Bobby took off his shades. A coed recognized him and squealed.
o o o
Kemper commandeered a vacant JM/Wave office. The switchboard put him through to LAPD R&I direct.
A man picked up. “Records and Information. Officer Graham.”
“Dennis Payne, please. Tell him it’s Kemper Boyd, long distance.”
“Hold on, please.”
Kemper scribbled up a scratch pad. Payne came on the line posthaste.
“Mr. Boyd, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Sergeant. You?”
“Fair to middling. And I’ll bet you have a request to make.”
“I do. I need you to check for a rap sheet on a white female named Barbara Jahelka, probable spelling J-A-H-E-L-K-A. She’s probably twenty-two to thirty-two, and I think she lives in Los Angeles. I also need you to check for an unlisted number. The name is either Lenny Sands or Leonard J. Seidelwitz, and it’s probably a West Hollywood listing.”
Payne said, “I copy. You hold, okay? This might take a few minutes.”
Kemper held. His pick-me-up was inducing mild palpitations.
Pete didn’t state his L.A. business. Lenny was extortable and bribable.
Payne came back on the line. “Mr. Boyd? We’ve got two positives.”
Kemper grabbed a pen. “Keep going.”
“The Sands number is OL5-3980, and I got a felony marijuana possession on the girl. She’s the only Barbara Jahelka in our files, and her DOB matches up to what you told me.”
“Disposition?”
“She was arrested in July ‘57. She did six months and topped out two years of summary probation.”
It was inconclusive information.
“Would you check for something more recent? FI cards or arrests that didn’t go to arraignment?”
Payne said, “Will do. I’ll check with the Sheriff’s and our other local municipals, too. If the girl’s been in trouble since ‘57, we’ll know.”
“Thanks, Sergeant. I appreciate it.”
“Give me an hour, Mr. Boyd. I should have something or nothing by then.”
Kemper disconnected. The switchboard patched him in to Lenny’s L.A. number.
It rang three times. Kemper heard faint tap clicks and hung up.
Pete was a shakedown man. Pete was a bug/tap man. Pete’s bug/tap partner was the celebrated Fred Turentine.
Freddy’s brother owned a TV repair shop in L.A. Freddy worked there between wire jobs.
Kemper called Los Angeles information. An operator gave him the number. He fed it to the JM/Wave switchboard and told the girl to put him through.
The line hissed and crackled. A man picked up on the first ring. “Turentine’s TV. Good morning.”
Kemper faked a lowlife growl. “Is Freddy there? This is Ed. I’m friends with Freddy and Pete Bondurant.”
The man coughed. “Freddy’s in New York. He was here a few days ago, but he went back.”
“Shit I need to send him something. Did he leave an address?”
“Yeah, he did. Wait… let’s see… yeah, it’s 94 East 76th Street, New York City. The number’s MU6-0l97.”
Kemper said, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
The man coughed. “Tell Freddy hi. Tell him his big brother says to stay out of trouble.”
Kemper hung up. The office tilted in and out of focus.
Turentine was lodged near 76th and Madison. The Carlyle Hotel was on the northeast corner.
Kemper dialed the switchboard and gave the girl Lenny’s number one more time.
She reconnected him. He heard three rings and three tiny tap clicks.
A woman answered. “Mr. Sands’ residence.”
“Is this Mr. Sands’ service?”
“Yes, sir. And Mr. Sands can be reached in New York City. The number is MU6-2433.”
Laura’s number.
Kemper disconnected and redialed the switchboard. The girl said, “Yes, Mr. Boyd.”
“Get me New York City, please. The number is MU6-0 197.”
“Please hang up, sir. All my circuits are busy, but I’ll put your call through in a second.”
Kemper leaned on the cutoff button. The pieces fit– circumstantially, instinctively–
The phone rang. He jerked the receiver up.
“Yes?”
“What do you mean, ‘Yes?’? The operator placed your call to me.
Kemper wiped a line of sweat off his forehead. “That’s right, she did. Is this Fred Turentine?”
“That’s right.”
“This is Kemper Boyd. I work with Pete Bondurant.”
Silence stretched a solid beat too long.
“So you’re looking for Pete?”
“That’s right.”
“Well… Pete’s in New Orleans.”
“That’s right. I forgot.”