White Jazz Part 16

The park road--wait her out.

Her routine: drive home at 2:00, pilfer later. Time to kill, time to think-- Easy: my "crush" stretched me too thin--catch her stealing and snitch her--TODAY. Kicks: get her a Commie lawyer enraged at big money--Morton Diskant, just the ticket. Arraignment, trial--Glenda pays c.u.n.thound Morty off in trade. "Guilty," State time, Dave Klein there with flowers when they boot her.

Play the radio, drift.

Bop--maybe queer cops prowling Darktown--too jangly, too frantic. Skim the dial, ballads--"Tennessee Waltz"--Meg. '51, that song, the Two Tonys--Jack Woods probably knew the whole story. Him and Meg back on; I dumped a witness and she got suspicious--and Jack wouldn't s.h.i.t her. She'd know, she'd be scared, she'd forgive me. Her and Jack--I wasn't jealous--call him dangerous and safe--safer than me.

Back to bop--jangly good now--think: Lucille on tape: "I'll be the daughter and you'll be the daddy." Lucille, nude: fleshy like this boot camp wh.o.r.e I had. Big-band tunes, the war, schoolgirl Glenda--_close her out_-- Noon, 1:00, 1:30--I snoozed and woke up cramped. Stomach growls, a p.i.s.s in the weeds. Early: her Vette zooming by with the top down.

I rolled--a brown Chevy cut between us--weird familiar. Squint, make the driver: Harold John Miciak.

Three-car tail string--absurd.

Up to the Observatory; down to street level. Glenda carefree, her scarf billowing. p.i.s.sed: hit the siren, ream that s.h.i.tbird.

Miciak gunned it--b.u.mper-to-b.u.mper close. Glenda looked around; he looked around--sixty miles an hour, kill the siren, hit the mike: "Police! Pull over now!"

He swerved, banged the curb, stalled out. Glenda slowed down and stopped.

I got out.

Miciak got out.

Glenda watched--see it her way: This big goon walks up shouting; this shoulder-holster shirtsleeves guy shouts back: "This is mine! You'll get your results! Tell your f.u.c.king boss that!"

The goon stutters, kicks the ground, U-turns off.

The cop goes back to his car--his B-movie G.o.ddess is gone.

Time to kill, time to figure her route. I tried due east: Hughes' Glendale f.u.c.k pad.

I drove there. Paydirt: a Tudor mansion flanked by airplane-shaped hedges. A circular driveway--her Vette by the door.

I pulled up. Drizzling--I got out and touched the rain. Glenda walked out carrying groceries.

She saw me.

I just stood there.

She tossed me a tin of caviar.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Western and Adams--the wh.o.r.es briefed nice--quasi-deputies for the night.

Bluesuits out in force: popping tricks, impounding trick cars.

Prostie vans behind Cooper's Donuts; Vice bulls bagging IDs. Men stationed southbound and northbound--hot to foil s.e.x prowlers hot to rabbit.

My perch: Copper's roof. Ordnance: binoculars, a bullhorn.

Dig the panic: Johns soliciting wh.o.r.es-cops grabbing them. Vehicles impounded, van detainment--fourteen fish bagged so far, prelim Q&A: "You married?"

"You on parole or probation?"

"You like it white or colored? Sign this waiver, we might cut you loose at the station."

No Lucille K.

Some clown tried to run--a rookie plugged his back tires.

Epidemic boo-hoo--"DON'T TELL MY WIFE!" Leg-shackle clangs--the prostie vans shook.

Luck--wh.o.r.es mixed fifty-fifty: white girls, c.o.o.ns. Fourteen tricks arrested--all Caucasian.

Panic down below: Shriners bagged en ma.s.se. Five men, fez hats flying--a wh.o.r.e grabbed one and pranced.

I hit the bullhorn: "We've got nineteen! Let's close it down!"

The station--dawdle over--let Sid Riegle work setup. Luck: Junior's Ford by the squadroom door. Headlight signals goosed me walking in: Jack Woods, contingency tail man.

Squadroom, muster room, jail. I badged the jailer--_click/whoosh_--the door opened. Down the catwalk, turn the corner: the swish tank facing the drunk tank. Drunks and tricks hooting at the floorshow: drag queens masturbating.

Riegle outside the bars, marking nametags. He shook his head--too much noise to talk.

I scanned the fish--s.h.i.t--nothing peeper-aged. f.u.c.k it--I hit the show-up room.

Chairs, a height strip stage: one-way gla.s.s lit up harsh. Rap sheets and IDs laid out for me--I checked them against my john alias list.

No crossovers--expected--I'd run the fake names through the DMV. No real-name spinoffs; driver's license ages thirty-eight and up--my peeper ten years older minimum. Six tricks misdemeanor rapsheeted--no Peeping Toms, burglars, s.e.x fiends. A cover note: sixteen out of nineteen men were married.

Riegle walked in. I said, "Where's Stemmons?"

"He's waiting in one of the interrogation rooms. Dave, is the scoop on this real? J.C. Kafesjian's daughter is some kind of prostie?"

"It's true, and don't ask me what Exley wants, and don't tell me how the Department doesn't need this s.h.i.t with the Feds nosing around."

"I was gonna mention it, but I think I'll stay on your good side. One thing, though."

"What's that?"

"I saw Dan Wilhite in the watch commander's office. Given what he is to the Kafesjians, I'd say he's more than a little p.i.s.sed."

"s.h.i.t, that's more s.h.i.t I don't need."

Sid smiled. "Yeah, but it's a duck shoot--they _all_ signed the falsearrest waivers."

I smiled back. "Move them in."

