I AD—packed.
Chester Yorkin, the Fleur-de-Lis delivery man, stashed in booth #1; in 2 and 3: Paula Brown and Lorraine Malvasi, Patchett whores—Ava Gardner, Rita Hayworth. Lamar Hinton, Bobby Inge, Christine Bergeron and son could not be located; ditto the smut posers—Fisk and Kleckner failed to make them from extensive mugbook prowls. In booth 4: Sharon Kostenza, real name Mary Alice Mertz, a plum off Vincennes’ deposition—the woman who once bailed Bobby Inge out of jail and paid a surety bond for Chris Bergeron. In booth 5: Dr. Terry Lux, his attorney—the great Jerry Geisler.
Ray Pinker standing by with counterdope—so far none of the new fish looked drugged.
Two officers guarding the squadroom—private interrogations—strict I.A. autonomy.
Kleckner and Fisk grilling Mertz and pseudo Ava—armed with deposition copies, smut photos, a case summary. Yorkin, Lux and phony Rita cooling their heels.
Ed worked in his office: draft three of Vincennes’ script. A thought nagged him: if Lynn Bracken reported to Patchett in full, he would have yanked his people before the police could bring them in—the way Inge, Bergeron and son disappeared immediately pre–Nite Owl. Two possibles on that—she was playing an angle or their rutting had her confused and she was stalling to figure the upshot. Most likely the former—the woman cut her last confused breath at birth.
He could still taste her.
Ed drew lines on paper. Inez to check Dieterling connections to Patchett and his father—that thought still made him wince. Two I.A. men out looking for White—apprehend the bastard and break him. Billy Dieterling and Timmy Valburn to be questioned—kid gloves, they had prestige, juice. A line to the Hudgens kill and the Hudgens/Patchett “gig”—Vincennes’ deposition stated that Hudgens’ Badge of Honor files were missing at the time of his death, anomalous, the show was a Hudgens fixation. The Badge of Honor people were alibied for the murder—but another reading of the case file was in order.
Half his maze of cases read extortion.
Line to an outside issue—Dudley Smith, going crazy for a quick Darktown collar. Line to a rumor: Thad Green was going to take over the U.S. Border Patrol come May. A theoretical line: Parker would choose his new chief of detectives solely on the basis of the Nite Owl case—him or Smith. Dudley might send White back to break his autonomy; criss cross all lines to keep his case sealed.
Kleckner walked in. “Sir, the Mertz woman won’t cooperate. All she’ll say is that she lives under that Sharon Kostenza alias and that she makes bail for Patchett’s people when they get arrested for outside charges. Nobody’s ever been arrested working for him, we know that. She says she can’t ID the people in the photos and she’s mum on that extortion angle you told me to play up. She deadpanned the Nite Owl—and I believe her.”
“Release her, I want her to go to Patchett and panic him. What did Duane get off Ava Gardner?”
Kleckner passed him a sheet of paper. “Lots. Here’s the high points, and he’s got the actual interview on tape.”
“Good. You go soften up Yorkin for me. Bring him a beer and baby sit him.”
Kleckner walked out smiling. Ed read Fisk’s memo.
Witness Paula Brown 3/25/58
1. Witness revealed names of numerous P.P. call girl/male prostitute customers (specifics to follow in separate memo & on tape)
2. Could not ID people in photos (seems truthful on this)
3. Extortion hook got her talking
a. P.P. gave his girls/male prostitutes bonuses to get their customers to reveal intimate details of their lives
b. P.P. makes his prosts quit at 30 (apparent bee in his bonnet)
c. On in-home prostitution assignments, P.P. had prosts leave doors/windows open so men with cameras could take compromising photos. Prosts also made wax impressions of locks on certain rich custs doors
d. P.P. had famous (T. Lux obviously) plastic surgeon cut male/female prosts to look like movie stars and thus make more $
e. Male prosts extorted $ from married homosexual cuts & split take with P.P.
f. Bored by Nite Owl quests (obviously has no guilty knowledge)
Astounding audacious perversion.
