Bud hung up. Ellis Loew said stay out of it. Kathy Janeway said GO.
He drove to the Strip, put the M.O. together.
First the El Rancho Klub, closed, 'Spade Cooley and His Cowboy Rhythm Band Appearing Nitely.' A publicity still by the door: Spade, Deuce Perkins, three other cracker types. No heavily ringed fingers; a lead rubber-stamped at the bottom: 'Represented by Nat Penzler Associates, 653 North La Cienega, Los Angeles.'
Across the street: the Hot Dog Hut, kraut dogs and fries on the menu. Down the Strip by Crescent Heights: a well-known prostie stroll. A mile south at Melrose and Sweetzer: Lynette Ellen Kendrick's apartment.
Easy:
Spade picked her up late, no witnesses. He had the food and the dope, suggested a cozy all-nighter, took Lynette home. They got high, chowed down-Spade beat her to death, raped her three times postmortem.
Bud hooked south to La Cienega. 653: a redwood A-frame, 'Nat Penzler Assoc.' by the mailbox. The door propped open; a girl inside making coffee.
Bud walked in. The girl said, 'Yes, can I help you?'
'The boss around?'
'Mr. Penzler's on the telephone. Can I help you?'
One connecting door-'N.P.' brass-stamped. Bud pushed it open; an old man yelled, 'Hey! I'm on a call! What are you, a bill collector? Hey, Gail! Give this clown a magazine!'
Bud flashed his badge. The man hung up the phone, pushed back from his desk. Bud said, 'You're Nat Penzler?'
'Call me Natsky. Are you looking for representation? I could get you work playing thugs. You have that Neanderthal look currently in vogue.'
Let it go. 'You're Spade Cooley's agent, right?'
'Right. You want to join Spade's band? Spade's a moneymaker, but my shvartze cleaning lady sings better than him, so maybe I can get you a spot, a bouncer gig at the El Rancho at least. Lots of trim there, boychik. A moose like you could get reamed, steamed and dry-cleaned.'
'You through, pops?'
Penzler flushed. 'Mr. Natsky to you, caveman.'
Bud shut the door. 'I need to see Cooley's booking records going back to '51. You want to do this nice or not?'
Penzler got up, blocked his filing cabinets. 'Showtime's over, Godzilla. I never divulge client information, even under threat of a subpoena. So amscray and come back for lunch sometime, say on the twelfth of never.'
Bud tore the phone cord from the wall; Penzler slid the top drawer open. 'No rough stuff, please, caveman! I do my best work with my face!'
Bud thumbed folders, hit 'Cooley, Donnell Clyde,' dumped it on the desk. A picture hit the blotter: Spade, four rings on ten fingers. Pink sheets, white sheets, then blue sheets-booking records clipped by year.
Penzler stood by muttering. Bud matched dates.
Jane Mildred Hamsher, 3/8/51, San Diego-Spade there at the El Cortez Sky Room. April '53, Kathy Janeway, the Cowboy Rhythm Band at Bido Lito's-South L.A. Sharon, Sally, Chrissie Virginia, Maria up to Lynette: Bakersfield, Needles, Arizona, Frisco, Seattle, back to L.A., shifting personnel listed on pay cards: Deuce Perkins playing bass most of the time, drum and sax guys coming and going, Spade Cooley always headlining, in those cities on those DODs.
Blue sheets dripping wet-his own sweat. 'Where's the band staying?'
Penzler: 'The Biltmore, and you didn't get it from Natsky.'
'That's good, 'cause this is Murder One and I wasn't here.'
'I am like the Sphinx, I swear to you. My God, Spade and his lowlife crew. My God, do you know what he grossed last year?'
He called the lead in to Ellis Loew; Loew hit the roof: 'I told you to stay out! I've got three «civilized» men on it, and I'll tell them what you've got, but you stay out and get back to the Nite Owl, «do you understand me?»'
He understood: Kathy Janeway kept saying GO.
The Biltmore.
He forced himself to drive there slow, park by the back entrance, politely ask the clerk where to find Mr. Cooley's party. The clerk said, 'The El Presidente Suite, floor nine'; he said 'Thank you' so calm that everything went into slow motion and he thought for a second he was swimming.
The stairs were like swimming upstream-Little Kathy kept saying KILL HIM. The suite: double doors, gold-filigreed- eagles, American flags. He jiggled the knob, the doors opened.
High swank gone white trash-three crackers passed out on the floor. Booze empties, dumped ashtrays, no Spade.
Connecting doors-the one on the right featured noise. Bud kicked it in.
Deuce Perkins in bed watching cartoons. Bud pulled his gun. 'Where's Cooley?'
