L.A. Confidential, Page 2

  He checked his watch--8:46--he had to be at the station by midnight. Preston Exley pointed to the model.

  It took up half his den: an amusement park filled with papier-mâché mountains, rocket ships, Wild West towns. Cartoon creatures at the gate: Moochie Mouse, Scooter Squirrel, Danny Duck--Raymond Dieterling's brood--featured in the _Dream-a-Dream Hour_ and scores of cartoons.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Dream-a-Dreamland. Exley Construction will build it, in Pomona, California, and the opening date will be April 1953. It will be the most sophisticated amusement park in history, a self-contained universe where children of all ages can enjoy the message of fun and goodwill that is the hallmark of Raymond Dieterling, the father of modern animation. Dream-a-Dreamland will feature all your favorite Dieterling characters, and it will be a haven for the young and young at heart."

  Ed stared at his father: fifty-seven coming off forty-five, a cop from a long line of cops holding forth in a Hancock Park mansion, politicos giving up their Christmas Eve at a snap of his fingers. The guests applauded; Preston pointed to a snowcapped mountain. "Paul's World, ladies and gentlemen. An exact-scale replica of a mountain in the Sierra Nevada. Paul's World will feature a thrilling toboggan ride and a ski lodge where Moochie, Scooter and Danny will perform skits for the whole family. And who is the Paul of Paul's World? Paul was Raymond Dieterling's son, lost tragically as a teenager in 1936, lost in an avalanche on a camping trip--lost on a mountain just like this one here. So, out of tragedy, an affirmation of innocence. And, ladies and gentlemen, every nickel out of every dollar spent at Paul's World will go to the Children's Polio Foundation."

  Wild applause. Preston nodded at Timmy Valburn--the actor who played Moochie Mouse on the _Dream-a-Dream Hour_--always nibbling cheese with his big buck teeth. Valburn nudged the man beside him; the man nudged back.

  Art De Spain caught Ed's eye; Valburn kicked off a Moochie routine. Ed steered De Spain to the hallway. "This is a hell of a surprise, Art."

  "Dieterling's announcing it on the _Dream Hour_. Didn't your dad tell you?"

  "No, and I didn't know he knew Dieterling. Did he meet him back during the Atherton case? Wasn't Wee Willie Wennerhoim one of Dieterling's kid stars?"

  De Spain smiled. "I was your dad's lowly adjutant then, and I don't think the two great men ever crossed paths. Preston just knows people. And by the way, did you spot the mouse man and his pal?"

  Ed nodded. "Who is he?"

  Laughter from the den; De Spain steered Ed to the study. "He's Billy Dieterling, Ray's son. He's a cameraman on _Badge of Honor_, which lauds our beloved LAPD to millions of television viewers each week. Maybe Timmy spreads some cheese on his whatsis before he blows him."

  Ed laughed. "Art, you're a pisser."

  De Spain sprawled in a chair. "Eddie, ex-cop to cop, you say words like 'pisser' and you sound like a college professor. And you're not really an 'Eddie,' you're an 'Edmund."'

  Ed squared his glasses. "I see avuncular advice coming. Stick in Patrol, because Parker made chief that way. Adniinistrate my way up because I have no command presence."

  "You've got no sense of humor. And can't you get rid of those specs? Squint or something. Outside of Thad Green, I can't think of one Bureau guy who wears glasses."

  "God, you miss the Department. I think that if you could give up Exley Construction and fifty thousand a year for a spot as an LAPD rookie, you would."

  De Spain lit a cigar. "Only if your dad came with me."

  "Just like that?"

  "Just like that. I was a lieutenant to Preston's inspector, and I'm still a number two man. It'd be nice to be even with him."

  "If you didn't know lumber, Exley Construction wouldn't exist."

  "Thanks. And get rid of those glasses."

  Ed picked up a framed photo: his brother Thomas in uniform--taken the day before he died. "If you were a rookie, I'd break you for insubordination."

  "You would, too. What did you place on the lieutenant's exam?"

  "First out of twenty-three applicants. I was the youngest applicant by eight years, with the shortest time in grade as a sergeant and the shortest amount of time on the Department."

  "And you want the Detective Bureau."

  Ed put the photo down. "Yes."

  "Then, first you have to figure a year minimum for an opening to come up, then you have to realize that it will probably be a Patrol opening, then you have to realize that a transfer to the Bureau will take years and lots of ass kissing. You're twenty-nine now?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you'll be a lieutenant at thirty or thirty-one. Brass that young create resentment. Ed, all kidding aside. You're not one of the guys. You're not a strongarm type. _You're not Bureau_. And Parker as Chief has set a precedent for Patrol officers to go all the way. Think about that."

