L.A. Confidential (42 page)

  "Call me Natsky. Are you looking for representation? I could get you work playing thugs. You have that Neanderthal look currently in vogue."

  Let it go. "You're Spade Cooley's agent, right?"

  "Right. You want to join Spade's band? Spade's a moneymaker, but my shvartze cleaning lady sings better than him, so maybe I can get you a spot, a bouncer gig at the El Rancho at least. Lots of trim there, boychik. A moose like you could get reamed, steamed and dry-cleaned."

  "You through, pops?"

  Penzler flushed. "Mr. Natsky to you, caveman."

  Bud shut the door. "I need to see Cooley's booking records going back to '51. You want to do this nice or not?"

  Penzler got up, blocked his filing cabinets. "Showtime's over, Godzilla. I never divulge client information, even under threat of a subpoena. So amscray and come back for lunch sometime, say on the twelfth of never."

  Bud tore the phone cord from the wall; Penzler slid the top drawer open. "No rough stuff, please, caveman! I do my best work with my face!"

  Bud thumbed folders, hit "Cooley, Donnell Clyde," dumped it on the desk. A picture hit the blotter: Spade, four rings on ten fingers. Pink sheets, white sheets, then blue sheets--booking records clipped by year.

  Penzler stood by muttering. Bud matched dates.

  Jane Mildred Hamsher, 3/8/51, San Diego-Spade there at the El Cortez Sky Room. April '53, Kathy Janeway, the Cowboy Rhythm Band at Bido Lito's--South L.A. Sharon, Sally, Chrissie Virginia, Maria up to Lynette: Bakersfield, Needles, Arizona, Frisco, Seattle, back to L.A., shifting personnel listed on pay cards: Deuce Perkins playing bass most of the time, drum and sax guys coming and going, Spade Cooley always headlining, in those cities on those DODs.

  Blue sheets dripping wet--his own sweat. "Where's the band staying?"

  Penzler: "The Biltmore, and you didn't get it from Natsky."

  "That's good, 'cause this is Murder One and I wasn't here."

  "I am like the Sphinx, I swear to you. My God, Spade and his lowlife crew. My God, do you know what he grossed last year?"

o        o          o

  He called the lead in to Ellis Loew; Loew hit the roof: "I told you to stay out! I've got three _civilized_ men on it, and I'll tell them what you've got, but you stay out and get back to the Nite Owl, _do you understand me?_"

  He understood: Kathy Janeway kept saying GO.

  The Biltmore.

  He forced himself to drive there slow, park by the back entrance, politely ask the clerk where to find Mr. Cooley's party. The clerk said, "The El Presidente Suite, floor nine"; he said "Thank you" so calm that everything went into slow motion and he thought for a second he was swimming.

  The stairs were like swimming upstream--Little Kathy kept saying KILL HIM. The suite: double doors, gold-filigreed-- eagles, American flags. He jiggled the knob, the doors opened.

  High swank gone white trash--three crackers passed out on the floor. Booze empties, dumped ashtrays, no Spade.

  Connecting doors--the one on the right featured noise. Bud kicked it in.

  Deuce Perkins in bed watching cartoons. Bud pulled his gun. "Where's Cooley?"

  Perkins popped in a toothpick. "On a drunk, which is where I'm goin'. You want to see him, come to the El Rancho tonight. Chances are he'll show up."

  "The fuck, he's the headliner."

  "Most times. But Spade's been erratic lately, so I been film' in. I sing good as him and I'm better lookin', so nobody seems to mind. Now, you want to get out of here and leave me alone with my entertainment?"

  "Where's he drinking?"

  "Put that gun away, junior. The worse you got him for's nonpayment of child support, and Spade always pays sooner or later."

  "Nix, this is Murder One, and I heard he likes opium."

  Perkins coughed out his toothpick. "What'd you say?"

  "Hookers. Spade like young girls?"

  "He don't like to kill them, just play hide the tubesteak like you and me."

  "_Where is he?_"

  "Man, I'm not no snitch."

  Backhanded pistolwhips--Perkins yelped, spat teeth. The TV went loud: kids squealing for Kellogg's Cornflakes. Bud shot the screen out.

  Deuce snitched: "Check the '0' joints in Chinatown and please fuckin' leave me alone!"

  Kathy said KILL HIM. Bud thought of his mother for the first time in years.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  The doctor said, "I told this to your Captain Exley, and I told him an interview with Mr. Goldman would most likely prove fruitless--the man is simply not lucid most of the time. However, since he insisted on sending you up here, I'll run through it again."

  Jack looked around. Camarillo was creepy: lots of geeks, geek artwork on the walls. "Would you? The captain wants a statement from him."

