CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Stakeout: Hank's Ranch Market, 52nd and Central. A sign above the door: 'Welfare Checks Cashed.' January 3, relief day-check-cashers shooting craps on the sidewalk. Surveillance Squad 5 got a tip-some anonymous ginch said her boyfriend and his buddy were going to take the market off, she was pissed at the boyfriend for porking her sister. Jack in the point car, watching the door, Sergeant John Petievich parked on 52-scowling like he wanted to kill something.
Lunch: Fritos, straight vodka. Jack yawned, stretched, cut odds: Aragon vs. Pimentel, what Ellis Loew wanted-he was supposed to meet him at a political soiree tonight. The vodka burned his stomach; he had to piss wicked bad.
Horn toots-his signal. Petievich pointed to the sidewalk. Two white men entered the market.
Jack walked across the street. Petievich walked over. A frame on the doorway, a look in. The robbers at the checkstand, backs to the door-guns out, spare hands full of money.
No proprietor. No customers. A squint down the far aisle- blood and brains on the wall. SILENCER. BACK DOOR MAN. Jack shot the heisters in the back.
Petievich screamed; back door footsteps; Jack fired blind, chased. Bottles broke over his head: blind shots, silencer rounds-no noise, muffled thwaps. Down the far aisle, two dead winos, a door closing. Petievich fired, blew the door off-a man sprinted across the alley. Jack emptied his piece; the man vaulted a fence. Shouts from the sidewalk; crapshooters cheering. Jack reloaded, jumped the fence, hit a backyard. A Doberman jumped at him, snarling, snapping teeth in his face-Jack shot him point-blank. The dog belched blood; Jack heard shots, saw the fence explode.
Two bluesuits hit the yard running. Jack dropped his gun; they fired anyway-wide-blowing out fence pickets. Jack put his hands up. 'Police officer! Police officer! Policeman!'
They came up slow, frisked him-peach-fuzz rookies. The taller kid found his ID. 'Hey, Vincennes. You used to be some kind of hotshot, didn't you?'
Jack cold-cocked him-a knee to the nuts. The kid went dqwn; the other kid gawked.
Jack went looking for a place to drink.
He found a juke joint, ordered a line of shots. Two drinks killed his shakes; two more made him a toastmaster.
To the men I just killed: sorry, I'm really better at shooting unarmed civilians. I'm being squeezed into retirement, so I thought I'd 86 a couple of real bad guys before I capped my twenty.
To my wife: you thought you married a hero, but you grew up and learned you were wrong. Now you want to go to law school and be a lawyer like Daddy and Ellis. No sweat on the money: Daddy bought the house, Daddy upgrades your marriage, Daddy will pay for tuition. When you read the paper and see that your husband drilled two evil robbers, you'll think they're the first notches on his gun. Wrong-in '47 dope crusader Jack blasted two innocent people, the big secret he almost wants to spill just to get some life kicking back into his marriage.
Jack downed three more shots. He went where he always went when with a certain amount of shit in his system-back to '53 and smut.
He felt safe on the blackmail: his depositions for insurance, the Hudgens snuff buried-»Hush-Hush» resurrected it, got nowhere. Patchett and Bracken never approached him-they had the carbon of Sid's Big V file, kept their end of the bargain. He heard Lynn and Bud White were still an item; call the brainy whore and Patchett memories-bad news from that bad bloody spring. What drove him was the smut.
He kept it in a safe-deposit box. He knew it was there, knew it excited him-knew that loving it would trash his marriage. He threw himself into the marriage, building walls to keep them safe from that spring. A string of sober days helped; the marriage helped. Nothing he did changed things-Karen just learned who he was.
She saw him muscle Deuce Perkins; he said 'nigger' in front of her parents. She figured out his press exploits were lies. She saw him drunk, pissed off. He hated her friends; his one friend-Miller Stanton-dropped out of sight when he blew «Badge of Honor». He got bored with Karen, ran to the smut, went crazy with it.
He tried to ID the posers again-still no go. He went to Tijuana, bought other fuck books-no go. He went looking for Christine Bergeron, couldn't find her, put out teletypes that got him bupkis. No way to have the real thing-he decided to fake it.
He bought hookers, shook down call girls. He fixed them up to look like the girls in his books. He had them three and four at a pop, chains of bodies on quilts. He costumed them, choreographed them. He aped the pictures, took his own pictures, recaptured; sometimes he thought of the blood pix and got scared: perfect matches to murder mutilations.
Real women never thrilled him like the pictures did; fear kept him from going to Fleur-de-Lis-straight to the source. He couldn't figure out Karen's fear-why she didn't leave him.
A last drink-bad thoughts adieu.
Jack cleaned up, walked back to his car. No hubcaps, broken wiper blades. Crime scene tape around Hank's Ranch Market; two black-and-whites in the lot. No reprimand note on his windshield- the vandals probably stole it.
He hit the bash at full swing: Ellis Loew, a suite packed with Republican bigshots. Women in cocktail gowns; men in dark suits. The Big V: chinos, a sport shirt sprayed with dog blood.
Jack flagged a waiter, grabbed a martini off his tray. Framed pictures on the wall caught his eye.
Political progress: «Harvard Law Review», the '53 election, a howler shot: Loew telling the press the Nite Owl killers confessed before they escaped. Jack laughed, sprayed gin, almost choked on his olive. Behind him: 'You used to dress a bit more nicely.'