  Ed said, "Art, I want to work cases. I'm connected and I won the Distinguished Service Cross, which some people might construe as strongarm. And I will _have_ a Bureau appointment."

  De Spain brushed ash off his cummerbund. "Can we talk turkey, Sunny Jim?"

  The endearment rankled. "Of course."

  "Well . . . you're good, and in time you might be really good. And I don't doubt your killer instinct for a second. But your father was ruthless and likable. And you're not, so . .

  Ed made fists. "So, Uncle Arthur? Cop who left the Department for money to cop who never would--what's your advice?"

  De Spain ifinched. "So be a sycophant and suck up to the right men. Kiss William H. Parker's ass and pray to be in the right place at the right time."

  "Like you and my father?"

  "_Touché_, Sunny Jim."

  Ed looked at his uniform: custom blues on a hanger. Razorcreased, sergeant's stripes, a single hashmark. De Spain said, "Gold bars soon, Eddie. And braid on your cap. And I wouldn't jerk your chain if I didn't care."

  "I know."

  "And you _are_ a goddamned war hero."

  Ed changed the subject. "It's Christmas. You're thinking about Thomas."

  "I keep thinking I could have told him something. He didn't even have his holster flap open."

  "A purse snatcher with a gun? He couldn't have known." De Spain put out his cigar. "Thomas was a natural, and I always thought he should be telling me things. That's why I tend to spell things out for you."

  "He's twelve years dead and I'll bury him as a policeman."

  "I'll forget you said that."

  "No, remember it. Remember it when I make the Bureau. And when Father offers toasts to Thomas and Mother, don't get maudlin, it ruins him for days."

  De Spain stood up, flushing; Preston Exley walked in with snifters and a bottle.

  Ed said, "Merry Christmas, Father. And congratulations."

  Preston poured drinks. "Thank you. Exley Construction tops the Arroyo Seco Freeway job with a kingdom for a glorified rodent, and I'll never eat another piece of cheese. A toast, gentlemen. To the eternal rest of my son Thomas and my wife Marguerite, to the three of us assembled here."

  The men drank; De Spain fixed refills. Ed offered his father's favorite toast: "To the solving of crimes that require absolute justice."

  Three more shots downed. Ed said, "Father, I didn't know you knew Raymond Dieterling."

  Preston smiled. "I've known him in a business sense for years. Art and I have kept the contract secret at Raymond's request--he wants to announce it on that infantile television program of his."

  "Did you meet him during the Atherton case?"

  "No, and of course I wasn't in the construction business then. Arthur, do you have a toast to propose?"

  De Spain poured short ones. "To a Bureau assignment for our soon-to-be lieutenant."

  Laughter, hear-hears. Preston said, "Joan Morrow was inquiring about your love life, Edmund. I think she's smitten."

  "Do you see a debutante as a cop's wife?"

  "No, but I could picture her married to a ranking policeman."

  "Chief of Detectives?"

  "No,
I was thinking more along the lines of commander of the Patrol Division."

  "Father, Thomas was going to be your chief of detectives, but he's dead. Don't deny me my opportunity. Don't make me live an old dream of yours."

  Preston stared at his son. "Point taken, and I commend you for speaking up. And granted, that was my original dream. But the truth is that I don't think you have the eye for human weakness that makes a good detective."

  His brother: a math brain crazed for pretty girls. "And Thomas did?"

  "Yes."

  "Father, I would have shot that purse snatcher the second he went for his pocket."

  De Spain said, "Goddammit"; Preston shushed him. "That's all right. Edmund, a few questions before I return to my guests. One, would you be willing to plant corroborative evidence on a suspect you knew was guilty in order to ensure an indictment?"

  "I'd have to--"

  "Answer yes or no."

  "I . . . no."

  "Would you be willing to shoot hardened armed robbers in the back to offset the chance that they might utilize flaws in the legal system and go free?"

  "I . . ."

  "Yes or no, Edmund."

  "No."

  "And would you be willing to beat confessions out of suspects you knew to be guilty?"

  "No."

  "Would you be willing to rig crime scene evidence to support a prosecuting attorney's working hypothesis?"

  "No."

  Preston sighed. "Then for God's sake, stick to assignments where you won't have to make those choices. Use the superior inteffigence the good Lord gave you."

  Ed looked at his uniform. "I'll use that intelligence as a detective."

