L. A. Confidential

"Your squad worked a pornography investigation in the spring of'53, do you recall that?"

"Yeah, it was a colossal waste of time. Dirty skin books, a waste of time."

"You yourself reported no leads."

"Yeah, and neither did Trashcan or the other guys. Russ Millard got co-opted to that Nite Owl thing, and the skin book caper fell through."

"Do you recall Vince

"Not really. I remember he only showed up at the squadroom at odd times and that him and Russ Millard didn't like each other. Like I said, Vince

"Do you recall Millard making specific queries of the squad when two printshop operators came forward with smut information?"

Stathis nodded. "Yeah, something to do with the Nite Owl that didn't pan out. We all told old Russ that those skin books could not be traced hell or high water."

One hunch going dry. "Sergeant, the Department was ru

Stathis said, "Sir, can I be blunt?"

"Of course."

"Well, then I'll tell you that I always figured Vince

Coming on again-no facts, just instincts. "Sergeant, think. Vince

Stathis shrugged. "Maybe one thing, but I don't think it amounts to-"

"Tell me anyway."

"Well, back then Vince

"And?"

"And Smith asked Vince

Skin pricldes. "What else did you hear?"

"I heard Vince

"This was during the Nite Owl investigation?"

"Yes, sir. Right in the middle of it."

"Sergeant, do you remember Sid Hudgens, the scandal sheet man, being killed around that time?"

"Yeah, an unsolved."

"Do you recall Vince

"No, but the rumor was that him and Hudgens were buddies."

Ed smiled. "Sergeant, thank you. This was off the record, but I don't want you to repeat our conversation. Do you understand?"

Stathis got up. "I won't, but I feel bad about Vince

Ed said, "Good day, Sergeant."

Something old, wrong.

Ed sat with his door open. Gold-braided flags just outside- opportunities knocked.

Vmce

Instincts: Trash ru

Co

Inez Soto's indictment-he killed three i

If he cut Vince

Ed hit the intercom. "Susan, get me District Attorney Loew."

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Mickey Cohen said, "I got my own problems to worry about. The fershtunkener Nite Owl case and fershtunkener dirty books I don't know from the Bible, another book I never read. That rebop bored me five years ago, now it is an even further distance from hunger. I got my own problems, such as look at my poor baby."

Bud looked. A raggedy-assed bulldog by the Mickster's fireplace-wheezing, his tail in a splint. Cohen said, "That is Mickey Cohen, Jr., my heir who is not long for this canine world. A bomb attempt in November he survived, though a goodly number of my Sy Devore suits did not. His poor tail has remained steadily infected and his appetite is dyspeptic. Cops resurrecting old grief is not good for his health."

"Mr. Cohen-"

"I like a man who addresses me with proper decorum. What did you say your name was again?"

"Sergeant White."

"Sergeant White then, I will tell you there is no end to the grief in my life. I am like Jesus your goy savior carrying the weight of the world on his back. Back in prison these fershtunkener goons attack me and my man Davey Goldman, Davey gets his brains scrambled, gets paroled and starts walking around in public with his shlong hanging out, it's big, I don't blame him for advertising, but the Beverly Hills cops ain't so enlightened and now he's doing ninety days observation at the Camarillo nut bin. As if that is not enough grief for your yiddisher Jesus to undergo, then feature that while I was in prison some colleagues looking after my interests were bumped off by persons unknown. And now my old boys won't form back together with me. My God, Kikey T., Lee Vachss, Joh

Kill the tirade. "I know Joh

Cohen hit the roof. "Ferstunkener Joh

"That's right, Mr. Cohen."

"Wendell White? «Bud» White?"

"That's me."

"Boychik, why didn't you tell me?"

Cohen Junior pissed in the fireplace. Bud said, "I didn't think you'd heard of me."

"Heard, shmeard, word gets out. Word is you're Dudley Smith's lad. Word is you and the Dudster and a couple of his other hard boys been keeping L.A. safe for democracy while this so-called crime drought's been going on. A motel in Gardena, a little blackjack work to the kidneys, va va va voom. Maybe now, maybe if I can get my old guys to quit noshing grease and associating with dog fuckers, I can get business going again. I should be nice to you so's you and the Dudster reciprocate. So what's with this Nite Owl rehash?"

His pitch-ca

Mickey said, "Nix. Not possible, 'cause I never told Davey. True, I am well known for my cell business confabs, but not a soul on this earth did I tell. I told that guy Exley that when we sbmoozed on the topic years ago. And here's a bonus insight from the Mickster. It is my considered opinion that dirty books are a high-profit item worth killing i

Bud said, "I don't think Duke Cathcart was killed at the Nite Owl. I think it was a guy impersonating him. I think the guy killed Cathcart, took over his identity and wound up at the Nite Owl. I was thinking the whole thing got started up at McNeil."

Cohen rolled his eyes. "Not with me it didn't, boychik, 'cause I told nobody, and I can't feature Pete and Bar stopping to spread the word out on the yard. Where'd this clown Cathcart live?"

"Silverlake."

"Then dig up the Silverlake Hills. Maybe you'll find a nice vintage stiff."