L.A. Confidential Part 20

"And that _puto_ animal is dead just the same. Officer White just comes by to say h.e.l.lo. He warns me about you and Mr. Loew. He tells me I should cooperate, but he doesn't press the subject. He hates you, subtle man. I can tell."

"You're a smart girl, Inez."

"You want to say 'for a Mexican,' I know that."

"No, you're wrong. You're just plain smart. And you're lonely, or you would have asked me to leave."

Inez threw her magazine down. "So what if I am!"

Ed picked it up. Dog-eared pages: a piece on Dream-aDreamland. "I'm going to recommend that we give you some time to get well and recommend that when this mess goes to court you be allowed to testify by written deposition. If we get enough Nite Owl corroboration from other sources, you might not have to testify at all. And I won't come back if you don't want me to."

She stared at him. "I've still got no place to go."

"Did you read that article on the Dream-a-Dreamland opening?"

"Yes."

"Did you see the name 'Preston Exley'?"

"Yes."

"He's my father."

"So what? I know you're a rich kid, blowing your money on stuffed animals. So what? Where will I go?"

Ed held the bed rail. "I've got a cabin at Lake Arrowhead. You can stay there. I won't touch you, and I'll take you to the Dream-a-Dreamland opening."

Inez touched her head. "What about my hair?"

"I'll get you a nice bonnet."

Inez sobbed, hugged Scooter Squirrel.

Ed met the sappers at dawn, groggy from dreams: Inez, other women. Ray Pinker brought flashlights, spades, metal detectors; he'd had Communications Division issue a public appeal: witnesses to the Griffith Park shotgun blastings were asked to come forth to ID the blasters. The occurrence report locations were marked out into grids--all steep, scrub-covered hillsides. The men dug, uprooted, scanned with gizmos going tick, tick, tick--they found coins, tin cans, a .32 revolver. Hours came, went; the sun beat down. Ed worked hard--breathing dirt, risking sunstroke. His dreams returned, circles leading back to Inez.

Anne from the Marlborough School Cotillion--they did it in a '38 Dodge, his legs banged the doors. Penny from his UCLA biology cla.s.s: rum punch at his frat house, a quick backyard coupling. A string of patriotic roundheels on his bond tour, a one-night stand with an older woman--a Central Division dispatcher. Their faces were hard to remember; he tried and kept seeing Inez--Inez without bruises, no hospital smock. It was dizzying, the heat was dizzying, he was filthy, exhausted--it all felt good. More hours went--he couldn't think of women or anything else. More time down, yells in the distance, a hand on his shoulder.

Ray Pinker holding out two spent shotgun sh.e.l.ls and a photo of a shotgun sh.e.l.l strike surface. A perfect match: identical firing pin marks straight across.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Two days since the Fleur-de-Lis grab--no way to tell how far he could take it.

Two days, one suspect: Lamar Hinton, age twenty-six, arrested for strongarm a.s.sault, a conviction on an ADW, a deuce at Chino--paroled 3/51. Current employment: telephone installer at P.C. Bell--his parole officer suspected he moonlighted tigging bootleg bookie lines. A mugshot match: Hinton the muscle boy at Timmy Valburn's house.

Two days, no break on his stalemate: a made case would ticket him back to Narco, making _this_ case meant Valburn and Billy Dieterling for material witnesses--well-connected h.o.m.os who could flush his Hollywood career down the toilet.

Two days of page prowling--every roundabout approach tapped out. He checked the collateral case reports, talked to the arrestees--more denials--n.o.body admitted buying the s.m.u.t. One day wasted; nothing at Ad Vice to goose his leads: Stathis, Henderson, Kitka reported zero, Millard was trying to co-boss the Nite Owl--p.o.r.nography was not on his mind.

Two days since: midway through day two he hit hard--the bootleg number, Muscle Boy.

No Fleur-de-Lis phone listing; brain gymnastics tagged his personal connection--the first time he saw the caffing card.

Tilt: Xmas Eve '51, right before b.l.o.o.d.y Christmas. Sid Hudgens set up a reefer roust--he popped two gra.s.shoppers, found the card at their pad, thought nothing else of it.

Scary Sid: "We've all got secrets, Jack."

He pushed ahead anyway, that undertow driving him: he wanted to know who made the s.m.u.t--and why. He hit the P.C. Bell employment office, cross-checked records against physical stats until he hit Lamar Hinton--tilt, tilt, tilt, tilt, tilt-- Jack looked around the squadroom--men talking Nite Owl, Nite Owl, Nite Owl, the Big V chasing hand-job books.

The orgy pix.

