L.A. Confidential Part 16

"Does Billy know about you and Bobby?"

"Jack, you're being vile. _Bobby is a friend_. I don't think Billy knows we're friends, but friends is all we are."

Jack took out his notepad. "So I'm sure you have a lot of friends in common."

"No. Put that away, because I don't know any of Bobby's friends."

"All right, then where did you meet him?"

"At a bar."

"Name the bar."

"Leo's Hideaway."

"Billy know you chase stuff behind his back?"

"Jack, don't be crude. I'm not some criminal you can slap around, I'm a citizen who can report you for breaking into this apartment."

Change-up. "s.m.u.t. Picture-book stuff, regular and h.o.m.o. That your bent, Timmy?"

One little eye flicker--not quite a hink. "You get your kicks that way? You and Billy take skit like that to bed with you?"

No flinch. "Don't be vile, Jack. It's not your style, but be nice. Remember what I am to Billy, remember what Billy is to the show that gives you the celebrity you grovel for. Remember who Billy knows."

Jack moved extra slow: the s.m.u.t mags and face sheets to a chair, a lamp pulled over for some light. "Look at those pictures. If you recognize anybody, tell me. That's all I want."

Valburn roiled his eyes, looked. The face sheets first: quizzical, curious. On to the costume skin books--nonchalant, a queer sophisticate. Jack stuck close, eyes on his eyes.

The orgy book last. Timmy saw inked-on blood and kept looking; Jack saw a neck vein working overtime.

Valburn shrugged. "No, I'm sorry."

A tough read--a skilled actor. "You didn't recognize anybody?"

"No, I didn't."

"But you did recognize Bobby."

"Of course, because I know him."

"But n.o.body else?"

"Jack, really."

"n.o.body familiar? n.o.body you've seen at the bars your type goes to?"

"_My type?_ Jack, haven't you been sucking around the Industry long enough to call a spade a spade and still be nice about it?"

Let it pa.s.s. "Timmy, you keep your thoughts hidden. Maybe you've been playing Moochie Mouse too long."

"What kind of thoughts are you looking for? I'm an actor, so give me a cue."

"Not thoughts, _reactions_. You didn't blink an eye at some of the strangest stuff I've seen in fifteen years as a cop. Arty-fatty red ink shooting out of a dozen people f.u.c.king and sucking. Is that everyday stuff to you?"

An elegant shrug. "Jack, I'm _tres_ Hollywood. I dress up as a rodent to entertain children. Nothing in this town surprises me."

"I'm not sure I buy that."

"I'm telling you the truth. I don't know any of the people in those pictures, and I haven't seen those magazines before."

"People of your type know people who know people. You know Bobby Inge, and he was in those pictures. I want to see your little black book."

Timmy said, "No."

Jack said, "Yes, or I give _Hush-Hush_ a little item on you and Billy Dieterling as soul sisters. _Badge of Honor_, the _Dream-a-Dream Hour_ and queers. You like that for a three-horse parlay?"

Timmy smiled. "Max Peltz would fire you for that. He wants you to be nice. _So be nice_."

"You carry your book with you?"

"No, I don't. Jack, remember who Billy's father is. Remember all the money you can make in the Industry after you retire."

p.i.s.sed now, almost seeing red. "Hand me your wallet. Do it or I'll lose my temper and put you up against the wall." Valburn shrugged, pulled out a billfold. Jack glommed what he wanted: calling cards, names and numbers on paper sc.r.a.ps. "I want those returned."

Jack handed the wallet back light. "Sure, Timmy."

"You are going to f.u.c.k up very auspiciously one day, Jack. Do you know that?"

"I already have, and I made money on the deal. Remember that if you decide to rat me to Max."

Valburn walked out--elegant.

Fruit-bar pickings: first names, phone numbers. One card looked familiar: "Fleur-de-Lis. Twenty-four Hours a Day-- Whatever You Desire. HO-01239." No writing on the back-- Jack racked his brain, couldn't make a connection.

New plan: call the numbers, impersonate Bobby Inge, drop lines about stag books--see who bit. Stick at the pad, see who called or showed up: long-shot stuff.

Jack called "Ted--DU-6831"--busy signal; "Geoff--CR-9640"--no bite on a lisping "Hi, it's Bobby Inge." "Bing--AX-6005"--no answer; back to "Ted"--"Bobby who? I'm sorry, but I don't think I know you." "Jim," "Nat," "Otto": no answers; he still couldn't make the odd card. Last-ditch stuff: buzz the cop line at Pacific Coast Bell.

Ring, ring. "Miss Sutherland speaking."

"This is Sergeant Vincennes, LAPD. I need a name and address on a phone number."

"Don't you have a reverse directory, Sergeant?"

"I'm in a phone booth, and the number I want checked is Hollywood 01239."

"Very well. Please hold the line."

Jack held; the woman came back on. "No such number is a.s.signed. Bell is just beginning to a.s.sign five-digit numbers, and that one has not been a.s.signed. Franldy, it may never be, the changeover is going so slow."

"You're sure about this?"

"Of course I'm sure."

Jack hung up. First thoughts: bootleg line. Bookies had them--bent guys at P.C. Bell rigged the lines, kept the numbers from being a.s.signed. Free phone service, no way police agencies could subpoena records, no make on incoming calls.

A reflex call: The DMV police line.

"Yes? Who's requesting?"

"Sergeant Vincennes, LAPD. Address only on a Timothy V-A-L-B-U-R-N, white male, mid to late twenties. I think he lives in the Wilshire District."

