“It’s Pete.”
“And?”
“And I found Madge Kafesjian.”
“Where?”
“The Skyliner Motel, Lankershim and Croft in Van Nuys. She’s in room 104, and the desk man says she’s on a hankie binge.”
“You’re staking her?”
“I’m on your payroll, and I’m watching that room till you say otherwise.”
“Just stay there. I’ll be out soon, so—”
“Look, I talked to Mr. Hughes. He said the Sheriff’s found a witness who saw Glenda by the Hollywood Hills fuck pad like the approximate night that Miciak bought it. They think she’s hinky, and they’re looking for her as a suspect. It looks like she blew town, but—”
“Just stick at the motel.”
“Your payroll, boss. How’s Chick—”
I hung up and dialed Chino direct.
“Deputy Warden Clavell’s office.”
“Is he in? It’s Lieutenant Klein, LAPD.”
“Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Clavell left me a list of names to read you.”
“Read off the released inmates first.”
“Current addresses too?”
“The names first, I want to see if something grabs me.”
“Yes, sir”—slow, precise:
“Altair, Craig V.... Allegretto, Vincent W.... Anderson, Samuel NMI.... Bassett, William A.... Beltrem, Ronald D.... Bochner, Kurt NMI.... Bonestell, Chester W.... Bordenson, Walter S.... Bosnitch, Vance B…Bullock, Wylie D.—”
Tilt/click/snap-SOMETHING missing/SOMETHING there:
Wylie Bullock.
Vampire cameraman.
Idea man—pressing gore on Sid Frizell.
“Burdsall, John C… Cantrell, Martin NMI—”
“Go back to Wylie Bullock. Give me his parole date and his last known address.”
“Um… he was paroled on November 9, 1957, and his parole disposition address is the Larkview Trailer Court, Arroyo and Brand in Glendale.”
Freddy in the hallway—yawning.
“Sir, do you want the rest of these names?”
I put the phone down. “Was there a guy named Wylie Bullock in your class at Chino?”
“Yeah… riiight… he was that guy following Richie Herrick around.”
Adrenaline—zoooom.
Chick: “Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee.”
Stay of execution: dumb guinea luck.
Chapter Fifty-Two
R&I/DMV:
Bullock, Wylie Davis—DOB 7/16/25. Brown/brown, 5’10”, 165. Popped 3/56—pornography beefs—3 to 5, Chino.
Occupation: photographer-cameraman. Vehicle: ‘54 Packard Clipper, white & salmon, Cal. GHX 617.
Freeways out to Glendale—my rat’s-ass car belched smoke. Wylie/ Madge/Dudley—TELL ME THINGS.
Arroyo off-ramp, south to Brand—the Larkview Trailer Court.
Parking slots: and no two-tone Packard tucked in. A map out front: “W Bullock”—three rows over, six trailers down.
Rock gardens, jacked-up trailers, white trash wives out sunning. My SOMETHING MISSING:
Frizell-Bullock confabs—Wylie assertive: Incest! Poke the vampire’s eyes out!
Three over, six down—a chromium Airstream. My .45 out surreptitious—knock.
No answer—no surprise—no Packard. I tried the door—locked—too many squarejohns around for a break-in.
The set—go.
Freeways back—my clunker wheezed. Griffith Park, the set—no Bullock vehicle in sight.
Mickey by the spaceship-wearing a Jew beanie.
“The Feds and LAPD were here chasing your tush. The Malibu Sheriff’s were looking for my erstwhile star Glenda Bledsoe, who I understand you are playing Bury the Brisket with. You break my heart, you handsome snatch bandit.”
No “crew”—just Mickey. “Where is everybody?”
“Shmuckface, Attack of the Atomic Vampire is in show-biz parlance a ‘wrap.’ Glenda may look a bit muscular in her concluding moments, given that Rock Rockwell portrayed her in long shots, but that aside I consider my movie a cinema landmark.”
“Where’s Wylie Bullock?”
“I should know? I should care?”
“Sid Frizell?”
“Paid off and on the night boat to Nowheresville for all I care.”
Beanie, flag lapel pin—hero Mickey. “You look happy.”
“I have a movie in the can, and I have made friends of the Federal persuasion. And do not judge me as a snitch fuck, because a certain U.S. attorney told me you have those tendencies yourself.”
Dudley’s lovable shmuck. “I’ll miss you, Mickey.”
“Run, David. The tsuris you have caused seeks retribution. Run to Galapagos and watch turtles fuck in the sun.”
The Cahuenga Pass—back over coughing fumes. Lankershim and Croft—the Skyliner Motel.
Horseshoe-shaped—cut-rate pool-view cabanas. Pete staked out curbside—snoozing with the seat back.
I parked behind him. Tell-me money in the trunk—I stuffed my pockets.
Skirt the pool over—room 104. 1 knocked—Madge opened up quick.
Haggard—heavy makeup made it worse. “You’re that policeman. Our house was broken into…you came over...
“Hankie binge”—wet eyes, tear tracks.
“I’m sorry about your daughter.”
“It was a merciful death for both of them. Did you come to arrest me?”
“No. Why should I—”
“If you don’t know, I won’t tell you.”
“I just wanted to talk to you.”
“So you filled your pockets with money.”
C-notes spilling out. “I figured it couldn’t hurt.”
“Did Dan Wilhite send you?”
“He’s dead. He killed himself.”
“Poor Dan”—one short sigh.
“Mrs. Kafesjian…”
“Come in. I’ll answer your questions if you promise not to slander the children.”
“Whose children?”
“Ours. Whoever’s. Just exactly what did you…?”
I sat her down. “Your family and the Herricks.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell me everything.”
1932—Scranton, Pennsylvania.
J.C. Kafesjian and Phillip Herrick work at Balustrol Chemicals. J.C. is a laborer, Phillip a solvent analyst. J.C. is crude, Phil is cultured—they are friends—nobody knows why.
1932: the friends move to Los Angeles together. They court women and marry them: J.C. and Madge Clarkson, Phil and Joan Renfrew.
Five years pass: the men toil at boring chemical jobs. Five children are born: Tommy and Lucille Kafesjian; Richard, Laura and Christine Herrick.
J.C. and Phil are bored, angry and poor. Their chemistry knowledge inspires a scheme: brew homemade liquor.
They do it—and thrive.
The Depression continues; poor people need cut-rate spirits. J.C. and Phil sell it cheap-work-camp workers their chief clientele. They accrue profits and hoard their shares.
J.C. and Phil—friends and partners.
J.C. and Phil—cuckolding each other.
Neither man knows:
Two affairs predate their weddings. Lovers: J.C. and Joan, Phillip and Madge. The adultery continues—five children are born—their patrimony inconclusive.
J.C. opens a dry-cleaning shop; Phil invests in a chemical plant. They continue their home liquor business.
J.C. pushes Phil to cut costs: lower-quality alcohol solvents mean greater profits.
Phil agrees.
They sell a batch to some CCC workers—a dozen men go permanently blind.
June 22, 1937:
A blind man carries a pump shotgun into a tavern.
He fires the weapon at random—three people are killed.
He sticks the barrel in his mouth and blows his own head off.
Sergeant Dudley Smith investigates. He learns the source of the shotgun man’s blinding; he tracks the liquor to Phil and J.C. He makes them an offer: his silence for a percentage of their holdings.
They agree.
Dudley recognizes J.C.’s mean streak—and cultivates it. He believes that Negroes could be kept dope-sedated; he urges J.C. to sell them drugs. He urges Chief Davis to let J.C. “serve” them: as a sanctioned dope peddler and informant to the fledgling Narcotics Squad.