Vertigo.

Jack chased.

Hinton's route: Gower to La Brea, Franklin to the Hollywood Reservoir. His A.M. installations: Creston Drive, North Ivar. Jack found Creston on his car map: Hollywood Hills, a cul-de-sac way up.

He drove there, saw the phone truck: parked by a pseudoFrench chateau. Lamar Hinton on a pole across the street-- monster huge in broad daylight.

Jack parked, checked the truck--the loading door wide open. Tools, phone books, Spade Cooley alb.u.ms--no suspiciouslooking brown paper bags. Hinton stared at him; Jack went over badge first.

Hinton trundled down the pole: six-four easy, blond, muscles on muscles. "You with Parole?"

"Los Angeles Police Department."

"Then this ain't about my parole?"

"No, this is about you cooperating to avoid a parole rap."

"What do you--"

"Your parole officer don't really approve of this job you've got, Lamar. He thinks you might start doing some bootlegs."

Hinton flexed muscles: neck, arms, chest. Jack said, "Fleur-de-Lis, 'Whatever You Desire.' You desire no violation, you talk. You don't talk, then back to Chino."

One last flex. "You broke into my car."

"You're a regular Einstein. Now, you got the brains to be an informant?"

Hinton s.h.i.+fted; Jack put a hand on his gun. "Fleur-de-Lis. Who runs it, how does it work, what do you push? Dieterling and Valburn. Tell me and I'm out of your life in five minutes."

Muscles thought it through: his T-s.h.i.+rt bulged, puckered. Jack pulled out a f.u.c.k mag--an orgy pic spread full. "Conspiracy to distribute p.o.r.nographic material, possession and sales of felony narcotics. I've got enough to send you back to Chino until nineteen-f.u.c.king-seventy. Now, did you move this s.m.u.t for Fleur-de-Lis?"

Hinton bobbed his head. "Y-y-yeah."

"Smart boy. Now, who made it?"

"I d-don't know. Really, honest, I d-don't."

"Who posed for it?"

"I don't kn-know, I just d-d-delivered it."

"Billy Dieterling and Timmy Valburn. Go."

"J-just c-customers. Queers, you know, they like to f.a.g party."

"You're doing great, so here's the big question. Who-"

"Officer, please don't--"

Jack pulled his .38, c.o.c.ked it. "You want to be on the next train to Chino?"

"N-no."

"Then answer me."

Hinton turned, gripped the pole. "P-pierce Patchett. He runs the business. He-he's some kind of legit businessman."

"Description, phone number, address."

"He's maybe fifty something. I th-think he lives in Bbrentwood and I don't know his n-number 'cause I get paid b-by the m-mail."

"More on Patchett. Go."

"H-he sugar-p-pimps girls made up like movie stars. H-he's rich. I-I only met him once."

"Who introduced you?"

"This guy Ch-chester I used to see at M-m-muscle Beach."

"Chester who?"

"I don't know."

Hinton: bunching, flexing--Jack figured hot seconds and he'd snap. "What else does Patchett push?"

"L-lots of b-boys and girls."

"What about through Fleur-de-Lis?"

"W-whatever you d-desire."

"Not the sales pitch, what specifically?"

p.i.s.sed more than scared. "Boys, girls, liquor, dope, picture books, bondage stuff!"

"Easy, now. Who else makes the deliveries?"

"Me and Chester. He works days. I don't like--"

"Where's Chester live?"

"I don't know!"

"_Easy, now_. Lots of nice people with lots of money use Fleur-de-Lis, right?"

"R-right."

The records in the truck. "Spade Cooley? Is he a customer?"

"N-no, I just get free alb.u.ms 'cause I party with this guy Burt Perkins."

"You f.u.c.king would know him. The names of some customers. Go."

Hinton dug into the pole. Jack flashed: the monster turning, six .38s not enough. "Are you working tonight?"

"Y-yes."

"The address."

"No . . . please."

Jack frisked: wallet, change, butch wax, a key on a fob. He held the key up; Hinton bobbed his head barn bam--blood on the pole.

"The address and I'm gone."

Barn barn--blood on the monster's forehead. "5261B Cheramoya."

Jack dropped the pocket trash. "You don't show up tonight. You call your parole officer and tell him you helped me, you tell him you want to be picked up on a violation, you have him put you up someplace. You're clean on this, and if I get to Patchett I'll make like one of the s.m.u.t people snitched. _And if you clean that place out you are Chino-f.u.c.king-bound_."

"B-but you _t-told_ me."

Jack ran to his car, gunned it. Hinton tore at the pole barehanded.