"Tyrone, this is a gas chamber job. If you don't talk to me you'll be dead in six months."

  No answer--Jones kept his head down.

  "Son, all you have to do is tell me where the guns are and tell me where Sugar left the car."

  No answer.

  "Son, this can be over in one minute. You tell me, and I get you transferred to a protective custody cell. Sugar won't be able to get you, Leroy won't be able to get you. The D.A. will let you turn state's. _You won't go to the gas chamber_."

  No response.

  "Son, six people are dead and somebody has to pay. It can be you or it can be Ray."

  No answer.

  "Tyrone, he called you a queer. He called you a sissy and a homo. He said you took it up the--"

  "I DIDN' KILL NOBODY!"

  A strong voice--Ed almost jumped back. "Son, we have witnesses. We have evidence. Coates is confessing right now. He's saying you planned the whole thing. Son, save yourself. The guns, the car. _Tell me where they are_."

  "I didn' kill nobody!"

  "Sssh. Tyrone, do you know what Ray Coates said about you?"

  Jones lifted his head. "I know he lie."

  "I think he lied, too. I don't think you're a queer. I think he's a queer, because he hates women. I think he liked killing those women. I think you feel bad about--"

  "We didn' kill no women!"

  "Tyrone, where were you last night at 3:00 A.M.?"

  No answer.

  "Tyrone, why did Sugar Ray hide his car?"

  No answer.

  "Tyrone, why did you guys hide the shotguns you were shooting in Griffith Park? We have a witness who ID'd you on that."

  No answer. Jones lolled his head-eyes shut, spilling tears.

  "Son, why did Ray burn the clothes you guys were wearing last night?"

  Jones keening now--animal stuff.

  "They had blood on them, didn't they? You killed six goddamn people, you got sprayed. Ray did the clean-up, he tidied the loose ends, _he's_ the one who hid the shotguns, he's the boss man, he's been giving the orders since you were giving out butthole up at Casitas. Spill, goddamn you!"

  "WE DIDN' KILL NOBODY! I AINT NO FUCKIN' QUEER!"

  Ed circled the table--walking fast, talking slow. "Here's what I think. I think Sugar Ray's the boss, Leroy's just a dummy, you're the fat boy Sugar likes to tease. You all did road camp together, you and Sugar Ray got popped for Peeping Tom. Sugar liked looking at girls, you liked looking at boys. You both like looking at white folks, because that is the colored man's forbidden fruit. You had your 12-gauge pumps, you had your snazzy '49 Merc, you had some red devils you bought off Roland Navarette. You were up in Hollywood, white folks' neck of the woods. Sugar was teasing you about being fruit, you kept saying it was just because there were no girls around. Sugar says prove it, prove it, and you guys start peeping. You're getting mad, you're all flying on hop, it's late at night and there's nothing to look at, all those nice white folks have their curtains down. You drive by the Nite Owl, there's these nice white people inside-- and it is just too fucking much to take. Poor fat sissy Tyrone, he takes over. He leads his boys into the Nite Owl. Six people are there--three of them women. You drag them into the locker, you hit the cash register and make the cook open the safe. You take their billfolds and purses and you spill some perfume on your hands. Sugar says, 'Touch the girlies, sissy. Prove you ain't queer.' You can't do it so you start shooting and everybody starts shooting and you love it because finally you're more than a poor queer fat little nigger and--"

  "NO! NO NO NO NO NO NO!"

  "Yes! Where's the guns? You fucking confess and turn over the evidence or you'll go to the fucking gas chamber!"

  "No! Didn' kill nobody!"

  Ed hit the table. "Why'd you ditch the car?"

  Jones lashed his head, spraying sweat.

  "Why'd you burn the clothes?"

  No answer.

  "Where did the perfume come from?"

  No answer.

  "Did Sugar and Leroy rape the women first?"

  "No!"

  "Oh? You mean all three of you did?"

  "We didn' kill nobody! We wasn't even there!"

  "Where were you?"

  No answer.

  "Tyrone, where were you last night?"

  Jones sobbed; Ed gripped his shoulders. "Son, you know what's going to happen if you don't talk. So for God's sake admit what you did."

  "Didn' kill nobody. None of us. Wasn't even there."

  "Son, you did."

  "No!"

  "Son, you did, so tell me."

  "We didn'!"

  "Hush now. Just tell me--_nice and slowly_."

  Jones started babbling. Ed knelt by his chair, listened.

  He heard: "Please God, I just wanted to lose my cherry"; he heard: "Didn't mean to hurt her so's we'd have to die." He heard: "Not right punish what we didn' do . . . maybe she be okay, she don't die so I don't die, 'cause I ain't no queer." He felt himself buzzing, electric chair, a sign on top: THEY DIDN'T DO IT.

  Jones slipped into a reverie--Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Father Divine. Ed hit the #2 cubicle.

  Rank: sweat, cigarette smoke. Leroy Fontaine--big, dark, processed hair, his feet up on the table. Ed said, "Be smarter than your friends. Even if you killed her, it's not as bad as killing six people."

  Fontaine tweaked his nose--bandaged, spread over half his face. "This newspaper shit ain't shit."

  Ed closed the door, scared. "Leroy, you'd better hope she was with you at the coroner's estimated time of death."

  No answer.

  "Was she a hooker?"

  No answer.

  "Did you kill her?"

  No answer.

  "You wanted Tyrone to lose his cherry, but things got out of hand. Isn't that right?"

  No answer.

  "Leroy, if she's dead and she was colored you can cop a plea. If she was white you might have a chance. Remember, we can make you for the Nite Owl, and we can make it stick. Unless you convince me you were somewhere else doing something bad, we'll nail you for what's in that newspaper."

  No answer--Fontaine cleaned his nails with a matchbook.

  A big lie. "If you kidnapped her and she's still alive, that's not a Little Lindbergh violation. It's not a capital charge."

  No answer.

  "Leroy, where are the guns and the car?"

  No answer.

  "Leroy, is she still alive?"

  Fontaine smiled--Ed felt ice on his spine. "If she's still alive, she's your alibi. I won't kid you, it could get bad: kidnap, rape, assault. But if you eliminate yourself on the Nite Owl now, you'll save us time and the D.A. will like you for it. Kick loose, Leroy. Do yourself a favor."

  No answer.

  "Leroy, look how it can go both ways. I think you kidnapped a girl at gunpoint. You made her bleed up the car, so you hid the car. She bled on your clothes, so you burned the clothes. You got her perfume all over yourselves. If you didn't do the Nite Owl, I don't know why you hid the shotguns, maybe you thought she could identify them. Son, if that girl is alive she is the only chance you've got."

  Fontaine said, "I thinks she alive."

  Ed sat down. "_You think?_"

  "Yeah, I thinks."

  "Who is she? _Where is she?_"

  No answer.

  "Is she colored?"

  "She Mex."

  "What's her name?"

  "I don' know. College-type bitch."

  "Where did you pick her up?"

  "I don' know. Eastside someplace."

  "Where did you assault her?"

  "I don' know . . . old building on Dunkirk somewheres."

  "Where's the car and the shotguns?"

  "I don' know. Sugar, he took care of them."

  "If you didn't kill her, why did Coates hide the shotguns?"

  No answer.

  "Why, Leroy?"

  No answer.

  "Why, son? Tell me."

  No answer.

  Ed hit the table. "Tell me, goddammit!"

  Fontaine hit the table--harder. "Sugar, he poked her with them guns! He 'fraid it be evidence!"

  Ed closed his eyes. "Where is she now?"

  No answer.

  "Did you leave her at the building?"

  No answer.

  Eyes open. "Did you leave her someplace else?"

  No answer.

  Leaps: none of the three had cash on them, call their money evidence--stashed when Sugar burned the clothes. "Leroy, did you sell her out? Bring some buddies by that place on Dunkirk?"

