“Income tax records require a Federal writ. Why don’t you ask Welles Noonan? It’s his district.”

White knuckles—his wineglass shook. “I read your report, and the john names interest me. I want a trick sweep on Western and Adams tomorrow night. Set it up with University Vice, and detach as many men as you need. I want detailed information on Lucille Kafesjian’s customers.”

“Are you sure you want to risk riling that family with the Feds around the goddamn corner?”

“Do it, Lieutenant. Don’t question my motives or ask why.”

Pissed—I hit the lobby steaming. A phone, a dime-buzz the Bureau.

“Administrative Vice, Officer Riegle.”

“Sid, it’s me.”

“Hi, Skipper. You telepathic? Hollenbeck just left you a message.”

“Hold on, I need you to set something up first.”

“All ears.”

“Call University and set up a trick sweep. Say eight men and two whore wagons. Make it eleven P.M. tomorrow night, Western and Adams, Chief Exley’s authorization.”

Sid whistled. “Care to explain?”

BRAINSTORM:

“And tell the squad lieutenant I need a row of interrogation rooms, and tell Junior Stemmons to meet me at the station, I want him in on this.”

Scribble sounds. “It’s on paper. You want that message now?”

“Shoot.”

“The Pawnshop Detail turned the Kafesjian silverware. Some Mexican tried to pawn it in Boyle Heights, and the shop owner saw our bulletin and stalled him. He’s in custody at Hollenbeck Station.”

I whooped—heads turned. “Call Hollenbeck, Sid. Tell them to put the Mex in a sweat room. I’ll be right over.”

“On it, Skipper.”

Back to the party—Gas Chamber Bob swamped—no way to check out graceful. A blonde swirled by—Glenda—a blink—just some woman.

Chapter Eleven

Jesus Chasco—fat, Mex—not my peeper. No rap sheet, a ‘58 green card running out. Scared—the sweat room sweats.

“Habla inglés, Jesus?”

“I speak English good as you do.”

Skim the crime sheet. “This says you attempted to sell stolen silverware to the Happytime Pawnshop. You told the officers that you didn’t steal the silverware, but you wouldn’t tell them where you got it. Okay, that’s one felony—receiving stolen goods. You gave your car as your address, so that’s a misdemeanor charge—vagrancy. How old are you, Jesus?”

T-shirt and khakis—sweated up. “Forty-three. Why you ask me that?”

“I’m figuring five years in San Quentin, then the boot back to Mexico. By the time you get back here, you might win a prize as the world’s oldest wetback.”

Chasco waved his arms; sweat flew. “I sleep in my car to save money!”

“Yeah, to bring your family up here. Now sit still or I’ll cuff you to your chair.”

He spit on the floor; I dangled my handcuffs eye-level. “Tell me where you got the silverware. If you prove it, I’ll cut you loose.”

“You mean you—”

“I mean you walk. No charges, no nada.”

“Suppose I don’t tell you?”

Wait him out, let him show some balls. Ten seconds—a classic pachuco shrug. “I do custodian work at this motel. It’s on 53rd and Western, called the Red Arrow Inn. It’s… you know, for putas and their guys.”

Tingles. “Keep going.”

“Well… I was fixing the sink in room 19. I found all this nice-looking silver stuck into the bed ... you know, the sheets and the mattress all ripped up. I… I figured … I figured the guy who rented the room went crazy…and… and he wouldn’t press no charges if I swiped his stuff.”

Grab the lead: “What does ‘the guy’ look like?”

“I don’t know—a guy. I never seen him. Ask the night clerk, she’ll tell you.”

“She’ll tell both of us.”

“Hey, you said—”

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Balls—two seconds’ worth—another shrug. I cuffed him up loose—keep him friendly.

“Hey, I’m hungry.”

“I’ll get you a candy bar.”

“You said you’d cut me loose!”

“I’m going to.”

“But my car’s back here!”

“Take a bus.”

“Pinche cabrón! Puto! Gabacho maricón!”

A half-hour run. Praise Jesus: no backseat noise, no cuff thrashing. The Red Arrow Inn: connected cabins, two rows, a center driveway. A neon sign: “Vacancy.”

I pulled up to cabin 19: dark, no car out front. Chasco: “I got my master key.”

I unlocked his cuffs. High beams on—he opened 19, backlit nice.

“Come look! Just like I tol’ you, man!”

I walked over. Evidence: doorjamb jimmy marks—recent—fresh splinters. The room itself: small, linoleum floor, no furniture. The bed: slashed sheets, ripped mattress spilling kapok.

“Go get the clerk. Don’t run away, you’ll piss me off.”

Chasco hauled. I scoped the bed close up: fork holes in the mattress, stabs down to the springs. Semen stains—my peeper screamed CATCH ME NOW. I ripped off a sheet swatch—the jizz could be tested for blood type.

“No-good ofay trash!”

I turned around—”Ofay trash dee-stroy my nice bed!”—this jig granny flapping a rent card.

Grab it—”John Smith”—predictable—ten days paid up front, checkout time tomorrow. Granny popped spit; Chasco pointed outside.

I followed him. Jesus, eager: “Carlotta don’t know who rented the room. She said she thinks it’s a young white guy. She said this wino rented the room for him, and the tenant guy said he had to have room 19. She ain’t seen the tenant guy herself. I ain’t either, but listen, I know that wino. You give me five dollars and a ride back to my car and I find him for you.”

Fork it over: two fives, the Lucille pix. “One for you, one for Carlotta. Tell her I don’t want any trouble and ask her if she knows this girl. Then you go find me that wino.”

Chasco ran back, passed the five, flashed the mugs—Moms nodded yes yes yes. Jesus, back to me: “Carlotta said that girl’s like a once-in-awhile—she rent short-timer and don’t fill out no rent card. She said she’s a prostie, and she always ask for number 18, right next to where I found that nice silver. She said the girl likes 18 ‘cause she got a street view case the police show up.”

Think:

Room 19, room 18: the peeper peeping Lucille’s trick fucks. Room 19 jimmy marks—make some third party involved?

Granny jiggled a tin can. “For Jehovah. Jehovah get ten percent of all rent money spent on this sinful premises tithed back to him. I gots the slot-machine gambleitis myself, and I kicks back ten percent of my winnings to Jehovah. You a handsome young police, so for one more dollar for Jehovah I give you more skinny on that slummin’, thrill-seekin’ white ho’ Hay-soos showed me them pictures of.”

Fuck it, fork it—Moms fed the can. “I seen that girl at Bido Lito’s, where I was indulgin’ my one-arm-bandit gambleitis to tithe Jehovah. This other p0-lice, he was askin’ people at the bar ‘bout her. I tol’ him what I tol’ you: she jist a thrill-seekin’, slummin’ white ho’. Later on, after hours, I seen that girl in the pictures do this striptease with this bee-you-tiful mink coat. That other police, he saw it too, but he actin’ cool, like he not a po-lice, an’ he didn’ even stop her from makin’ that disgraceful display, or act like he was too hot and bothered.”

Think—don’t jump yet. “Jesus, go get me that wino. Carlotta, what did that policeman look like?”

Chasco breezed. Moms: “He had light brown hair done up with pomade, an’ he maybe thirty years old. Nice-lookin’, but not as high-steppin’ as you, Mister Police.”

Jump: Darktown Junior lead number two. Reverse jump: Rock Rockwell at Fern Dell—some quiff said Ad Vice was working the Park. Junior copped to it—“a favor”—he owed a pal working Hollywood Vice.

Rattle rattle—I shoved Moms some change. “Listen, have you ever seen the man staying in this room?”

“Praise Jehovah, I seen him from the back.”