Perkins popped in a toothpick. 'On a drunk, which is where I'm goin'. You want to see him, come to the El Rancho tonight. Chances are he'll show up.'
'The fuck, he's the headliner.'
'Most times. But Spade's been erratic lately, so I been film' in. I sing good as him and I'm better lookin', so nobody seems to mind. Now, you want to get out of here and leave me alone with my entertainment?'
'Where's he drinking?'
'Put that gun away, junior. The worse you got him for's nonpayment of child support, and Spade always pays sooner or later.'
'Nix, this is Murder One, and I heard he likes opium.'
Perkins coughed out his toothpick. 'What'd you say?'
'Hookers. Spade like young girls?'
'He don't like to kill them, just play hide the tubesteak like you and me.'
'«Where is he?»'
'Man, I'm not no snitch.'
Backhanded pistolwhips-Perkins yelped, spat teeth. The TV went loud: kids squealing for Kellogg's Cornflakes. Bud shot the screen out.
Deuce snitched: 'Check the '0' joints in Chinatown and please fuckin' leave me alone!'
Kathy said KILL HIM. Bud thought of his mother for the first time in years.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The doctor said, 'I told this to your Captain Exley, and I told him an interview with Mr. Goldman would most likely prove fruitless-the man is simply not lucid most of the time. However, since he insisted on sending you up here, I'll run through it again.'
Jack looked around. Camarillo was creepy: lots of geeks, geek artwork on the walls. 'Would you? The captain wants a statement from him.'
'Well, he'll be lucky to get one. Last July, Mr. Goldman and his confrere Mickey Cohen were attacked with knives and pipes at McNeil Island Prison. Unidentified assailants apparently, and Cohen was relatively unharmed while Mr. Goldman suffered serious brain damage. Both men were paroled late last year, and Mr. Goldman began to behave quite erratically. Late in December he was arrested for urinating in public in Beverly Hills, and the judge ordered him here for ninety days' observation. We've had him since Christmas and we've just recycled him in for another ninety. Frankly, we can't do a thing with him, and the only thing mysterious is that Mr. Cohen visited and offered to transfer Mr. Goldman to a private treatment facility at his own expense, but Mr. Goldman refused and acted terrified of him. Isn't that odd?'
'Maybe not. Where is he?'
'On the other side of that door. Be gentle with him, please. The man was a gangster, but he's just a sad human being now.'
Jack opened the door. A small padded room; Davey Goldman on a long padded bench. He needed a shave; he reeked of Lysol. Slack-jawed Davey scoping a «National Geographic».
Jack sat beside him-Goldman moved away. Jack said, 'This place is the shits. You should've let Mickey spring you.'
Goldman picked his nose, ate it.
'Davey, you on the outs with Mickey?'
Goldman held out his magazine-naked Negroes waving spears.
'Cute, and when they start showing white stuff I'll subscribe. Davey, you remember me? Jack Vincennes? I used to work LAPD Narco and we used to run into each other on the Strip.'
Goldman scratched his balls. He smiled, low voltage, nobody home.
'Is this an act? Come on, Davey. You and the Mick go way back. You know he'd take care of you.'
Goldman squashed an invisible bug. 'Not anymore.'
A gone man's voice-nobody could fake it that good. 'Say, Davey, whatever happened to Dean Van Gelder? You remember him, he used to visit you at McNeil.'
Goldman picked his nose, wiped it on his feet. Jack said, 'Dean Van Gelder. He visited you at McNeil in '53, right around the time these two guys Pete and Bax Englekling visited Mickey. Now you're afraid of Mickey, and Van Gelder clipped a guy named Duke Cathcart and got clipped himself during the world famous Nite Owl fucking Massacre. You got any brains left to talk about that?'
No lights blinked on.
'Come on, Davey. You tell me, you won't feel so sad. Talk to your Uncle Jack.'
'Dutchman! Dutch fuck! Mickey should know to hurt me but he don't. Hub rachmones, Meyer, hub rachmones, Meyer Harris Cohen te absolvo my sins.'
His mouth did the talking-the rest of the man came off dead. Jack parlayed: Van Gelder the Dutchman, Yiddish to Latin, something like betrayal. 'Come on, keep going. Confess to Father Jack and I'll make it allll better.'
Goldman picked his nose; Jack shoved him. 'Come on!'
'Dutchman blew it!'
?????-maybe-a jail bid on Duke Cathcart. 'Blew what, come on!'
Goldman, a gone monotone. 'Franchise boys got theirs three triggers blip blip blip. Fucking slowdown ain't no hoedown, Mickey thinks he'll get the fish but the Irish Cheshire got the fishy and Mickey gets the bones no gravy he is dead meat for the meow monster. Hub rachmones Meyer, I could trust you, not them, it's all on ice but not for us te absolvo..