  "We . . . we drove her 'roun'."

  "Where? Your friends' pads?"

  "Tha's right."

  "Up in Hollywood?"

  "We didn' shoot them people!"

  "Prove it, Leroy. Where were you guys at 3:00 A.M.?"

  "Man, I cain't tell you!"

  Ed slapped the table. "Then you'll burn for the Nite Owl!"

  "We didn't do it!"

  "Who did you sell the girl to?"

  No answer.

  "Where is she now?"

  No answer.

  "Are you afraid of reprisals? You left the girl somewhere, right? _Leroy, where did you leave her, who did you leave her with, she is your only chance to stay out of the fucking gas chamber?_"

  "Man, I can't tell you, Sugar, he like to kill me!"

  "Leroy, where is she?"

  No answer.

  "Leroy, you turn state's you'll get out years before Sugar and Tyrone."

  No response.

  "Leroy, I'll get you a one-man cell where nobody can hurt you."

  No response.

  "Son, you have to tell me. I'm the only friend you've got."

  No response.

  "Leroy, are you afraid of the man you left the girl with?"

  No answer.

  "Son, he can't be as bad as the gas chamber. _Tell me where the girl is_."

  The door banged open. Bud White stepped in, threw Fontaine against the wall.

  Ed froze.

  White pulled out his .38, broke the cylinder, dropped shells on the floor. Fontaine shook head to toe; Ed kept freezing. White snapped the cylinder shut, stuck the gun in Fontaine's mouth. "One in six. Where's the girl?"

  Fontaine chewed steel; White squeezed the trigger twice: clicks, empty chambers. Fontaine slid down the wall; White pulled the gun back, held him up by his hair. "_Where's the girl?_"

  Ed kept freezing. White pulled the trigger--another little click. Fontaine, bug-eyed. "S-ss-sylvester F-fitch, one-o-nine and Avalon, gray corner house please don' hurt me no-"

  White ran out.

  Fontaine passed out.

  Riot sounds in the corridor--Ed tried to stand up, couldn't get his legs.

CHAPTER TWENTY

  A four-car cordon: two black-and-whites, two unmarkeds. Sirens to a half mile out; a coast up to the gray corner house.

  Dudley Smith drove the lead prowler; Bud rode shotgun reloading his piece. A four-car flank: black-and-whites in the alley, Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle parked streetside--rifles on the gray house door. Bud said, "Boss, he's mine."

  Dudley winked. "Grand, lad."

  Bud went in the back way--through the alley, a fence vault. On the rear porch: a screen door, inside hook and eye. He slipped the catch with his penknife, walked in on tiptoes.

  Darkness, dim shapes: a washing machine, a blind-covered door--strips of light through the cracks.

  Bud tried the door--unlocked---cased it open. A hallway: light bouncing from two side rooms. A rug to walk on; music to give him more cover. He tiptoed up to the first room, wheeled in.

  A nude woman spread-eagled on a mattress--bound with neckties, a necktie in her mouth. Bud hit the next room loud.

  A fat mulatto at a table--naked, wolfmg Kellogg's Rice Krispies. He put down his spoon, raised his hands. "Nossir, don't want no trouble."

  Bud shot him in the face, pulled a spare piece--bang bang from the coon's line of fire. The man hit the floor dead spread--a prime entry wound oozing blood. Bud put the spare in his hand; the front door crashed in. He dumped Rice Krispies on the stiff, called an ambulance.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Jack watched Karen sleep, putting their fight behind him.

  Newspaper pix caused it: the Big V and Cal Denton rousting three colored punks--suspects in L.A.'s "Crime of the Century." Denton dragged Fontaine by his conk; Big V had neck holds on the other two. Karen said they reminded her of the Scottsboro Boys; Jack told her he saved their goddamned lives, but now that he knew they gang-raped a Mexican girl he wished he'd let Denton kill them outright. The argument deteriorated from there.

  Karen slept curled away from him--covered tight like she thought he might hit her. Jack watched her while he dressed; his last two days hit him.

  He was off the Nite Owl, back to Ad Vice. Ed Exley's interrogations tentatively cleared the spooks--pending questioning of the woman they'd been abusing. Bud White played some Russian roulette--the three clammed up. So far, there was no way to know if they had time to leave the woman, drive to the Nite Owl, return to Darktown and gang-rape. Maybe Coates or Fontaine left Jones in charge of the girl and pulled the snuffs with other partners. No luck finding the shotguns; Coates' purple Merc was still missing. No restaurant loot found at their hotel; the debris in the incinerator too far gone for blood-on-fabric analysis. The perfume on the jigs' hands skunked a late paraffin test. Huge pressure at the Bureau: solve the fucking case fast.

  The coroner was trying to ID the patron victims, working from dental abstracts and their physical stats cross-checked against missing persons bulletins, call-ins. Made: the cook/dishwasher, waitress, cash register girl; nothing yet on the three customers, the autopsies showed no sexual abuse on the women. Maybe Coates/Jones/Fontaine weren't the triggers; Dudley Smith on the job--his men bracing armed robbers, nuthouse parolees, every known L.A. geek with a gun jacket. The news vendor who spotted the purple Merc across from the Nite Owl was requestioned; now he said it could have been a Ford or a Chevy. Ford and Chevy registrations being checked; now the park ranger who ID'd the spooks said he wasn't sure. Ed Exley told Green and Parker the purple car might have been placed by the Nite Owl to put the onus on the jigs; Dudley pooh-poohed the theory--he said it was probably just a coincidence. A sure-thing case unraveling into a shitload of possibilities.

  Huge press coverage--Sid Hudgens had already called--zero hink on the smut, nothing like "We've _all_ got secrets." A heroic version of the arrests for fifty scoots--Sid hung up quick.

  The Nite Owl cost him a day on the smut. He'd checked the squadroom postings: no leads, none of the other men tracked the skit. He filed a phony report himself: nothing on Christine Bergeron and Bobby Inge, nothing on the other mags he found: Nothing on his filth dreams: his sweetheart Karen orgied up.

  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.

  "Whatever You Desire."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Parker said, "Ed, you were brilliant the other day. I disapprove of Officer White's intrusion, but I can't complain with the results. I need smart men like you, and . . . direct men like Bud. And I want both of you on the Nite Owl job."

  "Sir, I don't think White and I can work together."

  "You won't have to. Dudley Smith's heading up the investigation, and White will report directly to him. Two other men, Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle, will work with White--however Dudley wants to play it. The Hollywood squad will be in on the job, reporting to Lieutenant Reddin, who'll report to Dudley. We've got divisional contacts assigned, and every man in the Bureau is caffing in informant favors. Chief Green says Russ Millard wants to be detached from Ad Vice to run the show with Dud, so that's a possibility. That makes twenty-four full-time officers."

  "What specifically do I do?"

  Parker pointed to a case graph on an easel. "One, we have not found the shotguns or Coates' car, and until that girl those thugs assaulted clears them on the time element we have to assume that they are still our prime suspects. Since White's little escapade they've refused to talk, and they've been booked on kidnap and rape charges. I think--"

  "Sir, I'd be glad to have another try at them."

  "Let me finish. Two, we still have no IDs on the other three victims. Doc Layman's working overtime on that, and we're logging in four hundred calls a day from people worried about missing loved ones. There's an outside chance that this might be more than just a set of robbery killings, and if that proves to be the case I want you on that end of things. As of now, you're liaison to SID, the D.A.'s Office and the divisional contacts. I want you to go over every field report every day, assess them and share your thoughts with me personally. I want daily written summaries, copies to Chief Green and myself."

  Ed tried not to smile--the stitches in his chin helped. "Sir, some thoughts before we continue?"

  Parker leaned his chair back. "Of course."