Ed hit sweatbox row, checked the mirrors. Fisk and phony Ava talking; Kleckner and Yorkin drinking beer. Terry Lux reading a magazine, Jerry Geisler fuming. Lorraine Malvasi alone in a cloud of smoke. Astounding audacious perversion—the woman had Rita Hayworth’s face down to the bone, up to the hairdo from Gilda.
He opened the door. Rita/Lorraine stood up, sat down, lit a cigarette. Ed handed her Fisk’s memo. “Please read this, Miss Malvasi.”
She read, chewing lipstick. “So?”
“So do you confirm that or not?”
“So I’m entitled to a lawyer.”
“Not for seventy-two hours.”
“You can’t hold me here that long.”
“Caaant”—a bad New York accent. “Not here, but we can hold you at the Woman’s Jail.”
Lorraine bit at a nail, drew blood. “You caan’t.”
“Sure I can. Sharon Kostenza’s in custody, so she can’t make bail for you. Pierce Patchett is under surveillance and your friend Ava just spilled what you read there. She talked first, and all I want you to do is fill in some blanks.”
A little sob. “I caan’t.”
“Why not?”
“Pierce has been too nice to—”
Cut her off. “Pierce is finished. Lynn Bracken turned state’s on him. She’s in protective custody, and I can go to her for the answers or save myself the trouble and ask you.”
“I caaan’t.”
“You can and you will.”
“No, I caaan’t.”
“You’d better, because you’re an accessory to eleven felonies in Paula Brown’s statement alone. Are you afraid of the dykes at the jail?”
No answer.
“You should be, but the matrons are worse. Big husky bull daggers with nightsticks. You know what they do with those—”
“All right all right all right! All right I’ll tell you!”
Ed took out a notepad, wrote “Chrono.” Lorraine: “It’s not Pierce’s fault. This guy made him do it.”
“What guy?”
“I don’t know. Really, for real, I don’t know.”
“Chrono” underlined. “When did you start working for Patchett?”
“When I was twenty-one.”
“Give me the year.”
“1951.”
“And he had Terry Lux perform surgery on you?”
“Yes! To make me more beautiful!”
“Easy now, please. Now a second ago you said that a guy—”
“I don’t know who the guy is! I caan’t tell you what I don’t know!”
“Sssh, please. Now, you confirmed Paula Brown’s statement and you said that a ‘guy,’ whose identity you don’t know, coerced Patchett into the extortion plans detailed in that statement. Is that correct?”
Lorraine put out her cigarette, lit another one. “Yes. Extortion is like blackmail, right, so yes.”
“When, Lorraine? Do you know when ‘this guy’ approached Patchett?”
She counted on her fingers. “Five years ago, May.”
“Chrono” hard underlined. “That’s May of 1953?”
“Yeah, ’cause my father died that month. Pierce called us kids in and said we had to do it, he didn’t want to, but this guy had him by the you-know-whats. He didn’t say the guy’s name and I don’t think none of the other kids know it either.”
“Chrono” one month post–Nite Owl. “Think fast, Lorraine. The Nite Owl massacre. Remember that?”
“What? Some people got shot, right?”
“Never mind. What else did Patchett tell you when he called you in?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing else on Patchett and extortion? Remember, I’m not asking you if you did any of this. I’m not asking you to incriminate yourself.”
“Well, maybe three months or so before that I heard Veronica—I mean Lynn—and Pierce talking. He said him and that scandal mag man who got killed later were gonna run this squeeze thing where Pierce would tell him about our clients’ secret little…you know, fetishes, and the man would threaten the clients with being in Hush-Hush. You know, pay money or be in the scandal mag.”
Extortion theory validated. An instinct: on some level Lynn was playing straight, she hadn’t told Patchett to prepare—he never would have let these people come in. “Lorraine, did Sergeant Kleckner show you some pornographic pictures?”
A nod. “I told him and I’ll tell you. I don’t know any of the people and those pictures gave me the creeps.”
Ed walked out. Duane Fisk in the hallway. “Good work, sir. When you got her on that ‘this guy’ bit, I went back and ran it by Ava. She confirmed it and confirmed that no ID.”
Ed nodded. “Tell her that Rita and Yorkin have been booked, then release her. I want her to go back to Patchett. How’s Kleckner doing with Yorkin?”
