They were cops.
The Hollywood hairdresser thought he must be going mad. One big cop and one monster cop were hugging in the doorway of Leo's Love Palace. In full uniform.
The monster cop partially obscured the other one but there was no mistaking that he was also a big one. The Hollywood hairdresser could hear their black leather creaking and their nightsticks clashing together as they embraced!
It was possibly the most erotic sight the hairdresser had ever seen. This topped every fantasy he ever had. The hell with Hollywood! This is where it's at!
Before he sped home to say adieu to his landlady and look for an apartment around these parts, he clearly saw the monster cop kiss the other guy while he burped him, saying, "There, there. There, there."
Chapter FIVE
THE PLAY PIMP
The cause of death, rcduccd to ordinary language, was that Missy Moonbeam a. K. A. Thelma Bernbaum suffered enough damage in the fall from the roof of the Wonderland Hotel to splinter her spine, explode her spleen, and puree her kidneys. Moreover, her skull had a hole in it big enough to accommodate a nest of hotel mice.
On the way back from the morgue Mario Villalobos drove to the Wonderland Hotel to talk to the clerk who had mentioned a white pimp from Western Avenue. The Wonderland Hotel was what Mario Villalobos had expected: a sagging old whore of a hotel held together by paint and putty, now a home for pensioners and welfare recipients. Also living there were three Western Avenue hookers, five dope peddlers and two members of the Screen Actors Guild.
The hotel clerk's name was Oliver Rigby. He was about sixty years old, had a bald narrow skull and dentures that threatened to fall out of his mouth when he talked. And he talked as often as he could find another human being to hold still for it. But he wasn't thrilled to see Mario Villalobos.
Oliver Rigby had been bookmaking, panhandling and hotel clerking in these parts for nearly forty years. When he saw the middle-aged guy in the five-year-old blazer and one of those reject neckties with the little stitched flaws that made it look like it was strafed with bug shit, and which he knew came from a little Jew on Los Angeles Street for five bucks, he knew even without the cynical brown eyes that this was a cop.
"Name's Villalobos." The detective halfheartedly opened his coat and flashed the shield pinned to his belt.
Oliver Rigby squinted through the cigarette smoke, his and the detective's, which cast a pall over the counter in the seedy lobby. He read the rank on the badge.
"Yes, sir ... sergeant," he said. "What can I do for you? Is it about Missy Moonbeam? Sad thing, sad thing. Little girl in the first bloom. Sad thing."
"Yeah, well what was this about a white pimp?" The detective examined the report made by another investigator Saturday night when they couldn't find Mario Villalobos, who was shacked up with a Chinatown groupie.
"Yeah, I think I seen this guy over on Western. I go over there to get the racing form every day."
"What makes you think he's a pimp?"
"Big pinstripe suit. I think I seen him last week talkin to some a the street hustlers on Western, is what made me think. Maybe he's a play pimp?"
"See him with Missy Moonbeam on Saturday night?"
"No," Oliver Rigby said, almost losing his upper plate, pushing it back in place with both thumbs. "But I seen him comin down the elevator that night. He may a been a visitor a somebody's." Then he quickly added, "Course I don't rent to girls, I know their hustlin tricks. I don't keep no rooms with hot beds. I don't allow none a that. I don't . . ."
"Yeah, go on," Mario Villalobos said with his peculiar, sad sort of sigh, lighting another cigarette.
"Anyways, once in a while I find out some a the girls're hookers on the avenue. But long as they don't bring tricks here, I can live with it. They gotta act like ladies and don't bring no tricks. This white pimp, this tall guy with black hair, you don't think he was a pimp?"
"Anything's possible," Mario Villalobos said. "But finding a white pimp alive and well on Western Avenue would be about like finding a blue-footed booby nesting on your roof. Which reminds me, is the door to the roof unlocked?"
"Yeah."
"Isn't it dangerous, as Missy Moonbeam proved?"
"Some a the tenants like to sit up there and get the sun in the . . ." He snapped his fingers and finished it in tune: ".. . the sun in the mornin and the moon at night!" Oliver Rigby looked disappointed when the detective didn't smile.
"What makes you think the play pimp was involved?"
