I got up to go; Russ sat still. “Miss Stinson, you said that when John Vogel told you his father’s name you got scared. Why?”
Sally whispered, “A story I heard.” Suddenly she looked beyond used-up–ancient.
“What sort of story?”
Sally’s whisper cracked. “How he got kicked off that hotshot Vice job.”
I remembered Bill Koenig’s rendition–that Fritzie caught syphilis from hookers when he worked Ad Vice, and was canned to take the mercury cure. “He caught a bad dose. Right?”
Sally dredged up a clear voice: “I heard he got the syph and went crazy. He thought a colored girl gave it to him, so he shook down this house in Watts and made all the girls do him before he took the cure. He made them rub his thing in their eyes, and two of the girls went blind.”
My legs were weaker than they were the night at the warehouse. Russ said, “Thank you, Sally.”
I said, “Let’s go get Johnny.”
o o o
We took my car downtown. Johnny had been working a daywatch foot beat with overtime on swing, so at 11:00 A.M. I knew there was a good chance of snagging him alone.
I drove slowly, looking for his familiar blue serge figure. Russ had a syringe and Pentothal ampule he’d kept from the Red Manley interrogations out on the dashboard; even he knew this was a muscle job. We were cruising the alley in back of the Jesus Saves Mission when I spotted him–solo rousting a pair of piss bums scrounging in a trash can.
I got out of the car and yelled, “Hey, Johnny!” Vogel Junior shook a finger at the winos and sidled over, thumbs in his Sam Browne belt.
He said, “What you doin’ in civvies, Bleichert?” and I hooked him to the gut. He bent over double, and I grabbed his head and banged it into the roof of the car. Johnny slumped, his lights dimming. I held him; Russ rolled up his left sleeve and jacked the silly syrup into the vein at the crook of his elbow.
Now he was out cold. I took the .38 from his holster, tossed it on the front seat and stuffed Johnny into the back. I got in with him; Russ took the wheel. We peeled rubber down the alley, the piss bums waving their short dogs at us.
The ride to the El Nido took half an hour. Johnny giggled in his dope slumber, almost coming awake a couple of times; Russ drove silently. When we got to the hotel, Russ checked the lobby, found it empty and gave me the high sign from the door. I slung Johnny over my shoulder and hauled him up to room 204–the hardest minute’s work of my life.
The trip upstairs half roused him; his eyes fluttered as I dumped him into a chair and cuffed his left wrist to a heating pipe. Russ said, “The Pentothal’s good for another few hours. No way he can lie.” I soaked a bath towel in the sink and swathed Johnny’s face with it. He coughed, and I pulled the towel away.
Johnny giggled. I said, “Elizabeth Short,” and pointed to the glossies on the wall. Johnny, rubber-faced, slurred, “What about her?” I gave him another dose of the towel, a cobweb-clearing bracer. Johnny sputtered; I let the wad of cold terrycloth drop into his lap. “How about Liz Short? You remember her?”
Johnny laughed; Russ motioned for me to sit beside him on the bed rail. “There’s a method to this. Let me ask the questions. You just hold on to your temper.”
I nodded. Johnny had the two of us in focus now, but his eyes were pinned and his features were slack and goofy. Russ said, “What’s your name, son?”
Johnny said, “You know me, loot,” the slur on its way out.
“Tell me anyway.”
“Vogel, John Charles.”
“When were you born?”
“May 6, 1922.”
“What’s sixteen plus fifty-six?”
Johnny thought for a moment, said, “Seventy-two,” then fixed on me. “Why’d you hit me, Bleichert? I never did you no dirt.”
Fat Boy seemed genuinely befuddled. I kept it zipped; Russ said, “What’s your father’s name, son?”