(LOS ANGELES, 9:10 P.M., TUESDAY, 9/18/62)
Leffler was due. Max called him and set up the meet. Phil and Nat submitted briefs. Sid stands accused. We had him for stat rape and coerced oral cop. Nat and Phil turned nineteen complainants. They posited a hundred felony counts. Sid had skeeved westside girls since ’50-something.
The downtown May Company. 10th and Broadway. The rear parking lot. Harry and Eddie picked the spot. Red set up the space.
An abandoned storeroom. Located just inside. One chair and one bright lightbulb. We have some questions, Sid.
We packed palm-weighted sap gloves. Stitched-in buckshot jacked the heft. J. T. Meadows was home with his wife and kids. Or out poking Marcia Davenport. J.T. and Divorcée #1. They got a thang going on.
Leffler showed. He cut in off Broadway and hit his brights. Red yanked the service door up. Leffler idled up. We walked into his lights.
That’s right. It’s five guys. You thought Max came alone.
Red and I worked the door. Leffler went all doe-in-the-headlights. Red pulled him out of his sled. I snatched his belt gun and dumped the shells. He thrashed. I arm-barred him and frog-marched him inside.
Harry kicked the door shut. Eddie cuffed him to the chair. I said, “You’ve got suspect relationships. We’re here to discuss them. You had a long run with the girls, Sid. That’s why we’re going this route.”
Leffler popped sweat. His glasses slid down his nose. We stood over him. Max and Eddie kicked the chair slats. We pulled on our gloves. Leffler pissed his pants. Note the lap lake.
I love-tapped him. Leffler’s head snapped. He bit his lips and drew blood. I double-stuffed my gloves. Buckshot and ball bearings. They doubled the heft.
Max said, “We’re going to run some names by you. You hear the name, you acknowledge it, you tell us what you know. That’s the drill here. Prompt answers will serve to spare you pain.”
I said, “Marilyn Monroe.”
Leffler said, “Dead movie star. Killed by the Sex Creep, if I’m any judge of my brother-in-law’s dramatic designs.”
I cuffed him. His head snapped. The thump induced reverb. Leffler yelped and popped tears.
“No smart answers. You hear a name, you answer one of two ways. You say, ‘I don’t know any more than you do,’ or you say, ‘I have information.’ ”
Leffler went Yes yes yes. “I don’t know anything you don’t know. Come on, she’s Marilyn Monroe.”
I said, “Gwen Perloff?”
Leffler went Yes. “I don’t know any more than you do. I’ve never met her, I’ve never dealt with her on the job, I’ve read about her, and that’s it.”
Red said, “Richard Danforth. Aka ‘Ronnie Dewhurst’ and ‘Rick Dawes.’ ”
“The same answer, you fucking sadists. You’re beating on a brother officer here—and guys like you always pay in the long run.”
I cracked him. Leffler yelped loud. I ripped an eyebrow loose. Blood dripped in his eyes.
Leffler shrieked. “No, no, no. I don’t know.”
Eddie said, “Juan Manuel Salas? Aka ‘El Manny’?”
“I don’t know him. I don’t know any more than you do.”
He blubbered it. He gnawed his lips and stained his mouth red.
I said, “Paul Mitchell Grenier.”
Leffler went Yes yes yes. “Him, I know. But he’s just a punk I’ve seen around the Fox lot. His kid sister Deedee filed a missing-person report on him yesterday. He’s a faigelah, and some sort of fly-by-night.”
Harry said, “Albie Aadland?”
Leffler spit blood and squirmed in his chair. He was tight-cuffed. Cuff ratchets gouged his wrists raw.
“Albie’s a jock-sniffer. He collects tough guys like regular guys collect baseball cards. His idea of kicks is visitor’s day at Chino.”
I said, “You worked guard gigs for the Aadlands in the ’30s and after the war. You were a fuck-pad habitué. Give us something there.”
“What’s to give? It was an ‘anything goes’ scenario. I kept my eyes shut and my head down most of the time.”
Max lit a cigar. “Carole Landis, Shelley Mandel, Norm Krause, and Jack Clemmons. Plus a rackets surge at Fox, right now.”
Leffler coughed. “You dumb bunnies dumped a kidnap suspect, and now there’s hell to pay. I can spell buyback as well as the next guy. How long do you think Morty can keep up his jive series before people get bored? Does Der Führer Parker honestly think his deal with Bob Kennedy is anything less than an open secret? He’s too old, he’s too drunk, his health’s in the shit—”
I bitch-slapped him. I split his lips and tore a nostril loose. My glove stitches popped. Buckshot and ball bearings blew wide.
Leffler screeched. That one hurt. He bucked his chair. His legs spasmed.
Eddie said, “High school girls. We’ve got nineteen complainants. They’ll swear out perv-one warrants.”
I said, “Lois Nettleton and Lowell Farr told me you’ve got a type. Lowell said you cherry-picked the cast of your twist-party flick.”
Leffler bleat-laughed. A loose tooth dropped in his lap.
“I don’t need to grovel for young cooze, and I don’t need to break the law. I’m in the Industry, bubi. I’ve got carte blanche. I always make them crack out some ID. Show me you’re legal, kid. I’m a policeman, and I know the law.”
I lit a cigarette. “That house on Pavia Place. Why’d you choose it for the film location?”
“It was a fuck pad back in the ice age, but I knew the new owners rented it out for shoots. I’m an auteur. I know my shit. I’m a pro in a world full of amateurs, so—”
Harry cut in. “Paul de River. Give us the drill on that quack.”
Leffler spit blood. It hit Harry’s shoes. Leffler played kamikaze. He called up punk bravado.
“He’s ten times the man, with twenty times the intellect, of all you fascist slugs. We’ve been tight since before the PD canned him. I feed him all my best file dirt. He pays me twice my salary, and he reveres me.”
I gut-punched him. I heard ribs crack. Leffler shrieked.
“This is straight from Lowell Farr. Monroe gave her her fan mail for safekeeping, but you talked her out of it. You said you intended to sell it—so who did you sell it to?”
Leffler coughed. He upchucked two teeth and a slice of his tongue.
“I sold it to her shrink, Ralph Greenson. I didn’t even read the letters. My pal Dr. Paul’s her radical shrink. He said he didn’t even want them. He already knew this Sex Creep guy, and he figured half of the fucking letters were from him.”
Sheared ribs pierced his shirt. Dark blood bubbled out.
Looks traveled. The Hats to me and back. He can’t take much more. Let’s dump him at Georgia Street.
Max uncuffed him. Harry and Eddie stood him up on his feet. He weaved and puked gastric bile.
Red said, “You’re fired. That’s straight from Der Führer, himself.”