Sisters/music/well-heeled father.

Mother suicidal—close three months before—“it spurred you to do a rash thing.”

“Your father gave me what that prostitute gave him.”

The peeper tape, Trick Man to Lucille: “that little dose you gave me.”

Doug Ancelet fires Lucille—”She gave these tricks of hers the gonorrhea.”

Snap call:

The peeper taped Lucille and his own father.

“Insanity.”

“Both our families.”

“Our family life and theirs too has done something to you.”

I drove home, changed, grabbed the tape rig, extra sketches and my john list. A pay-phone stop, a call to Exley—I pitched him hard, no explanation:

Leroy Carpenter/Steve Wenzel/Patrick Orchard—I want them. Send squadroom men out—I want those pushers detained.

Exley agreed—grudgingly. Agreed too: Wilshire Station detention. Suspicious: Why not 77th?

Unsaid:

I’m having a cop killed/I don’t want Dudley Smith around—he’s too close to this fur-thief cop—

“I’ll implement it, Lieutenant. But I want a full report on your interrogations.”

“Yes, sir!”

10:30 A.M.—Premier Escorts should be open.

Out to Beverly Hills—Rodeo off the Beverly Wilshire. Open: a groundfloor suite, a receptionist.

“Doug Ancelet, please.”

“Are you a client?”

“A potential one.”

“May I ask who recommended you?”

“Peter Bondurant”—pure bluff—a big-time whorehound.

Behind us: “Karen, if he knows Pete, send him in.”

I walked back. A nice office—dark wood, golf prints. An old man dressed for golf, PR smile on.

“I’m Doug Ancelet.”

“Dave Klein.”

“How is Pete, Mr. Klein? I haven’t seen him in a dog’s age.”

“He’s busy. Between his work for Howard Hughes and Hush-Hush he’s always on the run.”

Pseudo-warm: “God, the stories that man has. You know, Pete has been both a client for several years and a talent scout for companions for Mr. Hughes. In fact, we’ve introduced Mr. Hughes to several young ladies who’ve gone on to become contract actresses for him.”

“Pete gets around.”

“He does indeed. My God, he’s the man who verifies the veracity of those scurrilous stories in that scurrilous scandal rag. Has he explained how Premier Escorts works?”

“Not in detail.”

Practiced: “It’s by word of mouth exclusively. People know people, and they recommend us. We operate on a principle of relative anonymity, and all our clients use pseudonyms and call us when they wish to have an introduction made. That way we don’t have their real names or phone numbers on file. We have picture files on the young ladies we send out on dates, and they use appropriately seductive pseudonyms themselves. With the exception of a few clients like Pete, I doubt that I know a halfdozen of my clients and girls by their real names. Those picture files on the girls also list the pseudonyms of the men they’ve dated, to aid us in making recommendations. Anonymity. We accept only cash as payment, and I assure you, Mr. Klein—I’ve forgotten your real name already.”

Tweak him: “Lucille Kafesjian.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Another client mentioned her to me. A sexy brunette, a little on the plump side. Frankly, he said she was great. Unfortunately, he also said that you dismissed her for giving your clients venereal disease.”

“Unfortunately, I’ve dismissed a few girls for that offense, and one of them did use an Armenian surname. Who was the client who mentioned her?”

“A man in Stan Kenton’s band.”

Eyeing me—copwise now. “Mr. Klein, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m an attorney.”

“And that’s a tape recorder you’re carrying?”

“Yes.”

“And why are you carrying a revolver in a shoulder holster?”

“Because I command the Administrative Vice Division, Los Angeles Police Department.”

Turning florid: “Did Pete Bondurant give you my name?”

Flash the peeper sketch, dig his reaction: “He gave you my name? I’ve never seen him before, and that likeness reads much younger than the vast majority of my clients. Mr.—”

“Lieutenant.”

“Mr. Lieutenant Whatever Out-of-Your-Jurisdiction Policeman, leave this office immediately!”

I shut the door. Ancelet flushed heart-attack red—baby him. “Are you in with Mort Riddick on the BHPD? Talk to him, he’ll verify me. I bluffed in with Pete B., so call Pete and ask about me.”

Turning beet-red/purple. A decanter set on his desk—I poured him a shot.

He guzzled it and made refill nods. I poured him a short one—he chased it with pills.

“You son of a bitch, using a trusted client of mine as subterfuge, you son of a bitch.”

Refill number two—he poured this time.

“A few minutes of your time, Mr. Ancelet. You’ll make a valuable contact on the LAPD.”

“No good son of a bitch”—winding down.

I flashed the john list. “These are trick names I got out of a police file.”

“I will not identify any of my client names or pseudonyms.”

“Former clients, then, that’s all I’m asking.”

Squinting, finger-scanning: “There, ‘Joseph Arden.’ He used to be a client several years back. I remember because my daughter lives near the Arden Dairy in Culver City. This man trucks with common street girls?”

“That’s right. And johns always keep the same alias. Now, did this man trick with that Armenian-named girl you told me about?”

“I don’t recall. And remember what I told you: I don’t keep client files, and my picture file on that clap-passing slut is strictly ancient history.”

Lying fuck—file cabinets stacked wall-to-wall. “Listen to a tape. It’ll take two minutes.”

He tapped his watch. “One minute. I’m due on the tee at Hillcrest.”

Fast: rig the spools, press Play. Squelch, Stop, Start, there:

Lucille: “These places are filled with losers and lonesome creeps.”

Stop, Start, “Chanson d’Amour,” the trick:”…of course, there was always that little dose you gave me.”

I pressed Stop. Ancelet, impressed: “That’s Joseph Arden. The girl sounds somewhat familiar, too. Satisfied?”

“How can you be sure? You only listened for ten seconds.”

More watch taps. “Listen, I do most of my business on the phone, and I recognize voices. Now, follow this train of thought: I have asthma. That man had a slight wheeze. I remembered that he called me out of the blue several years ago. He wheezed, and we discussed asthma. He said he heard two men in an elevator discussing my service and got the Premier Escorts number out of the Beverly Hills Yellow Pages, where frankly I advertise my more legitimate escort business. I set the man up with a few dates and that was that. Satisfied?”

“And you don’t recall which girls he selected.”

“Correct.”

“And he never came in to look at your picture file.”

“Correct.”

“And of course you don’t keep a pseudonym file on your clients.”

Tap tap. “Correct, and Jesus Christ, they’ll tee off without me. Now, Mr. Policeman Friend of Pete’s Who I Have Humored Past the Point of Courtesy, please—”

In his face: “Sit down. Don’t move. Don’t pick up the phone.”

He kowtowed—twitching and fuming dark red. File cabinets—nine drawers—go—

Unlocked, manilla folders, side tabs. Male names—lying old whoremaster fuck. Alphabetical: “Amour, Phil,” “Anon, Dick,” “Arden, Joseph”—

Pull it:

No real name/no address/no phone number.

Ancelet: “This is a rank invasion of privacy!”

Assignations:

7/14/56, 8/1/56, 8/3/56—Lacey Kartoonian—call her Lucille. 9/4/56, 9/11/56—Susan Ann Glynn, a footnote: “Make this girl use a pseudonym: I think she wants clients to be able to locate her thru normal channels to avoid paying commission.”

“They are on the second hole already!”

I yanked drawers—one, two, three, four—male names only. Five, six, seven—initialed folders/nude whore pix.