L.A. Confidential (16 page)

  Jack kissed Karen's neck, hoping she'd wake up and smile.

  No luck.

o        o          o

  Canvassing first.

  Charleville Drive, questions, no luck: none of the tenants in Christine Bergeron's building heard the woman and her son move out; none knew a thing about the men she entertained. The adjoining apartment houses--ditto straight across. Jack called Beverly Hills High, learned that Daryl Bergeron was a chronic truant who hadn't attended classes in a week; the vice-principal said the boy kept to himself, didn't cause trouble--he was never in school _to_ cause trouble. Jack didn't tell him Daryl was too tired to cause trouble: fucking your mother on roller skates takes a lot out of a kid.

  His next call: Stan's Drive-in. The manager told him Chris Bergeron splitsvilled day before yesterday, two seconds after getting a phone call. No, he didn't know who the caller was; yes, he would buzz Sergeant Vmcennes if she showed up; no, Chris did not unduly fraternize with customers or receive visitors while carhopping.

  Out to West Hollywood.

  Bobby Inge's place, talks--fellow tenants and neighbors. Bobby paid his rent on time, kept to himself, nobody saw him move out. The swish next door said he "played the field--he wasn't seeing anyone in particular." Tweaks: "smut books," "Chris Bergeron," "this little twist Daryl"--the fruit deadpanned him cold.

  Call West Hollywood dead--after B.J.'s Rumpus Room Bobby wouldn't be caught near the fag-bar strip. Jack grabbed a hamburger, checked his Inge rap sheet--no K.A.'s listed. He studied his private filth stash, hard to concentrate, the contradictions in the pictures kept distracting him.

  Attractive posers, trashy backdrops. Beautiful costumes that made you look twice at disgusting homo action. Artful orgy shots: inked-in blood, bodies connected over quilts--pix that made you squint to see female forms held in check by too much explicitness--the sex organ extravaganza made you want to see the women plain nude. The shit was pornography manufactured for money--but somewhere in the process an artist was involved.

  A brainstorm.

  Jack drove to a dime store, bought scissors, Scotch tape, a drawing pad. He worked in the car: faces cut from the mags, taped to the paper, men and women separated, repeats placed together to make IDs easier. Downtown to the Bureau for matchups: stag pix to Caucasian mug books. Four hours of squinting: eyestrain, zero identifications. Over to Hollywood Station, their separate Vice mugs, another zero; the West Hollywood Sheriff's Substation made zero number three. Bobby Inge aside, his smut beauties were virgins--no criminal records.

  4:30 P.M.--Jack felt his options dwindling fast. Another idea caught: check Bobby Inge through the DMV; check Chris Bergeron through again--a complete paper prowl. R&I/Inge one more time--updates on his sheet.

  He hit a pay phone, made the calls. Bobby Inge was DMV clean: no citations, no court appearances. Complete Bergeron paper: traffic violation dates, the names of her surety bond guarantors. R&I's only Inge update: a year-old bail report. One name crossed over--Bergeron to Inge.

  Bail on an Inge prostie charge--fronted by Sharon Kostenza, 1649 North Havenhurst, West Hollywood. The same woman paid a Bergeron reckless-driving bond.

  Jack called R&I back, ran Sharon Kostenza and her address through--no California criminal record. He told the clerk to check the forty-eight-state list; that took a full ten minutes. "Sorry, Sarge. Nothing at all on the name."

  Back to the DMV; a shocker: no one named Sharon Kostenza possessed or had ever possessed a California driver's license. Jack drove to North Havenhurst--the address 1649 did not exist.

  Brain circuits: prostie Bobby Inge, Kostenza bailed him on a prostie beef, prosties used phony names, prosties posed for stag pix. North Havenhurst a longtime call-house block-- He started knocking on doors.

  A dozen quickie interviews; tags on nearby fuck joints. Two, on Havenhurst: 1611, 1564.

  6:10 P.M.

  1611 open for business; the boss deadpanned Sharon Kostenza, Bobby Inge, the Bergerons. Ditto the faces clipped from the fuck mags--the girls working the joint panned out likewise. The madam at 1564 cooperated--the names and faces were Greek to her and her whores.

  Another burger, back to West Hollywood Substation. A run through the alias file: another flat busted dead end.

  7:20--no more names to check. Jack drove to North Hamel, parked with a view: Bobby Inge's door.

  He kept a fix on the courtyard. No foot traffic, street traffic slow--the Strip wouldn't jump for hours. He waited: smoking, smut pictures in his head.

