The phone rang.
Jack hit the tapper, picked up. “Hi. Whatever You Desire”– Lamar Hinton mimicked.
Click, a hang-up, he shouldn’t have used the slogan. A half hour passed–the phone rang. “Hi, it’s Lamar”–casual.
A pause, click.
A chain of smokes–his throat hurt. The phone rang.
Try a mumble. “Yeah?”
“Hi, it’s Seth up in Bel Air. You feel like bringing something over?”
“Sure.”
“Make it a jug of the wormwood. Make it fast and you made a nice tip.”
“Uh . . . gimme the address again, would ya?”
“Who could forget digs like mine? It’s 941 Roscomere, and don’t dawdle.”
Jack hung up. Ring ring again.
“Yeah?”
“Lamar, tell Pierce I need to . . . Lamar, is that you, boychik?”
SID HUDGENS.
Lamar–with a tremor. “Uh, yeah. Who’s this?”
Click.
Jack pushed “Replay.” Hudgens talked, recognition creeped in–
SID KNEW PATCHETF. SID KNEW LAMAR. SID KNEW THE FLEUR-DE-LIS RACKET.
The phone rang–Jack ignored it. Splitsville–grab the tapper, wipe the phone, wipe all the filth he’d touched. Out the door queasy–night air peaking his nerves.
He heard a car revving.
A shot took out the front window; two shots smashed the door.
Jack drew, fired–the car hauling, no lights.
Clumsy: two shots hit a tree and sprayed wood. Three more pulls, no hits, the car fishtailing. Doors opening–eyewitnesses.
Jack got his car–skids, brodies, no lights until Franklin and a main traffic flow. No make on the shooter car: dark, no lights, the cars all around him looked alike: sleek, wrong. A cigarette slowed him down. He drove straight west to Bet Air.
Roscomere Road: twisty, all uphill, mansions fronted by palm trees. Jack found 941, pulled into the driveway.
Circular, looping a big pseudo-Spanish: one story, low slate roof. Cars in a row–a Jag, a Packard, two Caddies, a Rolls. Jack got out–nobody braced him. He hunkered down, took plate numbers.
Five cars: classy, no Fleur-de-Lis bags on plush front seats. The house: bright windows, silk swirls. Jack walked up and looked in.
He knew he’d never forget the women.
One almost Rita Hayworth a la _Gilda_. One almost Ava Gardner in an emerald-green gown. A near Betty Grable–sequined swim-suit, fishnet stockings. Men in tuxedos mingled–background debris. He couldn’t stray his eyes from the women.
Astonishing make-believe. Hinton on Patchett: “He sugarpimps these girls made up to look like movie stars.” “Made up” didn’t cut it: call these women chosen, cultivated, enhanced by an expert. Astonishing.
Veronica Lake walked through the light. Her face wasn’t as close: she just oozed that cat-girl grace. Background men flocked to her.
Jack pressed up to the glass. Smut vertigo, real live women. Sid, that door slamming, that line. He drove home, bad vertigo–achy, itchy, jumpy. He saw a _Hush-Hush_ card on his door, “Malibu Rendezvous” inked on the bottom.
He saw headlines:
DOPED-OUT DOPE CRUSADER SHOOTS INNOCENT CITIZENS!
CELEBRITY COP INDICTED FOR KILLINGS!
GAS CHAMBER FOR THE BIG-TIME BIG V! RICH KID GIRLFRIEND BIDS DEATH ROW AU REVOIR!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
An arm-in-arm entrance–Inez in her best dress and a veil to hide her bruises. Ed kept his badge out–it got them past the press. Attendants formed the guests into lines–Dream-a-Dreamland was open for business.
Inez was awestruck: quick breaths billowed her veil. Ed looked up, down, sideways–every detail made him think of his father.
A grand promenade–Main Drag, USA, 1920–soda fountains, nickelodeons, dancing extras: the cop on the beat, a paperboy juggling apples, ingenues doing the Charleston. The Amazon River: motorized crocodiles, jungle excursion boats. Snow-capped mountains; vendors handing out mouse-ear beanies. The Moochie Mouse Monorail, tropical isles–acres and acres of magic.
They rode the monorail: the first car, the first run. High speed, upside down, right side up–Inez unbuckled herself giggling. The Paul’s World toboggan; lunch: hot dogs, snow cones, Moochie Mouse cheese balls.
On to “Desert Idyll,” “Danny’s Fun House,” an exhibit on outer space travel. Inez seemed to be tiring: gorged on excitement. Ed yawned–his own late night catching up.
A late squeal at the station: a shootout on Cheramoya, no perpetrators caught. He had to go to the scene: an apartment house, shots riddling a downstairs unit. Weird: .38s, .45s retrieved, the living room all shelving–empty except for some sadomasochist paraphernalia–and no telephone. The building’s owner couldn’t be traced; the manager said he was paid by mail, cashier’s checks, he got a free flop and a C-note a month, so he was happy and didn’t ask questions–he couldn’t even name the dump’s tenant. The condition of the apartment indicated a rapid clean-out–but no one saw a thing. Four hours of report writing–four hours snatched from the Nite Owl.