“Hollywood Division has taken a total of four crime reports on this, so listen well. Over the past two weeks a carload of Negro youths were seen discharging shotguns into the air up at Griffith Park. There were three of them, and the shotguns were pumps. The punks were not apprehended, but eyeball witnesses ID’d them as driving a 1948 to 1950 Mercury coupe, purple in color. And just an hour ago Lieutenant Smith’s canvassing crew found a witness: a news vendor who saw a purple Merc coupe, ’48–’50 vintage, parked across from the Nite Owl last night around 3:00 A.M.”
The room went loud: a big rumbling. Green gestured for quiet. “It gets better, so listen well. There are no ’48 to ’50 purple Mercurys on the hot sheet, so it is very doubtful that we’re dealing with a stolen car, and the state DMV has given us a registration list on ’48 to ’50 Mercurys statewide. Purple was an original color on the ’48 to ’50 coupe models, and those models were favored by Negroes. Over sixteen hundred are registered to Negroes in the State of California, and in Southern California there are only a very few registerM to Caucasians. There are one hundred and fifty-six registered to Negroes in L.A. County, and there are almost a hundred of you men here. We have a list compiled: home and work addresses. The Hollywood squad is cross-checking for rap sheets. I want fifty two-man teams to shake three names apiece. There’s a special phone line being set up at Hollywood Station, so if you need information on past addresses or known associates, you can call there. If you get hot suspects, bring them here to the Hall. We’ve got a string of interrogation rooms set up, along with a man to head the interrogations. Lieutenant Smith will give out the assignments in a second, and Chief Parker would like a word with you. Any questions first?”
A man yelled, “Sir, who’s running the interrogations?”
Green said, “Sergeant Ed Exley, Hollywood squad.”
Catcalls, boos. Parker walked up to the mike. “Enough on that. Gentlemen, just go out and get them. Use all necessary force.”
Bud smiled. The real message: kill the niggers clean.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jack’s list:
George NMI Yelburton, male Negro, 9781 South Beach; Leonard Timothy Bidwell, male Negro, 10062 South Duquesne; Dale William Pritchford, male Negro, 8211 South Normandie.
Jack’s temporary partner: Sergeant Cal Denton, Bunco Squad, a former guard at the Texas State Pen.
Denton’s car down to Darktown, the radio humming: jazz on the “Nite Owl Massacre.” Denton hummed: Leonard Bidwell used to fight welterweight, he saw him go ten with Kid Gavilan–he was one tough shine. Jack brooded on his backto-Narco ticket: Bobby Inge, Christine Bergeron gone, no smut leads from the other squad guys. The orgy pix–beautiful in a way. His own private leads, fucked up by some crazy spooks killing six people for a couple hundred bucks. He could still taste the booze, still hear Sid Hudgens: “We’ve all got secrets.”
Snitch call-ins first: his, Denton’s. Shine stands, pool halls, hair-processing parlors, storefront churches–informants palmed, leaned on, queried. The Darktown shuffle–purple car/shotgun rebop, hazy, distorted–riffraff gone on Tokay and hair tonic. Four hours down, no hard names, back to the names on the list.
9781 Beach–a tar-paper shack, a purple ’48 Merc on the lawn. The car stood sans wheels, a rusted axle sunk in the grass. Denton pulled up. “Maybe that’s their alibi. Maybe they fucked up the car after they did the Nite Owl so we’d think they couldn’t drive it nowhere.”
Jack pointed over. “There’s weeds wrapped around the brake linings. Nobody drove that thing up to Hollywood last night.”
“You think?”
“I think.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Denton hauled to the South Duquesne address–another tar-paper dive. A purple Mercury in the driveway–a coon coach featuring fender skirts, mud flaps, “Purple Pagans” on a hood plaque. Bolted to the porch: a heavy bag/speed bag combo. Jack said, “There’s your welterweight.”
Denton smiled; Jack walked up, pushed the buzzer. Dog barks inside–a real monster howling. Denton stood flank: the driveway, a bead on the door.
A Negro man opened up: wiry, a tough hump restraining a mastiff. The dog growled; the man said, “This ’cause I ain’ paid my alimony? That a goddamn p0-lice offense?”