by James Ellroy
Sid wasn't quite Sid, his exit line wasn't quite a warning.
DOES HE FUCKING KNOW?
Jack drove by Stan's Drive-in, shaky, the windows down to kill the soap smell. Christine Bergeron nowhere on the premises. Back to 9849 Charleville, knock knock on the door of her apartment--no answer, slack between the lock and the doorjamb. He gave a shove; the door popped.
A trail of clothes on the living room floor. The picture frame gone.
Into the bedroom, scared, his gun in the car.
Empty cabinets and drawers. The bed stripped. Into the bathroom.
Toothpaste and Kotex spilled in the shower. Glass shelves smashed in the sink.
Getaway--fifteen-minute style.
Back to West Hollywood--fast. Bobby Inge's door caved in easy; Jack went in gun first.
Clean-out number two--a better job.
A clean living room, pristine bathroom, bedroom showing empty dresser drawers. A can of sardines in the icebox. The kitchen trashcan clean, a fresh paper bag lining it.
Jack tore the pad up: living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen--shelves knocked over, rugs pulled, the toilet yanked apart. He stopped on a flash: garbage cans, full, lined both sides of the street--
There or gone.
Figure an hour-twenty since his run-in with Inge: the fuck wouldn't run straight to his crib. He probably got off the street, cruised back slow, risked the move out with his car parked in the alley. He figured the roust was for his old warrants or the smut gig; he knew he was standing heat and couldn't be caught harboring pornography. He wouldn't risk carrying it in his car--the odds on a shake were too strong. The gutter or the trash, right near the top of the cans, maybe more skin IDs for Big Trashcan Jack.
Jack hit the sidewalk, rooted in trashcans--gaggles of kids laughed at him. One, two, three, four, five--two left before the corner. No lid on the last can; glossy black paper sticking out.
Jack beelined.
Three fuck mags right on top. Jack grabbed them, ran back to his car, skimmed--the kids made goo-goo eyes at the windshield. The same Hollywood backdrops, Bobby Inge with boys and girls, unknown pretties screwing. Halfway through the third book the pix went haywire.
Orgies, hole-to-hole daisy chains, a dozen people on a quiltcovered floor. Disembodied limbs: red sprays off arms, legs. Jack squinted, eye-strain, the red was colored ink, the photos doctored--limb severings faked, ink blood flowing in artful little swirls.
Jack tried for IDs; obscene perfection distracted him: inkbleeding nudes, no faces he knew until the last page: Christine Bergeron and her son fucking, standing on skates planted on a scuffed hardwood floor.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A photograph, dropped in his mailbox: Sergeant Ed Exley bleeding and terrified. No printing on the back, no need for it: Stensland and White had the negative, insurance that he'd never try to break them.
Ed, alone in the squadroom, 6:00 A.M. The stitches on his chin itched; loose teeth made eating impossible. Thirty-odd hours since the moment--his hands still trembled.
Payback.
He didn't tell his father; he couldn't risk the ignominy of going to Parker or Internal Affairs. Revenge on Bud White would be tricky: he was Dudley Smith's boy, Smith just got him a straight Homicide spot and was grooming him for his chief strongarm. Stensland was more vulnerable: on probation, working for Abe Teitlebaum, an ex--Mickey Cohen goon. A drunk, begging to go back inside.
Payback--already in the works.
Two Sheriff's men bought and paid for: a dip in his mother's trust fund. A two-man tail on Dick Stens, two men to swoop on his slightest probation fuckup.
Payback.
Ed did paperwork. His stomach growled: no food, loose trousers weighted down by his holster. A voice out the squawk box: loud, spooked.
"Squad call! Nite Owl Coffee Shop one-eight-two-four Cherokee! Multiple homicides! See the patrolmen! Code three!"
Ed banged his legs getting up. No other detectives on call--it was his.
o o o
Patrol cars at Hollywood and Cherokee; blues setting up crime scene blockades. No plainclothesmen in sight--he might get first crack.
Ed pulled up, doused his siren. A patrolman ran over. "Load of people down, maybe some of them women. I found them, stopped for coffee and saw this phony sign on the door, 'Closed for Illness.' Man, the Nite Owl _never_ closes. It was dark inside and I knew this was a hinky deal. Exley, this ain't your squawk, this has gotta be downtown stuff, so--"
Ed pushed him aside, pushed over to the door. Open, a sign taped on: "Clossed Due to Illness." Ed stepped inside, memorized.
A long, rectangular interior. On the right: a string of tables, four chairs per. The side wall mural-papered: winking owls perched on street signs. A checkered linoleum floor; to the left a counter--a dozen stools. A service runway behind it, the kitchen in back, fronted by a cook's station: fryers, spatulas on hooks, a platform for laying down plates. At front left: a cash register.