  Ed ticked points. "One, what about searching for comparable shell samples in Griffith Park? Two, if the girl clears our suspects on the time element, what was that purple car doing across from the Nite Owl? Three, how likely are we to turn the guns and the car? Four, the suspects said they took the girl to a building on Dunkirk first. What kind of evidence did we get there?"

  "Good points. But one, shell samples to compare is a long shot. With breech-load weapons the rounds might have expelled back into the car those punks were driving, the actual locations listed in the crime reports were vague, Griffith Park is all hillsides, we've had rain and mudslides over the past two weeks and that park ranger has waffled on ID'ing the three in custody. Two, the news vendor who ID'd the car by the Nite Owl says now that maybe it was a Ford or a Chevy, so our registration checks are now a nightmare. If you're thinking the car was placed there as a plant, I think that's nonsense--how would anyone know _to_ plant it there? Three, the 77th Street squad is tearing up the goddamn southside for the car and the guns, muscling K.A.'s, the megillah. And four, there was blood and semen all over a mattress in that building on Dunkirk."

  Ed said, "It all comes back to the girl."

  Parker picked up a report form. "Inez Soto, age twenty-one. A college student. She's at Queen of Angels, and she just came out of sedation this morning."

  "Has anyone spoken to her?"

  "Bud White went with her to the hospital. Nobody's talked to her in thirty-six hours, and I don't envy you the task."

  "Sir, can I do this alone?"

  "No. Ellis Loew wants to prosecute our boys for Little Lindbergh--kidnapping and rape. He wants them in the gas chamber for that, the Nite Owl, or both. And he wants a D.A.'s investigator and a woman officer present. You're to meet Bob Gallaudet and a Sheriff's matron at Queen of Angels in an hour. I don't have to mention that the course of this investigation will be determined by what our Miss Soto tells you."

  Ed stood up. Parker said, "Off the record, do you make the coloreds for the job?"

  "Sir, I'm not sure."

  "You cleared them temporarily. Did you think I'd be angry with you for that?"

  "Sir, we both want absolute justice. And you like me too much."

  Parker smiled. "Edmund, don't dwell on what White did the other day. You're worth a dozen of him. He's killed three men line of duty, but that's nothing compared to what you did in the war. Remember that."

o        o          o

  Gallaudet met him outside the girl's room. The hall reeked of disinfectant--familiar, his mother died one floor down. "Hello, Sergeant."

  "It's Bob, and Ellis Loew sends his thanks. He was afraid the suspects would get beaten to death and he wouldn't get to prosecute."

  Ed laughed. "They might be cleared on the Nite Owl."

  "I don't care, and neither does Loew. Little Lindbergh with rape carries the death penalty. Loew wants those guys in the ground, so do I, so will you once you talk to the girl. So here's the sixty-four-dollar question. Did they do it?"

  Ed shook his head. "Based on their reactions, I'd lean against it. But Fontaine said they drove the girl around. 'Sold her out' was the phrase he reacted to. I think it could have been Sugar Coates and a little pickup gang, maybe two of the guys they sold her to. None of the three had money on them when they were arrested, and either way--Nite Owl or gang rape--I think that money is stashed somewhere, covered with blood--like the bloody clothes Coates burned."

  Gallaudet whistled. "So we need the girl's word on the time element _and_ IDs on the other rapers."

  "Right. _And_ our suspects are clammed, _and_ Bud White killed the one witness who could have helped us."

  "That guy White's a pisser, isn't he? Don't look so spooked, being scared of him means you're sane. Now come on, let's talk to the young lady."

  They walked into the room. A Sheriff's matron blocked the bed--tall, fat, short hair waxed straight back. Gallaudet said, "Ed Exley, Dot Rothstein." The woman nodded, stepped aside.

  Inez Soto.

  Black eyes, her face cut and bruised. Dark hair shaved to the forehead, sutures. Tubes in her arms, tubes under the sheets. Cut knuckles, split nails--she fought. Ed saw his mother: bald, sixty pounds in an iron lung.

  Gallaudet said, "Miss Soto, this is Sergeant Exley."

  Ed leaned on the bed rail. "I'm sorry we couldn't have given you more time to recuperate, and I'll try to make this as brief as possible."

  Inez Soto stared at him--dark eyes, bloodshot. A raspy voice: "I won't look at any more pictures."

  Gallaudet: "Miss Soto identified Coates, Fontaine and Jones from mugshots. I told her we might need her to look at some mugshots for IDs on the other men."

  Ed shook his head. "That won't be necessary right now. Right now, Miss Soto, I need you to try to remember a chronology of the events that happened to you two nights ago. We can do this very slowly, and for now we won't need details. When you're more rested, we can go over it again. Please take your time and start when the three men kidnapped you."

  Inez pushed up on her pillows. "They weren't men!"

  Ed gripped the rail. "I know. And they're going to be punished for what they did to you. But before we can do that we need to eliminate or confirm them as suspects on another crime."

  "I want them dead! I heard the radio! _I want them dead for that!_"

  "We can't do that, because then the other ones who hurt you will go free. We have to do this correctly."

  A hoarse whisper. "Correctly means six white people are more important than a Mexican girl from Boyle Heights. Those animals ripped me up and did their business in my mouth. They stuck guns in me. My family thinks I brought it on myself because I didn't marry a stupid _cholo_ when I was sixteen. I will tell you nothing, _cabrón_."

  Gallaudet: "Miss Soto, Sergeant Exley saved your life."

  "He ruined my life! Officer White said he cleared the _negritos_ on a murder charge! Officer White's the hero--he killed the _puto_ who took me up my ass!"

  Inez sobbed. Gallaudet gave the cut-off sign. Ed walked down to the gift shop--familiar, his deathwatch. Flowers for 875: fat cheerful bouquets every day.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Bud came on duty early, found a memo on his desk.

                    4/19/53

Lad--

  Paperwork is not your forte, but I need you to run records checks (two) for me. (Dr. Layman has identified the three patron victims.) Use the standard procedure I've taught you and first check bulletin 11 on the squadroom board: it updates the overall status of the case and details the duties of the other investigating officers, which will prevent you frow doing gratuitous and extraneous tasks.

  1. Susan Nancy Lefferts, W.F., DOB 1/29/22, no criminal record. A San Bernardino native recently arrived in Los Angeles. Worked as a salesgirl at Bullock's Wilshire (background check assigned to Sgt. Exley).

  2. Delbert Melvin Cathcart, a.k.a. "Duke," W.M., DOB 11/14/14. Two statutory rape convictions, served three years at San Quentin. Three procuring arrests, no convictions. (A tough ID: laundry markings and the body cross-checked against prison measurement charts got us our match.) No known place of employment, last known address 9819 Vendome, Silverlake District.

  3. Malcolm Robert Lunceford, a.k.a. "Mal," W.M., DOB 6/02/12. No last known address, worked as a security guard at the Mighty Man Agency, 1680 North Cahuenga. Former LAPD officer (patrolman), assigned to Hollywood Division throughout most of his eleven-year career. Fired for incompetence 6/5 0. Known to be a late night habitué of the Nite Owl. I've checked Lunceford's personnel file and concluded that the man was a disgraceful police officer (straight "D" fitness reports from every C. O.). You check whatever paperwork exists on him at Hollywood Station (Breuning and Carlisle will be there to shag errands for you).

  Summation: I still think the Negroes are our men, but Cathcart's criminal record and Lunceford's cxpoliceman status mean that more than cursory background checks should be conducted. I want you as my adjutant on this job, an excellent baptism of fire for you as a straight Homicide detective. Meet me tonight (9:30) at the the Pacific Dining Car. We'll discuss the job and related matters.

                    D.S.

  Bud checked the main bulletin board. Nite Owl thick: field reports, autopsy reports, summaries. He found bulletin 11, skimmed it.

