CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Forensics–at my living room desk.
Dust the magazines, tape rig, spools–smudges and four identical latents. I rolled my own prints to compare–it confirmed my own fumble-hand fuck-up.
The phone rang–
“Yes?”
“Ray Pinker, Dave.”
“You’re finished?”
“Finished is right. First, no viable suspect latents, and we dusted every touch surface in both rooms. We took elimination sets off the clerk, who’s also the owner, the janitor and the chambermaid, all Negroes. We got _their_ prints in the rooms and nothing else.”
“Fuck.”
Side 97
Ellroy – White Jazz
“Succinctly put. We also bagged the male clothing and tested some semen-stained shorts. It’s O positive again, with the same cell breakdown–your burglar or whatever is quite a motel hopper.”
“Shit.”
“Succinct, but we had better luck on the sketch reconstruction. The clerk and the artist worked up a portrait, and it’s waiting for you at the Bureau. Now–”
“What about mug shots? Did you tell the clerk we’ll need him for a viewing?”
Ray sighed–half pissed. “Dave, the man took off for Fresno. He implied that your behavior disturbed him. I offered him an LAPD reimbursement for the door you shot out, but he said it wouldn’t cover the aggravation. He also said don’t go looking for him, because he is gone, no forwarding. I didn’t press for him to stay, because he said he’d complain about that door you destroyed.”
“Shit. Ray, did you check–”
“Dave, I’m way ahead of you. I asked the other employees if they had seen the tenant of that room. They both said no, and I believed them.”
Shit. Fuck.
Half pouty: “Lots of trouble for a one-shot 459, Dave.”
“Yeah, just don’t ask me why.”
_Click_–my ear stung.
Go, keep dusting:
Smudges off the album covers–grooved records themselves wouldn’t take prints.
Champ Dineen on my hi-fi: _Sooo Slow Moods, The Champ Plays the Duke_.
Background music–I skimmed Transom.
Piano/sax/bass–soft. Cheesecake pix, innuendo: blond siren M.M. craves she-man R.H.–she’ll do anything to turn him around. Nympho J.M.–gigantically endowed–seeks double-digit males at Easton’s Gym. Ten inches and up, please–J.M. packs a ruler to make sure. Recent conquests: B-movie hulk F.T; gagster M.B.; laconic cowboy star G.C.
Breathy sax, heartbeat bass.
Stories–traveling-salesman gems. Pix: big-tit slatterns drooping out of lingerie. Piano trills–gorgeous.
One issue down, Dineen percolating. _Transom_, June ’58: M.M. and baseball M.M. hot–her J.D.M. torch pushed her toward hitters. The swank Plaza Hotel–ten-day/ten-night homestand.
Alto sax riffs–Glenda/Lucille/Meg, swirling.
Ads: dick enlargers, home law school. “Mood Indigo” a Ia Dineen–low brass.
A daddy/daughter story–a straight-dialogue intro. Photos: this skank brunette, bikini-clad.
“Well .. . you look like my daddy.”
“Look? Well, yeah, I’m old enough. I guess a game is a game, right? I can be the daddy because I fit the part.”
“Well, like the song says, ‘My heart belongs to Daddy.'”
Skim the text:
Side 98
Ellroy – White Jazz
Orphan Loretta lusts for a daddy. The evil Terry deflowered her–she crawls for him, she hates it. She sells herself to older men–a preacher kills her.
Accompanying pix: the skank sash-cord-strangled.
Champ Dineen roaring–think it through:
Loretta equals Lucille; Terry equals Tommy. “Orphan” Loretta–non sequitur.
Lucille lusts for Daddy J.C.–hard to buy her hot for that greasy shitbird.
Call the dialogue voyeured.
Call the peeper “author.”
_Transom_, July ’58–strictly movie-star raunch. Check the masthead–a Valley address–hit it tomorrow.
The phone rang–cut the volume–catch it.
“Glen–”
“Yes. Are you psychic or just hoping?”
“I don’t know, maybe both. Look, I’ll come up to the set.”
“No. Sid Frizell’s shooting some night scenes.”
“We’ll go to a hotel. We can’t use your place or my place–it’s too risky.”
_That_ laugh. “I read it in the _Times_ today. Howard Hughes and his entourage left for Chicago for some Defense Department meeting. David, the Hollywood Hills
‘actress domicile’ is available, and I have a key.”
Past midnight–call it safe. “Half an hour?”
“Yes. Miss you.”
I put the phone down and cranked the volume. Ellington/Dineen– “Cottontail.”
Memory lane–’42–the Marine Corps. Meg–that tune– dancing at the El Cortez Sky Room.
Raw now–sixteen years gone bad. The phone right there–do it.
“Hello?”
“I’m glad I got you, but I figured you’d be out after Stemmons.”
“I had to get some sleep. Look, slavedriver–“