Fisk shook his head. “That boy’s a hardcase. He’s practically daring Don to make him talk. Hey, where’s Bud White now that we need him?”
“Amusing, but don’t keep it up. And right now I want you to take Lux and Geisler to lunch. Lux is here voluntarily, so be nice. Tell Geisler that this is a multiple homicide major conspiracy case, and tell him Lux gets full collateral immunity for his cooperation and a signed promise of no courtroom testimony. Tell him it’s already in writing, and if he wants verification to call Ellis Loew.”
Fisk nodded, walked down to booth 5. Ed checked the #1 look-in.
Chester Yorkin wising off at the mirror: making faces, flipping the bird. Skinny, a pompadour flopped over his eyes oozing grease. Welts on his arms—maybe old needle marks.
Ed opened the door. Yorkin said, “Hey, I know you. I read about you.”
Tracks confirmed—scar tissue on the welts. “I’ve been in the news.”
Giggle, giggle. “This is an old one, kemo sabe. Something like you saying, ‘I never hit suspects ’cause that’s the cop lowered to the level of the criminal.’ You wanta hear my answer? I never snitch, ’cause cops are all cocksuckers who get their cookies off making guys talk.”
“You through?”—Bud White’s stock line.
“No. Your father takes it up the ass from Moochie Mouse.”
Scared, but he did it—an elbow to the windpipe. Yorkin gasped; Ed got behind him, cuffed him, shoved him to the floor.
Scared, but steady hands: look, Dad, no fear.
Yorkin backed into a corner.
Scared, another Bad Bud move: a chair, a roundhouse swing, the chair smashed to the wall just above the suspect’s head. Yorkin tried to squirm away; Ed kicked him back to his corner. Slow now: don’t let your voice break, don’t let your eyes go soft behind your glasses. “Everything. I want to know about the smut and the other shit you push through Fleur-de-Lis. Everything. You start with those tracks on your arms and why a smart man like Patchett trusts a junkie like you. And you know one thing right now—Patchett is finished and I’m the only one who can cut you a deal. Do you understand me?”
Yorkin bobbed his head yes yes yes. “Test pilot! I flew for him! Test pilot!”
Ed unlocked his cuffs. “Say that again.”
Yorkin rubbed his neck. “Guinea pig.”
“What?”
“I let him test horse on me. Here and there, a little at a time.”
“Start over. Slowly.”
Yorkin coughed. “Pierce got this heroin stolen off his Cohen—Jack Dragna deal years ago. This guy Buzz Meeks left some with these guys Pete and Bax Englekling, just a sample, and they gave it to their father, who was some kind of chemistry hotshot. He taught Pierce in college, and he laid the shit off to him and died, a heart attack or something. This other guy, I don’t know his name so don’t ask me, he killed Meeks or something like that. He got the rest of the shit, like eighteen pounds’ worth. Pierce has been developing compounds with the stuff for years. He wants to make the cheapest and the safest and the best. I just…I just take some test pops.”
Astounding lines crossing. “You were making deliveries for Fleur-de-Lis five years ago, right?”
“Right, yeah, sure.”
“You and Lamar Hinton.”
“I ain’t seen Lamar in years, you can’t pin Lamar’s shit on me!”
Ed grabbed the spare chair, brandished it. “I don’t want to. Give me an answer on this, and if I like it I’ll owe you a solid. It’s a test and you’re a test pilot, so you should do well. Who shot at Jack Vincennes outside the Hollywood drop back in ’53?”
Yorkin cringed. “Me. Pierce told me to clip him. I shouldn’t of done it by the drop. I fucked up and Pierce got pissed.”
Patchett nailed: attempted murder on a police officer. “What did he do to you for that?”
“He tested me bad. He gave me all these bad compounds he said he had to eliminate. He made me take these bad fucking flights.”
“So you hate him for it.”
“Man, Pierce ain’t like regular people. I hate him, but I dig him too.”
Ed pushed the chair away. “Do you remember the Nite Owl shootings?”
“Sure, years ago. What’s that got to do—”
“Never mind, and here’s the important thing. If you fill this in for me, I’ll give you a written immunity statement and put you up in protective custody until Patchett’s down. Smut, Chester. You remember those orgy books Fleur-de-Lis was running five years ago?”