Open, empty--coins on the floor mat beside it.
Three tables in disarray: food spilled, plates dumped; napkin containers, broken dishes on the floor. Drag marks leading back to the kitchen; one high-heeled pump by an upended chair.
Ed walked into the kitchen. Half-fried food, broken dishes, pans on the floor. A wall safe under the cook's counter--open, spiffing coins. Crisscrossed drag marks connecting with the other drag marks, dark black heel smudges ending at the door of a walk-in food locker.
Ajar, the cord out of the socket--no cool air as a preservative. Ed opened it.
Bodies--a blood-soaked pile on the floor. Brains, blood and buckshot on the walls. Blood two feet deep collecting in a drainage trough. Dozens of shotgun shells floating in blood.
NEGRO YOUTHS DRIVING PURPLE '48-'50 MERC COUPE SEENDISCHARGING SHOTGUNS INTO AIR IN GRIFFITH PARK HILLS SEVERAL TIMES OVER PAST TWO WEEKS.
Ed gagged, tried for a body count.
No discernible faces. Maybe five people dead for the cash register and safe take and what they had on them-- "Holy shit fuck."
A rookie type--pale, almost green. Ed said, "How many men outside?"
"I . . . I dunno. Lots."
"Don't get sick, just get everybody together to start canvassing. We need to know if a certain type of car was seen around here tonight."
"S-s-sir, there's this Detective Bureau man wants to see you."
Ed walked out. Dawn up: fresh light on a mob scene. Patrolmen held back reporters; rubberneckers swarmed. Horns blasted; motorcycles ran interference: meat wagons cut off by the crowd. Ed looked for high brass; newsmen shouting questions stampeded him.
Pushed off the sidewalk, pinned to a patrol car. Flashbulbs pop pop pop--he turned so his bruises wouldn't show. Strong hands grabbed him. "Go home, lad. I've been given the command here."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The first all-Bureau call-in in history-every downtown-based detective standing ready. The chief's briefing room jammed to the rafters.
Thad Green, Dudley Smith by a floor mike; the men facing them, itchy to go. Bud looked for Ed Exley--a chance to scope out his wounds. No Exley--scotch a rumor he caught the Nite Owl squeal.
Smith grabbed the mike. "Lads, you all know why we're here. 'Nite Owl Massacre' hyperbole aside, this is a heinous crime that requires a hard and swift resolution. The press and public will demand it, and since we already have solid leads, we will give it to them.
"There were six people dead in that locker--three men and three women. I have spoken to the Nite Owl's owner, and he told me that three of the dead are likely Patty Chesimard and Donna DeLuca, female Caucasians, the late-shift waitress and cash register girl, and Gilbert Escobar, male Mexican, the cook and dishwasher. The three other victims--two men, one woman-- were almost certainly customers. The cash register and safe were empty and the victims' pockets and handbags were picked clean, which means that robbery was obviously the motive. SID is doing the forensic now--so far they have nothing but rubber glove prints on the cash register and f
ood locker door. No time of death on the victims, but the scant number of customers and another lead we have indicates 3:00 A.M. as the time of the killings. A total of forty-five spent 12-gauge Remington shotgun shells were found in the locker. This indicates three men with five-shot-capacity pumps, all of them reloading twice. I do not have to tell you how gratuitous forty of those rounds were, lads. We are dealing with stark raving mad beasts here."
Bud looked around. Still no Exley, a hundred men jotting notes. Jack Vincennes in a corner, no notebook. Thad Green took over.
"No blood tracks leading outside. We were hoping for footprints to run eliminations against, but we didn't find any, and Ray Pinker from SID says the forensic will take at least fortyeight hours. The coroner says IDs on the customer victims will be extremely difficult because of the condition of the bodies. But we do have one very hot lead.
"Hollywood Division has taken a total of four crime reports on this, so listen well. Over the past two weeks a carload of Negro youths were seen discharging shotguns into the air up at Griffith Park. There were three of them, and the shotguns were pumps. The punks were not apprehended, but eyeball witnesses ID'd them as driving a 1948 to 1950 Mercury coupe, purple in color. And just an hour ago Lieutenant Smith's canvassing crew found a witness: a news vendor who saw a purple Merc coupe, '48--'50 vintage, parked across from the Nite Owl last night around 3:00 A.M."
