Rumbles–breath fogged the glass.
“Officer Riegle will show you photographs of that young woman. If you have purchased her services, take two steps forward. If you have seen her streetwalking, but haven’t purchased her services, raise your right hand.”
Pause a beat.
“Gentlemen, _legitimate confirmations_ will get all of you released within several hours, _with no charges filed_. If none of you admit to purchasing this woman’s services, then I will conclude that either you are lying or simply that none of you have ever seen her or dallied with her, which means in either case that all nineteen of you will be subjected to intensive questioning, and all nineteen of you will be booked, held for seventy-two hours and arraigned on soliciting charges. You will be held during that time in the facility that we reserve here for homosexual prisoners, i.e. the queer tank, where those nigger queens were shaking their dicks at you. Gentlemen, if any of you do admit to dallying with the young lady, and your statements convince us that you are telling the truth, you will in no way be criminally charged and your disclosures will be kept in the strictest confidence. Once we are convinced, you will all be released and allowed to claim your confiscated property and impounded cars. Your cars are being held at a County lot nearby, and as a reward for your cooperation you will not be charged the standard impound fee. Again: we want the truth. You cannot lie your way out of here by claiming that you fucked her when you didn’t–your lies won’t wash. Sid, pass the mugs.”
Handoff: Riegle to a scrawny granddad type.
Dizzy, lawyer high–David Klein, Juris Doctor.
I looked down, held a breath, looked up: one Shriner and one lounge lizard stood forward. I checked driver’s license pix and matched up names: Shriner: Willis Arnold Kaltenborn, Pasadena. Lizard: Vincent Michael Lo Bruto, East L.A. A rap sheet check, paydirt on the wop: child-support skips.
Sid walked in. “We did it.”
“Yeah, we did. Stemmons is waiting, right?”
“Right, and the tape recorder’s in with him. The fourth booth down, he’s there.”
“Put Kaltenborn in number 5, and the greaseball in with Junior. Take the rest of them back to the drunk tank.”
“Feed them?”
“Candy bars. And no phone calls–a smart attorney could wangle writs. Where’s Wilhite?”
“I don’t know.”
“Keep him away from the sweat rooms, Sid.”
“Dave, he’s a captain.”
Side 72
Ellroy – White Jazz
“Then . . . shit, just do it.”
Riegle strolled out–pissed. I strolled, itchy-over to sweat box row.
Standard six-by-eights, peekaboo glass. Booth 5: fez man Kaltenborn. Number 4: Lo Bruto, Junior, a tape rig on the table.
Lo Bruto rocked his chair; Junior squirmed. Touch V.’s take: Junior doped up at Fern Dell. The Ainge roust, a late make: dope eyes. Worse now–pin slits.
Open the door, slam it. Junior nodded–half lurch.
I sat down. “What do they call you–Vince? Vinnie?”
Lo Bruto picked his nose. “The ladies call me Mr. Big Dick.”
“That’s what they call my partner here.”
“Yeah? The nervous, silent type. He must get a lot.”
“He does, but we’re not here to discuss his sex life.”
“Too bad, ’cause I got time. The old lady and the kids are in Tacoma, so I coulda done the whole seventy-two hours, but I figured, why spoil it for the other guys? Look, I fucked her, so why beat around the bush, no pun intended.”
I slid him cigarettes. “I like you, Vinnie.”
“Yeah, then call me Vincent. And save your money, ’cause I quit on March 4, 1952.”
Junior stripped the pack. Shot nerves: three swipes at a match.
I leaned back. “How many times did you go with that girl?”
“Once.”
“Why just once?”
“Once qualifies as strange. More than once you might as well pop your old lady for all the surprises you get with whoo-ers.”
“You’re a smart guy, Vincent.”
“Yeah, then why am I a security guard for a buck twenty an hour?”
Junior smoking–huge drags. I said, “You tell me.”
“I don’t know–I get to choke my mule on the Mighty Man Agency’s time. It’s a living.”