Yorkin bobbed his head yes.
“The ink blood on the pictures, do you remember that?”
Yorkin smiled—snitching eager now. “I know that story good. Pierce is going down for real?”
Ten hours from the script. “Maybe tonight.”
“Then fuck him for all those bad flights.”
“Chester, just tell me slowly.”
Yorkin stood up, worked the kinks from his legs. “You know what’s a bitch about Pierce? He’d say all these things around me when I was on a flight, like I was harmless ’cause I couldn’t remember nothing he said.”
Ed got out his notebook. “Try to tell it in order.”
Yorkin rubbed his throat, coughed. “Okay, Pierce had this old string of girls that he let go, this was around when we were moving them picture books. Some guy, I don’t know his name, he talked some of the girls and their johns into posing for them pictures. He made books out of them and went to Pierce to get money to move the books wide, you know, he promised Pierce a cut. Pierce, he liked the idea, but he didn’t want to expose his girls or their johns. He bought a bunch of the books off the guy to move through Fleur-de-Lis, you know, just a close distribution he called it, like a test market, he figured he could keep track of the stuff that way.”
Old lines crossing: the close distribution wasn’t that close, Ad Vice retrieved throwaway copies—Vincennes to the case. “Keep going, Chester.”
“Well, the guy who made the stuff, somehow he weaseled some info on the Englekling brothers out of Pierce, how they had this printing press place and was always bent for money. He found himself a front man, and the front man, he approached the brothers. You know, a plan to make the shit bulk and move it.”
The front man: Duke Cathcart. Zigzag lines from Cohen to the brothers, the brothers to Patchett, back on a sideswipe: Mickey at McNeil Island—then Goldman and Van Gelder. Line the heroin to the pornography. “Chester, how do you know all this?”
Yorkin laughed. “I’d be on a mainline flight and Pierce, he’d be on safe old white horse up the nose. He’d just jaw at me like I some kind of dog you talk to.”
“So Patchett and the smut are dead, right? All he’s interested in is pushing the heroin.”
“Nix. That guy who brought Pierce the eighteen pounds years ago? Well, he’s got a hard-on for the smut. He’s got lists of all these rich perverts and all these contacts in South America. Him and Pierce, they sat on the original pictures for years, then they had some new books made up who-knows-where. They got the shit in a warehouse someplace, I don’t know where, just waiting to go. I think Pierce was waiting for some kind of heat to die down.”
No new lines crossed. A phrase sunk in: profit motive. Pornography by itself was chancy; twenty pounds of heroin developed meant millions. Yorkin said, “One more ’case you get antsy on my deal. Pierce has got him a booby-trapped safe by his house. He’s got money, dope, all kinds of stuff stashed there.”
Ed kept thinking MONEY.
Yorkin: “Hey, talk to me! You want the new drop address? 8819 Linden, Long Beach. Exley, talk to me!”
“Steak in your cell, Chester. You’ve earned it.”
* * *
Fresh lines—Ed pulled Fisk’s and Kleckner’s summaries, added the Yorkin/Malvasi revelations.
Heroin and pornography lined. “The Guy” who made the smut books as Sid Hudgens’ killer, his front man Duke Cathcart—killed by Dean Van Gelder, ordered killed or merely approached by Davey Goldman—who learned of the smut proposal via the bug in Mickey Cohen’s cell. Cohen omnipresent—his stolen heroin ended up with both the Engleklings and “The Man” who brought Patchett the eighteen pounds of “H” for development, “The Man” who also loved pornography and convinced Patchett to manufacture new books from the 1953 prototypes. An instinct: Cohen was Mr. Patsy going back eight years, in and out of jail, a focal point who never dealt his own hand into the welter of cases. A line to a conclusion: the Nite Owl killings were semiprofessional at least, an attempt to take over the heroin and pornography rackets of Pierce Patchett. Cathcart, attempting to push the smut on his own, was the focus of the killings. Did he misrepresent his importance to the wrong people, or did the shooters deliberately take out Van Gelder, knowing or not knowing he was a Cathcart impersonator? Lines to organized crime intrigue, semipro at least, with all mob lines dead or incapacitated: Franz Englekling and sons—dead, Davey Goldman a vegetable, Mickey Cohen befuddled by the action going on around him. A question line: who clipped Pete and Bax Englekling? The terror line: Loren Atherton, 1934. How could it be?
