SCREEEE–the sink shot back blood, bone. Bud yanked the hand out minus fingers–SCREEEEE fifty times louder. Stumps to the burner coils, stumps to the icebox sizzling. “GIVE ME THE FUCKING WHORE BOOK”–through a SCREEEEEEEE echo chamber.
Gilette, eyes rolling back. “Drawer . . . by TV . . . ambulance.”
Bud dropped him, ran to the living room. Empty drawers, back to the kitchen–Gilette on the floor eating paper.
Choke hold: Gilette spat out a half-chewed page. Bud picked up the wad, stumbled outside, burned flesh making him gag. He smoothed the paper out: names, phone numbers–smeared, two legible: Lynn Bracken, Pierce Patchctt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jack at his desk, counting lies.
At work: a string of dead-end reports; legit zeros from the other squad guys totaled luck: Millard wanted to dump the smut job. Count duty no-shows as lies–he’d spent a full day chasing names–matches to the cars in Bel Air. Four names tagged; no luck at a modeling agency specializing in movie star lookalikes–none of the girls came close to his beauties. Put the names aside, chalk up the day as a wash–Sid Hudgens made pursuit a dead issue. He just wanted to see the women again– add that one to his lies to Karen.
They spent the morning at her beach place. Karen wanted to make love; he put her off with bullshit: he was distracted, he’d asked to be detached to the Nite Owl because justice was so important. Karen tried to undress him; he told her he had a sprained back; he didn’t say he wasn’t interested because all he wanted to do was use her, make her do it with other women, recreate fuck book scenarios. His biggest lie: he didn’t tell her that he’d fmally stepped in shit that didn’t turn to clover, that he’d played an angle that played him back to the gas chamber door, that his home-to-Narco ticket read adios, lovebirds– because she’d trace 10/24/47 to all his other lies and his carefully constructed nice-guy Big V would go down in flames.
He didn’t tell her he was terrified. She didn’t sense it–his front was still strong.
Other fronts holding–dumb luck.
Sid hadn’t called, his monthly _Hush-Hush_ came on schedule– no note, some “sinuendo” on Max Peltz and teenage poon– nothing scary. He checked the report on the Fleur-de-Lis shootout: bright boy Ed Exley caught the squeal. Exley baffled: no make on the drop-pad tenants, the shelves cleaned out–only some bondage shit left–make the rest of the filth down the hidey-hole. Make Lamar Hinton for the shots–a free ride–the Big V was off the case, the Big V had a new mission.
Sid Hudgens knew Pierce Patchett and Fleur-de-Lis; Sid Hudgens knew the Malibu Rendezvous. Sid had a load of private dirt files stashed. The Big V’s job: find _his_ file, destroy it.
Jack checked his plate list, names matched to DMV pics.
Seth David Krugliak, the owner of the Bel Air manse–fat, oily, a movie biz lawyer. Pierce Morehouse Patchett, Fleur-de-Lis Boss–Mr. Debonair. Charles Walker Champlain, investment banker–shaved head, goatee. Lynn Margaret Bracken, age twenty-nine–Veronica Lake. No criminal records.
“Hello, lad.”
Jack swiveled around. “Dud, how are you? What brings you to Ad Vice?”
“A confab with Russ Millard, my colleague on the Nite Owl now. And on that topic, I heard you want in.”
“You heard right. Can you swing it?”
Smith passed him a mimeo sheet. “I already have, lad. You’re to join in the search for Coates’ car. Every garage within the radiu3 on this page is to be checked–with or without the owner’s consent. You’re to begin immediately.”
A map carbon: southside L.A. in street grids. “Lad, I need a personal favor.”
“Name it.”
“I want you to keep a tail on Bud White. He’s gotten personally involved in the unfortunate killing of a child prostitute, and I need him stable. Will you stick to him nights, great tailer that you are?”
Bad Bud–always a sucker for strays. “Sure, Dud. Where’s he working out of?”
“77th Street Station. He’s been assigned to roust jigaboos with sex offender records. He’s on daywatch at 77th, and you’ll be clocking in and out there as well.”
“Dud, you’re a lifesaver.”