  Six R&I clerks detached to check criminal records and auto registrations; the 77th Street squad shaking down jigtown for the shotguns and Ray Coates' Mere. Breuning and Carlisle muscling known gun jockeys; the area around the Nite Owl canvassed nine times without turning a single extra eyewitness. The spooks refused to talk to LAPD men, D.A.'s Bureau investigators, Ellis Loew himself. Inez Soto refused to cooperate on clearing up the time frame; Ed Exley blew a questioning session, said they should treat her kid-gloves.

  Down the board: Malcolm Lunceford's LAPD personnel sheets. Bad news--Lunceford as a free-meal scrounger, general incompetent. A putrid arrest record; cited for dereliction of duty three times. An interdepartmental information request issued; four officers who worked with Lunceford responded. Grafter! buffoon: Mal drank on duty, shook down hookers for blowjobs, tried to shake down Hollywood merchants for his off-duty "protection service"--letting him sleep on their premises while he was locked out of his apartment for nonpayment of rent. One complaint too many got Lunceford bounced in June 1950; all four responding officers stated that he probably wasn't a deliberate Nite Owl victim: as a policeman he habituated all-night coffee shops--usually to scrounge chow; he was probably at the Nite Owl at 3:00 A.M. because he was hooked on sweet Lucy and sleeping in the weeds and the Nite Owl looked cozy and warm.

  Bud drove to Hollywood Station--Inez on his mind, Dudley, Dick Stens along with her. Guts: she tried to claw herself off the gurney to get at Sylvester Fitch, strapped dead to a morgue cot; she screamed: "I'm dead, I want them dead!" He hustled her to the ambulance, filched morphine and a hypo, shot her up while no one was looking. The worst of it should have been over--but the worst was still coming.

  Exley would interrogate her, make her spit out details, look at sex offender pix until she cracked. Ellis Loew wanted an airtight case--that meant show-ups, courtroom testimony. Inez Soto: the first headliner witness for the most ambitious D.A. who ever breathed--all he could do was see her at the hospital, say "Hi," try to muffle the blows. A brave woman shoved at Ed Exley-- fodder for a cowardly hard-on.

  Inez to Stens.

  Good revenge: Danny Duck masks, Exley whimpering. The photo good insurance; Dick still jacked up on blood--a taste that told him he was still on the muscle. His job at Kikey T.'s deli stunk--the dump was a known grifter hangout, a probation rap waiting to happen. Stens sleeping in his car, boozing, gambling--jail taught him absolutely shit.

  Bud cut north on Vine; sunlight picked up his reflection in the windshield. His necktie stood out: LAPD shields, 2's. The 2's stood for the men he killed; he'd have to get some new ties made up--3's to add on Sylvester Fitch. Dudley's idea: _esprit de corps_ for Surveillance. Snappy stuff: women got a kick out of them. Dudley was a kick--in the teeth, in the brains.

  He owed him more than he owed Dick Stens--the man frosted Bloody Christmas, got him Surveillance, then Homicide. But when Dudley Smith brought you along you belonged to him--and he was so much smarter than everyone else that you were never sure what he wanted from you or how he was using you--shit got lost in all his fancy language. It didn't quite rankle, but you felt it; it scared you to see how Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle gave the man their souls. Dudley could bend you, shape you, twist you, turn you, point you--and never make you feel like some dumb lump of clay. But he always let you know one thing: he knew you better than you knew yourself.

  No streetside parking-every space taken. Bud parked three blocks over, walked up to the squadroom. No Exley, every desk occupied: men talking into phones, taking notes. A giant bulletin boar-d all Nite Owl--paper six inches thick. Two women at a table, a switchboard behind them, a sign by their feet: "R&I/DMV Requests." Bud went over, talked over phone noise. "I'm on the Cathcart check, and I want all you can get me, known associates, the works. This clown was popped twice for statch rape. I want full details on the complainants, plus current addresses. He had three pimping rousts, no convictions, and I want you to check all the local city and county vice squads to see if he's got a file. If he does, I want names on the girls he was running. If you get names, get DOBs and run them back through R&I, DMV, City/County Parole, the Woman's Jail. _Details_. You got it?"

  The girls hit the switchboard; Bud hit the bulletin board: paper tagged "Victim Lunceford." One update: a Hollywood squad officer talked to Lunceford's boss at the Mighty Man Agency. Facts: Lunceford patronized the Nite Owl virtually every early A.M.--after he got off his 6:00-to-2:00 shift at the Pickwick Bookstore Building; Lunceford was a typical wino security guard not permitted to carry a sidearm; Lunceford had no known enemies, no known friends, no known lady friends, did not associate with his fellow Mighty Men, slept in a pup tent behind the Hollywood Bowl. The tent was checked out, inventoried: a sleeping bag, four Mighty Man uniforms, six bottles of Old Monterey muscatel.

  Adios, shitbird--you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bud checked Lunceford's arrest record: nineteen minor felony pops in eleven years as a cop, scratch revenge as a motive, kill six to get one stunk as a motive anyway. Still no Exley, no Breuning and Carlisle. Bud remembered Dudley's memo: check the station files for Lunceford listings.

  A good bet: field interrogation cards filed by officer surname. Bud hit the storage room, pulled the "L" cabinet--no folder for "Lunceford, Officer Malcolm." An hour checking misfiles "A" to "Z"--zero. No F.I.'s--strange--maybe Wino Mal never filed his field cards.

  Almost noon, time for a chow run--a sandwich, talk to Dick. Carlisle and Breuning showed up--loafing, drinking coffee. Bud found a free phone, buzzed snitches.

  Snake Tucker heard bupkis; ditto Fats Rice and Johnny Stomp. Jerry Katzenbach said it was the Rosenbergs--they ordered the snuffs from death row, make Jerry back on the needle. An R&I girl hovered.

  She handed him a tear sheet. "There's not much. Nothing on Cathcart's K.A.'s, not much detail besides his rap sheet. I couldn't get much on the statutory rape complainants, except that they were fourteen and blonde and worked at Lockheed during the war. My bet is they were transients. Sheriff's Central Vice had a file on Cathcart, with nine suspected prostitutes listed. I followed up. Two are dead of syphilis, three were underaged and left the state as a probation stipulation, two I couldn't get a line on. The remaining two are on that page. Does it help?"

  Bud waved Breuning and Carlisle over. "Yeah, it does. Thanks."

  The clerk walked off; Bud checked her sheet, two names circled: Jane (a.k.a. "Feather") Royko, Cynthia (a.k.a. "Sinful Cindy") Benavides. Last known addresses, known haunts: pads on Poinsettia and Yucca, cocktail lounges.

  Dudley's strongarms hovered. Bud said, "The two names here. Shag them, will you?"

  Carlisle said, "This background check shit is the bunk. I say it's the shines."

  Breuning grabbed the sheet. "Dud says do it, we do it."

  Bud checked their neckties--five dead men total. Fat Breuning, skinny Carlisle--somehow they looked just like twins. "So do it, huh?"

o        o          o

  Abe's Noshery, no parking, around the block. Dick's Chevy Out back, booze empties on the seat: probation violation number one. Bud found a space, walked up and checked the window: Stens guzzling Manischewitz, bullshitting with ex-cons--Lee Vachss, Deuce Perkins, Johnny Stomp. A cop type eating at the counter: a bite, a glance at the known criminal assembly, another bite--clockwork. Back to Hollywood Station--pissed that he was still playing nursemaid.

  Waiting for him: Breuning, two hooker types--laughing up a storm in the sweatbox. Bud tapped the glass; Breuning walked out.

  Bud said, "Who's who?"

  "The blonde's Feather Royko. Hey, did you hear the one about the well-hung elephant?"

  "What'd you tell them?"

  "I told them it was a routine background check on Duke Cathcart. They read the papers, so they weren't surprised. Bud, it's the niggers. They're gonna burn for that Mex ginch, Dudley's just going through this rigamarole 'cause Parker wants a showcase and he's listening to that punk kid Exley with all his highfalut--"

  Hard fingers to the chest. "Inez Soto ain't a ginch, and maybe it ain't the jigs. So you and Carlisle go do some police work."

