L.A. Confidential Part 26

"Do you enjoy it?"

"When they deserve it."

"Meaning men who hurt women."

"Bright girl."

"Did they deserve it today?"

"No."

"But you did it anyway."

"Yeah, just like the half dozen guys you screwed today."

Lynn laughed. "Actually, it was two. Off the record, did you beat up Dwight Gilette?"

"Off the record, I stuck his hand down a garbage disposal."

No gasp, no double take. "Did you enjoy it?"

"Well . . . no."

Lynn coughed. "I'm being a bad hostess. Would you like to sit down?"

Bud sat on the sofa; Lynn sat an arm's length over. "Homicide detectives are different. You're the first man I've met in five years who didn't tell me I look like Veronica Lake inside of a minute."

"You look better than Veronica Lake."

Lynn lit a cigarette. "Thank you. I won't tell your lady friend you said that."

"How do you know I got a lady friend?"

"Your jacket is a mess and reeks of perfume."

"You're wrong. This is me taking a pa.s.s on a pa.s.s."

"Which you . .

"Yeah, which I seldom f.u.c.king do. Keep cooperating, Miss Bracken. Tell me about Pierce Patchett and this racket of his."

"Off the--"

"Yeah, off the record."

Lynn smoked, sipped scotch. "Well, putting what he's done for me aside, Pierce is a Renaissance man. He dabbles in chemistry, he knows judo, he takes good care of his body. He loves having beautiful women beholden to him. He had a marriage that failed, he had a daughter who died very young. He's very honest with his girls, and he only lets us date well-behaved, wealthy men. So call it a savior complex. Pierce loves beautiful women. He loves manipulating them and making money off them, but there's real affection there, too. When I first met Pierce I told him my little sister was killed by a drunken driver. He actually cried. Pierce Patchett is a hardcase businessman, and yes, he runs call girls. But he's a good man."

It played straight. "What else has Patchett got going?"

"Nothing illegal. He puts business deals and movie deals together. He advises his girls on business matters."

"s.m.u.t?"

"G.o.d, not Pierce. He likes to _do_ it, not look at it."

"Or sell it?"

"Yes, or sell it."

Almost too smooth--like Patchett's s.m.u.t hink needed a whitewash. "I'm starting to think you're snowing me. There's gotta be a perv deal here. Sugar-pimping's one thing, but you make this guy out to be f.u.c.king Jesus. Let's start with Patchett's 'little studio."'

Lynn put out her cigarette. "Suppose I don't want to talk about that?"

"Suppose I give you and Patchett to Administrative Vice?"

Lynn shook her head. "Pierce thinks you have your own private vendetta going, that it's in your best interest to eliminate him as a suspect in whatever it is you're investigating and keep quiet about his dealings. He thinks you won't inform on him, that it would be stupid for you to do it."

"Stupid is my middle name. What else does Patchett think?"

"He's waiting for you to mention money."

"I don't do shakedowns."

"Then why--"

"Maybe I'm just f.u.c.king curious."

"So be it. Do you know who Dr. Terry Lux is?"

"Sure, he runs a dry-out farm in Malibu. He's dirty to the core."

"Correct on both counts, and he's also a plastic surgeon."

"He did a plastic on Patchett, right? n.o.body his age looks that young."

"I don't know about that. What Terry Lux _does_ do is alter girls for Pierce's little studio. There's Ava and Kate and Rita and Betty. Read that as Gardner, Hepburn, Hayworth and Grable. Pierce finds girls with middling resemblances to movie stars, Terry performs plastic surgery for exact resemblances. Call them Pierce's concubines. They sleep with Pierce and selected clients-- men who can help him put together movie and business deals. Perverse? Perhaps. But Pierce takes a cut of all his girls' earnings and invests it for them. He makes his girls quit the life at thirty--no exceptions. He doesn't let his girls use narcotics and he doesn't abuse them, and I owe him a great deal. Can your policeman's mentality grasp those contradictions?"

Bud said, "Jesus f.u.c.king Christ."

