Carlisle—Previous Employment—no clicks.
Breuning—movie click—Wilshire Film Processing, developing technician—’37—’39—pre-LAPD.
Click—soft, circumstantial.
1:00 A.M.—back to Ad Vice. Stray thoughts: Pete guarding Chick at my El Segundo vacant.
Chick:
“THEY.”
Afraid to say “Kafesjian.”
Afraid to snitch they/THEM/who?
That message slip: “Call Meg. Important.”
Circumstantial—prickles up my short hairs.
Meg at Jack’s—worth a try. Three rings—Jack, edgy: “Yes?”
“It’s me.”
Background noise: high heels tapping. Jack said, “She’s here. She’s taking it pretty well, maybe just a little bit nervous.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow?”
“Right. We’ll hit the banks early, withdraw the cash and get bank drafts. Then we’re going to drive down to Del Mar, open some new accounts and find a place. You want to talk to her?”
Tap tap—Meg pacing—high heels made her stocking seams bunch. “No. Tell her it’s just goodbye for now, and ask her what the message was.”
Tap tap, low voices. Footsteps, Jack: “Meg said she’s got a partial trace on that building in Lynwood.”
“And?”
“She found some property evaluation reports in that storage basement at the City Hall. What she’s got is a 1937 report listing Phillip Herrick and a Dudley L. Smith as bidders on 4980 Spindrift. Hey, you think that’s the Dudley Smith?”
Sweaty hands—I dropped the phone.
Say it:
Ed Exley vs. Dudley Smith.
Chapter Forty
EMERGENCY COMMAND #’s—my desk card. Chief of Detectives (Home)—dial it.
Exley, 1:00 A.M. alert: “Yes? Who is this?”
“It’s Klein. I just figured out you’re working Dudley Smith.”
“Come over now. My address is 432 South McCadden.”
A trellised Tudor—lights on, the door ajar. I walked in uninvited.
A showroom living room, catalog perfect. Exley in a suit and knotted tie—2:00 fucking A.M.
“How did you find out?”
“I beat you to a bank writ and hit Junior Stemmons’ vault boxes. He had notes on you operating Duhamel, and Reuben Ruiz filled in some blank spots on the fur heist. I found out that Dudley and Phillip Herrick went in on some property together back in ‘37. Herrick and J.C. Kafesjian came to L.A. a few years before, and I’m betting Dudley was the one who set J.C. up with the LAPD.”
Standing there, arms crossed. “Continue.”
“It fits. My Kafesjian and Herrick files were stolen, and Richie’s prison records are missing. Dudley could have snatched them both easily. He loves developing protégés, so you shoved Johnny Duhamel in his face.”
“Continue.”
Shock him: “I killed Johnny. Dudley doped me up, provoked me and filmed it. A fucking movie exists. I think he’s waiting to use me for something.”
Exley “shock”—one neck vein pulsing. “When you said Duhamel was dead, I knew it had to be Dudley, but this film business surprises me.”
“Surprise me. Give me your end of it.”
He pulled chairs up. “Give me your take on Dudley Smith.”
“He’s brilliant and obsessed with order. He’s cruel. It’s occurred to me a few times that he’s capable of anything.”
“Beyond your wildest imaginings.”
Scalp prickles. “And?”
“And he’s been trying to set himself up to control the L.A. rackets for years.”
“And?”
“And, in 1950 he acquired some heroin stolen from a Mickey Cohen—Jack Dragna truce meeting. He enlisted a chemist, who spent years developing compounds with it, in order to produce the drug more cheaply. His design was to accrue profit through selling it, to utilize it to keep Negro criminal elements sedated and then branch out into other rackets. His ultimate goal was something along the lines of ‘contained’ organized crime. He wanted to perpetuate illegal enterprises within specific vice zones, most notably South Los Angeles.”
“Get to specifics.”
Slow—tantalizing me: “In ‘53 Dudley became involved in an attempt to take over a pornography racket. A meet was set up at the Nite Owl Coffee Shop. Dudley sent three men in with shotguns. A robbery was faked, and six people were killed. Dudley was instrumental in attempting to frame three Negro thugs for the murders. They escaped from jail and hid out, and as you know, I shot and killed them, along with the man who was hiding them.”
The room swirled—
“The case was assumed closed. As you also know, a man came forth later and gave the men I killed a valid Nite Owl alibi, which prompted a reopening. I know you know most of the story, but let two facts suffice: the actual gunmen were killed during the reopened investigation, and they left not one shred of evidence pointing to Dudley Liam Smith.”
Swirling—grab for threads:
Dudley—smut fiend?—MOVIE TIME. Sid Frizell shooting stag films in that courtyard—no connection to Smith.
“Dud’s got new takeover plans going—strictly Niggertown.”
“Bravo, Lieutenant.”
“He’s running Mickey Cohen?”
“Continue.”
“Mickey’s been scuffling since he got out of prison. Four of his men disappeared earlier this year—Dudley killed them. All Mickey’s got going is that stupid horror movie he’s bankrolling, which I don’t think ties to any of this.”
“Continue.”
“Mickey’s been acting strange since the Fed business started. He won’t dump his Southside coin machines, and I warned him half a dozen times. He’s got some out-of-town guys servicing slots in plain sight, with the Feds right there taking pictures. I mentioned it to Chick Vecchio, who handed me a line of shit about Mickey paying off a syndicate loan with his coin percentages. Chick’s in with Dudley. Dudley clipped those four Mickey guys and approached Chick. Chick’s the liaison between Dud and Mickey. That slot work with the Feds watching is some kind of setup.”
Exley fucking smiled. “You’ve put it together exactly as I have.”
“Get to Johnny. Tell me how you operated him.”
“No, tell me about your Stemmons evidence first.”
I ticked points: “I know about those bank accounts you set up. I know how you paid those reporters to write stories about Johnny. I know you paid off his debts, got him to tank that fight and got him into the Academy. You set up the fur heist yourself, so I’m thinking you arranged leads to have Dudley actually make Johnny for the heist. You knew how Dudley loved developing ‘protégés,’ so you put a fucking humdinger right in front of his nose.”
“Keep going.”
“Breuning and Carlisle—they’re in with Dudley.”
“Correct.”
“You got Johnny that Academy undercover job.”
“Elaborate on that.”
Leading me/pushing me/praising me—this string-pulling weak sister.
“You coached him to overreact. Dudley likes tough boys, so you made damn sure Johnny established some strongarm credentials.”
“Bravo, Lieutenant”—toss the dog a bone.
“You like running people as much as Dudley does. It must gall you to know he’s better at it.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“No, you cocksucker, I’m not. But I know it must get you to look in the mirror and see Dudley.”
Exley “anger”—a tight little grimace.
“Continue.”
“No, you give me a chronology. Dudley bit, and got Johnny assigned to the Mobster Squad. He’s the Robbery Division CO, so he got the Hurwitz heist pro forma. You planted leads to put Dudley on to Johnny, then what?”
“Then Johnny became an official Mobster Squad goon. It’s brutal work, Lieutenant. I always thought you’d be well suited for it.”
Tight fists—my knuckles ached. “Reuben Ruiz said Johnny was doing some ‘very bad things.’ Dudley started working him then, right? He made Johnny for the robbery, and he liked it. It impressed him, so he let Johnny in on his plans.”