“Boys who love blood sport, and I ain’t talkin’ ’bout your crazy shit either.”
“Isn’t dog fighting against the law?”
“You know who to grease, then there ain’t no law. You sure you ain’t a policeman?”
Danny shook his head. “Amalgamated Insurance. Look, do you remember selling a dog to a tall, gray-haired man, middle-aged, within the past six months or so?”
Conklin gave Rape-o a gentle kick; the dog stirred, got up and trotted back to his pen. “Mister, my customers are young studs in pickup trucks and niggers lookin’ to have the toughest dog on the block.”
“Do any of your customers stand out as different than that? Unusual?”
Booth Conklin laughed so hard he almost swallowed his toothpick. “Back durin’ the war, these movie types saw my sign, came by and said they wanted to make a little home movie, two dogs dressed up with masks and costumes fightin’
to the death. I sold them boys two twenty-dollar dogs for a C-note apiece.”
“Did they make their movie?”
“I ain’t seen it advertised at Grauman’s Chinese, so how should I know?
There’s this sanitarium over on the beach side of the Canyon, dryout place for all the Hollywood types. I figured they were visitin’ there and headin’ to the Valley when they saw my sign.”
“Were any of the men tall and gray-haired?”
Conklin shrugged. “I don’t really remember. One guy had a funny European accent, that I do recall. Besides, my eyes ain’t the best in the world. You about done with your questions, son?”
Ninety-five percent against on the blood bait theory; maybe a quash on his nightmares; useless dope on Hollywood lunacy. Danny said, “Thanks, Mr.
Conklin. You were a big help.”
“My pleasure, son. Come back sometime. Rape-o likes you.”
o
o
o
Danny drove to the Station, sent out for a hamburger, fries and milk even though he wasn’t hungry, ate half the meal and called Doc Layman at the City Morgue.
“Norton Layman speaking.”
“It’s Danny Upshaw, Doctor.”
“Just the man I was going to call. Your news first or mine?”
Danny flashed: Rape-o chewing on Marty Goines’ midsection. He threw the remains of his burger in the wastebasket and said, “Mine. I’m sure the Side 50
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The teethmarks are human. I just talked to a man who breeds fighting dogs, and he said your blood bait theory is feasible, but it would take a lot of planning, and I think the killing wasn’t _that_ premeditated. He said dog menstrual blood would be the best bait, and I was thinking you could tap the cadaver’s organs next to his wounds, see if you got any foreign blood.”
Layman sighed. “Danny, the City of Los Angeles cremated Martin Mitchell Goines this morning. Autopsy completed, no claim on the body within forty-eight hours, ashes to ashes. I have some good news, though.”
Danny thought, “Shit”; said, “Shoot.”
“The slash wounds on the victim’s back interested me, and I remembered Gordon Kjenzle’s wound book. Do you know it?”
“No.”
“Well, Kienzle is a pathologist who started out as an emergency room MD.
He was fascinated with nonfatal assaults, and he put together a book of photos and specifications on man-inflicted woundings. I consulted it, and the cuts on Martin Mitchell Goines’ back are identical to the sample wounds listed under
‘Zoot Stick,’ a two-by-four with a razor blade or blades attached at the end.
Now, the zoot stick dates back to ’42 and ’43. It was popular with anti-Mexican gangs and Riot Squad cops, who used it to slash the zoot suits certain Latin elements were sporting.”
_Check the City/County Homicide files for zoot stick killings_. Danny said, “It’s a good lead, Doc. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I checked the files before I decided to call you.
There are no zoot stick homicides on record. A friend of mine on the LAPD Riot Squad said 99 percent of your white-on-Mexican assaults weren’t reported and the Mexicans never took the damn sticks to each other, it was considered dirty pool or whatever. But it is a lead.”
Robe wad suffocating, hands or sash strangling, teeth biting, and now a zoot stick cutting. _Why the different forms of brutality_? Danny said, “See you in class, Doctor,” hung up and walked back to his car just to be moving. Jungle John Lembeck was leaning against the hood, his face bruised, one eye purple and closed. He said, “They got real rough with me, Mr. Upshaw. I wouldn’t have told Janice to ditz you, except they were hurting me so bad. I’m stand-up, Mr.