"Cause I heard her scream. Then the cars outside started screechin their brakes and there she was layin in the street. He came rushin through the lobby."
"Who was her best friend in this building?" Mario Villalobos asked.
"The kid never had no friends in this hotel, far as I know," Oliver Rigby said, lighting a new cigarette with the butt of the last while Mario Villalobos wondered what his lungs must look like. "She only been stayin here, oh, six months maybe."
"She live with her old man?"
"A real pimp? I don't allow niggers around here. I let these white girls stay, they behave. But I tell em, you do what you want on the streets but don't bring the streets home to the Wonderland Hotel. I don't want no trouble with no vice squad and I ..."
"I'm sure this is a hotel fit for the Moral Majority," Mario Villalobos nodded wearily. "Ever see someone, a righteous pimp, let's say, hanging around outside?"
"No niggers in the Wonderland Hotel," Oliver Rigby said. "And no greasers neither." Then the hotel clerk looked at the dark eyes and coloring of Mario Villalobos, realized the name was Hispanic and quickly added, "Course I ain't got nothin against clean decent Mexicans, you understand."
"Yeah, yeah," Mario Villalobos said.
"I love Fernando Valenzuela and all the other greas ... all the other Mexicans and foreigners on the Dodgers," the hotel clerk said.
"Me too," Mario Villalobos sighed. "We're from the same pueblo but I took a Berlit-z course in English. Now can we get back to Missy Moonbeam? Did she ever bring a trick home with her? Trust me, Oliver. I don't work vice. I catch people who kill people. I don't care who turns tricks on my beat. I don't care who books horses or does dope and I don't even much care who steals hubcaps as long as they're not mine. I only care about catching people who kill people. And then only if they do it on my beat. See where I'm coming from? Don't lie to me, because your hotel happens to be on my beat and somebody pushed somebody off the roof. Don't tell me any lies or I'll get really mad at you, Oliver."
Oliver Rigby looked at the deep lines around the mouth of the detective and at his hair too gray for his age and at brown eyes that for sure had seen most of it. He knew who he could screw with and of course he knew from an unhappy life on the streets who not to screw with. He said, "She took a few tricks upstairs. On'y a few, you understand."
Mario Villalobos knew of course that Oliver Rigby would know exactly how many tricks Missy Moonbeam took to her room because the Oliver Rigbys of this world demand a piece of the action from the Missy Moonbeams of this world for letting them take tricks to their rooms, and keeping it quiet, and even warning them if someone who looked like a vice cop should get on that elevator and go up to the fifth floor where she lived.
"Did she take a trick up to her room on Saturday night, Oliver? Sometime between nine o'clock and when she did her header off the roof? Think carefully, Oliver. And don't make a mistake that causes me to do extra work."
"I swear to God she din't," Oliver Rigby said. "There was just this guy, this tall guy, came down a few minutes after I heard the scream and the cars slammin on their brakes out on the street. Look, I don't want no problems. I wish I din't even mention the guy in the pinstripes to the cops that came out Saturday night. I bet Missy tossed her own self off the fuckin roof is what I think. We had two other girls toss theirselves off the roof over the years. It ain't no big thing."
And that, Mario Villalobos had to agree, was a fitting epitaph for all the Thelma Bernbaums who ended up on a steel t
able in the coroner's by way of the streets of Hollywood: it ain't no big thing.
But there was one problem with the suicide theory of Oliver Rigby. A big problem which kept them from closing the book on Missy Moonbeam and calling her a jumper, which of course Mario Villalobos would like to have done. The first police on the scene Saturday night found one of Missy Moonbeam's shoes in the hallway leading to the roof. They found a piece of her panty hose torn from her leg and hanging from the air-conditioner on the roof. They found two of Missy Moonbeam's false fingernails on the step by the door to the roof. Unfortunately for Mario Villalobos, Missy Moonbeam was probably dragged from her room on the fifth floor, out to the roof, ending up dead under the cutlasses of swashbucklers who wanted to watch Days of Our Lives.
The room of Missy Moonbeam had been gone over pretty well by the detectives who got the call Saturday night. There were no readable latent prints that showed promise. There were no signs of a fight inside the room. It was probable that the killer overpowered her while she was standing outside the door or in the doorway. The door was unlocked and the keys were still in her purse, so it was possible that the killer was known to Missy Moonbeam.