  "Well, he'll be lucky to get one. Last July, Mr. Goldman and his confrere Mickey Cohen were attacked with knives and pipes at McNeil Island Prison. Unidentified assailants apparently, and Cohen was relatively unharmed while Mr. Goldman suffered serious brain damage. Both men were paroled late last year, and Mr. Goldman began to behave quite erratically. Late in December he was arrested for urinating in public in Beverly Hills, and the judge ordered him here for ninety days' observation. We've had him since Christmas and we've just recycled him in for another ninety. Frankly, we can't do a thing with him, and the only thing mysterious is that Mr. Cohen visited and offered to transfer Mr. Goldman to a private treatment facility at his own expense, but Mr. Goldman refused and acted terrified of him. Isn't that odd?"

  "Maybe not. Where is he?"

  "On the other side of that door. Be gentle with him, please. The man was a gangster, but he's just a sad human being now."

  Jack opened the door. A small padded room; Davey Goldman on a long padded bench. He needed a shave; he reeked of Lysol. Slack-jawed Davey scoping a _National Geographic_.

  Jack sat beside him--Goldman moved away. Jack said, "This place is the shits. You should've let Mickey spring you."

  Goldman picked his nose, ate it.

  "Davey, you on the outs with Mickey?"

  Goldman held out his magazine--naked Negroes waving spears.

  "Cute, and when they start showing white stuff I'll subscribe. Davey, you remember me? Jack Vincennes? I used to work LAPD Narco and we used to run into each other on the Strip."

  Goldman scratched his balls. He smiled, low voltage, nobody home.

  "Is this an act? Come on, Davey. You and the Mick go way back. You know he'd take care of you."

  Goldman squashed an invisible bug. "Not anymore."

  A gone man's voice--nobody could fake it that good. "Say, Davey, whatever happened to Dean Van Gelder? You remember him, he used to visit you at McNeil."

  Goldman picked his nose, wiped it on his feet. Jack said, "Dean Van Gelder. He visited you at McNeil in '53, right around the time these two guys Pete and Bax Englekling visited Mickey. Now you're afraid of Mickey, and Van Gelder clipped a guy named Duke Cathcart and got clipped himself during the world famous Nite Owl fucking Massacre. You got any brains left to talk about that?"

  No lights blinked on.

  "Come on, Davey. You tell me, you won't feel so sad. Talk to your Uncle Jack."

  "Dutchman! Dutch fuck! Mickey should know to hurt me but he don't. Hub rachmones, Meyer, hub rachmones, Meyer Harris Cohen te absolvo my sins."

  His mouth did the talking--the rest of the man came off dead. Jack parlayed: Van Gelder the Dutchman, Yiddish to Latin, something like betrayal. "Come on, keep going. Confess to Father Jack and I'll make it allll better."

  Goldman picked his nose; Jack shoved him. "Come on!"

  "Dutchman blew it!"

  ?????--maybe--a jail bid on Duke Cathcart. "Blew what, come on!"

  Goldman, a gone monotone. "Franchise boys got theirs three triggers blip blip blip. Fucking slowdown ain't no hoedown, Mickey thinks he'll get the fish but the Irish Cheshire got the fishy and Mickey gets the bones no gravy he is dead meat for the meow monster. Hub rachmones Meyer, I could trust you, not them, it's all on ice but not for us te absolvo . .

  ?????????? "Who are these guys you're talking about?"

  Goldman hummed a tune, off key, familiar. Jack caught the melody: "Take the 'A' Train." "Davey, _talk_ to me."

  Davey sang. "Bumpa--bump bump bump bump bump bump bump bump the cute train bump bump bump bump the cute train."

  ???????????????????--worse, like his brain had padded walls. "Davey, just talk."

  Geek talk: "Bzz, bzz bzz talking bug to hear. Betty, Benny bug to listen, Barney bug. Hub rachmones Meyer my dear friend."

  ????????? into just maybe something:

  The Engleklings saw Cohen _in his cell_, pitched him on Duke Cathcart's smut scheme. Mickey swore he did not tell a soul. Goldman found out about it, decided to crash the racket, dispatched Dean Van Gelder to snuff Cathcart--or maybe buy in on the deal. ????????--How--??????--DID HE HAVE A BUG PLANTED IN COHEN'S CELL?

  "Davey, _tell me about the bug_."

  Goldman started humming "In the Mood."

