This set of files was in some kind of order–”No Arraignments,” “Charges Dropped” or “Check Agst. Future Arrests” stamped on the front of each folder. Danny read through the first handful and got straight male-on-male sex that went to arrest but not to court: coitus interruptus in parked cars; male shack jobs snitched by shocked landladies; a toilet assignation where the theater proprietor blew the whistle, then punked out for fear of bad publicity. Straight sex recounted in straight copese: abbreviations, technical terms for the acts, a few humorous asides by waggish Vice officers.
Danny felt shakes coming on. The files carried twin yellow sheets–two mugshot strips, both sex participants in black and white. He eyed the pages for birthdates and physical stats, but kept returning to the mugs, superimposing them against each other, playing with the faces–making them prettier, less conwise. After a half dozen files, he fell into sync: a look at the photos, a scan of the arrest report, back to the mugs and the action visualized with prettified versions of the two plug-uglies clipped to the first page. Mouths on mouths; mouths to crotches; sodomy, fellatio, soixante-neuf, a Man Camera smut job, a little voice going, “It’s for the investigation” when some detail hit him so large that his stomach queased to the point where he thought his bowels would go. No middle-aged tall guy’s stats to make him stop and think; just the pictures, rapid fire, like nickelodeon flickers.
Bedspreads wet from fucking.
A naked blond man catching his breath, veins pumping in his legs.
Zoom-in shots of awful insertions.
“It’s for the investigation.”
Danny broke the string of images–making the pretty ones all gray, all forty-fivish, all his killer. Knowing the killer only had sex to hurt helped put the brakes on his fantasies; Danny got his legs back and saw that he’d twisted a lank of his new hairdo clean off his scalp. He slammed the cabinet shut; he recalled queer vernacular and interposed it into the questions he’d ask Felix Gordean–himself as a smart young detective who came prepared, who’d talk on the level of anyone–even if it was wrong sex to a queer pimp.
Cop to voyeur and back again.
Danny drove home, showered and checked his closet for the best suit to go with his new hair, settling on a black worsted Karen Hiltscher had bought him–too stylish, too tapered and skinny in the lapels. When he put it on, he saw that it made him look dangerous–and the narrow shoulders outlined his .45 revolver. After two shots and a mouthwash chaser, he drove to the Chateau Marmont.
The night was damp and chilly, hinting of rain; music echoed through the Marmont’s inner courtyard–string swells, boogie jumps and odd ballad tremolos. Danny took the footpath to 7941, chafing from the fit of Karen’s suit. 7941 was brightly lit, the velvet curtains he’d peered through open wide; the dance floor of three nights before gleamed behind a large picture window. Danny fidgeted with his jacket and rang the bell.
Chimes sounded; the door opened. A small man with a short dark beard and perfectly layered thin hair stood there. He was wearing a tuxedo with a tartan cummerbund, dangling a brandy snifter against his leg. Danny smelled the same fifty-year-old Napoleon he bought himself once a year as his reward for spending Christmas with his mother. The man said, “Yes? Are you with the Sheriff’s?”
Danny saw that he’d unbuttoned his coat, leaving his gun exposed. “Yes. Are you Felix Gordean?”
“Yes, and I don’t appreciate bureaucratic faux pas. Come in.”
Gordean stood aside; Danny walked in and ran eye circuits of the room where he’d glimpsed men dancing and kissing. Gordean moved to a bookcase, reached behind the top shelf and returned with an envelope. Danny caught an address: 1611 South Bonnie Brae, the Sheriff’s Central Vice operations front, where recalcitrant bookies got strong-armed, recalcitrant hookers got serviced, protections kickbacks got tallied. Gordean said, “I always mail it in. Tell Lieutenant Matthews I don’t appreciate in-person calls with their implied threat of additional charges.”
Danny let Gordean’s hand hover in front of him–buffed nails, an emerald ring and probably close to a grand in cash. “I’m not a bagman, I’m a detective working a triple homicide.”