“Eleven years. You?”
“Four.”
“That must have been a tough nut, shooting those two Mexicans.”
“I don’t think about it too much.”
“I was wondering. Dudley likes you, you know that?”
“I guess so. Why do you mention it?”
Breuning’s stolid German face darkened. “Because I noticed the way you were looking at him. Studying him like he was kind of a crazy man. A lot of people think Dudley’s nuts, but he’s not. He’s nuts like a fox.”
“I believe you. He’s just an actor, and a damn good one. He’s good at firing people up. That’s his gift.”
“Right. He wants this guy Engels, though. Bad.”
“I know. He told me. He hates woman-killers.”
“It’s more than that. You have to know Dudley. I know him real well. Since I was a rookie. He’s still pissed off about the Dahlia. He told me the Engels case is his penance for not catching the guy who sliced her.”
I gave that some thought. “He wasn’t in charge of the entire investigation, Mike. The whole L.A.P.D. and sheriffs department couldn’t find the killer. It wasn’t Dudley’s fault.”
“I know, but he took it that way. He’s a religious man, and he’s taking the Engels thing real personal. The reason I’m bringing all this up is that Dudley wants to make you his number one man. He says you’ve got the stuff to go all the way in the department. That’s no skin off my ass, I like being a sergeant in the bureau. But you’ve got to play it Dudley’s way. I can tell you’re not scared of him, and that’s bad. If you cross him, he’ll fuck you for real. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”
I smiled at the admonition. It increased my respect for Dudley Smith, and my respect for Mike Breuning for mentioning it. “Thanks, Mike,” I said.
“You’re welcome. Now let’s hotfoot it over to the Strip. I’m getting itchy to start.”
Mike got his car and pulled up behind me. I drove straight out Wilshire, hoping that Eddie Engels was still a late sleeper, so that Mike would have someone to tail. I turned north on La Cienega. Mike was right behind me as I turned onto the Strip ten minutes later. Horn Drive came up, and I pulled over to the curb and pointed out Engels’s bungalow and Olds sedan. Mike smiled and gave me the thumbs-up sign. I waved and drove up the hill, parked the car and set out on foot to do my questioning.
I knocked on the doors of bungalow huts, well-tended cottages, French chateau walk-up apartments, artist’s dives, and miniature Moorish castles and got a succession of blank looks, yawns, and bored shakes of the head. “Sorry, I can’t help you, Officer.” Eddie the phantom. This consumed five hours. At two o’clock I walked down to the diner on the corner of Horn and Sunset and ordered two cheeseburgers, French fries, a salad, and a jumbo pineapple malt. I was famished–and nervous about my meeting with Lorna Weinberg.
The man who served me at the counter looked like a jaded soda jerk out of hell. He slouched in front of me while I tore into my salad, alternately picking his teeth and his nose. We were obviously destined to converse–it was only a question of who would speak first. It was me, out of necessity. “Get me some ketchup, will you?”
“Sure, buddy,” the counterman said, handing me a bottle of Heinz’s and leaning over to breathe on me. “You with the sheriff’s?” he asked. That was interesting.
“L.A.P.D.,” I said. “You an ex-con?”
“I been clean for six years. Topped out my parole, knock wood.” The guy made an elaborate show of rapping his knuckles on the countertop.
“I congratulate you,” I said. “How long have you been working this joint?”
“Two years on the job. Knock wood.”
“You know the locals pretty well?”
“Local yokels or regular customers?”
“Very astute. I mean people who live in the neighborhood who frequent this place.”
“Oh.” The man’s eyes narrowed into a con-wise squint. “You got any particular locals in mind?”
“Yeah. A guy named Eddie. A handsome guy about thirty. Curly brown hair. Brown eyes. Sharp dresser. A lover-boy. Always a goodlooking tomato in tow. You know him?”