  Kowtow--Breuning shambled off smoothing his shirt. Bud walked into the box. The whores looked bad: a peroxide blonde, a henna redhead, too much makeup on too many miles.

  Bud said, "So you read the papers this morning."

  Feather Royko said, "Yeah. Poor Dukey."

  "It don't sound like you're exactly grieving for him."

  "Dukey was Dukey. He was cheap, but he never hit you. He had a thing about chiliburgers, and the Nite Owl had good ones. One chiliburg too many, RIP Dukey."

  "Then you girls buy all that robbery stuff in the papers?"

  Cindy Benavides nodded. Feather said, "Sure. That's what it was, wasn't it? I mean, don't you think so?"

  "Probably. What about enemies? Duke have any?"

  "No, Dukey was Dukey."

  "How many other girls was he running?"

  "Just us. We are the meager remnants of Dukey-poo's stable."

  "I heard Duke ran nine girls once. What happened? Rival pimp stuff?"

  "Mister, Dukey was a dreamer. He liked young stuff personally, and he liked to run young stuff. Young stuff gets bored and moves on unless their guy gets mean. Dukey could get mean with other men, but never with females. RIP Dukey."

  "Then Duke must've had something else going. A two-girl string wouldn't cover him."

  Feather picked at her nail polish. "Dukey was jazzed up on some new business scheme. You see, he always had some kind of scheme going. He was a dreamer. And the schemes made him happy, made him feel like the meager coin Cindy and me turned for him wasn't so bad."

  "Did he give you details?"

  "No."

  Cindy had her lipstick out, smearing on another coat. "Cindy, he tell _you_ anything?"

  "No"--a little squeak.

  "Nothing about enemies?"

  "No."

  "What about girlfriends? Duke have any young stuff going lately?"

  Cindy grabbed a tissue, blotted. "N-no."

  "Feather, you buy that?"

  "I guess Dukey wasn't talking up nobody. Can we go now? I mean--"

  "Go. There's a cabstand up the street."

  The girls moved out fast; Bud gave them a lead, ran to his car. Up to Sunset across from the cabstand; a two-minute wait. Cindy and Feather walked up.

  Separate cabs, different directions. Cindy shot due north on Wilcox, maybe toward home--5814 Yucca. Bud took a shortcut; the cab showed right on time. Cindy walked to a green De Soto, took off westbound. Bud counted to ten, followed.

  Up to Highland, the Cahuenga Pass to the Valley, west on Ventura Boulevard. Bud stuck close; Cindy drove middle lane fast. A last-second swerve to the curb by a motel--rooms circling a murky swimming pool.

  Bud braked, U-turned, watched. Cindy walked to a left-side room, knocked. A girl--fifteenish, blond--let her in. Young stuff--Duke Cathcart's statch rape type.

  Eyeball Surveillance.

  Cindy walked out ten minutes later--zoom--a U-turn back toward Hollywood. Bud knocked on the girl's door.

  She opened it--teary-eyed. A radio blasted: "Nite Owl Massacre," "Crime of the Southland's Century." The girl focused in. "Are you the police?"

  Bud nodded. "Sweetie, how old are you?" No more focus--her eyes went blurry. "Sweetie, what's your name?"

  "Kathy Janeway. Kathy with a 'K."' Bud closed the door. "How old are you?" "Fourteen. Why do men always ask you that?" A prairie twang.

  "Where are you from?"

  "North Dakota. But if you send me back I'll just run away again."

  "Why?"

  "You want it in VistaVision? Duke said lots of guys get their jollies that way."

  "Don't be such a tough cookie, huh? I'm on your side."

  "That's a laugh."

  Bud scoped the room. Panda bears, movie mags, schoolgirl smocks on the dresser. No whore threads, no dope paraphernalia. "Was Duke nice to you?"

  "He didn't make me do it with guys, if that's what you mean."

  "You mean you only did it with him?"

  "No, I mean my daddy did it to me and this other guy made me do it with guys, but Duke bought me away from him."

  Pimp intrigue. "What was the guy's name?"

  "No! I won't tell you and you can't make me and I forgot it anyway!"

  "Which one of those, sweetie?"

  "I don't want to tell!"

  "Sssh. So Duke was nice to you?"

  "Don't shush me. Duke was a panda bear, all he wanted was to sleep in the same bed with me and play pinochle. Is that so bad?"

  "Honey--"

  "My daddy was worse! My Uncle Arthur was lots worse!"

  "Hush, now, huh?"

  "You can't make me!"

  Bud took her hands. "What did Cindy want?"

  Kathy pulled away. "She told me Duke was dead, which any dunce with a radio knows. She told me Duke said that if anything happened to him she should look after me, and she gave me ten dollars. She said the police bothered her. I said ten dollars isn't very much, and she got insulted and yelled at me. And how'd you know Cindy was here?"

  "Never mind."

  "The rent here's nine dollars a week and I--"

  "I'll get you some more money if you'll--"

  "Duke was _never_ that cheap with me!"

  "_Kathy, hush now and let me ask you a few questions and maybe we'll get the guys who killed Duke. All right? Huh?_"

  A kid's sigh. "Okay, all right, ask me."

  Bud, soft. "Cindy said Duke told her to look after you if something happened to him. Do you think he figured something was gonna happen?"

  "I don't know. Maybe."

  "Why maybe?"

  "Maybe 'cause Duke was nervous lately."

  "Why was he nervous?"

  "I don't know."

  "Did you ask him?"

  "He said, 'Just biz."'

  Feather on Cathcart: "Jazzed on some new business scheme." "Kathy, was Duke starting some new kind of thing up?"

  "I don't know, Duke said girls don't need shoptalk. And I know he left me more than a crummy ten dollars."

  Bud gave her a Bureau card. "That's my number at work. You call me, huh?"

  Kathy plucked a panda off the bed. "Duke was so messy and such a slob, but I didn't care. He had a cute smile and this cute scar on his chest, and he never yelled at me. My daddy and Uncle Arthur always yelled at me, so Duke never did. Wasn't that a nice thing to do?"

  Bud left her with a hand squeeze. Halfway out to the street he heard her sobbing.

o        o          o

  Back to the car, a brainstorm on the Cathcart play so far. Call Duke's "new gig" and pimp intrigue weak maybes; call Nite Owl chiliburgers 99 percent sure the ink on his death warrant. A pimp statch raper and a grifter ex-cop for victims--strange--but par for the Hollywood Boulevard 3:00 A.M. course. Call it busywork for Dudley--maybe Cindy was hinked on more than the cash she held back. He could muscle the money out of her, glom some pimp scuttlebutt, close out the Cathcart end and ask Dud to send him down to Darktown. Simple--but Cindy was who-knowswhere and Kathy had him dancing to her rune: savior with no place to go. He snapped to something missing from the bulletins: no checkout on Cathcart's apartment. A chance Duke's whore book might be there--leads on his gig and the pimp he bought Kathy from--a good time-killer.

  Bud headed over Cahuenga. He saw a red sedan hovering back--he thought he'd seen it by the motel. He speeded up, made a run by Cindy's pad--no green De Soto, no red sedan. He drove to Silverlake checking his rearview. No tail car--just his imagination.

  9819 Vendome looked virgin--a garage apartment behind a small stucco house. No reporters, no crime scene ropes, no locals out taking some sun. Bud popped the door with his hand.

  A typical bachelor flop: living room/bedroom combo, bathroom, kitchenette. Lights on for a quick inventory--the way Dudley taught him.

  A Murphy bed in the down position. Cheapie seascapes on the walls. One dresser, a walk-in closet. No doors on the bathroom and kitchenette--neat, clean. The whole pad looked spanking neat--at odds with Kathy: "Duke was so messy and such a slob."