"No, Mr. White. Pierce Morehouse Patchett."

"Lux cut you to look like Veronica Lake?"

Lynn touched her hair. "No, I refused. Pierce loved me for it. I'm really a brunette, but the rest is me."

"And how old are you?"

"I'll be thirty next month, and I'll be opening up a dress shop. See how time changes things? If you'd met me a month from now, I wouldn't be a wh.o.r.e. I'd be a brunette who didn't look quite so much like Veronica Lake.

"Jesus Christ."

"No, Lynn Margaret Bracken."

Too quick--almost a blurt. "Look, I want to see you again."

"Are you asking me for a date?"

"Yeah, because I can't afford what Patchett charges."

"You could wait a month."

"No, I can't."

"No more shoptalk, then. I don't want to be somebody's suspect."

Bud made a check mark in the air: Patchett crossed off for Kathy and the Nite Owl. "Deal."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Mickey Cohen's cell.

Gallaudet laughed: velvet-covered bed, velvet-flocked shelves, commode with a velvet-flocked seat. Heat through a wall vent--Washington State, still cold in April. Ed was tired: they talked to Jack "The Enforcer" Whalen, eliminated him, flew a thousand miles. 1:00 A.M.--two cops waiting for a psychopathic hoodlum busy with a late pinochle game. Gallaudet patted Cohen's pet bulldog: Mickey Cohen, Jr., snazzy in a velvetflocked sweater. Ed checked his Whalen notes.

Rambling--they couldn't shut him up. Whalen laughed off the Englekling theory, digressed on L.A. organized crime.

Mob activity in a general lull since Mickey C. hit stir. The insider view: the Mick power broke, Swiss bank money tucked away--cash to rebuild with. Morris Jahelka, Cohen underboss, given a fiefdom--he promptly blew it, investing badly, no funds to pay his men. Whalen said _he_ was doing well and offered his Cohen theory.

He figured Mickey was parceling out bookmaking, loansharking, dope and prost.i.tution franchises--small, choosy who they dealt with; when paroled he'd consolidate, grab the money the franchise men invested for him, rebuild. Whalen based his theory on hink: Lee Vachss, ex-Cohen trigger, seemed to have gone legit; Johnny Stompanato and Abe Teitlebaum ditto--two wrong-o's who couldn't walk a straight line. Make all three of them still on the grift--maybe safeguarding Cohen's interests. Chief Parker--afraid the lull might lead to Mafia encroachment--just fielded a new front line against out-of-town muscle: Dudley Smith and two of his goons set up shop at a motel in Gardena: they beat gang guys half to death, stole their money for police charity contributions, put them back on the bus, train or plane to wherever they came from--all very much on the QT.

Whalen concluded: _He's_ allowed to operate because somebody had to provide gambling services or a bunch of crazy independents would shoot L.A. to s.h.i.t. "Containment"--a Dudley S. word--said it all: the police establishment knew he only shot when shot at; _he played the game_. The idea of him or Mickey blasting six people over j.a.c.k.-.o.f.f. books was pure bulls.h.i.t. Still, things were too quiet, s.h.i.t had to be brewing.

Mickey Cohen, Jr., yipped; Ed looked up. Mickey Cohen walked in, holding a box of dog biscuits. He said, "I have never killed no man that did not deserve killing by the standards of our way of life. I have never distributed no obscene s.h.i.t to be used for the purpose of masturbation and only took a confabulation with Pete and Bar Englekling because of my fondness for their late father, may G.o.d rest his soul even though he was a f.u.c.king kraut. I do not kill innocent bystanders because it's a mitzvah not to and because I adhere to the Ten Commandments except when it is bad for business. Warden Hopkins told me why you was here and I made you wait because you must be stupid morons to make me for this vicious and stupid caper, obviously the handiwork of stupid shvartzcs. But since Mickey Junior likes you I will give you five minutes of my time. Come to Daddy, bubeleh!"