  Preston smiled. "Detective or not, you have qualities of persistence that Thomas lacked. You'll excel, my war hero."

  The phone rang; De Spain picked it up. Ed thought of rigged Jap trenches--and couldn't meet Preston's eyes. Dc Spain said, "It's Lieutenant Frieling at the station. He said the jail's almost full, and two officers were assaulted earlier in the evening. Two suspects are in custody, with four more outstanding. He said you should clock in early."

  Ed turned back to his father. Preston was down the hall, swapping jokes with Mayor Bowron in a Moochie Mouse hat.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Press clippings on his corkboard: "Dope Crusader Wounded in Shootout"; "Actor Mitchum Seized in Marijuana Shack Raid." _Hush-Hush_ articles, framed on his desk: "Hopheads Quake When Dope Scourge Cop Walks Tall"; "Actors Agree: _Badge of Honor_ Owes Authenticity to Hard-hitting Technical Advisor." The _Badge_ piece featured a photo: Sergeant Jack Vincennes with the show's star, Brett Chase. The piece did not feature dirt from the editor's private file: Brett Chase as a pedophile with three quashed sodomy beefs.

  Jack Vincennes glanced around the Narco pen--deserted, dark--just the light in his cubicle. Ten minutes short of midnight; he'd prpmised Dudley Smith he'd type up an organized crime report for Intelligence Division; he'd promised Lieutenant Frieling a case of booze for the station party--Hush-Hush Sid Hudgens was supposed to come across with rum but hadn't called. Dudley's report: a favor shot his way because he typed a hundred words a minute; a favor returned tomorrow: a meet with Dud and Ellis Loew, Pacific Dining Car lunch--work on the line, work to earn him juice with the D.A.'s Office. Jack lit a cigarette, read.

  Some report: eleven pages long, very verbal, very Dudley. The topic: L.A. mob activity with Mickey Cohen in stir. Jack edited, typed.

  Cohen was at McNeil Island Federal Prison: three to seven, income tax evasion. Davey Goldman, Mickey's money man, was there: three to seven, down on six counts of federal tax fraud. Smith predicted possible skirmishing between Cohen minion Morris Jahelka and Jack "The Enforcer" Whalen; with Mafia overlord Jack Dragna deported, they loomed as the two men most likely to control loansharking, bookmaking, prostitution and the race wire racket. Smith stated that Jahelka was too ineffectual to require police surveillance; that John Stompanato and Abe Teitlebaum, key Cohen strongarms, seemed to have gone legitimate. Lee Vachss, contract trigger employed by Cohen, was working a religious racket--selling patent medicines guaranteed to induce mystical experiences.

  Jack kept typing. Dud's take hit wrong: Johnny Stomp and Kikey Teitlebaum were pure bent--they could never go pure straight. He fed in a fresh sheet.

  A new topic: the February '50 Cohen/Dragna truce meeting-- twenty-five pounds of heroin and a hundred and fifty grand allegedly stolen. Jack heard rumors: an ex-cop named Buzz Meeks heisted the summit, took off and was gunned down near San Bernardino--Cohen goons and rogue L.A. cops killed him, a Mickey contract: Meeks stole the Mick blind and fucked his woman. The horse was supposedly long gone unfound. Dudley's theory: Meeks buried the money and shit someplace unknown and was later killed by "person or persons unknown"--probably a Cohen gunman. Jack smiled: if LAPD was in on a Meeks hit, Dud would never implicate the Department--even in an interdepartmental report.

  Next, Smith's summary: with Mickey C. gone, mob action was at a lull; the LAPD should stay alert for new faces looking to crash Cohen's old rackets; prostitution was sticking over the county line--with Sheriff's Department sanction. Jack signed the last page "Respectfully, Lieutenant D. L. Smith."

  The phone rang. "Narcotics, Vincennes."

  "It's me. You hungry?"

  Jack kiboshed a temper fit--easy--what Hudgens just might have on him. "Sid, you're late. And the party's already on."

  "I got better than booze, I got cash."

  "Talk."

  "Talk this: Tammy Reynolds, co-star of _Hope's Harvest_, opens tomorrow citywide. A guy I know just sold her some reefer, a guaranteed felony pinch. She's tripping the light fantastic at 2245 Maravilla, Hollywood Hills. You pinch, I do you up feature in the next issue. Because it's Christmas, I leak my notes to Morty Bendish at the _Mirror_, so you make the dailies, too. Plus fifty cash and your rum. Am I fucking Santa Claus?"