The room went loud: a big rumbling. Green gestured for quiet. "It gets better, so listen well. There are no '48 to '50 purple Mercurys on the hot sheet, so it is very doubtful that we're dealing with a stolen car, and the state DMV has given us a registration list on '48 to '50 Mercurys statewide. Purple was an original color on the '48 to '50 coupe models, and those models were favored by Negroes. Over sixteen hundred are registered to Negroes in the State of California, and in Southern California there are only a very few registerM to Caucasians. There are one hundred and fifty-six registered to Negroes in L.A. County, and there are almost a hundred of you men here. We have a list compiled: home and work addresses. The Hollywood squad is cross-checking for rap sheets. I want fifty two-man teams to shake three names apiece. There's a special phone line being set up at Hollywood Station, so if you need information on past addresses or known associates, you can call there. If you get hot suspects, bring them here to the Hall. We've got a string of interrogation rooms set up, along with a man to head the interrogations. Lieutenant Smith will give out the assignments in a second, and Chief Parker would like a word with you. Any questions first?"
A man yelled, "Sir, who's running the interrogations?"
Green said, "Sergeant Ed Exley, Hollywood squad."
Catcalls, boos. Parker walked up to the mike. "Enough on that. Gentlemen, just go out and get them. Use all necessary force."
Bud smiled. The real message: kill the niggers clean.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jack's list:
George NMI Yelburton, male Negro, 9781 South Beach; Leonard Timothy Bidwell, male Negro, 10062 South Duquesne; Dale William Pritchford, male Negro, 8211 South Normandie.
Jack's temporary partner: Sergeant Cal Denton, Bunco Squad, a former guard at the Texas State Pen.
Denton's car down to Darktown, the radio humming: jazz on the "Nite Owl Massacre." Denton hummed: Leonard Bidwell used to fight welterweight, he saw him go ten with Kid Gavilan--he was one tough shine. Jack brooded on his backto-Narco ticket: Bobby Inge, Christine Bergeron gone, no smut leads from the other squad guys. The orgy pix--beautiful in a way. His own private leads, fucked up by some crazy spooks killing six people for a couple hundred bucks. He could still taste the booze, still hear Sid Hudgens: "We've all got secrets."
Snitch call-ins first: his, Denton's. Shine stands, pool halls, hair-processing parlors, storefront churches--informants palmed, leaned on, queried. The Darktown shuffle--purple car/shotgun rebop, hazy, distorted--riffraff gone on Tokay and hair tonic. Four hours down, no hard names, back to the names on the list.
9781 Beach--a tar-paper shack, a purple '48 Merc on the lawn. The car stood sans wheels, a rusted axle sunk in the grass. Denton pulled up. "Maybe that's their alibi. Maybe they fucked up the car after they did the Nite Owl so we'd think they couldn't drive it nowhere."
Jack pointed over. "There's weeds wrapped around the brake linings. Nobody drove that thing up to Hollywood last night."
"You think?"
"I think."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
Denton hauled to the South Duquesne address--another tar-paper dive. A purple Mercury in the driveway--a coon coach featuring fender skirts, mud flaps, "Purple Pagans" on a hood plaque. Bolted to the porch: a heavy bag/speed bag combo. Jack said, "There's your welterweight."
Denton smiled; Jack walked up, pushed the buzzer. Dog barks inside--a real monster howling. Denton stood flank: the driveway, a bead on the door.
A Negro man opened up: wiry, a tough hump restraining a mastiff. The dog growled; the man said, "This 'cause I ain' paid my alimony? That a goddamn p0-lice offense?"
"Are you Leonard Timothy Bidwell?"
"That's right."
"And that's your car in the driveway?"
"That's right. And if you a po-lice doin' repos on the side you barkin' up the wrong tree, 'cause my baby is paid for outright with my purse from my losin' effort 'gainst Johnny Saxton."
Jack pointed to the dog. "Put him back inside and close the door, walk out and put your hands on the wall."
Bidwell did it extra slow; Jack frisked him, turned him around. Denton walked over. "Boy, you like 12-gauge pumps?"
Bidwell shook his head. "Say what?"; Jack threw a change-up. "Where were you last night at 3:00 A.M.?"
"Right here at my crib."
"By yourself? If you got laid you got lucky. Tell me you got lucky, before my buddy gets pissed."
"I gots custody of my kids fo' the week. They was with me."
"Are they here?"
"They asleep."
Denton prodded him--a gun poke to the ribs. "Boy, you know what happened last night? Bad juju, and I ain't woofin'. You own a shotgun, boy?"
"Man, I don't need no fuckin' shotgun."
Denton poked harder. "Boy, don't you use curse words with me. Now, before we get your pickaninnies out here, you gonna tell me who you lent your automobile to last night?"
"Man, I don' lend my sled to nobody!"
"Then who'd you lend your 12-gauge pump shotguns to? Boy, you spill on that."
