L.A. Confidential Part 10

On April 2, Richard Alex Stensland leaves Wayside Honor Rancho a free man. Convicted last year on four a.s.sault charges related to the 1951 b.l.o.o.d.y Christmas police brutality scandal, he walks out an ex-cop with an uncertain future.

Stensland's former partner, Officer Wendell White, spoke to the _Herald_. He said, "It was the luck of the draw, that Christmas thing. I was there, and I could have been the guy that swung. It was d.i.c.k, though. He made a good cop out of me. I owe him for that and I'm mad at what happened to him. I'm still d.i.c.k's friend and I bet he's still got lots of friends in the Department."

And among the civilian population, it appears. Stensland told a _Herald_ reporter that upon his release he'll go to work for Abraham Teitlebaum, the owner of Abe's Noshery, a delicatessen in West Los Angeles. Asked whether he bears grudges against any of the people who put him in jail, Stensland said, "Only one. But I'm too law-abiding to do anything about it."

L.A. _Daily News_, March 6:

SCANDAL TURNS CLOSE D.A.'S RACE TO LANDSLIDE

It was expected to go down to the wire: inc.u.mbent city D.A. William McPherson vs. Deputy D.A. Ellis Loew, the winner to hold the job as top elected crimefighter in the Southland for the next four years. Both men campaigned on the issues: how to deploy the city's legal budget the best way, how to most efficaciously fight crime. Both men, predictably, claimed they would fight crime the hardest. The L.A. law enforcement establishment considered McPherson soft on crime and too liberal in general and threw their support to Loew. Union organizations supported the inc.u.mbent. McPherson stood pat on his status quo record and played off his nice-guy personality, and Loew tried a young firebrand routine that didn't work: he came off as theatrical and vote-hungry. It was a gentleman's campaign until the February issue of _Hush-Hush_ magazine hit the stands.

Most people take _Hush-Hush_ and other scandal sheets with a grain of salt, but this was election time. An article alleged that D.A. McPherson, happily married for twenty-six years, cavorted with young Negro women. The D.A. ignored the article, which was accompanied by photographs of him and a Negro girl, taken at a nightclub in south central Los Angeles. Mrs. McPherson did not ignore the article--she filed for divorce. Ellis Loew did not mention the article in his campaign, and McPherson began to slip in the polls. Then, three days before the election, Sheriffs deputies raided the Lilac View Motel on the Sunset Strip, acting on the tip of an "unknown informant" who called in with word of an illegal a.s.signation in room 9. The a.s.signators proved to be D.A. McPherson and a young Negro prost.i.tute, age 14. The deputies arrested McPherson on statutory rape charges and heard out the story of Marvell Wilkins, a minor with two soliciting arrests.

She told them that McPherson picked her up on South Western Avenue, offered her twenty dollars for an hour of her time and drove her to the Lilac View. McPherson pleaded amnesia: he recalled having "several martinis" at a dinner meeting with supporters at the Pacific Dining Car restaurant, then getting into his car. He remembers nothing after that. The rest is history: reporters and photographers arrived at the Lilac View Motel shortly after the deputies, McPherson became front-page news and on Tuesday Ellis Loew was elected city district attorney by a landslide.

Something seems fishy here. Scandal-rag journalism should not dictate the thrust of political campaigns, although we at the _Daily News_ (admitted McPherson supporters) would never abridge their right to print whatever filth they desire. We have tried to locate Marvell Wilkins, but the girl, released from custody, seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Without pointing fmgers, we at the _Daily News_ ask District Attorney-elect Loew to initiate a grand jury investigation into this matter, if for no other reason than his desire to a.s.sume his new office with no dark clouds overhead.

PART TWO

Nite Owl Ma.s.sacre

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The whole squadroom to himself.

A retirement party downstairs--he wasn't invited. The weekly crime report to be read, summarized, tacked to the bulletin board--n.o.body else ever did it, they knew he did it best. The papers ballyhooing the Dream-a-Dreamland opening--the other cops Moochie Mouse-squeaked him ad nauseam. s.p.a.ce Cooley playing the party; pervert Deuce Perkins roaming the halls. Midnight and nowhere near sleepy--Ed read, typed.

4/9/53: a transvest.i.te shoplifter hit four stores on Hollywood Boulevard, disabled two salesclerks with judo chops. 4/10/53: an usher at Grauman's Chinese stabbed to death by two male Caucasians--he told them to put out their cigarettes. Suspects still at large; Lieutenant Reddin said he was too inexperienced to handle a homicide--he didn't get the job. 4/11/53: a stack of crime sheets--several times over the past two weeks a carload of Negro youths were seen discharging shotguns into the air in the Griffith Park hills. No IDs, the kids driving a '48--'50 purple Mercury coupe. 4/11--4/13/53: five daytime burglaries, private homes north of the Boulevard, jewelry stolen. n.o.body a.s.signed yet; Ed made a note: bootjack the job, dust before the access points got pawed. Today was the fourteenth--he might have a chance.

