Johnny Vogel was signing Russ’s statement, flushed and sweaty, with a bad case of the shakes. I read the confession over his shoulder: it laid out the Biltmore, Betty, and Fritzie’s beating of Sally Stinson succinctly, to the tune of four misdemeanors and two felonies.
Russ said, “I want to sit on this for now, and I want to talk to a legal officer.”
I said, “No, padre,” and turned to Johnny.
“You’re under arrest for suborning prostitution, withholding evidence, obstruction of justice and accesory to first-degree assault and battery.”
Johnny blurted, “Daddy” and looked at Russ. Russ looked at me–and held out the statement. I put it in my pocket and cuffed Junior’s wrists behind his back while he sobbed quietly.
The padre sighed. “It’s the shithouse until you retire.”
“I know.”
“You’ll never get back to the Bureau.”
“I’ve already got a taste for shit, padre. I don’t think it’ll be so bad.”
o o o
I led Johnny down to my car and drove him the four blocks to Hollywood Station. Reporters and camera jockeys were lounging on the front steps; they went nuts when they saw the plainclothesman with the uniformed cop in bracelets. Flashbulbs popped, newshounds recognized me and shouted my name, I yelled back, “No comment.” Inside, bluesuits goggle-eyed the sight. I shoved Johnny to the front desk and whispered in his ear: “Tell your daddy I know about his extortion deal with the fed reports, and about the syph and the whorehouse in Watts. Tell him I’m going to the papers with it tomorrow.”
Johnny went back to his quiet sobbing. A uniformed lieutenant came over and blurted, “What on God’s earth is this here?”
A flashbulb went off in my eyes; there was Bevo Means with his notepad at the ready. I said, “I’m Officer Dwight Bleichert and this is Officer John Charles Vogel.” Handing the statement to the lieutenant, I winked. “Book him.”
o o o
I dawdled over a big steak lunch, then drove downtown to Central Station and my regular tour of duty. Heading into the locker room, I heard the intercom bark: “Officer Bleichert, go to the watch commander’s office immediately.”
I reversed directions and knocked on Lieutenant Jastrow’s door. He called out, “It’s open.” I walked in and saluted like an idealistic rookie. Jastrow stood up, ignored the salute and adjusted his horn-rims like he was seeing me for the first time.
“You’re on two weeks vacation leave as of now, Bleichert. When you return to duty, report to Chief Green. He’ll assign you to another division.”
Wanting to milk the moment, I asked, “Why?”
“Fritz Vogel just blew his brains out. That’s why.”
My farewell salute was twice as crisp as my first one; Jastrow ignored it again. I walked across the hall thinking of the two blind whores, wondering if they’d find out or care. The muster room was crammed with blues waiting for roll call–a last obstacle before the parking lot and home. I took it slow, standing GI straight, meeting the eyes that sought mine, making them look down. The hisses of “Traitor” and “Bolshevik” all came when my back was turned. I was almost out the door when I heard applause and turned to see Russ Millard and Thad Green clapping good-bye.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Exiled to the shithouse and proud of it; two weeks to kill before I began serving my sentence at some putrid LAPD outpost. The Vogel arrest-suicide whitewashed as interdepartmental offenses and a father’s shame over the ignominy. I closed out my glory days the only way that seemed decent–I chased the gone man.
I started at the LA end of his vanishing act.
I got nothing from repeated readings of Lee’s arrest scrapbook; I questioned the lezzies at La Verne’s Hideaway, asking whether Mr. Fire showed up to abuse them a second time–and got no’s and jeers. The padre sneaked me a carbon of the complete Blanchard felony arrest file–it told me nothing. Kay, content in our monogamy, told me I was worse than a fool for what I was doing–and I knew it scared her.
Dredging up the Issler/Stinson/Vogel connection had convinced me of one thing–that I was a detective. Thinking like one as far as Lee was concerned was another matter, but I forced myself to do it. The ruthlessness I had always seen–and secretly admired–in him came across even deeper, making me care for him even more unequivocally. As did the facts I always came back to: