Two days, one suspect: Lamar Hinton, age twenty-six, arrested for strongarm assault, a conviction on an ADW, a deuce at Chino--paroled 3/51. Current employment: telephone installer at P.C. Bell--his parole officer suspected he moonlighted tigging bootleg bookie lines. A mugshot match: Hinton the muscle boy at Timmy Valburn's house.
Two days, no break on his stalemate: a made case would ticket him back to Narco, making _this_ case meant Valburn and Billy Dieterling for material witnesses--well-connected homos who could flush his Hollywood career down the toilet.
Two days of page prowling--every roundabout approach tapped out. He checked the collateral case reports, talked to the arrestees--more denials--nobody admitted buying the smut. One day wasted; nothing at Ad Vice to goose his leads: Stathis, Henderson, Kitka reported zero, Millard was trying to co-boss the Nite Owl--pornography was not on his mind.
Two days since: midway through day two he hit hard--the bootleg number, Muscle Boy.
No Fleur-de-Lis phone listing; brain gymnastics tagged his personal connection--the first time he saw the caffing card.
Tilt:
Xmas Eve '51, right before Bloody Christmas. Sid Hudgens set up a reefer roust--he popped two grasshoppers, found the card at their pad, thought nothing else of it.
Scary Sid: "We've all got secrets, Jack."
He pushed ahead anyway, that undertow driving him: he wanted to know who made the smut--and why. He hit the P.C. Bell employment office, cross-checked records against physical stats until he hit Lamar Hinton--tilt, tilt, tilt, tilt, tilt-- Jack looked around the squadroom--men talking Nite Owl, Nite Owl, Nite Owl, the Big V chasing hand-job books.
The orgy pix.
Vertigo.
Jack chased.
o o o
Hinton's route: Gower to La Brea, Franklin to the Hollywood Reservoir. His A.M. installations: Creston Drive, North Ivar. Jack found Creston on his car map: Hollywood Hills, a cul-de-sac way up.
He drove there, saw the phone truck: parked by a pseudoFrench chateau. Lamar Hinton on a pole across the street-- monster huge in broad daylight.
Jack parked, checked the truck--the loading door wide open. Tools, phone books, Spade Cooley albums--no suspiciouslooking brown paper bags. Hinton stared at him; Jack went over badge first.
Hinton trundled down the pole: six-four easy, blond, muscles on muscles. "You with Parole?"
"Los Angeles Police Department."
"Then this ain't about my parole?"
"No, this is about you cooperating to avoid a parole rap."
"What do you--"
"Your parole officer don't really approve of this job you've got, Lamar. He thinks you might start doing some bootlegs."
Hinton flexed muscles: neck, arms, chest. Jack said, "Fleur-de-Lis, 'Whatever You Desire.' You desire no violation, you talk. You don't talk, then back to Chino."
One last flex. "You broke into my car."
"You're a regular Einstein. Now, you got the brains to be an informant?"
Hinton shifted; Jack put a hand on his gun. "Fleur-de-Lis. Who runs it, how does it work, what do you push? Dieterling and Valburn. Tell me and I'm out of your life in five minutes."
Muscles thought it through: his T-shirt bulged, puckered. Jack pulled out a fuck mag--an orgy pic spread full. "Conspiracy to distribute pornographic material, possession and sales of felony narcotics. I've got enough to send you back to Chino until nineteen-fucking-seventy. Now, did you move this smut for Fleur-de-Lis?"
Hinton bobbed his head. "Y-y-yeah."
"Smart boy. Now, who made it?"
"I d-don't know. Really, honest, I d-don't."
"Who posed for it?"
"I don't kn-know, I just d-d-delivered it."
"Billy Dieterling and Timmy Valburn. Go."
"J-just c-customers. Queers, you know, they like to fag party."
"You're doing great, so here's the big question. Who-"
"Officer, please don't--"
Jack pulled his .38, cocked it. "You want to be on the next train to Chino?"