Gallaudet howled. Cohen knelt on the floor, put a biscuit in his mouth. The dog ran to him, grabbed the biscuit, kissed him. Mickey nuzzled the beast; Cohen Junior squealed, p.i.s.sed. Ed saw a man on the catwalk: Davey Goldman, Mickey's chief accountant, at McNeil on his own tax beef.

Goldman sidled away. Gallaudet said, "Mickey, the Englekling brothers said you went crazy when they mentioned Duke Cathcart was behind their idea."

Cohen spat biscuit crumbs. "Are you familiar with the old saying 'blowing off steam'?"

Ed said, "Yes, but what about other names? Did the Engleklings mention any other names besides Cathcart?"

"No, and Cathcart I never met myself. I heard he had a statch rape jacket, so I judged him on that. The Bible says, 'Judge not, lest ye be judged,' so since I am willing to be judged, I say, 'Judge on, 0 Mickster."'

"Did you give the brothers any advice on setting up a distribution system?"

"No! As G.o.d and my beloved Mickey Junior are my witnesses, no!"

Gallaudet: "Mick, here's the key question. Did you talk up the deal on the yard? Who else did you tell about it?"

"I told n.o.body! j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. books are from sin and hunger! I even chased Davey away when those meshugeneh brothers came calling! Davey's my ears, that's how much I respect the cardinal virtue of confidentiality!"

Gallaudet said, "Ed, I called Russ Millard while you were talking to the warden. He said he checked with his Ad Vice guys on the p.o.r.nography job, and they've got nothing. No Cathcart, no leads on the books. Russ went through all the Nite Owl field reports and got nothing. Bud White background checked Cathcart, and he reported nothing. Ed, Susie Lefferts from San Berdoo is just a coincidence. Cathcart couldn't make a s.m.u.t deal happen if he tried. This whole thing was the Engleklings' buying out of some old warrants and a dog show."

Ed nodded. Mickey Cohen, Sr., cradled Mickey Cohen, Jr. "Fathers and Sons are food for thought, are they not a veritable feast? My canine offspring and me, old Doe Franz and his gap-toothed white trash lowlifes. Franz was a chemical genius, great things he did for the drool case mentally disturbed. When a boatload of Big H was stole from me way back, I thought of Franz, and how if I had his brains instead of my own poetic genius I would have recreated my own white powder to sell. Go home, boychiks. Dirty books will not win you your murder case. It's the shvartzes, it's the f.u.c.king shvoogies."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Bottles: whisky, gin, brandy. Flashing signs: Schlitz, Pabst Blue Ribbon. Sailors downing cold beers, happy folks juicing their lights out. Hudgens' pad a block away--booze would give him the guts. He knew it before he tailed Bud White--now he had a thousand times the reason.

The barman yelled, "Last call." Jack killed his club soda, pressed the gla.s.s to his neck. His day hit him--again.

Millard says Duke Cathcart was involved in some scheme to push _his_ s.m.u.t.

Bud White visits Lynn Bracken, one of the lookalike wh.o.r.es. He stays inside two hours; the wh.o.r.e walks him out. He tails White home, starts thinking evidence: White knows Bracken, she knows Pierce Patchett, he knows Hudgens. Sid knows about the Malibu Rendezvous, Dudley Smith probably knows. Big Dud's reason for the tail job: White bent out of shape on a _hooker_ snuff.

Pulsing beer signs: neon monsters. Bra.s.s knucks in the car, the Sidster might fold, kick loose with his file-- Jack bolted: Hudgens' place, no lights on, Sid's Packard at the curb. The door--bra.s.s knucks for a knocker.

Thirty seconds--nothing. Jack tried the door--no give-- shouldered the jamb. The door popped open.

That smell.

Slow motion: handkerchief out, gun out, elbow to the wall-- the switch, no prints. Switch down, lights on.

Sid Hudgens hacked up on the floor--a rug soaked black, the floor a blood slick.

Arms and legs severed, out at weird angles off his torso.

Split open crotch to neck, bones showing white through red.

Cabinets upended behind him--folders dumped on a clean patch of rug.

Jack bit his arms to kill screams.