Jack turned around. 'I used to be some kind of hotshot.'
'Do you have an excuse for your appearance?'
'Yeah, I killed two men today.'
'I see. Anything else?'
'Yeah, I shot them in the back, plugged a dog and took off before my superior officers showed up. And here's a news flash: I've been drinking. Ellis, this is getting stale, so let's get to it. Who do you want me to touch?'
'Jack, lower your voice.'
'What is it, boss? The Senate or the statehouse?'
'Jack, it's not the time to discuss this.'
'Sure it is. Tell true. You're gearing up for the '60 elections.' Loew, on the QT. 'All right, it's the Senate. I did have some favors to ask, but your current condition precludes my asking them. We'll talk when you're in better shape.'
An audience now: the whole suite. 'Come on, I'm dying to run bag for you. Who do I shake down first?'
'«Sergeant, lower your voice».'
Raise that voice. 'Cocksucker, I shit where you breathe. I put Bill McPherson in the tank for you, I cold-cocked him and put him in bed with that colored girl, I fucking deserve to know who you want me to put the screws to next.'
Loew, a hoarse whisper. 'Vincennes, you're through.'
Jack tossed gin in his face. 'God, I fucking hope so.'
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
'… and we're more than the moral exemplars that Chief Parker spoke of the other day. We are the dividing line between the old police work and the new, the old system of promotion through patronage and enforcement through intimidation and a new emerging system: the elite police corps that impartially asserts its authority in the name of a stern and unbiased justice, that punishes its own with a stern moral vigor should they prove duplicitous to the higher moral standards an elite corps demands of its members. And, finally, we are the protectors of the public image of the Los Angeles Police Department. Know that when you read interdepartmental complaints filed against your brother officers and feel the urge to be forgiving. Know that when I assign you to investigate a man you once worked with and liked. Know that our business is stern, absolute justice, whatever the price.'
Ed paused, looked at his men: twenty-two sergeants, two lieutenants. 'Nuts and bolts now, gentlemen. Under my predecessor, Lieutenant Phillips and Lieutenant Stinson supervised field investigations autonomously. As of now, I will assume direct field command, with Lieutenant Phillips and Lieutenant Stinson serving as my execs on an alternating basis. Incoming complaints and information requests will be routed through my office first, I'll read the material and make my assignments accordingly. Sergeant Kleckner and Sergeant Fisk will serve as my personal assistants and will meet with me every morning at 0730. Lieutenant Stinson and Lieutenant Phillips, please meet me in my office in one hour to discuss my assuming command of your ongoing investigations. Gentlemen, you're dismissed.'
The meeting dispersed in silence; the muster room emptied. Ed replayed his speech, hitting key phrases. 'Absolute justice' hit with Inez Soto's voice.
Dump ashtrays, straighten chairs, tidy the bulletin board. Unfurl the flags by the lectern, check them for dust. Back to his speech, his father's voice: 'Duplicitous to the higher moral standards an elite corps demands of its members.' Two days ago, his speech would have been the truth. Inez Soto's speech made it a lie.
Flags, gold-fringed. Gold-plated opportunism: he killed those men out of a weak man's rage. As the Nite Owl killers they gave the rage meaning: absolute justice boldly taken. He twisted the meaning to support what the public was telling him: you're L.A.'s greatest hero, you're going to the top and beyond. Bud White's revenge, the man too stupid to grasp it: a simple cuckold accompanied by a woman's few words had him treading lies at the top, thrashing for a way to make his stale glory real.
Ed walked into his office: clean, neat-no order to secure. Complaint forms on his desk-he sat down, worked.
Jack Vincennes in big trouble.
1/3/58: while on a Surveillance Detail stakeout, Vincennes shot and killed two armed robbers-gunmen who had murdered three people at a southside market. Vincennes gave chase to a third gunman/robber, lost him, was approached by two patrolmen who did not know he was a police officer. The patrolmen fired at Vincennes, assuming him to be a member of the robbery gang; Vincennes dropped his gun and allowed himself to be frisked-then assaulted one of the officers and vacated the crime scene before Homicide and the coroner arrived. The third suspect remained at large; Vincennes went to a political gathering honoring D.A. Ellis Loew, his brother-in-law by marriage. Presumed to be drunk, he verbally abused Loew and threw a drink in his face-in full view of the guests.
Ed skimmed Vincennes' personnel file. A 5/58 pension securement date-goodbye, Trashcan Jack-you were close. Stacks of his Narcotics Squad reports: thorough, detailed to the point of being padded. Between the lines: Vincennes had a hard-on for minor dope violators-especially Hollywood celebrities and jazz musicians-substantiating an old rumor: he called «Hush-Hush» Magazine to be in on his gravy rousts. Vincennes was transferred to Administrative Vice as part of the Bloody Christmas shake-up; another stack of reports: bookmaking and liquor infraction operations, no zeal, plenty of verbal padding. Ad Vice assignment into the spring of '53: Russ Millard commanding the division, a pornography investigation running concurrent with the Nite Owl. And a «big» anomaly: assigned to trace smut, Vincennes repeatedly reported no leads, commented that the other men on the assignment were coming up empty, twice offered the opinion that the investigation should be dropped.
Antithetical Jack V. behavior.