  Detail prowls--another Dudley trick. A phone on an end table, check the drawers: pencils, no address book, no whore book. A stack of Yellow Page directories, a toss--L.A. County, Riverside County, San Bernardino County, Ventura County. San Berdoo the only book used--ruffled pages, a cracked spine. Check the rufflings: "Printshop" listings thumbed through. A connection, probably nothing: victim Susan Lefferts, San Berdoo native.

  Bud eyeball-prowled, click/click/click. The bathroom and kitchen immaculate; neatly folded shirts in the dresser. The carpet clean, a bit grimy in the corners. A final click: the crib had been checked out, cleaned up-maybe tossed by a pro.

  He went through the closet: jackets and slacks slipping off hangers. Cathcart had a nifty wardrobe--someone had been trying on his threads or this was the real Duke--Kathy's slob--and the tosser didn't bother with his clothes.

  Bud checked every pocket, ever garment: lint, spare change, nothing hot. A click: a test to test the tosser. He walked down to the car, got his evidence kit, dusted: the dresser a sure thing for latents. One more click: scouring powder wipe marks. Nail the pad as professionally print-wiped.

  Bud packed up, got out, brainstormed some more--pimp war clicks, clickouts--Duke Cathcart had two skags in his stable, no stomach for pushing a fourteen-year-old nymphet--he was a pimp disaster area. He tried to click Duke's pad tossed to the Nite Owl--no gears meshçd, odds on the coons stayed high. If the tossing played, tie it to Cathcart's "new gig"--Feather Royko talked it up-she came off as clean as Sinful Cindy came off hinky. Cindy next--and she owed Kathy money.

  Dusk settling in. Bud drove to Cindy's pad, saw the green De Soto. Moans out a half-cracked window--he shoved the sill up, vaulted in.

  A dark hallway, grunt-grunt-grunt one door down. Bud walked over, looked in. Cindy and a fat man wearing argyles, the bed about ready to break. Fattie's trousers on the doorknob-- Bud filched a billfold, emptied it, whistled.

  Cindy shrieked; Fats kept pumping. Bud: "SHITBIRD, WHAT YOU DOIN' WITH MY WOMAN!!!!"

  Things speeded up.

  Fattie ran out holding his dick; Cindy dove under the sheets. Bud saw a purse, dumped it, grabbed money. Cindy shrieked willy-nilly. Bud kicked the bed. "Duke's enemies. Spill and I won't roust you."

  Cindy poked her head out. "I . . . don't . . . know nothin'."

  "The fuck you don't. Let's try this: somebody broke into Duke's place, you give me a suspect."

  "I . . don't . . . know."

  "Last chance. You held back at the station, Feather came clean. You went to Kathy Janeway's motel and stuffed her with a ten-spot. What else you hold back on?"

  "Look--"

  "Give."

  "Give on what?"

  "Give on Duke's new gig and his enemies. Tell me who used to pimp Kathy."

  "I don't know who pimped her!"

  "Then give on the other two."

  Cindy wiped her face--smeared lipstick, runny makeup. "All I know's this guy was going around talking up cocktail-bar girls, acting like Duke. You know, the same one-liners, real Dukey shtick. I heard he was trying to get girls to do call jobs for him. He didn't talk to me or Feather, this is just stale-bread stuff I heard, like from two weeks ago."

  Click: "This Guy" maybe the pad tosser, "This Guy" trying on Cathcart's clothes. "Keep going on that."

  "That is all I heard, just the way I heard it."

  "What did the guy look like?"

  "I don't know."

  "Who told you about him?"

  "I don't even know that, they were just girls gabbing at the next table at this goddamned bar."

  "All right, easy. Duke's new gig. Give on that."

  "Mister, it was just another Dukey pipe dream."

  "Then why didn't you tell me before?"

  "You know the old adage 'Don't speak ill of the dead'?" "Yeah. You know the bull daggers at the Woman's Jail?" Cindy sighed. "Dukey pipe dream number six thousand-- smut peddler. Is that a yuck? Dukey said he was going to push this weird smut. That's all I know, we had a two-second conversation on the topic and that's all Duke said. I didn't press it 'cause I know a pipe dream when I hear one. Now will you get out of here?"

  Loose Bureau talk: Ad Vice working pornography. "What kind of smut?"

  "Mister, I told you I don't know, it was just a two-second conversation."

  "You gonna pay Kathy back what Duke left you?" "Sure, Good Samaritan. Ten here, ten there. If I gave her the money all at once she'd just blow it on movie mags anyway."

  "I might be back."

  "I wait with bated breath."

o        o          o

  Bud drove to a mailbox, sent the cash out special delivery: Kathy Janeway, Orchid View Motel, plenty of stamps and a friendly note. Four hundred plus--a small fortune for a kid.

  7:00--time to kill before he met Dudley. The Bureau for a time-killer: Ad Vice, the squadroom board.

  Squad 4 on the smut job--Kifka, Henderson, Vincennes, Stathis--four men tracking stag books, all reporting no leads. Nobody around, he could check by in the morning, it was probably nothing anyway. He walked over to Homicide, called Abe's Noshery.

  Stens answered.

  "Abe's."

  "Dick, it's me."

  "Oh? Checking up on me, _Officer?_"

  "Dick, come on."

  "No, I mean it. You're a Dudley man now. Maybe Dud don't like the people I push my corned beef to. Maybe Dud wants skinny, thinks I'll talk to you. It ain't like you're your own man no more."

  "You been drinking, partner?"

  "I drink kosher now. Tell Exicy that. Tell him Danny Duck wants to dance with him. Tell him I read about his old man and Dream-a-fucking-Dreamland. Tell him I might come to the opening, Danny Duck requests the presence of Sergeant Ed cocksucker Exley for one more fucking dance."

  "Dick, you're way out of line."

  "The fuck you say. One more dance, Danny Duck's gonna break his glasses and chew his fuckin' throat--"

  "Dick, goddammit--"

  "Hey, fuck you! I read the papers, I saw the personnel on that Nite Owl job. You, Dudley S., Exley, the rest of Dudley's hard-ons. You're fucking partners with the cocksucker who put me away, you're sucking the same gravy case, so if you th--"

  Bud threw the phone out the window. He walked down to the lot kicking things--then the Big Picture kicked him.

  He should have swung for Bloody Christmas.

  Dudley saved him.

  Make Exley the Nite Owl hero so far--he'd be the one to send Inez back through Hell.

  Strangeness on the Cathcart end, the case might go wide, more than a psycho robbery gang. _He_ could make the case, twist Exley, work an angle to help out Stens. Which meant:

  Not greasing Ad Vice for smut leads.

  Holding back evidence from Dudley.

  BEING A DETECTIVE--NOT A HEADBASHER--ON HIS OWN.

  He fed himself drunk talk for guts:

  It ain't like you're your own man.

  It ain't like you're your own man.

  It ain't like you're your own man.

  He was scared.

  He owed Dudley.

  He was crossing the only man on earth more dangerous than he was.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Ray Pinker walked Ed through the Nite Owl, reconstructing.

  "Bim, bam, I'm betting it happened like this. First, the three enter and show their weaponry. One man takes the cash register girl, the kitchen boy and the waitress. This guy hits Donna DeLuca with his shotgun butt--she's standing by the cash register, and we found a piece of her scalp on the floor there. She gives him the money and the money from her purse, he shoves her and Patty Chesimard to the locker, picking up Gilbert Escobar in the kitchen en route. Gilbert resists--note the drag marks, the pots and pans on the floor. A pop to the head--bim, barn--that little pool of blood you see outlined in chalk. The safe is exposed under the cook's stand, one of the three employee victims opens it, note the spilled coins. Bim, barn, Gilbert resists some more, another gun-butt shot, note the circle marked 1-A on the floor, we found three gold teeth there, bagged them and matched them: Gilbert Luis Escobar. The drag marks start there, old Gil has quit fighting, bim, bam, suspect number one plants victims one, two and three inside the food locker."

