“Have you ever seen him with anyone else?”

“Praise Jehovah, no I hasn’t.”

“When was the last time you saw the girl in my photographs?”

“Praise Jehovah, when she did that striptease at Bido’s maybe four, five days ago.”

“When was the last time she brought a trick to this front room here?”

“Praise Jehovah, maybe a week ago.”

“Where does she solicit her tricks?”

“Praise Jehovah, I don’t know.”

“Has she brought the same man more than once? Does she have regular tricks?”

“Praise Jehovah, I has taught myself not to look at the faces of these sinners.”

Chasco walked a piss bum up. “I don’t know, but I think maybe this guy’s not so sharp with questions.”

“This guy”: Mex, Filipino—grime-caked—a tough call. “What’s your name, sahib?”

Mumbles, hiccups—Jesus shushed him. “The cops call him Flame-O, ‘cause sometimes he sets himself on fire when he’s drunk.”

Flame-O flashed some scars—Moms took off going “Uggh.” Jesus: “Look, I asked him ‘bout that guy he rented the room for, an’ I don’t think he remembers so good. You still gonna drive me-”

Back to room 19—my blinders on. Throw the lock, eyeball it—zoom—a connecting door.

Room 19 to room 18—Lucille’s preferred fuck spot. Jamb-ledge jimmy marks—different than the front door marks.

Think:

Peeper hits or tries to hit Lucille’s room.

Peeper trashes his own room, leaves the silver, moves out panicked. Or: different pry marks on peeper’s front door. Say somebody else broke in. Make some third party involved?

I rattled the connecting door—no answer. A shoulder push—slack, give, snap-I rode loose hinges into room 18.

Just like 19—but no closet door. Something else: ripples on the wall above the bed.

Up close: buckled wallpaper, paste spackling. A square indentation—perforated drywall underneath. Peeled wallpaper—one thin strip, follow the line:

The wall to the connecting door—a drop to the crack under the door.

Odds on:

A bug—planted and removed, the mike above the bed—the peeper voyeurs Lucille, basic electronics skill—

I tore up the room—empty, zero, nothing. Number 19-dump it twice, closet swag: Jockey shorts tangling up a tape spool.

Panic move-out validated.

Moms and Jesus outside pitching tantrums.

I shoved through them double time. Granny chucked her tin can at me.

The Bureau—Code 3—a lab stop, orders: test the sheet-swatch jizz for blood type. My office, my old chem kit-dust the spool.

Smudges—no latent prints. Edgy now, I glommed a tape rig from the storeroom.

Nightwatch lull—the squadroom stood quiet. I shut my door, pressed Play, killed the lights.

Listen:

Static, traffic boom, window shimmy. Outside noises: business at the Red Arrow Inn.

Spook whores talking—ten minutes of pimp/trick rebop. I could SEE IT: hookers outside HER window. Silence, tape hiss, a door slamming. “In advance, sweet”—pause-”Yes, that means now”—Lucille.

“Okay, okay”—a man. A pause, shoes dropped, mattress squeaks—three minutes’ worth. The tape almost out, groans—his climax. Silence, garbled words, Lucille: “Let’s play a little game. Now I’ll be the daughter and you’ll be the daddy, and if you’re reeeeal sweet we can go again no extra.”

Traffic noise, driveway noise, breath. Easy to imagine:

That wall between them.

Surveillance not enough.

My peeper breathing hard—scared to bust down that wall.

Chapter Twelve

Static garbled dreams: Lucille talking sex jive to me. The lab, my wake-up call—the jizz tested out 0+. Chills off a late phone stint: Hollywood Vice called Junior’s queer roust story bullshit.

“Horse pucky—whoever told you that lied through his teeth. We’re too busy with the Will-o-the-Wisp to work fruits, and none of our guys have popped Fern Dell Park chicken in over a year.”

Coffee-half a cup-my nerves jangled.

The buzzer—loud.

I opened up—fuck—Bradley Milteer and Harold John Miciak.

Stern looks—their cop colleague in a towel. Miciak scoped my Jap sword scar.

“Come in, gentlemen.”

They shut the door behind them. Milteer: “We came for a progress report.”

I smiled—servile. “I have sources on the movie set accruing information on Miss Bledsoe.”

“You’ve been in Mr. Hughes’ employ for a week, Lieutenant. Frankly, so far you haven’t ‘accrued’ the results he hoped for.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Then please produce results. Are your normal police duties interfering with your work for Mr. Hughes?”

“My police duties aren’t quite normal.”

“Well, be that as it may, you are being paid to secure information on Miss Glenda Bledsoe. Now, Mr. Hughes seems to think that Miss Bledsoe has been pilfering foodstuffs from his actress domiciles. A criminal theft charge will violate her contract, so will you surveil her even more diligently?”

Miciak flexed his hands—no gang tattoos.

“I’ll begin that surveillance immediately, Mr. Milteer.”

“Good. I expect results, Mr. Hughes expects results.”

Miciak—jailhouse eyes, cop-hater fuck.

“First Flats or White Fence, Harold?”

“Uh, what?”

“Those tattoos Mr. Hughes made you burn off.”

“Listen, I’m clean.”

“Sure, Mr. Hughes had your record wiped.”

Milteer: “Lieutenant, really.”

The geek: “Where’d you get that scar, hotshot?”

“A Jap sword.”

“What happened to the Jap?”

“I stuck the sword up his ass.”

Milteer, rolled eyes oh-you-heathens: “Results, Mr. Klein. Harold, come.”

Harold walked. Fist signals back at me—pure White Fence.

Movie-set bustle:

Wine call—Mickey C. doling out T-Bird to his “crew.” “Director” Sid Frizell, “cameraman” Wylie Bullock—poke the head monster’s eyes out with a stick or a knife? Glenda feeding extras sturgeon, read her eyes: “Who’s that guy, I’ve seen him before.”

Rock Rockwell’s trailer—tap the door.

“It’s open!”

I walked in. Cozy: a mattress, one chair. Rockwell cranking push-ups on the floor. THE LOOK: cop, oh fuck.

“It’s not a roust, I’m friends with Touch.”

“Did I hear my name?”

Touch stepped out of the bathroom. No fixtures—just TV sets stacked high. “David, you didn’t see those.”

“See what?”

Rockwell slid up on the mattress; Touch tossed him a towel. “Meg’s my first customer. She told me she wants to put TV’s in all your furnished vacancies so she can raise the rent. Oh, excuse me. Rock Rockwell, David Klein.”

No hello—Rock toweled off. Touch: “Dave, what’s this about?”

Eyes on Rockwell—Touch caught the drift. “He can keep police-type confidences.”

“I had some questions about activities in Fern Dell Park.”

Rockwell scratched the mattress—Touch sprawled beside him. “Vice-type activities?”

I pulled the chair up. “Sort of, and it gets tricky because I think one of my men might be pulling shakedowns in Fern Dell.”

Touch tensed up.

“What? What is it?”

“David, what does this man of yours look like?”

“Five-ten, one-sixty, long sandy hair. Sort of cute—you might like him.”

No laugh—Touch coiled toward Rockwell.

“Come on, tell me. We go back—you know nothing you say leaves this room.”

“Well… since it sort of involves Mickey, and you’re his friend...”

Coax him: “Come on—like the magazine says: ‘off the record.’”

Touch stood up, threw a robe on, paced—”Last week, that guy, that policeman you just described to a T, he rousted me in Fern Dell. I told him who I was, who I knew, including Mickey Cohen, which he was oblivious to. Look, I was cruising—you know what I am, David—Rock and I, we have this arrangement—”