Albanese looked at the strip and burped. “I never seen this guy before. Somebody steered you wrong.”
Lee looked at me and sighed. He said, “Some people don’t respond to civility,” then grabbed Bruno Albanese by the scruff of the neck and smashed his head face first into the plate of goo. Bruno sucked in grease through his mouth, nose and eyeballs, flapping his arms and banging his legs under the table. Lee held him there, intoning, “Bruno Albanese was a good man. He was a good husband and a good father to his son Hacksaw. He wasn’t very cooperative with the police, but who expects perfection? Partner, can you give me a reason to spare this shitbird’s life?”
Albanese was making gurgling sounds; blood was leaking into his huevos rancheros. “Have mercy,” I said. “Even fences derserve a better last supper.”
Lee said, “Well put,” and let go of Albanese’s head. He came up for air bleeding and gasping, wiping a whole Mexican cookbook off his face. When he got breath he wheezed out, “The Versailles Apartments on 6th and Saint Andrews room 803 and please don’t give me a rat jacket!”
Lee said, “Bon appetit, Bruno”; I said, “You’re good.” We ran out of the restaurant and highballed it code three to 6th and Saint Andrews.
o o o
The mail slots in the Versailles lobby listed a Maynard Coleman in Apartment 803. We rode the elevator up to the eighth floor and rang the buzzer; I put my ear to the door and heard nothing. Lee took a ring of skeleton keys from his pocket and worked them into the lock until one hit and the mechanism gave with a sharp click.
We entered a hot, dark little room. Lee flicked on the overhead light, illuminating a Murphy bed covered with stuffed animals–teddy bears, pandas and tigers. The crib stank of sweat and some medicinal odor I couldn’t place. I wrinkled my nose, and Lee placed it for me. “Vaseline with cortisone. The homos use it for ass lube. I was gonna turn Maynard over to Captain Jack personally, but now I’m gonna let Vogel and Koenig have him first.”
I moved to the bed and examined the animals; they all had ringlets of soft children’s hair taped between their legs. Shivering, I looked at Lee. He was pale, his features contorted by facial tics. Our eyes met, and we silently left the room and took the elevator downstairs. On the sidewalk, I said, “What now?”
Lee’s voice was shaky. “Find a phone booth and call the DMV. Give them Maynard’s alias and this address and ask if they’ve processed any pink slips on it the past month or so. If they have, get a vehicle description and a license number. I’ll meet you at the car.”
I ran to the corner, found a pay phone and dialed the DMV police information line. A clerk answered, “Who’s requesting?”
“Officer Bleichert, LAPD badge 1611. Auto purchase information, Maynard Coleman or Coleman Maynard, 643 South Saint Andrews, LA. Probably recent.”
“Gotcha–one minute.”
I waited, notebook and pen in hand, thinking of the stuffed animals. A good five minutes later, “Officer, it’s a positive,” jarred me.
“Shoot.”
“De Soto sedan, 1938, dark green, license B as in boy, V as in Victor, 1-4-3-2 Repeat, B as in boy–”
I wrote it down, hung up and ran back to the car. Lee was scrutinizing an LA street atlas, jotting notes. I said, “Got him.”
Lee closed the atlas. “He’s probably a school prowler. There were elementary schools near the Highland Park jobs, and there’s a half dozen of them around here. I radioed the Hollywood and Wilshire desks and told them what we’ve got. Patrol cars are gonna stop by the schools and put out the skinny on Maynard. What’s the DMV got?”
I pointed to my notesheet; Lee grabbed the radio mike and switched on the outgoing dial. Static fired up, then the two-way went dead. Lee said, “Fuck it, let’s roll.”
o o o
We cruised elementary schools in Hollywood and the Wilshire District. Lee drove, I scanned curbs and school yards for green De Sotos and loiterers. We stopped once at a gamewell phone, and Lee called Wilshire and Hollywood stations with the DMV dope, getting assurances that it would be relayed to every radio car, every watch.