"I copy. Please hold."

Jack held; the clerk returned. "Wilshire it is. 432 South Lucerne. Say, isn't Valburn that mouse guy on the Dieterling show?"

"Yeah."

"Well . . . uh . . . what are you after him for?"

"Possession of contraband cheese."

Chez Mouse: an old French Provincial with new money accoutrements--floodlights, topiary bushes--Moochie, the rest of the Dieterling flock. Two cars in the driveway: the ragtop prowling Hamel, Billy Dieterling's Packard Caribbean--a fixture on the _Badge of Honor_ lot.

Jack staked the pad spooked: the queers were too well connected to burn, his s.m.u.t job stood dead-ended--"Whatever You Desire" some kind of dead-end tangent. He could level with Timmy and Billy, shake them down, squeeze their contacts: people who knew people who knew Bobby Inge--who knew who made the s.h.i.t. He kept the radio tuned in low; a string of love songs helped him pin things down.

He wanted to track the filth because part of him wondered how something could be so ugly and so beautiful and part of him plain jazzed on it.

He got itchy, anxious to move. A throaty soprano pushed him out of the car.

Up the driveway, skirting the floodlights. Windows: closed, uncurtained. He looked in.

Moochie Mouse gimcracks in force, no Timmy and Billy. Bingo through the last window: the lovebirds in a panicky spat.

An ear to the gla.s.s--all he got was mumbles. A car door slammed; door chimes ting-tinged. A look-see in--Billy walking toward the front of the house.

Jack kept watching. Timmy pranced hands-on-hips; Billy brought a big muscle guy back. Muscles forked over goodies: pill vials, a gla.s.sine bag full of weed. Jack sprinted for the street. A Buick sedan at the curb-mud on the front and back plates. Locked doors--kick gla.s.s or go home empty.

Jack kicked out the driver's-side window. Gla.s.s on his front seat booty--a single brown paper bag.

He grabbed it, ran to his car.

Valburn's door opened.

Jack peeled rubber-east on 5th, zigzags down to Western and a big bright parking lot. He ripped the bag open.

Absinthe--190 proof on the label, viscous green liquid.

Hashish.

Black-and-white glossies: women in opera masks blowing horses.

"Whatever You Desire."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Parker said, "Ed, you were brilliant the other day. I disapprove of Officer White's intrusion, but I can't complain with the results. I need smart men like you, and . . . direct men like Bud. And I want both of you on the Nite Owl job."

"Sir, I don't think White and I can work together."

"You won't have to. Dudley Smith's heading up the investigation, and White will report directly to him. Two other men, Mike Breuning and d.i.c.k Carlisle, will work with White--however Dudley wants to play it. The Hollywood squad will be in on the job, reporting to Lieutenant Reddin, who'll report to Dudley. We've got divisional contacts a.s.signed, and every man in the Bureau is caffing in informant favors. Chief Green says Russ Millard wants to be detached from Ad Vice to run the show with Dud, so that's a possibility. That makes twenty-four full-time officers."

"What specifically do I do?"

Parker pointed to a case graph on an easel. "One, we have not found the shotguns or Coates' car, and until that girl those thugs a.s.saulted clears them on the time element we have to a.s.sume that they are still our prime suspects. Since White's little escapade they've refused to talk, and they've been booked on kidnap and rape charges. I think--"

"Sir, I'd be glad to have another try at them."

"Let me finish. Two, we still have no IDs on the other three victims. Doc Layman's working overtime on that, and we're logging in four hundred calls a day from people worried about missing loved ones. There's an outside chance that this might be more than just a set of robbery killings, and if that proves to be the case I want you on that end of things. As of now, you're liaison to SID, the D.A.'s Office and the divisional contacts. I want you to go over every field report every day, a.s.sess them and share your thoughts with me personally. I want daily written summaries, copies to Chief Green and myself."

Ed tried not to smile--the st.i.tches in his chin helped. "Sir, some thoughts before we continue?"

Parker leaned his chair back. "Of course."

Ed ticked points. "One, what about searching for comparable sh.e.l.l samples in Griffith Park? Two, if the girl clears our suspects on the time element, what was that purple car doing across from the Nite Owl? Three, how likely are we to turn the guns and the car? Four, the suspects said they took the girl to a building on Dunkirk first. What kind of evidence did we get there?"

"Good points. But one, sh.e.l.l samples to compare is a long shot. With breech-load weapons the rounds might have expelled back into the car those punks were driving, the actual locations listed in the crime reports were vague, Griffith Park is all hillsides, we've had rain and mudslides over the past two weeks and that park ranger has waffled on ID'ing the three in custody. Two, the news vendor who ID'd the car by the Nite Owl says now that maybe it was a Ford or a Chevy, so our registration checks are now a nightmare. If you're thinking the car was placed there as a plant, I think that's nonsense--how would anyone know _to_ plant it there? Three, the 77th Street squad is tearing up the G.o.dd.a.m.n southside for the car and the guns, muscling K.A.'s, the megillah. And four, there was blood and s.e.m.e.n all over a mattress in that building on Dunkirk."

Ed said, "It all comes back to the girl."

Parker picked up a report form. "Inez Soto, age twenty-one. A college student. She's at Queen of Angels, and she just came out of sedation this morning."

"Has anyone spoken to her?"

"Bud White went with her to the hospital. n.o.body's talked to her in thirty-six hours, and I don't envy you the task."