Check labels—two run-throughs, a catch: stelfactiznide chloride, skull and crossbones.
I sniffed a jug—foul/familiar—my eyes burned. Put it back, dawdle—the women might show. No luck—just darting slave eyes. I walked back up front popping sweat.
Lucille at the counter, hanging shirts. Bump bump-ass grinds to a radio beat. Bump, flash: a vamp smile.
I smiled back. Lucille zipped her mouth, threw away a pretend key. Outside: Voldrich and Madge. Mama K.: wet makeup, tears.
I walked out to the car. Whispers—I couldn’t hear shit.
I hit a pay phone-fuck the E-Z Kleen shops.
I called Ad Vice and left a message for Junior: buzz Dan Wilhite, bag a Kafesjian snitch list. Probably futile-he’d refuse, hot to placate J.C. A message from Junior: he’d checked around, learned stel-what-the-fuck was a standard dry-cleaning chemical used worldwide.
Back to South Tremaine—one black & white in front. Bethel waved me over. “Sir, we got two more confirmations on that prowler night before last.”
“More details on his description?”
“No, but it looks like he’s a peeper too. We got that same ‘young, white’ make, and both people said he was peeping in windows.”
Think: burglary/mutilation tools. “Did they say he was carrying anything?”
“No, sir, but I think he could have secreted the B&E stuff on his person.”
“But the people didn’t call in complaints.”
“No, sir, but I got a lead that might tie in.”
Coax him: “So tell me, Officer.”
“Well, the woman in the house directly across the street told me that sometimes Lucille Kafesjian dances naked in her bedroom window. You know, with the lights on behind her at night. She said she does it when her parents and her brother are out for the evening.”
Guesswork:
Exhibitionist Lucille, peeper/prowler/B&E man hooked on the family.
“Bethel, you’re going places.”
“Uh, yessir. Where?”
“In general. Right now, though, you stick here. You keep going back to the addresses where no one was home earlier. You try to flesh out the description of the peeper. Got it?”
“Yessir!”
Rolling shitwork:
Wilshire Station, paper checks: arrest rosters, MO files, FI cards. Results: window-peeping young white men—zero. Dog-slashing burglars—zero.
University Station, arrest/MO—buppkis. Fl cards, three recent: a “youngish,” “average build” white man was reported peeping whore motels. My eyeball man?—maybe—but:
No motel addresses—just “South Western Avenue” listed. No complainant names or badge ID numbers listed.
No place to go right now.
I called 77th Street Station. The squad boss, bored:
No dog snuffs. A young white peeper spotted roof-prowling: fuck-pad motels, jazz clubs. No arrests, no suspects, no Fl cards—the squad had a new card system pending. He’d route me the club/motel locations—if and when he found them.
Tommy K.’s jazz records smashed?
More calls: Central Jail, LAPD/Sheriff’s R&I. Results: no dog-snuff arrests this year; zero on young white peeper/prowlers. 459 pops postKafesjian: no Caucasian perps.
Calls—a pay phone hogged three hours—every LAPD/Sheriff’s squad room tapped. Shit: no young white peepers in custody; two wetback dog slashers deported to Mexico.
Waiting: the Bureau pervert file.
I roIled downtown. An office check—no messages, a report on my desk:
CONFIDENTIAL
10/30/58
TO: LIEUTENANT DAVID D. KLEIN
FROM: SERGEANT GEORGE STEMMONS, JR.
TOPIC: KAFESJIAN/459 P.C.
947.1 (HEALTH & SAFETY CODE—ANIMAL MAYHEM)
SIR:
As ordered, I checked the Central Bureau and Sheriff’s Central Burglary files for 459’s similar to ours. None were listed. I also cross-checked 947.1 offenders (very few were listed) against the 459 files and found no crossover names. (The youngest 947.1 offender is currently 39 years old, which contradicts the prowler lead that Officer Bethel gave us.) I also checked local/statewide homicide files back to 1950. No 187’s/187’s collateral to burglaries similar to our perpetrator’s MO were listed.
Re: Captain Wilhite. I “diplomatically” asked him to supply us with a list of pushers/addicts informed on by the Kafesjians, and he said that their snitches were never tallied, that no records were kept to protect the family. Captain Wilhite offered one name, a man recently informed on by Tommy Kafesjian: marijuana seller Wardell Henry Knox, male negro, employed as a bartender at various jazz clubs. Captain Wilhite’s officers could not locate Knox. Knox was recently murdered (unsolved). It was a negro on negro homicide that presumably recieved only a cursory investigation.
Re the E-Z Kleen shops: at all three locations the staff flatly refused to talk to me.
Returning to Captain Wilhite. Frankly, I think he lied about the Kafesjian’s snitches never being tallied. He expressed displeasure over your argument with J.C. Kafesjian and told me he has heard rumors that the Federal rackets probe will be launched, centering on narcotics dealings in South-Central Los Angeles. He expressed concern that the LAPD’s suborning of the Kafesjian family will be made public and thus discredit both the Department and the individual Narcotics Division officers involved with the family.
I await further orders.
Respectfully,
Junior—half-ass smart when he tried. I left him a note: the peeper, stripper Lucille updates. Orders: go back to the house, run the canvassers, avoid the family.
Keyed up—glom the pervert file. Dog stuff/B&E/Peeping Tom, see what jumped:
A German shepherd—fucking Marine. Doctor “Dog”: popped for shooting his daughter up with beagle pus. Dog killers—none fit my man’s specs. Dog fuckers, dog suckers, dog beaters, dog worshipers, a geek who chopped his wife while dressed up as Pluto. Panty sniffers, sink shitters, masturbators—lingerie jackoffs only. Faggot burglars, transvestite break-ins, “Rita Hayworth”—Gilda gown, dyed bush hair, caught blowing a chloroformed toddler. The right age-but a jocker cut his dick off, he killed himself, a full-drag San Quentin burial. Peepers: windows, skylights, roofs—the roof clowns a chink brother act. No watchdog choppers, the geeks read passive, caught holding their puds with a whimper. Darryl Wishnick, a cute MO: peep, break, enter, rape watchdogs subdued by goofball-laced meat—too bad he kicked from syph in ‘56. One flash: peepers played passive, my guy killed badass canines.
No jumps.
5:45—keyed up, hungry. Rick’s Reef the ticket—maybe Diskant on TV
I drove over, wolfed bar pretzels. TV news: Chavez Ravine, traffic deaths, the Red.
Boost the volume:
“... and so I’m withdrawing for personal reasons. Thomas Bethune will be reelected by default, which I fervently hope will not guarantee the facilitation of the Chavez Ravine land grab. I will continue to protest this travesty as a private citizen. I...”
No more appetite—I took off.
Nowhere to go-just a cruise. South—some magnet pulled me.
Figueroa, Slauson, Central. A gray cop Plymouth behind me-say LAD, Exley ordered. I gunned it—adios, maybe tail car.
Peeper turf—nightclubs, fuck flops. Bido Lito’s, Klub Zamboanga, Club Zombie-low roofs, good for climbing. Lucky Time Motel, Tick Tock Motel. Easy peeping: roof access, weeds shoulder high. A brain click: catch Lester Lake at the Tiger Room.