Riegle walked back out; I grabbed the intercom mike. Shackle clang, shackle shuffle-wh.o.r.e chasers lit up on stage.

"Good evening, gentlemen, and listen closely"--the speaker kicked on loud.

"You have all been arrested for soliciting for purposes of prost.i.tution, a California Penal Code violation punishable by up to a year in the Los Angeles County Jail. Gentlemen, I can make this easy or I can make this one of the worst experiences of your life, and the way I play it depends entirely on you."

Blinks, shuffles, dry sobs--sad sacks all in a row. I read my john list and scoped reactions: "John David Smith, George William Smith-come on, be original. John Jones, Thomas Hardesty--that's more like it. D. D. Eisenhower-come on, that's beneath you. Mark Wilshire, Bruce Pico, Robert Normandie--street names, come on. Timothy Crenshaw, Joseph Arden, Lewis Burdette--he's a baseball player, right? Miles Swindell, Daniel Doherty, Charles Johnson, Arthur Johnson, Michael Montgomery, Craig Donaldson, Roger Hanc.o.c.k, Chuck Sepulveda, David San Vicente-Jesus, more street names."

f.u.c.k--I couldn't scan faces that quick.

"Gentlemen, here's where it gets either easy or very difficult. The Los Angeles Police Department wishes to spare you grief, and frankly your _illegal_ extramarital pursuits do not concern us that greatly. Essentially, you have been detained to aid us in a burglary investigation. A young woman known to occasionally sell her services on South Western Avenue is involved, and I need to isolate men who have purchased those services."

Riegle up on stage, mug shots out.

"Gentleman, we can legally hold you for seventy-two hours prior to arraigning you in Misdemeanor Court. You are ent.i.tled to one phone call apiece, and should you decide to call your wives, you might tell them that you are being held at University Station on one-eighteen-dash-six-zero charges: soliciting for purposes of prost.i.tution. I understand that you might be reluctant to do that, so listen closely, I'll only say it once."

Rumbles--breath fogged the gla.s.s.

"Officer Riegle will show you photographs of that young woman. If you have purchased her services, take two steps forward. If you have seen her streetwalking, but haven't purchased her services, raise your right hand."

Pause a beat.

"Gentlemen, _legitimate confirmations_ will get all of you released within several hours, _with no charges filed_. If none of you admit to purchasing this woman's services, then I will conclude that either you are lying or simply that none of you have ever seen her or dallied with her, which means in either case that all nineteen of you will be subjected to intensive questioning, and all nineteen of you will be booked, held for seventy-two hours and arraigned on soliciting charges. You will be held during that time in the facility that we reserve here for h.o.m.os.e.xual prisoners, i.e. the queer tank, where those n.i.g.g.e.r queens were shaking their d.i.c.ks at you. Gentlemen, if any of you do admit to dallying with the young lady, and your statements convince us that you are telling the truth, you will in no way be criminally charged and your disclosures will be kept in the strictest confidence. Once we are convinced, you will all be released and allowed to claim your confiscated property and impounded cars. Your cars are being held at a County lot nearby, and as a reward for your cooperation you will not be charged the standard impound fee. Again: we want the truth. You cannot lie your way out of here by claiming that you f.u.c.ked her when you didn't--your lies won't wash. Sid, pa.s.s the mugs."

Handoff: Riegle to a scrawny granddad type.

Dizzy, lawyer high--David Klein, Juris Doctor.

I looked down, held a breath, looked up: one Shriner and one lounge lizard stood forward. I checked driver's license pix and matched up names: Shriner: Willis Arnold Kaltenborn, Pasadena. Lizard: Vincent Michael Lo Bruto, East L.A. A rap sheet check, paydirt on the wop: child-support skips.

Sid walked in. "We did it."

"Yeah, we did. Stemmons is waiting, right?"

"Right, and the tape recorder's in with him. The fourth booth down, he's there."

"Put Kaltenborn in number 5, and the greaseball in with Junior. Take the rest of them back to the drunk tank."

"Feed them?"

"Candy bars. And no phone calls--a smart attorney could w.a.n.gle writs. Where's Wilhite?"

"I don't know."

"Keep him away from the sweat rooms, Sid."

"Dave, he's a captain."

"Then . . . s.h.i.t, just do it."

Riegle strolled out--p.i.s.sed. I strolled, itchy-over to sweat box row.

Standard six-by-eights, peekaboo gla.s.s. Booth 5: fez man Kaltenborn. Number 4: Lo Bruto, Junior, a tape rig on the table.

Lo Bruto rocked his chair; Junior squirmed. Touch V.'s take: Junior doped up at Fern Dell. The Ainge roust, a late make: dope eyes. Worse now--pin slits.

Open the door, slam it. Junior nodded--half lurch.

I sat down. "What do they call you--Vince? Vinnie?"

Lo Bruto picked his nose. "The ladies call me Mr. Big d.i.c.k."

"That's what they call my partner here."

"Yeah? The nervous, silent type. He must get a lot."

"He does, but we're not here to discuss his s.e.x life."

"Too bad, 'cause I got time. The old lady and the kids are in Tacoma, so I coulda done the whole seventy-two hours, but I figured, why spoil it for the other guys? Look, I f.u.c.ked her, so why beat around the bush, no pun intended."

I slid him cigarettes. "I like you, Vinnie."

"Yeah, then call me Vincent. And save your money, 'cause I quit on March 4, 1952."

Junior stripped the pack. Shot nerves: three swipes at a match.

I leaned back. "How many times did you go with that girl?"

"Once."

"Why just once?"

"Once qualifies as strange. More than once you might as well pop your old lady for all the surprises you get with whoo-ers."

"You're a smart guy, Vincent."