Ed nodded. Mickey Cohen, Sr., cradled Mickey Cohen, Jr. “Fathers and Sons are food for thought, are they not a veritable feast? My canine offspring and me, old Doe Franz and his gap-toothed white trash lowlifes. Franz was a chemical genius, great things he did for the drool case mentally disturbed. When a boatload of Big H was stole from me way back, I thought of Franz, and how if I had his brains instead of my own poetic genius I would have recreated my own white powder to sell. Go home, boychiks. Dirty books will not win you your murder case. It’s the shvartzes, it’s the fucking shvoogies.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Bottles: whisky, gin, brandy. Flashing signs: Schlitz, Pabst Blue Ribbon. Sailors downing cold beers, happy folks juicing their lights out. Hudgens’ pad a block away–booze would give him the guts. He knew it before he tailed Bud White–now he had a thousand times the reason.
The barman yelled, “Last call.” Jack killed his club soda, pressed the glass to his neck. His day hit him–again.
Millard says Duke Cathcart was involved in some scheme to push _his_ smut.
Bud White visits Lynn Bracken, one of the lookalike whores. He stays inside two hours; the whore walks him out. He tails White home, starts thinking evidence: White knows Bracken, she knows Pierce Patchett, he knows Hudgens. Sid knows about the Malibu Rendezvous, Dudley Smith probably knows. Big Dud’s reason for the tail job: White bent out of shape on a _hooker_ snuff.
Pulsing beer signs: neon monsters. Brass knucks in the car, the Sidster might fold, kick loose with his file–
Jack bolted: Hudgens’ place, no lights on, Sid’s Packard at the curb. The door–brass knucks for a knocker.
Thirty seconds–nothing. Jack tried the door–no give– shouldered the jamb. The door popped open.
That smell.
Slow motion: handkerchief out, gun out, elbow to the wall– the switch, no prints. Switch down, lights on.
Sid Hudgens hacked up on the floor–a rug soaked black, the floor a blood slick.
Arms and legs severed, out at weird angles off his torso.
Split open crotch to neck, bones showing white through red.
Cabinets upended behind him–folders dumped on a clean patch of rug.
Jack bit his arms to kill screams.
No blood tracks, say the killer got out the back door. Hudgens naked, coated red-black. Limbs off his torso, strands of gore at the cut points, swirls like his inked-in fuck books–
Jack bolted.
Around the house, down the driveway. The back door: ajar, spilling light. Inside: a water-slick floor–no blood prints, tracks covered. He walked in, found grocery bags under the sink. Shaky steps to the living room. File cabinet dirt: folders, folders, folders–one, two, three, four, five bags–two trips to his car.
A quiet L.A. street at 2:20 A.M., calm down mumbo jumbo.
Fifty trillion people had motives. Nobody knew he’d seen the inked-in books. The mutilations would get written off–just psycho stuff.
_He had to find his file_.
Jack doused lights, sawed the front door with his handcuffs– let them think it’s a burglar. He took off, no destination, just driving.
o o o
Just driving wore thin. He found a motel strip, a hot-sheet flop: Oscar’s Sleepytime Lodge.
He paid a week’s rent, hauled his bags in, took a shower and put his stale clothes back on. A cockroach palace: bugs, grease on the wall above the bed. He smelled himseffi stale working on foul. He locked the door, prowled dirt.
_Hush-Hush_ back issues, clippings, pilfered police documents. Files: Montgomery Clift as the smallest dick in Hollywood, Errol Flynn as a Nazi agent. A hot item: Flynn and some homo writer named Truman Capote. Commies, Commie sympathizers, celebrity spook fuckers ranging from Joan Crawford to former D.A. Bill McPherson. Hopheads galore: shit on Charlie Parker, Anita O’Day, Art Pepper, Tom Neal, Barbara Payton, Gail Russell. Intact _Hush-Hush_ articles: “Mafia Ties to the Vatican!!!,” “Lavender Liturgy: Is ‘Rock’ Hudson Really ‘Rockette’?,” “Grasshopper Alert: Beware of Hollywood’s Tea Bag Babies.” Complete files, too tame to be Hudgens’ secret stash–Commies, queers, lezbos, dopesters, satyrs, nymphos, misogynists, mobbought politicos.
Nothing on Sergeant Jack Vincennes.
Nothing on _Badge of Honor_–a big Hudgens fixation–he knew Sid had a file on Brett Chase.