Instincts: carhops don’t live in Beverly Hills; maybe Christine Bergeron hopped some bones to stretch the rent. Jack walked back to 9849, knocked on the door marked “Manager.”
An old biddy opened up. “Yes, young man?”
Jack flashed his badge. “L.A. Police, ma’am. It’s about those books you found.”
The biddy squinted through Coke-bottle glasses. “My late husband would have seen to justice himself, Mr. Harold Downey had no tolerance for dirty things.”
“Did you find those magazines yourself, Mrs. Downey?”
“No, young man, my cleaning lady did. _She_ tore them up and threw them in the trash, where I found them. I questioned Eula about it after I called the Beverly Hills police.”
“Where did Eula find the books?”
“Well . . . I . . . don’t know if I should . . .”
A switcheroo. “Tell me about Christine Bergeron.”
Harumph. “That woman! And that boy of hers! I don’t know who’s worse!”
“Is she a difficult tenant, ma’am?”
“She entertains men at all hours! She roller-skates on the floor in those tight waitress outfits of hers! She’s got a no-goodnik son who never goes to school! Seventeen years old and a truant who associates with lounge lizards!”
Jack held out a Bobby Inge mugshot; the biddy held it up to her glasses. “Yes, this is one of Daryl’s no-goodnik friends, I’ve seen him skulking around here a dozen times. Who _is_ he?”
“Ma’am, did Eula find those dirty books in the Bergeron apartment?”
“Well . . .”
“Ma’am, are Christine Bergeron and the boy at home now?”
“No, I heard them leave a few hours ago. I have keen ears to make up for my poor eyesight.”
“Ma’am, if you let me into their apartment and I find some more dirty books, you could earn a reward.”
“Well . . .”
“Have you got keys, ma’am?”
“Of course I have keys, I’m the manager. Now, I’ll let you look if you promise not to touch and I don’t have to pay withholding tax on my reward.”
Jack took the mugshot back. “Whatever you want, ma’am.” The old woman walked upstairs, up to the second-floor units. Jack followed; granny unlocked the third door down. “Five minutes, young man. And be respectful of the furnishings–my brother-in-law owns this building.”
Jack walked in. Tidy living room, scratched floor–probably roller-skate tracks. Quality furniture, worn, ill-cared-for. Bare walls, no TV, two framed photos on an end table–publicity-type shots.
Jack checked them out; old lady Downey stuck close. Matching pewter frames–two good-looking people.
A pretty woman–light hair in a pageboy, eyes putting out a cheap sparkle. A pretty boy who looked just like her–extra blond, big stupid eyes. “Is this Christine and her son?”
“Yes, and they are an attractive pair, I’ll give them that. Young man, what is the amount of that reward you mentioned?” Jack ignored her and hit the bedroom: through the drawers, in the closet, under the mattress. No smut, no dope, nothing hinky–negligees the only shit worth a sniff.
“Young man, your five minutes are up. And I want a written guarantee that I will receive that reward.”
Jack turned around smiling. “I’ll mail it to you. And I need another minute or so to check their address book.”
“No! No! They could come home at any moment! I want you to leave this instant!”
“Just one minute, ma’am.”
“No, no, no! Out with you this second!”
Jack made for the door. The old bat said, “You remind me of that policeman on that television program that’s so popular.”
“I taught him everything he knows.”
o o o
He felt a quickie shaping up.
Bobby Inge rats off the smut peddlers, turns state’s, some kind of morals rap on him and Daryl Bergeron: the kid was a minor, Bobby was a notorious fruitfly with a rap sheet full of homopandering beefs. Wrap it up tight: confessions, suspects located, lots of paperwork for Millard. The big-time Big V cracks the big-time filth ring and wings back to Narco a hero.
Up to Hollywood, a loop by Stan’s Drive-in—-Christine Bergeron slinging hash on skates. Pouty, provocative–the quasihooker type, maybe the type to pose with a dick in her mouth. Jack parked, read the Bobby Inge sheet. Two outstanding bench warrants: traffic tickets, a failure-to-appear probation citation. Last known address 1424 North Hamel, West Hollywood–the heart of Lavender Gulch. Three fruit bars for “known haunts”–Leo’s Hideaway, the Knight in Armor, B.J.’s Rumpus Room–all on Santa Monica Boulevard nearby. Jack drove to Hamel Drive, his cuffs out and open.