  Back to the restaurant proper--still sealed three nights post-mortem. Gawkers pressed up to the windows; Pinker kept talking. "Meanwhile, gunmen two and three are rounding up victims four through six. The drag marks going back to the locker and the spilled food and dishes speak for themselves. You might not be able to see it because the linoleum's so dark, but there's blood under the first two tables: Cathcart and Lunceford, sitting separately, two gun-butt shots. We know who was where through blood typing. Cathcart drops by table two, Lunceford by table one. Now--"

  Ed cut in. "Did you dust the plates for more confirmation?"

  Pinker nodded. "Smudges and smears, two viable latents on dishes under Lunceford's table. That's how we ID'd him--we got a match to the set they took when he joined the LAPD. Cathcart and Susan Lefferts had their hands blown off, no way to cross-check on that, their dishes were too smudged anyway. We tagged Cathcart on a partial dental and his prison measurement chart, Lefferts on a full dental. Now, you see the shoe on the floor?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, from an angle study it looks like Lefferts was flailing to get to Cathcart at the next table, even though they were sitting separately. Dumb panic, she obviously didn't know him. She started screaming, and one of the gunmen stuck a wad of napkins from that container there in her mouth. Doc Layman found a big wad of swallowed tissue in her throat at autopsy, he thinks she might have gagged and suffocated just as the shooting started. Bim, barn, Cathcart and Lefferts are dragged to the locker, Lunceford walks, the poor bastard probably thinks it's just a stickup. At the locker, purses and wallets are taken--we found a scrap of Gilbert Escobar's driver's license floating in blood just inside the door, along with six wax-saturated cotton balls. The gunmen had the brains to protect their ears."

  The last bit didn't play: his coloreds were too impetuous. "It doesn't seem like enough men to do the job."

  Pinker shrugged. "It worked. Are you suggesting one or more of the victims knew one or more of the killers?"

  "I know, it's unlikely."

  "Do you want to see the locker? It'll have to be now, we promised the owner he could have the place back."

  "I saw it that night."

  "I saw the pictures. Jesus, you couldn't tell they were human. You're working the Lefferts background check, right?"

  Ed looked out the window; a pretty girl waved at him. Dark-haired, Latin--she looked like Inez Soto. "Right."

  "And?"

  "And I spent a full day in San Bernardino and got nowhere. The woman used to live with her mother, who was half-sedated and wouldn't talk to me. I talked to acquaintances, and they told me Sue Lefferts was a chronic insomniac who listened to the radio all night. She had no boyfriends in recent memory, no enemies ever. I checked her apartment in L.A., which was just about what you'd expect for a thirty-one-year-old salesgirl. One of the San Berdoo people said she was a bit of a roundheels, one said she belly-danced at a Greek restaurant a few times for laughs. Nothing suspicious."

  "It keeps coming back to the Negroes."

  "Yes, it does."

  "Any luck on the car or the weapons?"

  "No, and 77th Street's checking trashcans and sewer grates for the purses and wallets. And I know an approach we can make and save the investigation a lot of time."

  Pinker smiled. "Check Griffith Park for the nicked shells?"

  Ed turned to the window--the Inez type was gone. "If we place those shells, then it's either the Negroes in custody or another three."

  "Sergeant, that is one large long shot."

  "I know, and I'll help."

  Pinker checked his watch. "It's 10:30 now. I'll find the occurrence reports on those shootings, try to pinpoint the locations and meet you with a sapper squad tomorrow at dawn. Say the Observatory parking lot?"

  "I'll be there."

  "Should I get clearance from Lieutenant Smith?"

  "Do it on my say-so, okay? I'm reporting directly to Parker on this."

  "The park at dawn then. Wear some old clothes, it'll be filthy work."

o        o          o

  Ed ate Chinese on Alvarado. He knew why he was heading that way: Queen of Angels was close, Inez Soto might be awake. He'd called the hospital: Inez was healing up quickly, her family hadn't visited, her sister called, said Mama and Papa blamed her for the nightmare--provocative clothing, worldly ways. She'd been crying for her stuffed animals; he had the gift shop send up an assortment--gifts to ease his conscience--he wanted her as a major witness in his first big homicide case. And he just wanted her to like him, wanted her to disown four words: "Officer White's the hero."

  He stalled with a last cup of tea. Stitches, dental work--his wounds were healing, made small: his mother and Inez blurred together. He'd gotten a report: Dick Stens hung out with known armed robbers, bet with bookies, took his salary in cash and frequented whorehouses. When his men had him pinned cold they'd call County Probation and fix an arrest.

  Which paled beside "Officer White's the hero" and Inez Soto with the fire to hate him.

  Ed paid the check, drove to Queen of Angels.

o        o          o

  Bud White was walking out.

  They crossed by the elevator. White got the first word in. "Give your career a rest and let her sleep."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Not looking to pump a witness. Leave her alone, you'll get your chance."

  "'This is just a visit."

  "She sees through you, Exley. You can't buy her off with teddy bears."

  "Don't you want the case cleared? Or are you just frustrated that there's nobody else for you to kill?"

  "Big talk from a brownnosing snitch."

  "Did you come here to get laid?"

  "Different circumstances, I'd eat you for that."

  "Sooner or later, I'll take you and Stensland down."

  "That goes two ways. War hero, huh? Those Japs must've rolled over for you."

  Ed flinched.

  White winked.

  Tremors--all the way up to her room. Ed looked before he knocked.

  Inez was awake--reading a magazine. Stuffed animals strewn on the floor, one creature on the bed: Scooter Squirrel as a footrest. Inez saw him, said, "No."

  Faded bruises, her features coming back hard. "No what, Miss Soto?"

  "No, I won't go through it with you."

  "Not even a few questions?"

  "No."

  Ed pulled a chair up. "You don't seem surprised to see me here so late."

  "I'm not, you're the subtle type." She pointed to the animals. "Did the district attorney reimburse you for those?"

  "No, that was out of my own pocket. Did Ellis Loew visit you?"

  "Yes, and I told him no. I told him that the three _negrito putos_ drove me around, took money from other _putos_ and left me with the _negrito puto_ that Officer White killed. I told him that I can't remember or won't remember or don't want to remember any more details, he can take his pick and that is _absolutamente_ all there is to it."

  Ed said, "Miss Soto, I just came to say hello."

  She laughed in his face. "You want the rest of the story? An hour later my brother Juan calls and tells me I can't go home, that I disgraced the family. Then _puto_ Mr. Loew calls and says he can put me up in a hotel if I cooperate, then the gift shop girl brings me those _puto_ animals and says they're gifts from the nice policeman with the glasses. I've been to college, _pendejo_. Don't you think I can follow the chain of events?"

  Ed pointed to Scooter Squirrel. "You didn't throw him away."

  "He's special."

  "Do you like Dieterling characters?"

  "So what if I do!"

  "Just asking. And where do you put Bud White in your chain of events?"

  Inez fluffed her pillows. "He killed a man for me."

  "He killed him for himself."

  "And that _puto_ animal is dead just the same. Officer White just comes by to say hello. He warns me about you and Mr. Loew. He tells me I should cooperate, but he doesn't press the subject. He hates you, subtle man. I can tell."

  "You're a smart girl, Inez."

  "You want to say 'for a Mexican,' I know that."

  "No, you're wrong. You're just plain smart. And you're lonely, or you would have asked me to leave."

  Inez threw her magazine down. "So what if I am!"

  Ed picked it up. Dog-eared pages: a piece on Dream-aDreamland. "I'm going to recommend that we give you some time to get well and recommend that when this mess goes to court you be allowed to testify by written deposition. If we get enough Nite Owl corroboration from other sources, you might not have to testify at all. And I won't come back if you don't want me to."