Fisk rapped on the door. “Sir, I brought Lux and Geisler back.”
“And?”
“Geisler gave me a prepared statement.”
“Read it.”
Fisk pulled out a sheet. “ ‘Pertaining to my relationship with Pierce Morehouse Patchett, I, Terence Lux, M.D., do offer the following notarized statement. To wit: my relationship with Pierce Patchett is professional: i.e., I have performed extensive plastic surgery on a number of male and female acquaintances of his, perfecting already existing resemblances to exact resemblances of several notable actors and actresses. Unsubstantiated rumors hold that Patchett employs these young people for purposes of prostitution, but I have no conclusive evidence that this is true. Duly sworn,’ et cetera.”
Ed said, “Not good enough. Duane, you take Yorkin and Rita Hayworth across the street and book them. Aiding and Abetting, and leave the arrest dates blank. Allow them one phone call each, then go down to Long Beach and seize 8819 Linden. That’s a Fleur-de-Lis drop, and I’m sure Patchett’s cleaned it out, but do it anyway. If you find the place virgin, bust it up and leave the door open.”
Fisk swallowed. “Uh, sir? Bust it up? And no booking date on our suspects?”
“Bust it up. Make a statement. And don’t question my orders.”
Fisk said, “Uh, yes, sir.” Ed closed the door, buzzed Kleckner. “Don, send Dr. Lux and Mr. Geisler in.”
“Yes, sir,” loud on the intercom. Whispered: “They’re pissed, Captain. Thought you should know.”
Ed opened the door. Geisler and Lux walked up—brusque.
No handshakes. Geisler said, “Frankly, that lunch didn’t begin to cover the hourly rate I’m going to have to charge Dr. Lux. I think it’s reprehensible that he came here voluntarily and was kept waiting so long.”
Ed smiled. “I apologize. I accept the formal statement you offered and I have no real questions for Dr. Lux. I have just one favor to ask and a large one to grant in return. And send me your bill, Mr. Geisler. You know I can afford it.”
“I know your father can. Continue, please. You’re holding my interest so far.”
Ed to Lux. “Doctor, I know who you know and you know who I know. And I know you deal in legal morphine cures. Help me with something and I’ll pledge my friendship.”
Lux cleaned his nails with a scalpel. “The Daily News says you’re obsolescent.”
“They’re mistaken. Pierce Patchett and heroin, Doctor. I’ll settle for rumors and I won’t ask for your sources.”
Geisler and Lux went into a huddle—a step out the door, whispers. Lux broke it off. “I’ve heard Pierce is connected to some very bad men who want to control the heroin trade in Los Angeles. He’s quite the chemist, you know, and he’s been developing a special blend for years. Hormones, antipsychotic strains, quite a brew. I’ve heard it puts regular heroin to shame, and I heard it’s ready to be manufactured and sold. One in my column, Captain. Jerry, take the man at his word and send him my bill.”
* * *
Semipro, pro—his new lines all spelled HEROIN. Ed called Bob Gallaudet, left a message with his secretary: Nite Owl maybe breaking—call me. A picture on his desk hooked him: Inez and his father at Arrowhead. He called Lynn Bracken.
“Hello?”
“Lynn, it’s Exley.”
“God, hello.”
“You didn’t go to Patchett, did you?”
“Did you think I would? Were you setting me up to?”
Ed laid the picture face down. “I want you to get out of L.A. for a week or so. I have a place at Lake Arrowhead, you can stay there. Leave this afternoon.”
“Is Pierce…”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Will you come up?”
Ed checked the Vincennes script. “As soon as I set something up. Have you seen White?”
“He came and went, and I don’t know where he is. Is he all right?”
“Yes. No, shit, I don’t know. Meet me at Fernando’s on the lake. It’s right by my place. Say six?”
“I’ll be there.”
“I figured you’d take some convincing.”
“I’ve already convinced myself of lots of things. Leaving town just makes it easier.”
“Why, Lynn?”
“The party was over, I guess. Do you think keeping your mouth shut’s a heroic act?”