  At 8:46 a quiff ragtop cruised by--a slow trawl close to the curb. Twenty minutes later--one more time. Jack tried to read plate numbers--nix, too dark out. A hunch: he's looking for window lights. If he's looking for Bobby's, he's got them.

  He walked into the courtyard, lucked oUt on witnesses--none. Handcuff ratchets popped the door: teeth cutting cheap wood. He felt for a wall light, tripped a switch.

  The same cleaned-out living room; the pad in the same disarray. Jack sat by the door, waited.

  Boredom time stretched--fifteen minutes, thirty, an hour. Knocks on the front windowpane.

  Jack drew down: the door, eye-level. He faked a fag lilt: "It's open."

  A pretty boy sashayed in. Jack said, "Shit." Timmy Valburn, a.k.a. Moochie Mouse--Billy Dieterling's squeeze.

  "Timmy, what the fuck are you doing here?"

  Valburn slouched, one hip cocked, no fear. "Bobby's a friend. He doesn't use narcotics, if that's what you're here for. And isn't this a tad out of your jurisdiction?"

  Jack closed the door. "Christine Bergeron, Daryl Bergeron, Sharon Kostenza. They friends of yours?"

  "I don't know those names. Jack, what is this?"

  "You tell me, you've been getting up the nerve to knock for hours. Let's start with where's Bobby?"

  "I don't know. Would I be here if I knew where--"

  "Do you trick with Bobby? You got a thing going with him?"

  "He's just a friend."

  "Does Billy know about you and Bobby?"

  "Jack, you're being vile. _Bobby is a friend_. I don't think Billy knows we're friends, but friends is all we are."

  Jack took out his notepad. "So I'm sure you have a lot of friends in common."

  "No. Put that away, because I don't know any of Bobby's friends."

  "All right, then where did you meet him?"

  "At a bar."

  "Name the bar."

  "Leo's Hideaway."

  "Billy know you chase stuff behind his back?"

  "Jack, don't be crude. I'm not some criminal you can slap around, I'm a citizen who can report you for breaking into this apartment."

  Change-up. "Smut. Picture-book stuff, regular and homo. That your bent, Timmy?"

  One little eye flicker--not quite a hink. "You get your kicks that way? You and Billy take skit like that to bed with you?"

  No flinch. "Don't be vile, Jack. It's not your style, but be nice. Remember what I am to Billy, remember what Billy is to the show that gives you the celebrity you grovel for. Remember who Billy knows."

  Jack moved extra slow: the smut mags and face sheets to a chair, a lamp pulled over for some light. "Look at those pictures. If you recognize anybody, tell me. That's all I want."

  Valburn roiled his eyes, looked. The face sheets first: quizzical, curious. On to the costume skin books--nonchalant, a queer sophisticate. Jack stuck close, eyes on his eyes.

  The orgy book last. Timmy saw inked-on blood and kept looking; Jack saw a neck vein working overtime.

  Valburn shrugged. "No, I'm sorry."

  A tough read--a skilled actor. "You didn't recognize anybody?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "But you did recognize Bobby."

  "Of course, because I know him."

  "But nobody else?"

  "Jack, really."

  "Nobody familiar? Nobody you've seen at the bars your type goes to?"

  "_My type?_ Jack, haven't you been sucking around the Industry long enough to call a spade a spade and still be nice about it?"

  Let it pass. "Timmy, you keep your thoughts hidden. Maybe you've been playing Moochie Mouse too long."

  "What kind of thoughts are you looking for? I'm an actor, so give me a cue."

  "Not thoughts, _reactions_. You didn't blink an eye at some of the strangest stuff I've seen in fifteen years as a cop. Arty-fatty red ink shooting out of a dozen people fucking and sucking. Is that everyday stuff to you?"

  An elegant shrug. "Jack, I'm _très_ Hollywood. I dress up as a rodent to entertain children. Nothing in this town surprises me."

  "I'm not sure I buy that."

  "I'm telling you the truth. I don't know any of the people in those pictures, and I haven't seen those magazines before."

  "People of your type know people who know people. You know Bobby Inge, and he was in those pictures. I want to see your little black book."

  Timmy said, "No."

  Jack said, "Yes, or I give _Hush-Hush_ a little item on you and Billy Dieterling as soul sisters. _Badge of Honor_, the _Dream-a-Dream Hour_ and queers. You like that for a three-horse parlay?"

  Timmy smiled. "Max Peltz would fire you for that. He wants you to be nice. _So be nice_."

  "You carry your book with you?"

  "No, I don't. Jack, remember who Billy's father is. Remember all the money you can make in the Industry after you retire."

