Lo Bruto: “Jesus, I’m hungry.”
I shut the door.
“Hey, I’m starved. Can I have a sandwich or something?”
I hit the intercom. “Sid, bring the other man in.”
Lo Bruto out, Kaltenborn in: this fat geek wearing a fez. Junior sulked and hid his eyes.
The geek—”Please, I don’t want any trouble”—his voice half-ass familiar.
I hit Play.
Lucille: “In advance, sweet.” Pause. “Yes, that means now.”
Kaltenborn winced—hot potato.
Pause, “Okay, okay”—more familiar. Mattress squeaks, grunts—Fats sobbed along.
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.”
Big sobs.
I pushed Stop. “Was that you, Mr. Kaltenborn?”
Sobs, nods. Junior squirmed—junkie shitbird.
“Quit crying, Mr. Kaltenborn. The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we’ll let you go.”
His fez slid down cockeyed. “Lydia?”
“What?”
“My wife, she won’t…”
“This is strictly confidential. Is that you on the tape, Mr. Kaltenborn?”
“Yes, yes it is. Did…did the police record that…”
“That illegal extramarital assignation? No, we didn’t. Do you know who did?”
“No, of course not.”
“Did you play the daddy?”
Muffled, sob-choked: “Yes.”
“Then tell me about it.”
Fretting the fez—twisting it, stroking it. “I wanted to go again, so the girl put on her clothes and begged me to rip them off. She said, ‘Rip my clothes off, Daddy.’ I did it, and we went again, and that’s all. I don’t know her name-I never saw her before and I haven’t seen her since. This is all just a terrible coincidence. That girl was the only prostitute I ever trafficked with, and I was at a meeting with my Shrine brothers to discuss our charity fish fry when one of them asked me if I knew where prostitutes could be procured, so I—”
“Did the girl talk about a man named Tommy?”
“No.”
“A brother named Tommy?”
“No.”
“A man who might be following her, or tape-recording her or eavesdropping on her?”
“No, but I—”
“But what?”
“But I heard a man in the room next to us crying. Maybe it was my imagination, but it was as if he was listening to us. It was as if what he heard disturbed him.”
Peeper bingo.
“Did you see the man?”
“No.”
“Did you hear him say or mutter specific words?”
“No.”
“Did the girl mention other members of her family?”
“No, she just said what I told you and what you played me on that tape. Officer…where did you get that? I… I don’t want my wife to hear—”
“Are you sure she didn’t mention a man named Tommy?”
“Please, Officer, you’re shouting!”
Change-up: “I’m sorry, Mr. Kaltenborn. Sergeant, do you have any questions?”
Sergeant—this gun-fondling hophead—”N-no”—watch his hands.
“Mr. Kaltenborn, did the girl wear a FUR COAT?”
“No, she wore tight toreador pants and some sort of inexpensive wrap.”
“Did she say she dug STRIPTEASE?”
“No.”
“Did she say she frequented a Negro club named BIDO LITO’S?”
“No.”
“Did she say that peeling off a HOT FUR COAT was ecstasy?”
“No. What are you—?”
Junior dropped his hands—watch for a quick draw.
“Mr. Kaltenborn, did she say she knew a GORGEOUS BLOND POLICEMAN who used to be a boxer?”
“No, she didn’t. I…I don’t understand the thrust of these questions, Officer.”
“Did she say she knew a shakedown-artist cop with a THRUST for young blond guys?”
RABBIT—
Out the door, down the hall—Junior, his piece unholstered. Outside, chase him, sprint—
He made his car—heaving breathless. I grabbed him, pinned his gun hand, bent his head back.
“I’ll let you slide on all of it. I’ll pull you off the Kafesjian job before you fuck things up worse. We can trade off right now.”
