The girls hit the switchboard; Bud hit the bulletin board: paper tagged "Victim Lunceford." One update: a Hollywood squad officer talked to Lunceford's boss at the Mighty Man Agency. Facts: Lunceford patronized the Nite Owl virtually every early A.M.--after he got off his 6:00-to-2:00 shift at the Pickwick Bookstore Building; Lunceford was a typical wino security guard not permitted to carry a sidearm; Lunceford had no known enemies, no known friends, no known lady friends, did not associate with his fellow Mighty Men, slept in a pup tent behind the Hollywood Bowl. The tent was checked out, inventoried: a sleeping bag, four Mighty Man uniforms, six bottles of Old Monterey muscatel.
Adios, shitbird--you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bud checked Lunceford's arrest record: nineteen minor felony pops in eleven years as a cop, scratch revenge as a motive, kill six to get one stunk as a motive anyway. Still no Exley, no Breuning and Carlisle. Bud remembered Dudley's memo: check the station files for Lunceford listings.
A good bet: field interrogation cards filed by officer surname. Bud hit the storage room, pulled the "L" cabinet--no folder for "Lunceford, Officer Malcolm." An hour checking misfiles "A" to "Z"--zero. No F.I.'s--strange--maybe Wino Mal never filed his field cards.
Almost noon, time for a chow run--a sandwich, talk to Dick. Carlisle and Breuning showed up--loafing, drinking coffee. Bud found a free phone, buzzed snitches.
Snake Tucker heard bupkis; ditto Fats Rice and Johnny Stomp. Jerry Katzenbach said it was the Rosenbergs--they ordered the snuffs from death row, make Jerry back on the needle. An R&I girl hovered.
She handed him a tear sheet. "There's not much. Nothing on Cathcart's K.A.'s, not much detail besides his rap sheet. I couldn't get much on the statutory rape complainants, except that they were fourteen and blonde and worked at Lockheed during the war. My bet is they were transients. Sheriff's Central Vice had a file on Cathcart, with nine suspected prostitutes listed. I followed up. Two are dead of syphilis, three were underaged and left the state as a probation stipulation, two I couldn't get a line on. The remaining two are on that page. Does it help?"
Bud waved Breuning and Carlisle over. "Yeah, it does. Thanks."
The clerk walked off; Bud checked her sheet, two names circled: Jane (a.k.a. "Feather") Royko, Cynthia (a.k.a. "Sinful Cindy") Benavides. Last known addresses, known haunts: pads on Poinsettia and Yucca, cocktail lounges.
Dudley's strongarms hovered. Bud said, "The two names here. Shag them, will you?"
Carlisle said, "This background check shit is the bunk. I say it's the shines."
Breuning grabbed the sheet. "Dud says do it, we do it."
Bud checked their neckties--five dead men total. Fat Breuning, skinny Carlisle--somehow they looked just like twins. "So do it, huh?"
o o o
Abe's Noshery, no parking, around the block. Dick's Chevy Out back, booze empties on the seat: probation violation number one. Bud found a space, walked up and checked the window: Stens guzzling Manischewitz, bullshitting with ex-cons--Lee Vachss, Deuce Perkins, Johnny Stomp. A cop type eating at the counter: a bite, a glance at the known criminal assembly, another bite--clockwork. Back to Hollywood Station--pissed that he was still playing nursemaid.
Waiting for him: Breuning, two hooker types--laughing up a storm in the sweatbox. Bud tapped the glass; Breuning walked out.
Bud said, "Who's who?"
"The blonde's Feather Royko. Hey, did you hear the one about the well-hung elephant?"
"What'd you tell them?"
"I told them it was a routine background check on Duke Cathcart. They read the papers, so they weren't surprised. Bud, it's the niggers. They're gonna burn for that Mex ginch, Dudley's just going through this rigamarole 'cause Parker wants a showcase and he's listening to that punk kid Exley with all his highfalut--"
Hard fingers to the chest. "Inez Soto ain't a ginch, and maybe it ain't the jigs. So you and Carlisle go do some police work."
Kowtow--Breuning shambled off smoothing his shirt. Bud walked into the box. The whores looked bad: a peroxide blonde, a henna redhead, too much makeup on too many miles.
Bud said, "So you read the papers this morning."
Feather Royko said, "Yeah. Poor Dukey."
"It don't sound like you're exactly grieving for him."
"Dukey was Dukey. He was cheap, but he never hit you. He had a thing about chiliburgers, and the Nite Owl had good ones. One chiliburg too many, RIP Dukey."
"Then you girls buy all that robbery stuff in the papers?"
Cindy Benavides nodded. Feather said, "Sure. That's what it was, wasn't it? I mean, don't you think so?"
"Probably. What about enemies? Duke have any?"
"No, Dukey was Dukey."
"How many other girls was he running?"
"Just us. We are the meager remnants of Dukey-poo's stable."
"I heard Duke ran nine girls once. What happened? Rival pimp stuff?"
"Mister, Dukey was a dreamer. He liked young stuff personally, and he liked to run young stuff. Young stuff gets bored and moves on unless their guy gets mean. Dukey could get mean with other men, but never with females. RIP Dukey."
"Then Duke must've had something else going. A two-girl string wouldn't cover him."
Feather picked at her nail polish. "Dukey was jazzed up on some new business scheme. You see, he always had some kind of scheme going. He was a dreamer. And the schemes made him happy, made him feel like the meager coin Cindy and me turned for him wasn't so bad."
"Did he give you details?"
"No."
Cindy had her lipstick out, smearing on another coat. "Cindy, he tell _you_ anything?"
"No"--a little squeak.
"Nothing about enemies?"
"No."
"What about girlfriends? Duke have any young stuff going lately?"
Cindy grabbed a tissue, blotted. "N-no."
"Feather, you buy that?"
"I guess Dukey wasn't talking up nobody. Can we go now? I mean--"
"Go. There's a cabstand up the street."
The girls moved out fast; Bud gave them a lead, ran to his car. Up to Sunset across from the cabstand; a two-minute wait. Cindy and Feather walked up.
Separate cabs, different directions. Cindy shot due north on Wilcox, maybe toward home--5814 Yucca. Bud took a shortcut; the cab showed right on time. Cindy walked to a green De Soto, took off westbound. Bud counted to ten, followed.
Up to Highland, the Cahuenga Pass to the Valley, west on Ventura Boulevard. Bud stuck close; Cindy drove middle lane fast. A last-second swerve to the curb by a motel--rooms circling a murky swimming pool.
Bud braked, U-turned, watched. Cindy walked to a left-side room, knocked. A girl--fifteenish, blond--let her in. Young stuff--Duke Cathcart's statch rape type.
Eyeball Surveillance.
Cindy walked out ten minutes later--zoom--a U-turn back toward Hollywood. Bud knocked on the girl's door.
She opened it--teary-eyed. A radio blasted: "Nite Owl Massacre," "Crime of the Southland's Century." The girl focused in. "Are you the police?"
Bud nodded. "Sweetie, how old are you?" No more focus--her eyes went blurry. "Sweetie, what's your name?"
"Kathy Janeway. Kathy with a 'K."' Bud closed the door. "How old are you?" "Fourteen. Why do men always ask you that?" A prairie twang.
"Where are you from?"
"North Dakota. But if you send me back I'll just run away again."
"Why?"
"You want it in VistaVision? Duke said lots of guys get their jollies that way."
"Don't be such a tough cookie, huh? I'm on your side."
"That's a laugh."
Bud scoped the room. Panda bears, movie mags, schoolgirl smocks on the dresser. No whore threads, no dope paraphernalia. "Was Duke nice to you?"