  Pissed now, almost seeing red. "Hand me your wallet. Do it or I'll lose my temper and put you up against the wall." Valburn shrugged, pulled out a billfold. Jack glommed what he wanted: calling cards, names and numbers on paper scraps. "I want those returned."

  Jack handed the wallet back light. "Sure, Timmy."

  "You are going to fuck up very auspiciously one day, Jack. Do you know that?"

  "I already have, and I made money on the deal. Remember that if you decide to rat me to Max."

  Valburn walked out--elegant.

o        o          o

  Fruit-bar pickings: first names, phone numbers. One card looked familiar: "Fleur-de-Lis. Twenty-four Hours a Day-- Whatever You Desire. HO-01239." No writing on the back-- Jack racked his brain, couldn't make a connection.

  New plan: call the numbers, impersonate Bobby Inge, drop lines about stag books--see who bit. Stick at the pad, see who called or showed up: long-shot stuff.

  Jack called "Ted--DU-6831"--busy signal; "Geoff--CR-9640"--no bite on a lisping "Hi, it's Bobby Inge." "Bing--AX-6005"--no answer; back to "Ted"--"Bobby who? I'm sorry, but I don't think I know you." "Jim," "Nat," "Otto": no answers; he still couldn't make the odd card. Last-ditch stuff: buzz the cop line at Pacific Coast Bell.

  Ring, ring. "Miss Sutherland speaking."

  "This is Sergeant Vincennes, LAPD. I need a name and address on a phone number."

  "Don't you have a reverse directory, Sergeant?"

  "I'm in a phone booth, and the number I want checked is Hollywood 01239."

  "Very well. Please hold the line."

  Jack held; the woman came back on. "No such number is assigned. Bell is just beginning to assign five-digit numbers, and that one has not been assigned. Franldy, it may never be, the changeover is going so slow."

  "You're sure about this?"

  "Of course I'm sure."

  Jack hung up. First thoughts: bootleg line. Bookies had them--bent guys at P.C. Bell rigged the lines, kept the numbers from being assigned. Free phone service, no way police agencies could subpoena records, no make on incoming calls.

  A reflex call: The DMV police line.

  "Yes? Who's requesting?"

  "Sergeant Vincennes, LAPD. Address only on a Timothy V-A-L-B-U-R-N, white male, mid to late twenties. I think he lives in the Wilshire District."

  "I copy. Please hold."

  Jack held; the clerk returned. "Wilshire it is. 432 South Lucerne. Say, isn't Valburn that mouse guy on the Dieterling show?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well . . . uh . . . what are you after him for?"

  "Possession of contraband cheese."

o        o          o

  Chez Mouse: an old French Provincial with new money accoutrements--floodlights, topiary bushes--Moochie, the rest of the Dieterling flock. Two cars in the driveway: the ragtop prowling Hamel, Billy Dieterling's Packard Caribbean--a fixture on the _Badge of Honor_ lot.

  Jack staked the pad spooked: the queers were too well connected to burn, his smut job stood dead-ended--"Whatever You Desire" some kind of dead-end tangent. He could level with Timmy and Billy, shake them down, squeeze their contacts: people who knew people who knew Bobby Inge--who knew who made the shit. He kept the radio tuned in low; a string of love songs helped him pin things down.

  He wanted to track the filth because part of him wondered how something could be so ugly and so beautiful and part of him plain jazzed on it.

  He got itchy, anxious to move. A throaty soprano pushed him out of the car.

  Up the driveway, skirting the floodlights. Windows: closed, uncurtained. He looked in.

  Moochie Mouse gimcracks in force, no Timmy and Billy. Bingo through the last window: the lovebirds in a panicky spat.

  An ear to the glass--all he got was mumbles. A car door slammed; door chimes ting-tinged. A look-see in--Billy walking toward the front of the house.

  Jack kept watching. Timmy pranced hands-on-hips; Billy brought a big muscle guy back. Muscles forked over goodies: pill vials, a glassine bag full of weed. Jack sprinted for the street. A Buick sedan at the curb-mud on the front and back plates. Locked doors--kick glass or go home empty.

  Jack kicked out the driver's-side window. Glass on his front seat booty--a single brown paper bag.

  He grabbed it, ran to his car.

  Valburn's door opened.

  Jack peeled rubber-east on 5th, zigzags down to Western and a big bright parking lot. He ripped the bag open.

  Absinthe--190 proof on the label, viscous green liquid.

  Hashish.

  Black-and-white glossies: women in opera masks blowing horses.