Peeper trashes his own room, leaves the silver, moves out panicked. Or: _different_ pry marks on peeper’s front door. Say somebody else broke in. Make some third party involved?
I rattled the connecting door–no answer. A shoulder push–slack, give, snap-I rode loose hinges into room 18.
Just like 19–but no closet door. Something else: ripples on the wall above the Side 64
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bed.
Up close: buckled wallpaper, paste spackling. A square indentation– perforated drywall underneath. Peeled wallpaper–one thin strip, follow the line: The wall to the connecting door–a drop to the crack under the door.
Odds on:
A bug–planted and removed, the mike above the bed–the peeper voyeurs Lucille, basic electronics skill–
I tore up the room–empty, zero, nothing. Number 19-dump it twice, closet swag: Jockey shorts tangling up a tape spool.
Panic move-out validated.
Moms and Jesus outside pitching tantrums.
I shoved through them double time. Granny chucked her tin can at me.
* * *
The Bureau–Code 3–a lab stop, orders: test the sheet-swatch jizz for blood type. My office, my old chem kit-dust the spool.
Smudges–no latent prints. Edgy now, I glommed a tape rig from the storeroom.
Nightwatch lull–the squadroom stood quiet. I shut my door, pressed Play, killed the lights.
Listen:
Static, traffic boom, window shimmy. Outside noises: business at the Red Arrow Inn.
Spook whores talking–ten minutes of pimp/trick rebop. I could SEE IT: hookers outside HER window. Silence, tape hiss, a door slamming. “In advance, sweet”–pause-“Yes, that means now”–Lucille.
“Okay, okay”–a man. A pause, shoes dropped, mattress squeaks– three minutes’
worth. The tape almost out, groans–his climax. Silence, garbled words, Lucille:
“Let’s play a little game. Now I’ll be the daughter and you’ll be the daddy, and if you’re reeeeal sweet we can go again no extra.”
Traffic noise, driveway noise, breath. Easy to imagine: That wall between them.
Surveillance not enough.
My peeper breathing hard–scared to bust down that wall.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Static garbled dreams: Lucille talking sex jive to me. The lab, my wake-up call–the jizz tested out 0+. Chills off a late phone stint: Hollywood Vice called Junior’s queer roust story bullshit.
“Horse pucky–whoever told you that lied through his teeth. We’re too busy with the Will-o-the-Wisp to work fruits, and none of our guys have popped Fern Dell Park chicken in over a year.”
Coffee-half a cup-my nerves jangled.
The buzzer–loud.
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I opened up–fuck–Bradley Milteer and Harold John Miciak.
Stern looks–their cop colleague in a towel. Miciak scoped my Jap sword scar.
“Come in, gentlemen.”
They shut the door behind them. Milteer: “We came for a progress report.”
I smiled–servile. “I have sources on the movie set accruing information on Miss Bledsoe.”
“You’ve been in Mr. Hughes’ employ for a week, Lieutenant. Frankly, so far you haven’t ‘accrued’ the results he hoped for.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Then please produce results. Are your normal police duties interfering with your work for Mr. Hughes?”
“My police duties aren’t quite normal.”
“Well, be that as it may, you are being paid to secure information on Miss Glenda Bledsoe. Now, Mr. Hughes seems to think that Miss Bledsoe has been pilfering foodstuffs from his actress domiciles. A criminal theft charge will violate her contract, so will you surveil her even more diligently?”
Miciak flexed his hands–no gang tattoos.
“I’ll begin that surveillance immediately, Mr. Milteer.”
“Good. I expect results, Mr. Hughes expects results.”
Miciak–jailhouse eyes, cop-hater fuck.
“First Flats or White Fence, Harold?”
“Uh, what?”
“Those tattoos Mr. Hughes made you burn off.”
“Listen, I’m clean.”
“Sure, Mr. Hughes had your record wiped.”
Milteer: “Lieutenant, _really_.”
The geek: “Where’d you get that scar, hotshot?”
“A Jap sword.”
“What happened to the Jap?”
“I stuck the sword up his ass.”
Milteer, rolled eyes oh-you-heathens: “Results, Mr. Klein. Harold, come.”
Harold walked. Fist signals back at me–pure White Fence.
* * *
Movie-set bustle:
Wine call–Mickey C. doling out T-Bird to his “crew.” “Director” Sid Frizell,
“cameraman” Wylie Bullock–poke the head monster’s eyes out with a stick or a knife? Glenda feeding extras sturgeon, read _her_ eyes: “Who’s _that_ guy, I’ve seen him before.”
Rock Rockwell’s trailer–tap the door.
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