L.A. Confidential Part 13

Coates lifted his arms--they flopped, dead weight. Ed opened the cigarette pack. "I know, they cut off the circulation. You're twenty-two, aren't you, Ray?"

Coates: "Say what and so what," a scratchy voice. Ed scoped his throat--bruised, finger marks. "Did one of the officers do a little throttling on you?"

No answer. Ed said, "Sergeant Vincennes? The snazzy dresser guy?"

Silence.

"Not him, huh? Was it Denton? Fat guy with a Texas drawl, sounds like Spade Cooley on TV?"

Coates' good eye twitched. Ed said, "Yeah, I commiserate-- that guy Denton is one choice creep. You see _my_ face? Denton and I went a couple of rounds."

No bite.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n that Denton. Sugar Ray, you and I look like Robinson and LaMotta after that last fight they had."

Still no bite.

"So you're twenty-two, right?"

"Man, why you ask me that!"

Ed shrugged. "Just getting my facts straight. Leroy and Tyrone are twenty, so they can't burn on a capital charge. Ray, you should have pulled this caper a couple of years ago. Get life, do a little Youth Authority jolt, transfer to Folsom a big man. Get yourself a sissy, orbit on some of that good prison brew."

"Sissy" hit home: Coates' hands twitched. He picked up a cigarette, lit it, coughed. "I never truck with no sissies."

Ed smiled. "I know that, son."

"I ain't your son, you ofay f.u.c.k. You the sissy."

Ed laughed. "You know the drill, I'll give you that. You've done juvie time, you know I'm the nice guy cop trying to get you to talk. That f.u.c.king Tyrone, I almost believed him. Denton must have knocked a few of my screws loose. How could I fall for a line like that?"

"Say what, man? What line you mean?"

"Nothing, Ray. Let's change the subject. What did you do with the shotguns?"

Coates rubbed his neck--shaky hands. "What shotguns?"

Ed leaned close. "The pumps you and your friends were shooting in Griffith Park."

"Don't know 'bout no shotguns."

"You don't? Leroy and Tyrone had a box of sh.e.l.ls in their room."

"That their bidness."

Ed shook his head. "That Tyrone, he's a p.i.s.ser. You did the Casitas Youth Camp with him, didn't you?"

A shrug. "So what and say what?"

"Nothing, Ray. Just thinking out loud."

"Man, why you talkin' 'bout Tyrone? Tyrone's bidness is Tyrone's bidness."

Ed reached under the table, found the audio switch for room 3. "Sugar, Tyrone told me you went sissy up at Casitas. You couldn't do the time so you found yourself a big white boy to look after you. He said they call you 'Sugar' because you gave it out so sweet."

Coates. .h.i.t the table. Ed hit the switch. "Say what, _Sugar?_"

"Say I _took_ it! _Tyrone_ give it! Man, I was the f.u.c.kin' boss jocker on my dorm! Tyrone the sissy! Tyrone give it for candy bars! Tyrone love it!"

Switch back up. "Ray, let's change the subject. Why do you think you and your friends are under arrest?"

Coates fmgered the cigarette pack. "Some humbug beef, maybe like dischargin' firearms inside city limit, some humbug like that. Wha's Tyrone say 'bout that?"

"Ray, Tyrone said lots of things, but let's get to meat and potatoes. Where were you at 3:00 A.M. last night?"

Coates chained a smoke b.u.t.t to tip. "I was at my crib. Asleep."

"Were you on hop? Tyrone and Leroy must have been, they were pa.s.sed out while those officers arrested you. Some crime partners. Tyrone calls you a fairy, then him and Leroy sleep through you getting beat up by some cracker s.h.i.+tbird. I thought you colored guys stuck together. Were you hopped up, Ray? You couldn't take what you did, so you got yourself some dope and--"

"Take what! What you mean! Tyrone and Leroy f.u.c.k with them goofb.a.l.l.s, not me!"

Ed hit the 2 and 3 switches. "Ray, you protected Tyrone and Leroy up at Casitas, didn't you?"

Coates coughed out a big rush of smoke. "You ain't woofin' I did. Tyrone give his boodie and Leroy so scared he almos' throw hisself off the roof and drink hisself blind on pruno. Stupid down home n.i.g.g.e.rs got no more sense than a f.u.c.kin' dog."

Switches back up. "Ray, I heard you like to shoot dogs."

A shrug. "Dogs got no reason to live."

"Oh? You feel that way about people, too?"

"Man, what you sayin'?"

Switches down. "Well, you must feel that way about Leroy and Tyrone."

"s.h.i.+t, Leroy and Tyrone almos' too stupid to live."

Switches up. "Ray, where's the shotguns you were shooting in Griffith Park?"

"They--I . . . I don't own no shotguns."

"Where's your 1949 Mercury coupe?"

"I let . . . it just be safe."

"Come on, Ray. A cherry rig like that? Where is it? I'd keep a nice sled like that under lock and key."

"I said it safe!"

Ed slapped the table--two palms flat down. "Did you sell it? Ditch it? It's a felony transport car. Ray, don't you think--"

"I didn't do no felony!"

"The h.e.l.l you say! Where's the car?"

"I ain't sayin'!"

"Where's the shotguns?"

"I ain't--I don't know!"

"Where's the car?"

"I ain't sayin'!"