  The doctor opened the door. "That's it, Officer. You've bothered this man long enough."

o        o          o

  Exley okayed it on the phone: a run to McNeil to check for evidence of bugging apparatus in Mickey Cohen's former cell. The Ventura County Airport was a few miles away--he was to fly to Puget Sound, take a cab to the pen. Bob Gallaudet would have a Prison's Bureau man there to run liaison--the McNeil administrators pampered Cohen, probably took bribes for the service, might not cooperate without a push. Exley called the bug theory a long shot; he ranted that Bud White was missing--Fisk and Kleckner were out looking for him, the bastard was probably running from his _Whisper_ piece and the body in San Berdoo-- Fisk left him a note, mentioned the discovery. Parker said Dudley Smith was studying the Englekling case file and would report on it soon; Lynn Bracken was still holding back. Jack said, "What do we do about that?" Exley said, "The Dining Car at midnight. We'll discuss it."

  Scary Captain Ed closing ominous.

  Jack drove to Ventura, caught his ffight--Exley called ahead, vouchered his ticket. A stewardess handed out newspapers; he grabbed a _Times_ and _Daily News_ and read Nite Owl.

  Dudley's boys were ripping up Darktown, hauling in known Negro offenders, looking for the _real_ punks popping shotguns in Griffith Park. Pure bullshit: whoever planted the weapons in Ray Coates' car planted the matching shells in the park, feeding off location leads in the press-only pros would have the brains and the balls to do it. Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle were running a command post at 77th Street Station--the entire squad and twenty extra men from Homicide detached to work the case. No way were crazed darkies guilty--it was starting to look like 1953 all over again. The _Daily News_ showed photos: Central Avenue swarmed by placard-waving boogies, the house Exley bought Inez Soto. A dandy shot in the _Times_--Inez outside Ray Dieterling's place in Laguna, shielding her eyes from flashbulbs.

  Jack kept reading.

  The State Attorney General's Office issued a statement: Ellis Loew outfoxed them by planting a restraining order, but they were still interested in the case and would intercede when the order lapsed--unless the LAPD solved the Nite Owl mess to the satisfaction of the Los Angeles County Grand Jury within a suitable period of time. LAPD issued a press release--a detailpacked doozie on Inez Soto's 1953 gang rape accompanied by a heartwarming rendition of how Captain Ed Exley helped her rebuild her life. Exley's old man got a treatment: the Daily News played up the completion of the Southern California freeway system and reported a late-breaking rumor--Big Preston was soon to announce his candidacy in the governor's race, a scant two and a half months before the Republican primary, the eleventh-hour announcement strategy a ploy to capitalize on upcoming freeway brouhaha. How would his son's bad press affect his chances?

  Jack measured his own chances. He was back on with Karen because she saw he was trying; the best way to keep it going was to cash in his twenty, grab his pension, get out of L.A. The next two months would be a sprint dodging bullets: the reopening, what Patchett and Bracken had on him. Odds you couldn't figure--for a sprinter he was scared and tired--and starting to feel old. Exley had sprint moves in mind--late dinner meets weren't his style. Bracken and Patchett might deal his dirt in; Parker might quash it to protect the Department. But Karen would know, and what was left of the marriage would go down--because she could just barely take that she'd married a drunk and a bagman. "Murderer" was one bullet they both couldn't dodge.

  Three hours in the air; three hours pent up thinking. The plane touched down at Puget Sound; Jack caught a cab to McNeil.

  Ugly: a gray monolith on a gray rock island. Gray walls, gray fog, barbed wire at the edge of gray water. Jack got out at the guard hut; the gatekeeper checked his ID, nodded. Steel gates slid back into stone.

  Jack walked in. A wiry little man met him in the sallyport. "Sergeant Vincennes? I'm Agent Goddard, Prison's Bureau."

  A good handshake. "Did Exley tell you what it's about?"

  "Bob Gallaudet did. You're on the Nite Owl and related conspiracy cases and you think Cohen's cell might have been bugged. We're looking for evidence to support that theory, which I don't think is so farfetched."

  "Why?"

  They walked bucking wind-Goddard talked above it. "Cohen got the royal treatment here, Goldman too. Privileges up the wazoo, unlimited visitors and not too much scrutiny on the stuff brought into their tier, so a bug could have been planted. Are you thinking Goldman crossed Mickey?"

  "Something like that."

  "Well, could be. They had cells two doors apart, on a tier Mickey requested, because half the cells had ruined plumbing and you couldn't house inmates in them. You'll see, I've got the whole row vacated and closed off."

  Checkpoints, the blocks--six-story tiers linked by catwalks. Upstairs to a corridor--eight empty cells. Goddard said, "The penthouse. Quiet, underpopulated and a nice day room for the boys to play cards in. We have an informant who says Cohen got approval on the inmates placed up here. Can you feature the cheek of that?"