Chapter Thirteen

Western and Adams—the whores briefed nice—quasi-deputies for the night.

Bluesuits out in force: popping tricks, impounding trick cars.

Prostie vans behind Cooper’s Donuts; Vice bulls bagging IDs. Men stationed southbound and northbound—hot to foil sex prowlers hot to rabbit.

My perch: Copper’s roof. Ordnance: binoculars, a bullhorn.

Dig the panic:

Johns soliciting whores-cops grabbing them. Vehicles impounded, van detainment—fourteen fish bagged so far, prelim Q&A:

“You married?”

“You on parole or probation?”

“You like it white or colored? Sign this waiver, we might cut you loose at the station.”

No Lucille K.

Some clown tried to run—a rookie plugged his back tires.

Epidemic boo-hoo—”DON’T TELL MY WIFE!” Leg-shackle clangs—the prostie vans shook.

Luck—whores mixed fifty-fifty: white girls, coons. Fourteen tricks arrested—all Caucasian.

Panic down below: Shriners bagged en masse. Five men, fez hats flying—a whore grabbed one and pranced.

I hit the bullhorn: “We’ve got nineteen! Let’s close it down!”

The station—dawdle over—let Sid Riegle work setup. Luck: Junior’s Ford by the squadroom door. Headlight signals goosed me walking in: Jack Woods, contingency tail man.

Squadroom, muster room, jail. I badged the jailer—click/whoosh—the door opened. Down the catwalk, turn the corner: the swish tank facing the drunk tank. Drunks and tricks hooting at the floorshow: drag queens masturbating.

Riegle outside the bars, marking nametags. He shook his head—too much noise to talk.

I scanned the fish—shit—nothing peeper-aged. Fuck it—I hit the show-up room.

Chairs, a height strip stage: one-way glass lit up harsh. Rap sheets and IDs laid out for me—I checked them against my john alias list.

No crossovers—expected—I’d run the fake names through the DMV. No real-name spinoffs; driver’s license ages thirty-eight and up—my peeper ten years older minimum. Six tricks misdemeanor rapsheeted—no Peeping Toms, burglars, sex fiends. A cover note: sixteen out of nineteen men were married.

Riegle walked in. I said, “Where’s Stemmons?”

“He’s waiting in one of the interrogation rooms. Dave, is the scoop on this real? J.C. Kafesjian’s daughter is some kind of prostie?”

“It’s true, and don’t ask me what Exley wants, and don’t tell me how the Department doesn’t need this shit with the Feds nosing around.”

“I was gonna mention it, but I think I’ll stay on your good side. One thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I saw Dan Wilhite in the watch commander’s office. Given what he is to the Kafesjians, I’d say he’s more than a little pissed.”

“Shit, that’s more shit I don’t need.”

Sid smiled. “Yeah, but it’s a duck shoot—they all signed the falsearrest waivers.”

I smiled back. “Move them in.”

Riegle walked back out; I grabbed the intercom mike. Shackle clang, shackle shuffle-whore chasers lit up on stage.

“Good evening, gentlemen, and listen closely”—the speaker kicked on loud.

“You have all been arrested for soliciting for purposes of prostitution, a California Penal Code violation punishable by up to a year in the Los Angeles County Jail. Gentlemen, I can make this easy or I can make this one of the worst experiences of your life, and the way I play it depends entirely on you.”

Blinks, shuffles, dry sobs—sad sacks all in a row. I read my john list and scoped reactions:

“John David Smith, George William Smith-come on, be original. John Jones, Thomas Hardesty—that’s more like it. D. D. Eisenhower-come on, that’s beneath you. Mark Wilshire, Bruce Pico, Robert Normandie—street names, come on. Timothy Crenshaw, Joseph Arden, Lewis Burdette—he’s a baseball player, right? Miles Swindell, Daniel Doherty, Charles Johnson, Arthur Johnson, Michael Montgomery, Craig Donaldson, Roger Hancock, Chuck Sepulveda, David San Vicente-Jesus, more street names.”

Fuck—I couldn’t scan faces that quick.

“Gentlemen, here’s where it gets either easy or very difficult. The Los Angeles Police Department wishes to spare you grief, and frankly your illegal extramarital pursuits do not concern us that greatly. Essentially, you have been detained to aid us in a burglary investigation. A young woman known to occasionally sell her services on South Western Avenue is involved, and I need to isolate men who have purchased those services.”

Riegle up on stage, mug shots out.

“Gentleman, we can legally hold you for seventy-two hours prior to arraigning you in Misdemeanor Court. You are entitled to one phone call apiece, and should you decide to call your wives, you might tell them that you are being held at University Station on one-eighteen-dash-six-zero charges: soliciting for purposes of prostitution. I understand that you might be reluctant to do that, so listen closely, I’ll only say it once.”

Rumbles—breath fogged the glass.

“Officer Riegle will show you photographs of that young woman. If you have purchased her services, take two steps forward. If you have seen her streetwalking, but haven’t purchased her services, raise your right hand.”

Pause a beat.

“Gentlemen, legitimate confirmations will get all of you released within several hours, with no charges filed. If none of you admit to purchasing this woman’s services, then I will conclude that either you are lying or simply that none of you have ever seen her or dallied with her, which means in either case that all nineteen of you will be subjected to intensive questioning, and all nineteen of you will be booked, held for seventy-two hours and arraigned on soliciting charges. You will be held during that time in the facility that we reserve here for homosexual prisoners, i.e. the queer tank, where those nigger queens were shaking their dicks at you. Gentlemen, if any of you do admit to dallying with the young lady, and your statements convince us that you are telling the truth, you will in no way be criminally charged and your disclosures will be kept in the strictest confidence. Once we are convinced, you will all be released and allowed to claim your confiscated property and impounded cars. Your cars are being held at a County lot nearby, and as a reward for your cooperation you will not be charged the standard impound fee. Again: we want the truth. You cannot lie your way out of here by claiming that you fucked her when you didn’t—your lies won’t wash. Sid, pass the mugs.”

Handoff: Riegle to a scrawny granddad type.

Dizzy, lawyer high—David Klein, Juris Doctor.

I looked down, held a breath, looked up: one Shriner and one lounge lizard stood forward. I checked driver’s license pix and matched up names:

Shriner: Willis Arnold Kaltenborn, Pasadena. Lizard: Vincent Michael Lo Bruto, East L.A. A rap sheet check, paydirt on the wop: child-support skips.

Sid walked in. “We did it.”

“Yeah, we did. Stemmons is waiting, right?”

“Right, and the tape recorder’s in with him. The fourth booth down, he’s there.”

“Put Kaltenborn in number 5, and the greaseball in with Junior. Take the rest of them back to the drunk tank.”

“Feed them?”

“Candy bars. And no phone calls—a smart attorney could wangle writs. Where’s Wilhite?”

“I don’t know.”

“Keep him away from the sweat rooms, Sid.”

“Dave, he’s a captain.”

“Then… shit, just do it.”

Riegle strolled out—pissed. I strolled, itchy-over to sweat box row.

Standard six-by-eights, peekaboo glass. Booth 5: fez man Kaltenborn. Number 4: Lo Bruto, Junior, a tape rig on the table.

Lo Bruto rocked his chair; Junior squirmed. Touch V.’s take: Junior doped up at Fern Dell. The Ainge roust, a late make: dope eyes. Worse now—pin slits.