He drove to the Strip, put the M.O. together.
First the El Rancho Klub, closed, “Spade Cooley and His Cowboy Rhythm Band Appearing Nitely.” A publicity still by the door: Spade, Deuce Perkins, three other cracker types. No heavily ringed fingers; a lead rubber-stamped at the bottom: “Represented by Nat Penzler Associates, 653 North La Cienega, Los Angeles.”
Across the street: the Hot Dog Hut, kraut dogs and fries on the menu. Down the Strip by Crescent Heights: a well-known prostie stroll. A mile south at Melrose and Sweetzer: Lynette Ellen Kendrick’s apartment.
Easy:
Spade picked her up late, no witnesses. He had the food and the dope, suggested a cozy all-nighter, took Lynette home. They got high, chowed down–Spade beat her to death, raped her three times postmortem.
Bud hooked south to La Cienega. 653: a redwood A-frame, “Nat Penzler Assoc.” by the mailbox. The door propped open; a girl inside making coffee.
Bud walked in. The girl said, “Yes, can I help you?”
“The boss around?”
“Mr. Penzler’s on the telephone. Can I help you?”
One connecting door–“N.P.” brass-stamped. Bud pushed it open; an old man yelled, “Hey! I’m on a call! What are you, a bill collector? Hey, Gail! Give this clown a magazine!”
Bud flashed his badge. The man hung up the phone, pushed back from his desk. Bud said, “You’re Nat Penzler?”
“Call me Natsky. Are you looking for representation? I could get you work playing thugs. You have that Neanderthal look currently in vogue.”
Let it go. “You’re Spade Cooley’s agent, right?”
“Right. You want to join Spade’s band? Spade’s a moneymaker, but my shvartze cleaning lady sings better than him, so maybe I can get you a spot, a bouncer gig at the El Rancho at least. Lots of trim there, boychik. A moose like you could get reamed, steamed and dry-cleaned.”
“You through, pops?”
Penzler flushed. “Mr. Natsky to you, caveman.”
Bud shut the door. “I need to see Cooley’s booking records going back to ’51. You want to do this nice or not?”
Penzler got up, blocked his filing cabinets. “Showtime’s over, Godzilla. I never divulge client information, even under threat of a subpoena. So amscray and come back for lunch sometime, say on the twelfth of never.”
Bud tore the phone cord from the wall; Penzler slid the top drawer open. “No rough stuff, please, caveman! I do my best work with my face!”
Bud thumbed folders, hit “Cooley, Donnell Clyde,” dumped it on the desk. A picture hit the blotter: Spade, four rings on ten fingers. Pink sheets, white sheets, then blue sheets–booking records clipped by year.
Penzler stood by muttering. Bud matched dates.
Jane Mildred Hamsher, 3/8/51, San Diego-Spade there at the El Cortez Sky Room. April ’53, Kathy Janeway, the Cowboy Rhythm Band at Bido Lito’s–South L.A. Sharon, Sally, Chrissie Virginia, Maria up to Lynette: Bakersfield, Needles, Arizona, Frisco, Seattle, back to L.A., shifting personnel listed on pay cards: Deuce Perkins playing bass most of the time, drum and sax guys coming and going, Spade Cooley always headlining, in those cities on those DODs.
Blue sheets dripping wet–his own sweat. “Where’s the band staying?”
Penzler: “The Biltmore, and you didn’t get it from Natsky.”
“That’s good, ’cause this is Murder One and I wasn’t here.”
“I am like the Sphinx, I swear to you. My God, Spade and his lowlife crew. My God, do you know what he grossed last year?”
o o o
He called the lead in to Ellis Loew; Loew hit the roof: “I told you to stay out! I’ve got three _civilized_ men on it, and I’ll tell them what you’ve got, but you stay out and get back to the Nite Owl, _do you understand me?_”
He understood: Kathy Janeway kept saying GO.
The Biltmore.
He forced himself to drive there slow, park by the back entrance, politely ask the clerk where to find Mr. Cooley’s party. The clerk said, “The El Presidente Suite, floor nine”; he said “Thank you” so calm that everything went into slow motion and he thought for a second he was swimming.
The stairs were like swimming upstream–Little Kathy kept saying KILL HIM. The suite: double doors, gold-filigreed– eagles, American flags. He jiggled the knob, the doors opened.