Ed finished up. The empty squadroom made him happy: n.o.body who hated him, a big s.p.a.ce filled with desks and filing cabinets. Official forms on the walls--empty s.p.a.ces you filled in when you notched an arrest and made somebody confess. Confessions could be ciphers, nothing past an admission of the crime. But if you twisted your man the right way--loved him and hated him to precisely the right degree--then he would tell you things--small details--that would create a reality to b.u.t.tress your case and give you that much more inteffigence to bend the next suspect with. Art De Spain and his father taught how to find the spark point. They had boxloads of old steno transcripts: kiddie rapers, heisters, a.s.sorted riffraff who'd confessed to them. Art would rabbit-punch--but he used the threat more than the act. Preston Exley rarely hit--he considered it the criminal defeating the policeman and creating disorder. They read elliptical answers and made him guess the questions; they gave him a rundown of common criminal experiences--wedges to get the flow started. They showed him that men have levels of weakness that are acceptable because other men condone them and levels of weakness that produce a great shame, something to hide from all but a brilliant confessor. They honed his instinct for the jugular of weakness. It got so sharp that sometimes he couldn't look at himself in the mirror.

The sessions ran late--two widowers, a young man without a woman. Art had a bug on multiple murders--he had his father rehash the Loren Atherton case repeatedly: horror s.n.a.t.c.hes, witness testimony. Preston obliged with psychological theories, grudgingly--he wanted his glory case to stay sealed off, complete, in his mind. Art's old cases were scrutinized--and he reaped the efforts of three fine minds: confessions straight across, 95 percent convictions. But so far his drive to crack criminal knowledge hadn't been challenged--much less sated.

Ed walked down to the parking lot, sleep coming on. "Quack, quack," behind him--hands turned him around.

A man in a kid's mask--Danny Duck. A left-right knocked off his gla.s.ses; a kidney shot put him down. Kicks to the ribs drove him into a ball.

Ed curled hard, caught kicks in the face. A flashbulb popped; two men walked away: one quacking, one laughing. Easy IDs: d.i.c.k Stensland's bray, Bud White's football limp. Ed spat blood, swore payback.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Russ Millard addressed Ad Vice squad 4--the topic p.o.r.nography.

"Picture-book s.m.u.t, gentlemen. There's been a bunch of it found at collateral crime scenes lately: narcotics, bookmaking and prost.i.tution collars. Normally this kind of stuff is made in Mexico, so it's not our jurisdiction. Normally it's an organized crime sideline, because the big mobs have the money to manufacture it and the connections to get it distributed. But Jack Dragna's been deported, Mickey Cohen's in prison and probably too puritanical anyway, and Mo Jahelka's foundering on his own. Stag pix aren't Jack Whalen's style--he's a bookie looking to get his hands on a Vegas casino. And the stuff that's surfaced is too high quality for the L.A. area print mills: Newton Street Vice rousted them, they're clean, they just don't have the facilities to make magazines of this quality. But the backdrops in the pictures indicate L.A. venue: you can see what looks like the Hollywood Hills out some windows, and the furnishings in a lot of the places look like your typical cheap Los Angeles apartments. So our job is to track this filth to its source and arrest whoever made it, posed for it and distributed it."

Jack groaned: the Great j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. Book Caper of 1953. The other guys looked hot to glom the s.m.u.t, maybe fuel up their wives. Millard popped a Digitalis. "Newton Street d.i.c.ks questioned everyone at the collateral rousts, and they all denied possessing the stuff. n.o.body at the print mills knows where it was made. The mags have been shown around the Bureau and our station vice squads, and we've got zero IDs on the posers. So, gentlemen, look yourself."

Henderson and Kifka had their hands out; Stathis looked ready to drool. Millard pa.s.sed the s.m.u.t over. "Vincennes, is there someplace you'd rather be?"

"Yeah, Captain. Narcotics Division."

"Oh? Anyplace else?"

"Maybe working wh.o.r.es with squad two."

"Make a major case, Sergeant. I'd love to sign you out of here."

Oohs, ahhs, cackles, oo-la-las; three men shook their heads no. Jack grabbed the books.

