(LOS ANGELES, 10:09 P.M., SATURDAY, 8/4/62)
We ran Code 3 to the Valley. Sheriff’s black-and-whites blew past us. We two-car caravanned. I rode with Max and Red. Harry and Eddie took the pole slot.
We dumped Buzzy Stein with the DB guys at Highland Park station. Buzzy saw the drop show and finked a hostage pad in Encino. Gwen Perloff was stashed in a vacant bachelor crib off Woodman. The Fidel Castro dimwits hid her in a broom closet. Max called the lead Sheriff’s IO. He ran the command out of the West Hollywood substation.
“Motel Mike” Bayless. Gloryhound cop and all-around nosebleed. He blew up four cholos at the Don José Motel, back in ’50. The scalps went to his head. His wife and kids called him “Motel Mike.” He named his dog Motel Mike Junior.
Six Sheriff’s cars blew past us. The Ventura Freeway was all siren blare and hot lights. It vibed interagency grief. Bill Parker usurps a county job from Sheriff Pete Pitchess. Parker and Pitchess were film-biz suck-ups. Parker went rogue for Darryl F. Zanuck. Pitchess overplays the rescue. Old man Zanuck’s shtupping Gwen Perloff. That’s the key to this grief.
Max passed me his flask. I took two pops. It blew my sixteen days off the juice.
The jolt hit me. My brain waves sparked. I replayed the drop show. Danforth screeched “It’s a put-up job.” The snatch played unkosher. The Marie “The Body” McDonald job nudged me.
It’s early ’57. Marie’s on the skids. The studios blackball her. Her nightclub act tanks. She concocts a jive kidnap tale. She says rough-trade boys abducted her and dumped her out near Palm Springs. She glommed brief headlines and saw it go pffft.
I brain-waved Buzzy Stein. He divulged the stash-hole location. He did not rat the Castro guys. He said they grabbed Gwen Perloff. The eyewit vehicle IDs did not comport with—
Max squelched my brain waves. “Danforth tried to escape. He took a wrong turn and went off the cliff. I stiffed a call to the Chief after I talked to Mike Bayless. He sent some AID guys out to clean up the mess. The Chief knows what’s what, but he likes our revised version better.”
Red laughed. “Motel Mike’s a bullshitter. He planted throwdown guns on those beaners he blew up. You want the punch line? They weren’t really righteous 211 guys. They tapped the till and swiped some beaver mags from a dirty-book stall, and took off running.”
I lit a cigarette. “Here’s what I don’t get. Bayless works SHIT—the Sheriff’s so-called Handpicked Intelligence Team—and we all know that intel is a big bug up Pete Pitchess’ ass.”
Max said, “Yeah. So, what’s Bayless doing shagging kidnap calls out of the West Hollywood squad?”
I made the jack-off sign. Two more Sheriff’s cars blew past us. We followed Harry and Eddie’s taillight blinks and cut to the far right lane. We hit the Woodman exit and hauled due north.
Ventura Boulevard held us back. We ran a red light and hit residential Encino. Sirens overlapped somewhere northeast. We blew a string of stop signs and caught a string of Sheriff’s sleds. We tailed them down a northbound alley. Said alley was narrow and way tight. We bumper-smashed trash cans and sent household shit airborne.
The alley dead-ended at Saticoy Street. Déjà vu ditzed me. I knew I’d been here before. My brain wires fritzed. I couldn’t place the context. This summer was half booze-and-dope blur.
The Sheriff’s cars swung east. Our two PD cars bird-dogged them.
The turf went downscale. Ranch spreads devolved to apartment blocks. Swinger joints. Schmooze pits. Stewardess crash pads. Fag cribs and bachelorette dumps for kept women.
And, this:
Eight Sheriff’s cars clustered outside the Tiki-Torch Village.
We fishtailed on over and skid-braked. Six uniformed deputies blocked the streetside entrance. They packed pump shotguns. Jumbo tiki torches flanked wrought-iron gates. It was San Fernando Valley hot. The torches leaked propane. The air reeked. The sky pressed down, explosive.
The Hats plus Freddy O. We’re here to observe. We killed one guy and locked one guy up. LAPD came in early. The Sheriff’s came in late. Let’s watch them save the girl.
We piled out of our prowl sleds and mingled. Max and Harry passed their flasks. The Hats plus Freddy O. got a good glow on. Eddie chatted up a Pan Am stew and got her phone number. A Mexicali stew told me the Tiki-Torch Village swung hard. Her shit-faced copilot confirmed it. He said four Sheriff’s dicks were inside the complex, right now. It was some kind of kidnapped-starlet caper.
Somebody yelled, “No suspects inside.”
Somebody yelled, “We’ve got her.”
I climbed the back bumper of a Sheriff’s black-and-white. It gave me a high and wide view. The shotgun deputies slid the gates open and stepped back. Here they come, here they come.
There’s Motel Mike Bayless. He’s tall and stupid-handsome. He’s got too-hip razor-cut hair. He’s waltzing out Gwen Perloff.
She’s no starlet, she wears glasses, she’s at least thirty-five. She’s big and rangy. She’s a schoolmarm knockout in a summer shift dress.