Joi shivered. “William H. Parker is the devil with horns.”
I said, “Freddy O’s right up there.”
“He is. He’s got a big dirt dossier on all of Parker and the LAPD’s enemies, and he’s got this sick twist Harvey who does bug work and phone taps for him. Harvey’s got this sick thing for me. He used to follow me around the set when I visited Jack.”
Pieces PERCOLATINGLY popping into place–
“And Cal Dinkins was–I mean is–tight with Jack and Freddy?”
“Yes. Dick, how do you know all–”
“And the LAPD dirt dossier is sort of like the big Hush-Hush master file that Freddy 0’s supposedly got?”
“Yes, but it’s all one file, and Parker and Otash decide who gets smeared, and it’s all so ugly that I wish I didn’t know about it, and . . . and. . . and. . .”
Joi ran out of breath and lit a cigarette. I said, “I need a tape recorder, and I need to get some license-plate information.”
Joi squawked like a squad-car squawkbox. She popped out a parcel of penal-code numbers, Dragnet-style.
“I know how to do things like that. Jack taught me. And I’ve got a tape gizmo inside.”
I pulled a pen from my pocket. Joi pulled some paper from her Girl Scout skirt. She leaned over. I used her back for a blotter and jotted down my vehicle dope.
She ran into the club. I bayed at the big bright moon.
Pieces PALPITATINGLY popping into place. A bonaroo blonde to rescue and redeem me.
Joi jumped into the alley. She handed me a tape rig and a scratch-pad sheet.
“I got the vehicle information and ran an employment crosscheck. The six registered owners are all members of the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department.”
I bayed at the moon. I grabbedJoi and kissed her. She kissed me back hard. I tasted tobacco and sweet vermouth on her tongue.
We broke the clinch. Joi said, “Be brave and stupid. I go for guys like that.”
I drove back to Duarte. I hit the Larkcrest Motel at 5:33 A.M. The courtyard was deserted and dead quiet.
I hit Love Hut #9 and pulled my power pack off the mattress. I pulled the tape spool out of the pack and popped it in Joi’s tape rig.
I sat on the bed. I hit the Play button. I heard bits of the Wllshire-Ebell bash and my clash with the succubus. I heard tape hiss and fuck sounds and a real male and a fake female climax.
I heard voices.
Male voice: “Sweetie, that was . . . Jesus.”
Female voice: “I could tell it’s been a while for you.”
Male voice: “Yeah, well. . . the old lady’s the old lady, but I guess that doesn’t count.”
Female voice: “Look, it’s been a while for me too. I’ve been out of circulation.”
Male voice: “What do you mean? I thought you got bit roles at M-G-M and lived here in L.A.”
Female voice: “Yeah, I do. It. . . was. . . well, just a figure of speech.”
Male voice: “I’m glad Stompanato sets up these stag nights. We all work hard, and we need to blow off some steam from time to time.”
Female voice: “You must be really busy. Didn’t it say ‘Captain’ on that badge you showed me.”
Male voice: “That’s right, Sweetie. I’m a captain on the inspector’s list.”
Female voice: “Tell me what you do. I just love to hear men talk about their work.”
Male voice: “Well, I run the West Hollywood Substation.”
Female voice: “That’s my old stomping grounds. I used to work at a call house on Havenhurst, and the West Hollywood deputies were good to all us girls.”
Male voice: “Well, you know how it is. One hand washes the other.”
Female voice: “I think I know what you mean, but tell me more.”
Male voice: “Well, on the q.t., all the call houses in the county kick loose donations to the Sheriff’s Annual Rodeo Fund, so the money gets laundered that way. See, Gene Biscailuz is a good guy. He’s not like that prick Bill Parker, and he knows a lot of deputies have drinking problems, so he shoots some of the rodeo money to a hospital where they can dry out. I’ve dried out there six or seven times myself. Pass me that bottle, will you, Sweetie?”