She got mad. She got this pretend-actress idea. buy a gun off Georgie and scare Dwight. Pretend actress with a prop now: a real pistol.
Dwight made her drive his “nieces” to his “brother’s” place in Oxnard. It was fun–cute colored toddlers–their pictures on TV a week later.
Two four-year-olds starved, tortured and raped–found dead in an Oxnard sewer.
Pretend actress, errand girl. This real-actress idea: Kill Gilette–be fore he sends any more kids out to be snuffed.
She did it.
She didn’t like it.
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Ellroy – White Jazz
You don’t skate from things like that–you crawl stylish.
* * *
I held her.
I talked a Kafesjian blue streak
Champ Dineen lulled us to sleep.
* * *
I woke up early. I heard Glenda in the bathroom, sobbing.
——–
CHAPTER TWENTY
Harris Dulange–fifty, bad teeth: “Since me and the magazine are as clean as a cat’s snatch, I will tell you how _Transom_ works. First, we hire hookers or aspiring actresses down on their luck for the photos. The written stuff is by yours truly, the editor-in-chief, or it’s scribed by college kids who write out their fantasies in exchange for free issues. It’s what _Hush-Hush_ calls
‘Sinuendo.’ We tack those movie-star initials onto our stories so that our admittedly feeble-minded readers will think, ‘Wow, is that really Marilyn Monroe?'”
Tired–I made an early Bureau run for Pinker’s sketch. Exley said no all-points distribution–last night left me too fried to fight him.
“Lieutenant, are you daydreaming? I know this isn’t the nicest office in the world, but…”
I pulled the June ’58 issue out. “Who wrote this father-daughter story?”
“I don’t even have to look. If it’s plump brunettes hot for some daddy surrogate, it’s Champ Dineen.”
“_What?_ Do you know who Champ Dineen is?”
“_Was_, because he died some time back. I knew the guy was using a pseudonym.”
I flashed Pinker’s sketch. Dulange deadpanned it: “Who’s this?”
“Odds are it’s the man who wrote those stories. Haven’t you seen him?”
“No. We only talked on the phone. Nice-looking picture, though. Surprising. I figured the guy would be a troll.”
“Did he say his real name was Richie? That might be a lead on his ID.”
“No. We only talked on the phone once. He said his name was Champ Dineen, and I thought, ‘Copacetic, and only in L.A.’ Lieutenant, let me ask you. Does the Champster have a voyeur fetish?”
“Yes.”
Dulange–nodding, stretching: “Say eleven months ago, around Christmas, this pseudo-Champ guy calls me up out of the blue. He says he’s got access to some good _Transom_-type stuff, something like a whorehouse peek. I said, ‘Swell, send me a few samples, maybe we can do business.’ So… he sent me two stories.
There was a P0-box return address, and I thought, ‘What? He’s on the lam or he lives in a post office box?'”
“Go on.”
“So the stuff was good. _Cash good_–and I rarely pay for text, just pictures.
Side 102
Ellroy – White Jazz
Anyway, it was two girlie-daddy stories, and the dialogue introductions were realistic, like he eavesdropped on this sick game stuff. The accompanying stories weren’t so hot, but I sent him a C-note off the books and a note: ‘Keep the fires stoked, I like your stuff.'”
“Did he send the stories in handwritten?”
“Yes.”
“Did you keep them?”
“No, I typed them over, then tossed them.”
“You did that every time he sent stories in?”
“That’s right. Four issues featuring the Champ, four times I typed the stuff up and tossed it. That was June ’58 you showed me, plus the Champ also made it in February ’58, May ’58 and September ’58. You want copies? I can have the warehouse send them to you, maybe take a week.”
“No sooner?”
“The wetbacks they got working there? For them a week’s Speedy Gonzales.”
I laid a card down. “Send them to my office.”
“Okay, but you’ll be disappointed.”
“Why?”
“The Champ’s a one-trick jockey. It’s all quasi-incest stuff featuring plump brunettes. I think I’ll start editing him and change things around. Rita Hayworth looking to bang father surrogates is spicier, don’t you think?”
“Sure. Now, what about a contributors’ file?”