(LOS ANGELES, 2:00 P.M., THURSDAY, 9/13/62)
The Wilshire Ebell. Home to chamber recitals and prep-school teas. Plus, Moral Rearmament and Ayn Rand study groups.
Eight hundred seats. A raised stage and lectern. The Hancock Park Ladies Guild invites speakers. Paul de River’s due today.
His topic: “The Criminal Consciousness of Our Society.”
I took an aisle seat. Nat, Phil, and Morty Bendish backstopped me. Nat brought his rowdy kid brother, Kareem. I paid twelve winos to mutter and belch.
It’s a put-the-word-out scenario. It may be precipitous. Albie Aadland knows we know. Ingrid Irmgard knows we know. De River will know—if he’s sentient and he plays in at all. Gwen Perloff knows we know. She’s nullified my knowledge. She knows I killed Paul Mitchell Grenier.
Intel stood ready. Three cameramen and two soundmen rolled film at the back. The AC blew a fuse. The room broiled. Four hundred stiffs squirmed in their seats. They were pensioner age and dead bored. I’m here to furnish distraction.
An old girl walked to the lectern. She introduced “the learned and savvy Dr. de River.” She dropped his résumé and ballyhooed his service to the “psychically ravaged” and the “So Cal cognoscenti.” De River creaked onstage. I heard his bones pop six rows back. He pledged a fast-paced chat and a Q and A after. He cleared his throat and hocked into a hankie. He needed a haircut. He needed a whisk broom. Scalp gack dusted his suit coat.
De River launched. His faux-French accent dipped in and out. Big words proliferated. The winos sucked T-bird and evinced restlessness. De River wandered off point. The talk went pity-party. The LAPD fired me/the State Med Board censured me/my Jap publisher owes me money. I support sterilization for habitual criminals and mental defectives. Don’t look so shocked. I don’t mean snip-snip.
The Doc cranked it and lost it. The emcee lady panicked. She held up an Applause!!! sign. The clap-claps ran lukewarm. An old lady trekked the aisles with a microphone. Morty Bendish called her over.
He grabbed the mike. “Doc, that criminal consciousness rebop lacks panache. Let’s get down to the oooga-booga of crime in L.A. today. By that, I mean the Sex Creep, who’s violated the homes of six luscious westside divorcées. I’ve been writing about it in the Mirror-News, and my series has created a burgeoning sensation here in the southland. I’m proud to mention that my brother-in-law, Officer Sid Leffler, put the Sex Creep case together, and he tags the Creep as the most dangerous psycho since Jack the Ripper. Hey, Doc—you know Sid, right? He took classes from you back in the ’40s. And, you know, Doc—I’m pretty sure the Creep snuffed Marilyn Monroe.”
The audience gasped, tittered, roared. The winos whooped and cheered. De River flushed. He torqued on “Leffler.” Sid lied. He said he took the classes. That was it. He said he did not know de River warm and up close. Morty said they were tight. Morty should know. Now de River’s clenched up, beaucoup tight.
Nat slid down Morty’s aisle. The microphone lady scowled. Morty passed Nat the mike. Nat spieled off my script.
“I heard the Black Muslims put out a contract on the Creep, because they know he’s out perving on Negro women.”
More gasps, hoots, titters, stomps, cheers—
Kareem yelled, “The Creep’s in with the Klan and the Birchers! I predict vigilante action all over the southside!”
Phil slid down Morty’s aisle. The microphone lady plotzed. Phil snatched the mike from Nat. More stomps, whistles, hoots—
“Doc, a very astute cop named Jack Clemmons told me the Creep is 100% good for the Monroe snuff, and that Monroe was into some heavy-duty criminal stuff herself.”
The emcee lady led de River offstage. A backup dowager pressed an oxygen mask to his face.
The caddy lot adjoined the caddy shack. Dirt roads and eucalyptus groves enclosed it. The clubhouse overlooked the course. It was ’20s Spanish de-luxe. Capri Drive dead-ended at Riviera. Plumb line: the Landis spread was six blocks due north.
I parked between caddy junkers. Max and J.T. were due. Preston Fong was out on the course. He’d kick loose soon.
I tried to doze. Max and J.T. were late. I’d braced the dining room/kitchen boss already. He recalled the divorcée dance ball. He didn’t know no Sex Creep. The dining room manager hovered. I told him to pull his files on the male slaves who worked the gig. Get me their blood types. Chop, chop on this. He said he’d comply.
I dozed. Some geek knock-knocked my windshield. I opened my eyes. J. T. Meadows scooched into the car.
He just got laid. I know the signs. He grinned, slaphappy. All’s right with the world.
“Wipe off that lipstick. Marcia Davenport was wearing the same shade three days ago.”
He pulled a handkerchief and scrubbed his face raw. He checked himself in the rearview mirror and cracked a shit-eater grin.
“I picked up some leads, along with the rest of it. Marcia said Monroe and Perloff had no sense of boundaries. They went through the house, trying on Carole’s clothes. Some jewelry went missing, or it might have been misplaced. Monroe and Perloff had gourmet taste. They sampled the caviar and the foie gras but ignored the tuna casserole.”
Max pulled up. He got out and stretched himself loose. J.T. and I got out. Max said, “Who’s this dink again?”
J.T. said, “Preston Fong. He’s Chinese, and about thirty-five. His blood type clears him. He’s technically clean, but he smash-and-grabs jewelry stores and clouts display watches. There’s a bust and a no-file in his jacket, but that’s way back in ’50. Sid and I interviewed him. I think he saw something that night.”
“That night.” As in, 1/19/62. Leffler and Meadows braced him on 1/20. Fong was a night bird and a peep-and-prowl artiste. Brother Fong and me. We’re Kameraden under the skin.
The dink walked toward us. He wore hand-me-down golf slacks and a pink Banlon shirt. He ran five-nine and 140. He sported a flattop. He looked alert.
We squared up to him. J.T. knew him. He kicked it off.
“Preston, this is Lieutenant Otash and Sergeant Herman.”
Fong said, “Where’s Sid the comedian? That guy was a sketch.”
J.T. smiled. “Preston, you weren’t entirely candid when we talked to you back in January.”
Fong shrugged. “That was months and months ago. I told you, I was drunk. What’s going on? There’s all this Sex Creep jive in the Mirror.”
Max lit a cigar. “Officer Meadows thinks you were up to no good, but nobody thinks you’re the Creep.”
J.T. said, “I think you might have seen something you haven’t told us about.”
Max blew smoke in his face. “So, we’re back to run you through it again. You know how this shit works. We hassle you until you tell us what we want to hear.”
Fong rolled his eyes. It was snotty. I stabbed his chest—hard.
“Listen, papa-san—you were a watch clouter way back when, and if you’ve done it since, we don’t care. We’re only interested in the Creep, and what you might have seen that night.”
Fong pawed the ground. His golf cleats kicked up dirt.
“Okay. I was drunk, and I was looking to get back over to San Vicente. There used to be a jewelry store near that church on Bundy, so I thought I’d do some window-shopping. I was drunk, and I took a wrong turn somewhere. I saw a guy trying to slide up a side window on a really spiffed house. It was on Gretna Green, a big ranch style. He was a tall blond guy, and I knew he was looking to score.”