  "Pictures?"

  "In spades. Wear the blue blazer, it goes with your eyes."

  "A hundred, Sid. I need two patrolmen at twenty apiece and a dime for the watch commander at Hollywood Station. And you set it up."

  "Jack! It's Christmas!"

  "No, it's felony possession of marijuana."

  "Shit. Half an hour?"

  "Twenty-five minutes."

  "I'm there, you fucking extortionist."

  Jack hung up, made an X mark on his calendar. Another day, no booze, no hop--four years, two months running.

  o o o

  His stage was waiting--Maravilla cordoned off, two bluesuits by Sid Hudgens' Packard, their black-and-white up on the sidewalk. The street was dark and still; Sid had an ardight set up. They had a view of the Boulevard--Grauman's Chinese included--great for an establishing shot. Jack parked, walked over.

  Sid greeted him with cash. "She's sitting in the dark, goofing on the Christmas tree. The door looks flimsy."

  Jack drew his .38. "Have the boys put the booze in my trunk. You want Grauman's in the background?"

  "I like it! Jackie, you're the best in the West!"

  Jack scoped him: scarecrow skinny, somewhere between thirty-five and fifty--keeper of inside dirt supreme. He either knew about 10/24/47 or he didn't; if he did, their arrangement was lifetime stuff. "Sid, when I bring her out the door, I do not want that goddamned baby spot in my eyes. Tell your camera guy that."

  "Consider him told."

  "Good, now count twenty on down."

  Hudgens ticked numbers; Jack walked up and kicked the door in. The arclight snapped on, a living room caught flush: Christmas tree, two kids necking in their undies. Jack shouted "Police!"; the lovebirds froze; light on a fat bag of weed on the couch.

  The girl started bawling; the boy reached for his trousers. Jack put a foot on his chest. "The hands, slow."

  The boy pressed his wrists together; Jack cuffed him onehanded. The blues stormed in and gathered up evidence; Jack matched a name to the punk: Rock Rockwell, RKO ingenue. The girl ran; Jack grabbed her. Two suspects by the neck--out
the door, down the steps.

  Hudgens yelled, "Grauman's while we've still got the light!"

  Jack framed them: half-naked pretties in their BVDs. Flashbulbs popped; Hudgens yelled, "Cut! Wrap it!"

  The blues took over: Rockwell and the girl hauled bawling to their prowler. Window lights popped on; rubberneckers opened doors. Jack went back to the house.

  A maryjane haze--four years later the shit still smelled good. Hudgens was opening drawers, pulling out dildoes, spiked dog collars. Jack found the phone, checked the address book for pushers--goose egg. A calling card fell out: "Fleur-de-Lis. Twenty-four Hours a Day--Whatever You Desire."

  Sid started muttering. Jack put the card back. "Let's hear how it sounds."

  Hudgens cleared his throat. "It's Christmas morning in the City of the Angels, and while decent citizens sleep the sleep of the righteous, hopheads prowl for marijuana, the weed with roots in Hell. Tammy Reynolds and Rock Rockwell, movie stars with one foot in Hades, toke sweet tea in Tammy's swank Hollywood digs, not knowing they are playing with fire without asbestos gloves, not knowing that a man is coming to put out that fire: the free-wheeling, big-time Big V, celebrity crimestopper Jack Vincennes, the scourge of grasshoppers and junk fiends everywhere. Acting on the tip of an unnamed informant, Sergeant Vincennes, blah, blah, blah. You like it, Jackie?"

  "Yeah, it's subtle."

  "No, it's circulation nine hundred thousand and climbing. I think I'll work in you're divorced twice 'cause your wives couldn't stand your crusade and you got your name from an orphanage in Vincennes, Indiana. The Biggg Veeeee."

  His Narco tag: Trashcan Jack--a nod to the time he popped Charlie "Yardbird" Parker and tossed him into a garbage bin outside the flub Zamboanga. "You should beat the drum on _Badge of Honor_. Miller Stanton's my buddy, how I taught Brett Chase to play a cop. Technical advisor kingpin, that kind of thing."

  Hudgens laughed. "Brett still like them prepubescent?"

  "Can niggers dance?"

  "South of Jefferson Boulevard only. Thanks for the story, Jack."

  "Sure."

  "I mean it. It's always nice seeing you."

  You fucking cockroach, you're going to wink because you know you can nail me to that moralistic shitbird William H. Parker anytime you want--cash rousts going back to '48, you've probably got documentation worked around to let you off clean and crucify me--