-K.' He walked in, grabbed the phone, dialed 888.
'Police Emergency.'
A hepcat drawl. 'Man, I want to report a murder. If I'm lyin', I'm flyin'.'
'Sir, is this legitimate?'
'Yeah, if I'm-'
''What is your address, sir?'
'My address is nowhere, but I was gonna burglarize this house, then I saw this body.'
'Sir-'
'421 South Alexandria, got that?'
'Sir, where are-'