Seven mags, high-quality glossy paper, plain black covers. Sixteen pages apiece: photos in color, black and white. Two books ripped in half, explicit pictures: men and women, men and men, girls and girls. Insertion close-ups: straight, queer, d.y.k.es with d.i.l.d.oes. The Hollywood sign out windows; Murphy-bed f.u.c.k shots, cheap pads: stucco-swirled walls, the hot plate on a table that came with every bachelor flop in L.A. Par for the stag-book course--but the posers weren't gla.s.sy-eyed hopheads, they were good-looking, well-built young kids--nude, costumed: Elizabethan garb, j.a.p kimonos. Jack put the ripped mags back together for a bingo: Bobby Inge--a male prost.i.tute he'd popped for reefer--blowing a guy in a whalebone corset.

Millard said, "Anybody familiar, Vincennes?"

An angle. "Nothing, Cap. But where did you get these torn-up jobs?"

"They were found in a trash bin behind an apartment house in Beverly Hills. The manager, an old woman named Loretta Downey, found them and called the Beverly Hills P.D. They called us."

"You got an address on the building?"

Millard checked an evidence form. "9849 Charleville. Why?"

"I just thought I'd take that part of the job. I've got good connections in Beverly Hills."

"Well, they do call you 'Trashcan.' All right, follow up in Beverly Hills. Henderson, you and Kifka try to locate the arrestees in the crime reports and try to find out again where they got the stuff--I'll get you carbons in a minute. Tell them there'll be no additional charges filed if they talk. Stathis, take that filth by the costume supply companies and see if you can get a matchup to their inventory, then fmd out who rented the costumes the . . . performers were wearing. Let's try it this way first--if we have to go through mugshots for IDs we'll lose a G.o.dd.a.m.n week. Dismissed, gentlemen. Roll, Vincennes. And don't get sidetracked--this is Ad Vice, not Narco."

Jack rolled: R&I, Bobby Inge's file, his angle flushed out: Beverly Hills, see the old biddy, see what he could find out and concoct a hot lead that told him what he already knew--Bobby Inge was guilty of conspiracy to distribute obscene material, a felony bounce. Bobby would snitch his co-stars and the guys who took the pix--one major cla.s.s transfer requirement d.i.c.ked.

The day was breezy, cool; Jack took Olympic straight west. He kept the radio going; a newscast featured Ellis Loew: budget cuts at the D.A.'s Office. Ellis droned on; Jack flipped the dial--a kibosh on thoughts of Bill McPherson. He caught a happy Broadway tune, thought about him anyway.

_Hush-Hush_ was his idea: McPherson liked colored poon, Sid Hudgens loved writing up jig-f.u.c.kers. Ellis Loew knew about it, approved of it, considered it another favor on deposit. McPherson's wife filed for divorce; Loew was satisfied--he took a lead in the polls. Dudley Smith wanted more--and set up the tank job.

An easy parlay: Dot Rothstein knew a colored girl doing a stretch at Juvenile Hall: soliciting beefs, Dot and the girl kept a thing sizzling whenever she did time. Dot got the little twist sprung; Dudley and his ace goon Mike Breuning fixed up a room at the Lilac View Motel: the most notorious f.u.c.k pad on the Sunset Strip, county ground where the city D.A. would be just another john caught with his pants down. McPherson attended a Dining Car soiree; Dudley had Marvell Wilkins--fourteen, dark, witchy-- waiting outside. Breuning alerted the West Hollywood Sheriff's and the press; the Big V dropped chloral hydrates in McPherson's last martini. Mr. D.A. left the restaurant woozy, swerved his Cadillac a mile or so, pulled over at Wilshire and Alvarado and pa.s.sed out. Breuning cruised up behind him with the bait: Marvell in a c.o.c.ktail gown. He took the wheel of McPherson's Caddy, hustled Bad Bill and the girl to their tryst spot--the rest was political history.

Ellis Loew wasn't told--he figured he just got lucky. Dot sent Marvell down to Tijuana, all expenses paid--skim off the Woman's Jail budget. McPherson lost his wife and his job; his statch rape charge was dismissed--Marvell couldn't be located. Something snapped inside the Bigggg V-- The snap: one s.h.i.tty favor over the line. The reason: Dot Rothstein in the ambulance October '47--she knew, Dudley probably knew. If they knew, the game had to be played so the rest of the world wouldn't know--so Karen wouldn't.

He'd been her hero a solid year; somehow the bit got real. He stopped sending the Scoggins kids money, closing out his debt at forty grand--he needed cash to court Karen, being with her gave him some distance on the Malibu Rendezvous. Joan Morrow Loew stayed b.i.t.c.hy; Welton and the old lady grudgingly accepted him--and Karen loved him so hard it almost hurt. Working Ad Vice hurt--the job was a snore, he hot-dogged on dope every time he got a shot. Sid Hudgens didn't call so much--he wasn't a Narco d.i.c.k now. After the McPherson gig he was glad--he didn't know if he could pull another shakedown.

