The Malibu Rendezvous: Trashcan’s glory job. The phone rang–Lynn let it go. Ed said, “Jesus Christ,” no need to fake.
“Yes. You know, when I read about Vincennes I always thought he had some very dark reasons for persecuting dope users, so I wasn’t surprised when I found that out. And, Captain? If Pierce did have file carbons, I’m sure he would have destroyed them.”
Her last bit rang fake–Ed played a lie off it. “I know Jack loves dope, it’s been a rumor around the Bureau for years. And I know you’re lying about the files and I know Vincennes would do anything to get his file back. You and Patchett shouldn’t underestimate him.”
“The way you’ve underestimated Bud White?”
Her smile came on like a target–he thought for a second that he’d hit her. She laughed before he could; he leaned in and kissed her instead. Lynn pulled back, then kissed back; they rolled to the floor shedding clothes. The phone rang–Ed kicked it off the hook. Lynn pulled him inside her; they rolled, moved together, trashed furniture. It ended as fast as it started–he could feel Lynn reaching to peak. Seconds apart for that, good enough, rest. His story laid out between sighs, like it was a burden too heavy to carry.
Rogue cop Jack Vincennes, on dope and too hot to handle. He’d do anything to get his file back, he had to get that file. Captain E. J. Exley had to use him for what he knew–but Vincennes was doped up, boozed up, going psycho on him–
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Bud hit L.A. at dawn, off the midnight bus down from Frisco. His city looked strange, new–like everything else in his life.
He got a taxi and dozed; he kept snapping awake to Ellis Loew: “It sounds like a great case, but multiple homicides are tricky and Spade Cooley is a well-known figure. I’ll put a D.A.’s Bureau team on it and _you stay out of it for now_.” Cut to Lynn: calls, the phone off the hook, smothered. Strange, but like her–when she wanted to sleep she wanted to sleep.
He couldn’t believe his life, it was just too goddamn amazing.
The cab dropped him off. He found a note on his door– “Sergeant Duane W. Fisk” on the letterhead.
Sgt. White–
Captain Exley wants to see you immediately (something pertaining to _Whisper_ magazine and a body under a house). Report to l.A. immediately upon your return to Los Angeles.
Bud laughed, packed a bag: clothes, his paper stash–the hooker killings, the Nite Owl–Dudley’s for the asking. He threw the note in the toilet, pissed on it.
o o o
He drove to Gardena, checked into the Victory: a room with clean sheets, a hot plate, no bloodstains on the walls. Fuck sleep-he fixed coffee, worked.
Everything he knew on Spade Cooley–half a longhand page.
Cooley was an Okie fiddler/singer, a skinny guy, maybe late forties. He had a couple of hit records, his TV show was big for a while. His bass player, Burt Arthur Perkins, a.k.a. “Deuce,” did time on a chain gang for sodomy on dogs and was rumored to have a shitload of mob K.A.’s.
On the investigation:
Lamar Hinton said Spade smoked opium; Spade played the Lariat Room in Frisco–across from Chrissie Renfro’s place of death. Chrissie died with “0” in her system; Spade was currently playing the El Rancho Kiub in L.A., close by Lynette Ellen Kendrick’s apartment. Lamar Hinton said Dwight Gilette–Kathy Janeway’s old pimp-supplied whores for Cooley’s parties.
Circumstantial–but tight.
A phone wired to the wall–Bud grabbed it, called the County Coroner’s Office.
“Medical Examinations, Jensen.”
“Sergeant White for Dr. Harris. I know he’s busy, but tell him it’s just one thing.”
“Hold, please,” click, click, click. “Sergeant, what is it this time?”
“One thing off your autopsy report.”
“You’re not even a county officer.”
“Stomach and bloodstream contents on Lynette Kendrick. Come on, huh?”
“That’s easy, because Kendrick won our best stomach award last week. Are you ready? Frankfurters with sauerkraut, french fries, Coca-Cola, opium, sperm. Jesus, what a last supper.”
Bud hung up. Ellis Loew said stay out of it. Kathy Janeway said GO.
o o o