It would have been very natural in these unnatural situations to have assumed that the killer was someone she had picked up as a trick. But she was fully clothed when she hit the roof of the panel truck from five stories up. There was no money in her purse or tucked inside her panty hose or bra. The bed was neatly made, so the possibility of a deadly customer was not likely. There had been no seminal fluid in her vagina, anus or mouth. Mario Villalobos had checked with Hollywood, Wilshire and Central divisions. There hadn't been a street whore murdered for several months, and earlier victims were not killed like this one.
Mario Villalobos, using the passkey given to him by Oliver Rigby, broke the coroner's door seal, entered, and sat on the bed in the dismal little room of Missy Moonbeam thinking how much he'd love to have a double shot of vodka. He'd just about conceded that this had the earmarks of a case that faded away under a deluge of "investigation continued" follow-up reports, and finally was forgotten. When street whores were done in by unknown suspects, the possibilities were infinite. It usually became one of those "an arrest is imminent" gags when the lieutenant asked about it every month or two.
Even Missy Moonbeam's trick book was pathetic. It bore the names of every superstar in Hollywood along with phone numbers allegedly belonging to the superstars. He smoked and shook his head wearily, and imagined the frail little coke freak with the man-in-the-moon tattoo on her thigh, stroking the ego and the limp penis of some john who couldn't get it up until she showed him how lucky he was to be turning a trick with a girl who regularly balled the biggest superstars in Hollywood. And here were their names and phone numbers in her trick book to prove it. And as often as not, when the john started looking at those names and imagining himself treading the same ground that his favorite movie actors had trod, so to speak, it was the ultimate aphrodisiac. Burt and Clint and Warren, and . .. Jesus Christ! Look out, man-in-the-moon! I'm coming through!
It was such a corny old game that it made the detective pity all the Thelma Bernbaums he had known. Then when he picked up the trick book he saw another piece of writing on the back of the book. There were doodles around the name, squiggly lines and jagged, manic, red slashes. There was a red ballpoint pen lying beside the book. A name and phone number were scrawled within the jagged doodles. The entry was not written neatly, as were the other names and numbers, by an Omaha child raised with the Palmer penmanship method. It was written by the same hand all right, but it was scrawled, no slashed across the book. It was on the page not with the play phone numbers, nor the real ones, the numbers that turned out to be sisters in Omaha, an aunt in Kansas, a V. D. clinic in Hollywood, an answering service favored by street whores. All the numbers that counted. It was slashed across the back of the book, and it aroused his curiosity.
The name was Lester. The telephone number was not a metropolitan Los Angeles number. When he got back to the squad-room, Mario Villalobos ran the telephone number and it came back to the Division of Chemistry and Chemical Engineering, at the California Institute of Technology in Pasadena, one of the foremost institutions of scientific learning in all of America.
Mario Villalobos wondered if Lester was some student or professor who, tiring of science all day, occasionally enjoyed a little of Missy Moonbeam's "art" in the drab little room on the fifth floor. But that didn't seem likely. His was the only name among the important numbers. A relative? Family friend? He wondered how many Lesters there might be in the faculty, staff or student body of Caltech. Probably hopeless, or of no value in any case. He'd make one quick phone call to Caltech to satisfy the lieutenant and that would be that.
Before leaving he checked her clothes and saw that Missy Moonbeam had favored hot pants, which never go out of style, not with the street whores of Hollywood. And she had three pair of thigh-length plastic boots: one red, one green, one yellow. Mario Villalobos supposed that the boots must have just allowed the tattoo on her leg to peek out between the hot pants and boot. He replaced the coroner's door seal with another that he kept in his briefcase. He took a last look at her yellow plastic boots, sighed wearily for the sheer squalidness of it, and locked the dismal little room.
The squadroom was almost empty when he put his case envelopes in his drawer. He was going to drop by the restaurant on Sunset where cops often ate on payday. It wasn't payday but he needed a good meal tonight. The trouble with the restaurant was that it was too close to The House of Misery. He told himself he shouldn't go there two nights in a row, not having a death wish as yet.