  She stared at him. "I've still got no place to go."

  "Did you read that article on the Dream-a-Dreamland opening?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you see the name 'Preston Exley'?"

  "Yes."

  "He's my father."

  "So what? I know you're a rich kid, blowing your money on stuffed animals. So what? Where will I go?"

  Ed held the bed rail. "I've got a cabin at Lake Arrowhead. You can stay there. I won't touch you, and I'll take you to the Dream-a-Dreamland opening."

  Inez touched her head. "What about my hair?"

  "I'll get you a nice bonnet."

  Inez sobbed, hugged Scooter Squirrel.

o        o          o

  Ed met the sappers at dawn, groggy from dreams: Inez, other women. Ray Pinker brought flashlights, spades, metal detectors; he'd had Communications Division issue a public appeal: witnesses to the Griffith Park shotgun blastings were asked to come forth to ID the blasters. The occurrence report locations were marked out into grids--all steep, scrub-covered hillsides. The men dug, uprooted, scanned with gizmos going tick, tick, tick--they found coins, tin cans, a .32 revolver. Hours came, went; the sun beat down. Ed worked hard--breathing dirt, risking sunstroke. His dreams returned, circles leading back to Inez.

  Anne from the Marlborough School Cotillion--they did it in a '38 Dodge, his legs banged the doors. Penny from his UCLA biology class: rum punch at his frat house, a quick backyard coupling. A string of patriotic roundheels on his bond tour, a one-night stand with an older woman--a Central Division dispatcher. Their faces were hard to remember; he tried and kept seeing Inez--Inez without bruises, no hospital smock. It was dizzying, the heat was dizzying, he was filthy, exhausted--it all felt good. More hours went--he couldn't think of women or anything else. More time down, yells in the distance, a hand on his shoulder.

  Ray Pinker holding out two spent shotgun shells and a photo of a shotgun shell strike surface. A perfect match: identical firing pin marks straight across.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Two days since the Fleur-de-Lis grab--no way to tell how far he could take it.

  Two days, one suspect: Lamar Hinton, age twenty-six, arrested for strongarm assault, a conviction on an ADW, a deuce at Chino--paroled 3/51. Current employment: telephone installer at P.C. Bell--his parole officer suspected he moonlighted tigging bootleg bookie lines. A mugshot match: Hinton the muscle boy at Timmy Valburn's house.

  Two days, no break on his stalemate: a made case would ticket him back to Narco, making _this_ case meant Valburn and Billy Dieterling for material witnesses--well-connected homos who could flush his Hollywood career down the toilet.

  Two days of page prowling--every roundabout approach tapped out. He checked the collateral case reports, talked to the arrestees--more denials--nobody admitted buying the smut. One day wasted; nothing at Ad Vice to goose his leads: Stathis, Henderson, Kitka reported zero, Millard was trying to co-boss the Nite Owl--pornography was not on his mind.

  Two days since: midway through day two he hit hard--the bootleg number, Muscle Boy.

  No Fleur-de-Lis phone listing; brain gymnastics tagged his personal connection--the first time he saw the caffing card.

  Tilt:

  Xmas Eve '51, right before Bloody Christmas. Sid Hudgens set up a reefer roust--he popped two grasshoppers, found the card at their pad, thought nothing else of it.

  Scary Sid: "We've all got secrets, Jack."

  He pushed ahead anyway, that undertow driving him: he wanted to know who made the smut--and why. He hit the P.C. Bell employment office, cross-checked records against physical stats until he hit Lamar Hinton--tilt, tilt, tilt, tilt, tilt-- Jack looked around the squadroom--men talking Nite Owl, Nite Owl, Nite Owl, the Big V chasing hand-job books.

  The orgy pix.

  Vertigo.

  Jack chased.

o        o          o

  Hinton's route: Gower to La Brea, Franklin to the Hollywood Reservoir. His A.M. installations: Creston Drive, North Ivar. Jack found Creston on his car map: Hollywood Hills, a cul-de-sac way up.

  He drove there, saw the phone truck: parked by a pseudoFrench chateau. Lamar Hinton on a pole across the street-- monster huge in broad daylight.

  Jack parked, checked the truck--the loading door wide open. Tools, phone books, Spade Cooley albums--no suspiciouslooking brown paper bags. Hinton stared at him; Jack went over badge first.

  Hinton trundled down the pole: six-four easy, blond, muscles on muscles. "You with Parole?"

  "Los Angeles Police Department."

  "Then this ain't about my parole?"

  "No, this is about you cooperating to avoid a parole rap."

  "What do you--"

  "Your parole officer don't really approve of this job you've got, Lamar. He thinks you might start doing some bootlegs."

  Hinton flexed muscles: neck, arms, chest. Jack said, "Fleur-de-Lis, 'Whatever You Desire.' You desire no violation, you talk. You don't talk, then back to Chino."

  One last flex. "You broke into my car."

  "You're a regular Einstein. Now, you got the brains to be an informant?"

  Hinton shifted; Jack put a hand on his gun. "Fleur-de-Lis. Who runs it, how does it work, what do you push? Dieterling and Valburn. Tell me and I'm out of your life in five minutes."

  Muscles thought it through: his T-shirt bulged, puckered. Jack pulled out a fuck mag--an orgy pic spread full. "Conspiracy to distribute pornographic material, possession and sales of felony narcotics. I've got enough to send you back to Chino until nineteen-fucking-seventy. Now, did you move this smut for Fleur-de-Lis?"

  Hinton bobbed his head. "Y-y-yeah."

  "Smart boy. Now, who made it?"

  "I d-don't know. Really, honest, I d-don't."

  "Who posed for it?"

  "I don't kn-know, I just d-d-delivered it."

  "Billy Dieterling and Timmy Valburn. Go."

  "J-just c-customers. Queers, you know, they like to fag party."

  "You're doing great, so here's the big question. Who-"

  "Officer, please don't--"

  Jack pulled his .38, cocked it. "You want to be on the next train to Chino?"

  "N-no."

  "Then answer me."

  Hinton turned, gripped the pole. "P-pierce Patchett. He runs the business. He-he's some kind of legit businessman."

  "Description, phone number, address."

  "He's maybe fifty something. I th-think he lives in Bbrentwood and I don't know his n-number 'cause I get paid b-by the m-mail."

  "More on Patchett. Go."

  "H-he sugar-p-pimps girls made up like movie stars. H-he's rich. I-I only met him once."

  "Who introduced you?"

  "This guy Ch-chester I used to see at M-m-muscle Beach."

  "Chester who?"

  "I don't know."

  Hinton: bunching, flexing--Jack figured hot seconds and he'd snap. "What else does Patchett push?"

  "L-lots of b-boys and girls."

  "What about through Fleur-de-Lis?"

  "W-whatever you d-desire."

  "Not the sales pitch, what specifically?"

  Pissed more than scared. "Boys, girls, liquor, dope, picture books, bondage stuff!"

  "Easy, now. Who else makes the deliveries?"

  "Me and Chester. He works days. I don't like--"

  "Where's Chester live?"

  "I don't know!"

  "_Easy, now_. Lots of nice people with lots of money use Fleur-de-Lis, right?"

  "R-right."

  The records in the truck. "Spade Cooley? Is he a customer?"

  "N-no, I just get free albums 'cause I party with this guy Burt Perkins."

  "You fucking would know him. The names of some customers. Go."

  Hinton dug into the pole. Jack flashed: the monster turning, six .38s not enough. "Are you working tonight?"

  "Y-yes."

  "The address."

  "No . . . please."

  Jack frisked: wallet, change, butch wax, a key on a fob. He held the key up; Hinton bobbed his head barn bam--blood on the pole.

  "The address and I'm gone."

  Barn barn--blood on the monster's forehead. "5261B Cheramoya."