"N-no."
"Then answer me."
Hinton turned, gripped the pole. "P-pierce Patchett. He runs the business. He-he's some kind of legit businessman."
"Description, phone number, address."
"He's maybe fifty something. I th-think he lives in Bbrentwood and I don't know his n-number 'cause I get paid b-by the m-mail."
"More on Patchett. Go."
"H-he sugar-p-pimps girls made up like movie stars. H-he's rich. I-I only met him once."
"Who introduced you?"
"This guy Ch-chester I used to see at M-m-muscle Beach."
"Chester who?"
"I don't know."
Hinton: bunching, flexing--Jack figured hot seconds and he'd snap. "What else does Patchett push?"
"L-lots of b-boys and girls."
"What about through Fleur-de-Lis?"
"W-whatever you d-desire."
"Not the sales pitch, what specifically?"
Pissed more than scared. "Boys, girls, liquor, dope, picture books, bondage stuff!"
"Easy, now. Who else makes the deliveries?"
"Me and Chester. He works days. I don't like--"
"Where's Chester live?"
"I don't know!"
"_Easy, now_. Lots of nice people with lots of money use Fleur-de-Lis, right?"
"R-right."
The records in the truck. "Spade Cooley? Is he a customer?"
"N-no, I just get free albums 'cause I party with this guy Burt Perkins."
"You fucking would know him. The names of some customers. Go."
Hinton dug into the pole. Jack flashed: the monster turning, six .38s not enough. "Are you working tonight?"
"Y-yes."
"The address."
"No . . . please."
Jack frisked: wallet, change, butch wax, a key on a fob. He held the key up; Hinton bobbed his head barn bam--blood on the pole.
"The address and I'm gone."
Barn barn--blood on the monster's forehead. "5261B Cheramoya."
Jack dropped the pocket trash. "You don't show up tonight. You call your parole officer and tell him you helped me, you tell him you want to be picked up on a violation, you have him put you up someplace. You're clean on this, and if I get to Patchett I'll make like one of the smut people snitched. _And if you clean that place out you are Chino-fucking-bound_."
"B-but you _t-told_ me."
Jack ran to his car, gunned it. Hinton tore at the pole barehanded.
o o o
Pierce Patchett, fifty-something, "some kind of legit businessman."
Jack found a pay phone, called R&I, the DMV. A make: Pierce Morehouse Patchett, DOB 6/30/02, Grosse Pointe, Michigan. No criminal record, 1184 Gretna Green, Brentwood. Three minor traffic violations since 1931.
Not much. Sid Hudgens next--fuck his smut hink. A busy signal, a buzz to Morty Bendish at the _Mirror_.
"City Room, Bendish."
"Morty, it's Jack Vincennes."
"The Big V! Jack, when are you going back to the Narco Squad? I need some good dope stories."
Morty wanted shtick. "As soon as I get squeaky-clean Russ Millard off my case and make a case for him. And _you_ can help."
"Keep talking, I'm all ears."
"Pierce Patchett. Ring a bell?"
Bendish whistled. "What's this about?"
"I can't tell you yet. But if it breaks his way, you've got the exclusive."
"You'd feed me before you feed Sid?"
"Yeah. Now I'm all ears."
Another whistle. "There's not much, but what there is is choice. Patchett's a big handsome guy, maybe fifty, but he looks thirty-eight. He goes back maybe twenty-five years in L.A. He's some kind of judo or jujitsu expert, he's either a chemist by trade or he was a chemistry major in college. He's worth a boatload of greenbacks, and I know he lends money to businessman types at thirty percent interest and a cut of their biz, I know he's bankrolled a lot of movies under the table. Interesting, huh? Now try this on: he's rumored to be some kind of periodic heroin sniffer, rumored to dry out at Terry Lux's clinic. All in all, he's what you might wanta call a powerful behind-the-scenes strange-o."