Karen had her own lies going--they helped his hero bit play true. Trust fund, beach pad paid for by Daddy, grad school. Dilettante stuff: he was thirty-eight, she was twenty-three, in time she'd figure it out. She wanted to marry him; he resisted; Ellis Loew as an in-law meant bagman duty until he dropped dead. He knew why his hero role worked: Karen was the audience he'd always wanted to impress. He knew what she could take, what she couldn't; her love had shaped his performance so that all he had to do was act natural--and keep certain secrets hidden.

Traffic snagged; Jack turned north on Doheny, west on Charleville. 9849--a two-story Tudor--stood a block off Wilshire. Jack double-parked, checked mailboxes.

Six slots: Loretta Downey, five other names--three Mr. & Mrs., one man, one woman. Jack wrote them down, walked to Wilshire, found a pay phone. Calls to R&I and the DMV police information line; two waits. No criminal records on the tenants; one standout vehicle sheet: Christine Bergeron, the mailbox "Miss," four reckless-driving convictions, no license revocation. Jack got extra stats off the clerk: the woman was thirty-seven years old, her occupation was listed as actress/car hop, as of 7/52 she was working at Stan's Drive-in in Hollywood.

Instincts: carhops don't live in Beverly Hills; maybe Christine Bergeron hopped some bones to stretch the rent. Jack walked back to 9849, knocked on the door marked "Manager."

An old biddy opened up. "Yes, young man?"

Jack flashed his badge. "L.A. Police, ma'am. It's about those books you found."

The biddy squinted through c.o.ke-bottle gla.s.ses. "My late husband would have seen to justice himself, Mr. Harold Downey had no tolerance for dirty things."

"Did you find those magazines yourself, Mrs. Downey?"

"No, young man, my cleaning lady did. _She_ tore them up and threw them in the trash, where I found them. I questioned Eula about it after I called the Beverly Hills police."

"Where did Eula find the books?"

"Well . . . I . . . don't know if I should . . ."

A switcheroo. "Tell me about Christine Bergeron."

Harumph. "That woman! And that boy of hers! I don't know who's worse!"

"Is she a difficult tenant, ma'am?"

"She entertains men at all hours! She roller-skates on the floor in those tight waitress outfits of hers! She's got a no-goodnik son who never goes to school! Seventeen years old and a truant who a.s.sociates with lounge lizards!"

Jack held out a Bobby Inge mugshot; the biddy held it up to her gla.s.ses. "Yes, this is one of Daryl's no-goodnik friends, I've seen him skulking around here a dozen times. Who _is_ he?"

"Ma'am, did Eula find those dirty books in the Bergeron apartment?"

"Well . . ."

"Ma'am, are Christine Bergeron and the boy at home now?"

"No, I heard them leave a few hours ago. I have keen ears to make up for my poor eyesight."

"Ma'am, if you let me into their apartment and I find some more dirty books, you could earn a reward."

"Well . . ."

"Have you got keys, ma'am?"

"Of course I have keys, I'm the manager. Now, I'll let you look if you promise not to touch and I don't have to pay withholding tax on my reward."

Jack took the mugshot back. "Whatever you want, ma'am." The old woman walked upstairs, up to the second-floor units. Jack followed; granny unlocked the third door down. "Five minutes, young man. And be respectful of the furnishings--my brother-in-law owns this building."

Jack walked in. Tidy living room, scratched floor--probably roller-skate tracks. Quality furniture, worn, ill-cared-for. Bare walls, no TV, two framed photos on an end table--publicity-type shots.

Jack checked them out; old lady Downey stuck close. Matching pewter frames--two good-looking people.

A pretty woman--light hair in a pageboy, eyes putting out a cheap sparkle. A pretty boy who looked just like her--extra blond, big stupid eyes. "Is this Christine and her son?"

"Yes, and they are an attractive pair, I'll give them that. Young man, what is the amount of that reward you mentioned?" Jack ignored her and hit the bedroom: through the drawers, in the closet, under the mattress. No s.m.u.t, no dope, nothing hinky--negligees the only s.h.i.t worth a sniff.

"Young man, your five minutes are up. And I want a written guarantee that I will receive that reward."

Jack turned around smiling. "I'll mail it to you. And I need another minute or so to check their address book."

"No! No! They could come home at any moment! I want you to leave this instant!"

"Just one minute, ma'am."

"No, no, no! Out with you this second!"

Jack made for the door. The old bat said, "You remind me of that policeman on that television program that's so popular."

"I taught him everything he knows."