"Man, I tol' you I don't own no shotgun!"
Jack stepped in. "Tell me about the Purple Pagans. Are they a bunch of guys who like purple cars?"
"Man, that is just a name for our club. I gots a purple car, some other cats in the club gots them too. Man, what is this all about?" Jack took out his DMV sheet--the Merc owners all typed up. "Leonard, did you read the papers this morning?"
"No. Man, what is--"
"Sssh. You listen to the radio or watch television?"
"I ain't got either of them. What's that--"
"Sssh. Leonard, we're looking for three colored guys who like to pop off shotguns and a Merc like yours, a '48, a '49, or a '50. I know you wouldn't hurt anybody, I saw you fight Gavilan and I like your style. We're looking for some _bad_ guys. Guys with a car like yours, guys who might belong to your club."
Bidwell shrugged. "Why should I help you?"
"Because I'll cut my partner loose on you if you don't."
"Yeah, and you get me a fuckin' snitch jacket, too."
"No jacket, and you don't have to say anything. Just look at this list and point. Here, read it over."
Bidwell shook his head. "They's bad, so I jus' tell you. Sugar Ray Coates, drives a '49 coupe, a beautiful ride. He gots two buddies, Leroy and Tyrone. Sugar loves to party with a shotgun, I heard he gets his thrills shootin' dogs. He tried to get in my club, but we turned him down 'cause he is righteous trash."
Jack checked his list--bingo on "Coates, Raymond NMI, 9611 South Central, Room 114." Denton
had his own sheet out. "Two minutes from here. We haul, we might get there first."
Hero headlines. "Let's do it."
o o o
The Tevere Hotel: an L-shaped walk-up above a washateria. Denton coasted into the lot; Jack saw stairs going up-just one floor of rooms, a wide-open doorway.
Up and in--a short corridor, flimsy-looking doors. Jack drew his piece; Denton pulled two guns: a .38, an ankle rig automatic. They counted room numbers; 114 came up. Denton reared back; Jack reared back; they kicked the same instant. The door flew off its hinges for a pure clean shot: a colored kid jumping out of bed.
The kid put up his hands. Denton smiled, aimed. Jack blocked him--two reflex pulls tore the ceiling. Jack ran in; the kid tried to run; Jack nailed him: gun-butt shots to the head. No more resistance--Denton cuffed his hands behind his back. Jack slipped on brass knucks and made fists. "Leroy, Tyrone. _Where?_"
The kid dribbled teeth--"One-two-one" came out bloody. Denton yanked him up by his hair; Jack said, "Don't you fucking kill him."
Denton spat in his face; shouts boomed down the hall. Jack ran out, around the "L," a skid to a stop in front of 121--
A closed door. Background noise huge--no way to take a listen. Jack kicked; wood splintered; the door creaked open. Two coloreds inside--one asleep on a cot, one snoring on a mattress.
Jack walked in. Sirens whirring up very close. The mattress kid stirred--Jack bludgeoned him quiet, bashed the other punk before he could move. The sirens screeched, died. Jack saw a box on the dresser.
Shotgun shells: Remington 12-gauge double-aught buck. A box of fifty, most of them gone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ed skimmed Jack Vincennes' report. Thad Green watched, his phone ringing off the hook.
Solid, concise--Trash knew how to write a good quickie.
Three male Negroes in custody: Raymond "Sugar Ray" Coates, Leroy Fontaine, Tyrone Jones. Treated for wounds received while resisting arrest; snitched by another male Negro-- who described Coates as a shotgun toter who liked to blast dogs. Coates was on the DMV sheet; the informant stated that he ran with two other men--"Tyrone and Leroy"--also living at the Tevere Hotel. The three were arrested in their underwear; Vincennes turned them over to prowl car officers responding to shots fired and searched their rooms for evidence. He found a fifty-unit box of Remington 12-gauge double-aught shotgun shells, forty-odd missing--but no shotguns, no rubber gloves, no bloodstained clothing, no large amounts of cash or coins and no other weaponry. The only clothing in the rooms: soiled T-shirts, boxer shorts, neatly pressed garments covered by dry cleaner's cellophane. Vincennes checked the incinerator in back of the hotel; it was burning--the manager told him he saw Sugar Coates dump a load of clothes in at approximately 7:00 this morning. Vincennes said Jones and Fontaine appeared to be inebriated or under the influence of narcotics--they slept through gunfire and the general ruckus of Coates resisting arrest. Vincennes told late-arriving patrolmen to search for Coates' car--it was not in the parking lot or anywhere in a three-block radius. An APB was issued; Vincennes stated that all three suspects' hands and arms reeked of perfume--a paraffin test would be inconclusive.
