L.A. Herald-Express, 11/7/58:
This morning, in a brief, tersely worded prepared statement, U.S. Attorney Welles Noonan announced that Justice Department investigators assigned to the Southern California District Office would soon begin a “minutely detailed, complex and far reaching” probe into racketeering in South-Central Los Angeles. He called his investigation a “gathering of evidence aimed at establishing criminal conspiracies”; he said that his goal was to present “convincing evidence” to a specially convened Federal Grand Jury, with an eye toward securing major indictments.
Noonan, 40, former counsel to the U.S. Senate’s McClellan Rackets Committee, said that his investigation would encompass crimes including narcotics trafficking, jukebox, vending machine and slot machine illegalities, and that he would “thoroughly explore” rumors that the Los Angeles Police Department allows vice to rage in Southside Los Angeles and rarely investigates homicides involving both Negro victims and perpetrators.
The U.S. Attorney declined to answer reporters’ questions, but stated that his task force would include four prosecuting attorneys and at least a dozen specially selected Justice Department agents. He closed his press conference stating that he fully expects the Los Angeles Police Department to refuse to cooperate with the probe.
LAPD Chief William H. Parker and Chief of Detectives Edmund Exley were informed of U.S. Attorney Noonan’s announcement. They declined to comment.
Part Two.
Vampira
Chapter Ten
Scope the party:
The Cocoanut Grove, a society band. Chief Parker, Exley—smiles for our boy: Gas Chamber Bob Gallaudet. Drink waiters, dancing—Meg brought Jack Woods so she could mambo. Dudley Smith, Mayor Poulson, Tom Bethune—no thank-you to me for the tank job.
Newsmen, Dodger execs. Gallaudet grinning, bombed by flashbulbs.
Mingle, look:
George Stemmons, Sr., two Smith goons: Mike Breuning, Dick Carlisle. Read their lips: FED PROBE, FED PROBE. Parker and Exley holding cocktails—talking FED PROBE—bet money. Meg danced Jack by—hoodlums still jazzed her—my fault.
Show-up time: I owed Bob congratulations. Better to wait, get him alone—my bad PR lingered. I watched the crowd, matched thoughts to faces.
Exley—tall, easy to spot. He’d read my 459 report: the Lucille/peeper leads, a bogus addendum—shitcan the job, it’s dead-ended. He said keep going; some part of me rejoiced—I wanted to drag that family through the gutter. Both ends against the middle: I’d told Dan Wilhite I’d go easy.
Inspector George Stemmons, Sr., by the punchbowl—Junior twentyodd years older. Junior missing since the Georgie Ainge roust—stalemate time-he knew Glenda Bledsoe killed Dwight Gilette. His Kafesjian report: fluff. No john/whore file checks, my Darktown scoop made him too busy: that shakedown outside Bido Lito’s; that confab with a “prettyboy blond cop.” Pretty boy’s ID: Johnny Duhamel, Dud Smith’s new Mobster Squad lad.
Junior:no way to trust him; no way to dump him off the case just yet.
Solo now:
I checked the stationhouse lists—luck at University—john names, no hooker names connected. I ran them through the DMV and R&I—all phonies—most Vice cops didn’t press for real IDs—no heart to ream pussy prowlers. Luck crapped out—I saved the names to check against—most johns kept the same alias.
Darktown strutter:
I questioned Western Avenue whores, three nights’ worth—no Lucille plc IDs. I checked with the 77th Squad—still no locate on the peeper complaints. I peeped myself: the Kafesjian pad, car-radio jazz to kill boredom. Two nights—family brawls; one night, Lucille alone—a window striptease-the radio pulsed to her movements. Three nights total, no other watchers—make me the only voyeur. That Big Instinct confirmed: prowler/peeper/B&E man—all one man.
Homework, two nights’ worth: Art Pepper, Champ Dineen—listening to what the burglar smashed. My phonograph, the volume torqued: that Instinct solid. One session pushed me back to the house-I tailed Tommy K. down to Bido Lito’s. Tommy: in with his own key, weed bags stashed by slot machines. I called Lester Lake: glom me skinny on Tommy’s known associates.
Happy chatter—the party crowd swelling. Meg and Jack Woods talking—they’d probably start up again. Jack muscled our rent; we cut a percentage deal: his dice game, our Westside vacant. Holding hands: my sister, my hood friend. Exhausted—I shifted to Glenda Overdrive—
Hooked bad—I couldn’t subcontract the Hughes job. Moonlight work: I tailed her, watched for tails on me, ditched some maybes. Movie set skulks, rolling stakeouts:
Glenda raids Hughes’ fuck pads; Glenda donates stolen food to “Dracula’s” rest home. Frequent Glenda guests: Touch V. and Rock Rockwell—Georgie Ainge nowhere in sight. Last night, Good Deed Glenda: foie gras for the oldsters at the Sleepy Glade dump.
R&I—Bledsoe, Glenda Louise:
No wants, no warrants, no prostitution arrests. 12/46: ten days, juvie shoplifting. A Juvenile Hall file note: Glenda beat up an amorous bull dyke.
LAPD Homicide-Dwight William Gilette, DOD 4/19/55 (unsolved)—ZERO ON GLENDA LOUISE BLEDSOE.
Fake reports to Bradley Milteer: Glenda’s thefts deleted, her publicity date lied off—a “friendly outing.” Glenda Overdrive driving me: good scary/scary good.
I edged up to the crowd. Gallaudet had a new haircut: that Jack Kennedy/Welles Noonan style. A nod my way, but no shake—bad-press cops rated low. Walter O’Malley sidled by—Bob almost genuflected. Chavez Ravine, ballpark, ballpark—loud, happy.
“Hello, lad.”
That brogue—Dudley Smith.
“Hello, Dud.”
“A fine evening, is it not? Mark my words, we are celebrating the beginning of a splendid political career.”
An envelope passed: Dodger man to DA’s man. “Bob was always ambitious.”
“Like yourself, lad. And does the prospect of a stadium for our home team thrill you?”
“Not particularly.”
Dud laughed. “Nor I. Chavez Ravine was a splendid place to purchase spic trinkets, but now I fear it will be replaced by traffic jams and more smog. Do you follow baseball, lad?”
“No.”
“Not interested in athletics? Is extracurricular money your only passion?”
“It’s this Jew name I got stuck with.”
Howls—his suitcoat gapped. Check the ordnance: magnum, sap, switchblade. “Lad, you have the power to amuse this old man.”
“I only get funny when I’m bored—and baseball bores me. Boxing’s more my sport.”
“Ah, I should have known. Ruthless men always admire fisticuffs. And I phrase ‘ruthless’ as a compliment, lad.”
“No offense taken. And speaking of boxing, Johnny Duhamel’s working for you, right?”
“Correct, and a splendidly fear-inducing addition to the Mobster Squad he is. I’ve given him work on my fur-robbery job as well, and he is proving himself to be a splendid all-around young policeman. Why do you ask, lad?”
“His name came up. One of my men used to teach at the Academy. Duhamel was a student of his.”
“Ahh, yes. George Stemmons, Jr., am I correct? What a memory for students past that lad must have.”
“That’s him.”
Exley nailed me—a curt nod. Dud caught it: “Go, lad, Chief Exley beckons from across the room. Ah, the gaze of a shark he has.”
“Good seeing you, Dud.”
“My pleasure entirely, lad.”
I walked over. Exley, straight off: “There’s a briefing day after tomorrow. Nine o’clock, all Bureau COs. Be there—we’re going to discuss the Fed probe. Also, I want you to get ahold of the Kafesjian family’s tax records. You’re an attorney—find a loophole.”