Well, maybe he'd stop for one drink before going home.
***
There were big problems at Rampart Station late that afternoon before the uniformed cops could go end-of-watch. And no matter how mad The Bad Czech got because the entire day watch was being held over pending an investigation by Internal Affairs, they stayed. The captain and the lieutenant and the headhunters from Internal Affairs would not have agreed with The Bad Czech, who was stomping around the locker room saying that they were overreacting and that it wasn't anything to get excited about. However, it wasn't every day that one of the cops tried to murder a sergeant.
The uniformed cops were instructed to remain in the assembly room while a latent-prints specialist dusted a locker for finr gerprints at the direction of the headhunters.
"Nobody tried to murder no sergeant!" The Bad Czech thundered. "Somebody just played a little trick, is all. I think it's the fault a Rose Bird and the supreme court. Nobody around here has a sense a humor no more."
As it turned out, Sergeant Milo Jones certainly lost his sense of humor. He lost it at the exact moment a pin was pulled from a hand grenade, and the spoon went flying in his face, and a grenade that never blew up blew Milo Jones right into the hospital.
Sergeant Milo Jones, all the cops knew, was a snitch, a direct conduit to the brass for everything the troops did. He rarely snitched on anyone above the rank of sergeant, since he feared higher authority.
Milo Jones was a man who, like Mario Villalobos, had shrunk an inch in middle age, but he was never very big to begin with. Unlike Mario Villalobos, he didn't spread out but somehow got skinnier after a duodenal ulcer and a frequently fluttering heart. It was quite obvious that police work was very dangerous for the Milo Joneses of this world. In addition to the stress on an already anxious man, the years of snitching on errant cops had so far resulted in the tires on his private car being filled with cement, in his police hat being super-glued to a toilet seat, and in an assault by a sleeping "wino" in an alley who coldcocked Sergeant Jones from the blind side and was seen to be wearing suspicious black ripple-soled shoes when he made his escape over a fence in his rag-picking garb.
Milo Jones was one of those supervisors they called by various names such as "S. I. S." Jones (snoot in the shit) or "A. I. T." Jones (anus in the teeth), referring of course to his r
elationship with the brass. The cops settled on a handle for Sergeant Jones when one day in the locker room The Bad Czech was bitching because most of the patrol cops, male and female, enjoyed relaxed standards these days so far as wearing the police hat was concerned. But the beat cops like himself and Cecil Higgins still had to keep the lid on while on foot patrol. He said the only reason the brass knew who was or wasn't wearing hats was because they always had their asses in the faces of certain sergeants who spoke to them through the chocolate tube.
"Real cops got balls that clang when they walk," The Bad Czech announced. uOur leaders got balls that chime like Baccarat."
When Sergeant Milo Jones heard this he got cross and grumpy, but not too cross and grumpy because his eyeline only touched the third button on The Bad Czech's uniform shirt. Sergeant Jones said, "You wouldn't say that to the captain's face!"
To which The Bad Czech replied, "Hell, I just did. Everybody knows you're a pipeline."
That did it. From then on, Sergeant Milo Jones was Pipeline Jones. They say that even his wife started calling him Pipeline when she was feeling bitchy, and that didn't help the duodenal ulcer.
Sometimes though, Pipeline Jones was handy to have around because the cops could feed him bum information which they knew would get back to the brass. For instance, two cops could speak sotto voce in the coffee room, knowing that Pipeline Jones was lurking around the corner. They could say things like, "I just saw The Bad Czech over at the hospital with The Den Mother!" when they knew full well that The Bad Czech was innocently eating a pastrami sandwich in MacArthur Park.
That bit of news might send Pipeline Jones flying to his car and off to a hospital on the border of Hollywood and Rampart divisions where a certain nymphomaniac nurse, called The Den Mother, worked in the emergency ward and did her civic duty for the boys in blue by going down on every injured cop they ever brought in on a stretcher. She was the kind that gave a little flower lapel pin to each one, her signature. The cops said they were going to have a flower child convention some time, but that it would have to be held at the L. A. Memorial Coliseum, which seated 90,000.
the Delta Star (1983) Page 8