Ed drummed the table. "Why, Ray? You got shotguns and rubber gloves in the trunk? You got wallets and purses and blood all over the seats? Listen to me, you dumb son of a b.i.t.c.h, I'm trying to save you a gas chamber bounce like your buddies-- they're underage and you're not, and somebody has to fry for this--"

"I don't know what you talkin' 'bout!"

Ed sighed. "Ray, let's change the subject."

Coates lit another cigarette. "I don' like your subjects."

"Ray, why were you burning clothes at 7:00 this morning?"

Coates trembled. "Say what?"

"Say this. You, Leroy and Tyrone were arrested this morning. None of you had last night's clothes with you. You were seen burning a big pile of clothes at 7:00. Add that to the fact that you hid the car that you, Tyrone and Leroy were cruising around in last night. Ray, it doesn't look good, but if you give me something good to give the D.A., it'll make me look good and I'll say, 'Sugar Ray wasn't a punk like his sissy partners.' Ray, just give me something."

"Such as what, since I innocent of all this rebop you shuckin' me with."

Ed flipped 2 and 3. "Well, you've said bad things about Leroy and Tyrone, you've implied that they're hopheads. Let's try this: where do they get their stuff?"

Coates stared at the floor. Ed said, "The D.A. hates hop pushers. And you met Jack Vincennes, the Big V."

"Crazy f.u.c.kin' fool."

Ed laughed. "Yeah, Jack is a little on the crazy side. Personally, I think anyone who wants to ruin their life with narcotics should have the right, it's a free country. But Jack's good buddies with the new D.A., and they've both got hard-ons for hop pushers. Ray, give me one to give the D.A. Just a little one."

Coates hooked a finger; Ed let the switches up and leaned in. Sugar Ray, a whisper. "Roland Navarette, lives on Bunker Hill. Runs a hole-up for parole 'sconders and sells red devils, and that ain't for the f.u.c.kin' D.A., that's 'cause Tyrone shoot off his fat f.u.c.kin' mouth."

Switches down. "All right, Ray. You've told me that Roland Navarette sells barbiturates to Leroy and Tyrone, so now we're making some progress. And you're scared s.h.i.+tless, you know this is gas chamber stuff and you haven't even asked me what it's all about. Ray, you have a big guilty sign around your neck."

Coates cracked his knuckles; his good eye darted, ifickered. Ed killed the audio. "Ray, let's change the subject."

"How 'bout baseball, motherf.u.c.ker?"

"No, let's talk about p.u.s.s.y. Did you get laid last night or did you put that perfume on yourself to f.u.c.k up a paraffm test?"

Heebie-jeebie shakes.

Ed said, "Where were you at 3:00 last night?"

No answer, more shakes.

"Strike a nerve, Sugar Ray? _Perfume?_ _Women?_ Even a piece of s.h.i.+t like you has to have some women he cares about. You got a mother? Sisters?"

"Man, don't you talk 'bout my mother!"

"Ray, if I didn't know you I'd say you were protecting some nice girl's virtue. She was your alibi, you were shacked somewhere. But Tyrone and Leroy have got that same perfume on their mitts, and I'm betting against a gang bang, I'm betting you learned about paraffin tests up in road camp, I'm betting you've got just enough decency to feel some guilt over killing three innocent women."

"I AINT KILLED n.o.bODY!"

Ed pulled out the morning _Herald_. "Patty Chesimard, Donna DeLuca and one unidentified. Read this while I take a breather. When I come back you'll get the chance to tell me about it and make a deal that just might save your life."

Coates, Tremor City--all twitches, soaked denims. Ed threw the paper in his face and walked out.

Thad Green in the hall; Dudley Smith, Bud White at the listening post. Green said, "We got an eyeball confirmation from that ranger--those were the guys in Griffith Park. And you were great."

Ed smelled his own sweat. "Sir, Coates was hiked on the women. I can feel it."

"So can I, so just keep going."

"Have we turned the guns or the car?"

"No, and the 77th Street squad is shaking down their relatives and K.A.'s. We'll get them."

"I want to lean on Jones next. Will you do something for me?"

"Name it."

"Set up Fontaine. Unlock his cuffs and let him read the morning paper."

Green pointed to the #3 mirror. "_He'll_ break soon. Sniveling b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Tyrone Jones--weeping, a p.i.s.s puddle on the floor by his chair. Ed looked away. "Sir, have Lieutenant Smith read the paper into his speaker, nice and slow, especially the lines about the car spotted by the Nite Owl. I want this guy primed to fold."

Green said, "You've got it." Ed checked out Tyrone Jones--dark-skinned, flabby, pockmarked. Bawling--cuffed in, welded down.

A whistle up the hail. Dudley Smith spoke into a microphone--silent lip movements. Ed fixed on Jones.

The kid twisted, heaved, buckled, like a film clip they showed at the Academy: an electric chair malfunction, a dozen jolts before the man fried. A sharp whistle up the corridor--Jones slumped, legs splayed, chin down.

Ed walked in. "Tyrone, Ray Coates ratted you off. He said the Nite Owl was your idea, he said you got the idea while you were cruising Griffith Park. Tyrone, tell me about it. I think it was Ray's idea. He made you do it. Tell me where the guns and car are and I think we can save your life."

No answer.

"Tyrone, this is a gas chamber job. If you don't talk to me you'll be dead in six months."