Huge press coverage–Sid Hudgens had already called–zero hink on the smut, nothing like “We’ve _all_ got secrets.” A heroic version of the arrests for fifty scoots–Sid hung up quick.
The Nite Owl cost him a day on the smut. He’d checked the squadroom postings: no leads, none of the other men tracked the skit. He filed a phony report himself: nothing on Christine Bergeron and Bobby Inge, nothing on the other mags he found: Nothing on his filth dreams: his sweetheart Karen orgied up.
Jack kissed Karen’s neck, hoping she’d wake up and smile.
No luck.
o o o
Canvassing first.
Charleville Drive, questions, no luck: none of the tenants in Christine Bergeron’s building heard the woman and her son move out; none knew a thing about the men she entertained. The adjoining apartment houses–ditto straight across. Jack called Beverly Hills High, learned that Daryl Bergeron was a chronic truant who hadn’t attended classes in a week; the vice-principal said the boy kept to himself, didn’t cause trouble–he was never in school _to_ cause trouble. Jack didn’t tell him Daryl was too tired to cause trouble: fucking your mother on roller skates takes a lot out of a kid.
His next call: Stan’s Drive-in. The manager told him Chris Bergeron splitsvilled day before yesterday, two seconds after getting a phone call. No, he didn’t know who the caller was; yes, he would buzz Sergeant Vmcennes if she showed up; no, Chris did not unduly fraternize with customers or receive visitors while carhopping.
Out to West Hollywood.
Bobby Inge’s place, talks–fellow tenants and neighbors. Bobby paid his rent on time, kept to himself, nobody saw him move out. The swish next door said he “played the field–he wasn’t seeing anyone in particular.” Tweaks: “smut books,” “Chris Bergeron,” “this little twist Daryl”–the fruit deadpanned him cold.
Call West Hollywood dead–after B.J.’s Rumpus Room Bobby wouldn’t be caught near the fag-bar strip. Jack grabbed a hamburger, checked his Inge rap sheet–no K.A.’s listed. He studied his private filth stash, hard to concentrate, the contradictions in the pictures kept distracting him.
Attractive posers, trashy backdrops. Beautiful costumes that made you look twice at disgusting homo action. Artful orgy shots: inked-in blood, bodies connected over quilts–pix that made you squint to see female forms held in check by too much explicitness–the sex organ extravaganza made you want to see the women plain nude. The shit was pornography manufactured for money–but somewhere in the process an artist was involved.
A brainstorm.
Jack drove to a dime store, bought scissors, Scotch tape, a drawing pad. He worked in the car: faces cut from the mags, taped to the paper, men and women separated, repeats placed together to make IDs easier. Downtown to the Bureau for matchups: stag pix to Caucasian mug books. Four hours of squinting: eyestrain, zero identifications. Over to Hollywood Station, their separate Vice mugs, another zero; the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Substation made zero number three. Bobby Inge aside, his smut beauties were virgins–no criminal records.
4:30 P.M.–Jack felt his options dwindling fast. Another idea caught: check Bobby Inge through the DMV; check Chris Bergeron through again–a complete paper prowl. R&I/Inge one more time–updates on his sheet.
He hit a pay phone, made the calls. Bobby Inge was DMV clean: no citations, no court appearances. Complete Bergeron paper: traffic violation dates, the names of her surety bond guarantors. R&I’s only Inge update: a year-old bail report. One name crossed over–Bergeron to Inge.
Bail on an Inge prostie charge–fronted by Sharon Kostenza, 1649 North Havenhurst, West Hollywood. The same woman paid a Bergeron reckless-driving bond.
Jack called R&I back, ran Sharon Kostenza and her address through–no California criminal record. He told the clerk to check the forty-eight-state list; that took a full ten minutes. “Sorry, Sarge. Nothing at all on the name.”
Back to the DMV; a shocker: no one named Sharon Kostenza possessed or had ever possessed a California driver’s license. Jack drove to North Havenhurst–the address 1649 did not exist.
Brain circuits: prostie Bobby Inge, Kostenza bailed him on a prostie beef, prosties used phony names, prosties posed for stag pix. North Havenhurst a longtime call-house block– He started knocking on doors.
A dozen quickie interviews; tags on nearby fuck joints. Two, on Havenhurst: 1611, 1564.