Greasy pomade hair—he thrashed his head free. Stray headlights hit this dope face oozing spittle: “That cuut killed Dwight Gilette, and you’re suppressing it. Ainge left town, and maybe I got the gun she fired. You’re queer for that cunt and I think you pushed that witness out the window. No trade, and you just watch me take you and that cunt down.”
I grabbed his neck and dug in to kill him. Obscene—his breath, his lips curled to bite. I edged back—slack—a knee slammed me. Down, sucking wind, kicked prone-tires spinning gravel.
Headlights: Jack Woods in tail pursuit.
West L.A., 3:00 A.M. Junior’s building—four street-level units—no lights on. No Junior Ford parked nearby—pick the lock, hit the lights.
Aches groin to ribcage—hurt him, kill him. I left the lights on—let him show.
Bolt the door, walk the pad.
Living room, dinette, kitchen. Matched wood—fastidious. Neatness, grime: squared-off furniture, dust.
The sink: moldy food, bugs.
The icebox: amyl nitrite poppers.
Butt-filled ashtrays—Junior’s brand—lipstick-smudged.
Bathroom, bedroom: grime, makeup kit—the lipstick color matched the butts. A waste basket: red-lip-blotted tissue overflowing. An unmade bed, popped poppers on the sheets. I flipped the pillow: a silencer-fitted Luger and shit-caked dildo underneath.
Paperbacks on the nightstand: Follow the Boys, The Greek Way, Forbidden Desire.
A padlocked trunk.
A wall photo: Lieutenant Dave Klein in LAPD dress blues. Track queer thinking, zoooom:
I’m not married.
No woman heat pre-Glenda.
Meg—he couldn’t know.
The Luger smiling—”Go ahead, shoot something.”
I fired, point-blank silent: shattered glass/ripped plaster/ripped ME. I shot the trunk—splinters/cordite haze-the lock flew.
I tore in. Neat paper stacks—fastidious Junior. Slow, inventory them pro—
Carbons:
Johnny Duhamel’s Personnel file. Dudley Smith fitness reports—all Class A. Co-opt requests—Johnny to the fur job—fur-heist references checkmarked. Strange: Johnny never worked Patrol—he moved straight to the Bureau post-Academy.
More Duhamel—boxing programs—beefcake deluxe. Academy papers, Evidence 104—Junior told Reuben Ruiz he taught Johnny. Straight A’s, blind fag love-Duhamel’s prose style stunk. More fur-job paper: Robbery reports, figure Junior scooped Dudley—he made Johnny as the thief and Dud never tumbled.
A formal statement: Georgie Ainge rats Glenda on the Dwight Gilette 187. Lieutenant D. D. Klein suppresses the evidence; Junior tags the motive: lust. Grab those pages, safe-deposit-box info underneath: figure Junior had backup statements stashed at some bank. No mention of the gun or Glenda’s prints on a gun—maybe Junior stashed the piece as a hole card.
Plaster dust settling—my shots grazed some pipes. Miscellaneous folders, file cards:
Folder number one—Chief Ed Exley clippings—the Nite Owl job. Number two—odd Exley cases ‘53—’58. Concise—the Times, Herald—fastidious.
WHY?
The cards—LAPD FIs—four-by-six field questioning forms. “Name,” “Location,” “Comments”—filled in shorthand. I read through them and interpreted:
All locations “F.D.P.”—make that Fern Dell Park. Initials, no names. Numbers—California Penal Code designations—lewd and lascivious behavior.
Comments: homo coitus interruptus, Junior levies on-the-spot fines—cash, jewelry, reefers.
Sweaty, close to breathless. Three cards clipped together—initials “T.V.” Comments: the Touch Vecchio roust-credit Junior with extortion skill:
Touch calls Mickey C. power-broke and desperate. He’s hot to do something “on his own”; he’s got his own shakedown gig brewing. Feature: Chick Vecchio to pork famous women; Touch to pork celebrated fruits. Pete Bondurant to take pix and apply the strongarm: cough up or Hush-Hush gets the negatives.