Dudley hides his role-few know that he is J.C.’s recruiter. Chief Davis retires in ‘39; Chief Horrall takes over. He assumes credit for the Kafesjian recruitment—and taps Officer Dan Wilhite to serve as J.C.’s contact.
Years pass; Dudley continues to extract his business percentage. J.C.’s dry-cleaning shops flourish; he builds up a Southside dope kingdom. Phil Herrick earns legitimate wealth: PH Solvents is hugely successful.
The adultery goes on: J.C. and Joan, Phillip and Madge.
Both women have assured their lovers that birth control precautions have been taken. Both have lied—they loathe their husbands, but will not leave them. Madge knows J.C. would kill her; Joan needs Phillip’s money and newly developed social connections.
Five children.
Inconclusive patrimony.
No dangerous resemblances emerging.
Joan wanted J.C.’s baby: he treated her atypically tender. Madge wanted Phillip’s: she despised her vicious husband. Guesswork fathers softens things—both women believe it.
Post—World War II:
Major Dudley Smith, OSS, sells black-market penicillin to escaped Nazis. Phil Herrick, naval officer, serves in the Pacific; J.C. Kafesjian runs his dry-cleaning shops and dope racket. Dudley returns to L.A. late in ‘45; Herrick, fourteen months at sea, comes home unexpectedly.
He finds Joan nine months pregnant. He beats her—and learns that J.C. has been her lover throughout their marriage. She had planned to put the child up for adoption; Phil’s surprise return prevented her. She hid her pregnancy with long indoor sojourns; Laura, Christine and Richieaway at boarding school-do not know what happened.
Joan runs to J.C.
Madge hears them talking and confronts them.
J.C. brutally beats both women.
Madge admits her long affair with Phil Herrick.
Cuckold husbands, cuckold wives. Enraged men—two women beaten and raped. Terrible chaos. Abe Voldrich calls in Dudley Smith.
He has the five children blood-tested—the results are ambiguous. Joan Herrick delivers her baby; Dudley strangles it three days old.
Laura and Christine never learn the facts of their lineage.
Tommy, Lucille and Richie do-several years later.
The boys grow up friends—maybe brothers—whose father is whose? They burglarize houses and play jazz; Richie falls in love with Lucille. He comforts her with Champ Dineen—he didn’t know his bloodlines either.
Tommy emulates his “name” father J.C.—selling dope while still in high school. He’s always lusted after Lucille-now there’s a chance she isn’t his sister. He rapes her—and makes her his personal whore.
Richie finds out—and swears to kill Tommy.
Tommy relishes the vow—he considers Richie a weakling.
Richie drives to Bakersfield and buys a gun. He gets caught selling dope; Dudley Smith intercedes, but cannot convince the DA to drop charges. Richie Herrick, sentenced to Chino: 1955.
Tommy swears he’ll kill him when he’s released—he knows his personal whore Lucille deeply loves him. Richie swears to kill Tommy—he has debased the maybe sister he loves chastely.
Lucille runs wild—prostitute, window dancer, taunter of men. Phil Herrick seeks her out—his maybe daughter. Their first coupling is a street assignation. Lucille agrees just to taunt him.
His gentleness surprised her—this maybe daddy more like Richie than Tommy. They continued to meet: always talking, always playing games. Phil Herrick and Lucille: maybe daddy-daughter lovers, maybe just a whore and a john.
And Madge and Joan became friends. They hid from the madness together—fugitive time spent simply talking. Confidantes: years of partial shelter.
Richie escaped from Chine-fit only to voyeur-watch Lucille. Joan and Richie exchanged letters; Richie said a friend soon to be paroled would avenge him painlessly. This man seemed to have a hold on Richie: Richie never even said his name.
Joan killed herself nine months ago; the insanity peaked all at once. Lucille did not know Richie was watching her; Tommy read Junior Stemmons’ reports and assumed that Richie was the voyeur. He vowed to kill him—afraid that Exley-linked men would find him first. Lucille found him—their ticket to shelter in a needle.
Tissues on the floor—Madge fretted a whole box to shreds.
“Would you call that ‘everything,’ Lieutenant?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you’re a very curious man.”
“Do you know the name Wylie Bullock?”
“No.”
“Who killed Junior Stemmons?”
“I did. He was browbeating Abe Voidrich at one of our cleaning shops. I was afraid he’d find out the truth about Richie and Lucille, and I wanted to protect them. I attacked him rather foolishly, and Abe subdued him. We knew Dudley would protect us if we killed him, and Abe knew he was an addict.”
“So Abe shot him up and dumped him at Bido Lito’s.”
“Yes.”
“And you told Tommy, and he burned the place down. He hung out there, and he was afraid we’d find evidence on him.”
“Yes. And I don’t feel bad about that young man Stemmons. I think he was in as much pain as Richie and Lucille were.”
I emptied my pockets—big wads of cash.
“You’re naive, Lieutenant. Money won’t make J.C. and Tommy go away.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
“EVERYTHING” = “MORE” = “BULLOCK.”
Back to the trailer dump—a two-tone Packard in the lot. I jammed up behind it, spewing smoke.
Voices, feet kicking gravel.
Thick fumes—I got out coughing. Exley and two IA men—packing shotguns.
“Everything” means “more” means—
Fumes, gravel dust. Shotgun flankers, Exley sweating up a custom-made suit.
“Bullock killed the Herricks and trashed the Kafesjian place. How did you know—”
“I called Chino to get my own roster. That woman in the warden’s office told me you went crazy over Bullock.”
“Let’s take him. And get those guys out of here—I know he’s got stuff on Dudley.”
“You men wait here. Fenner, give the lieutenant your shotgun.”
Fenner tossed it—I pumped a shell home.
Exley said, “All right then.”
Now:
We ran three rows over, six trailers down-civilians watched us slackjawed. That Airstream—radio hum, the door open—
I stepped in aiming; Exley squeezed in behind me. Two feet away: Wylie Bullock in a lawn chair.
This bland geek:
Smiling.
Raising his hands cop-wise slow.
Spreading ten fingers wide—no harm meant.
I jammed the shotgun barrel under his chin.
Exley cuffed his hands behind his back.
Radio hum: Starfire 88’s at Yeakel Olds.
“Mr. Bullock, you’re under arrest for the murders of Phillip, Laura and Christine Herrick. I’m the LAPD chief of detectives, and I’d like to question you here first.”
Monster’s den: Playboy pinups, mattress. Bullock: Dodger T-shirt, calm brown eyes.
I goosed him: “I know about you and Richie Herrick. I know you told him you’d get him revenge on the Kafesjians, and I’ll bet you know the name Dudley Smith.”
“I want a cell by myself and pancakes for breakfast. If you say that’s okay, I’ll talk to you here.”
I said, “Make like you’re telling us a story.”
“Why? Cops like to ask questions.”
“This is different.”
“Pancakes and sausage?”
“Sure, every day.”
Chairs circled up, the door shut. No Q&A/no notebooks—Maniac speaks:
June, 1937—Wylie Bullock, almost twelve-”I was just a kid, you dig me?”
An only child, nice parents—but poor. “Our flop was as small as this trailer, and we ate at this gin mill every night, because you got free seconds on the cold cuts.”