1
Bud White in an unmarked, watching the “1951” on the City Hall Christmas tree blink. The back seat was packed with liquor for the station party; he’d scrounged merchants all day, avoiding Parker’s dictate: married men had the 24th and Christmas off, all duty rosters were bachelors only, the Central detective squad was detached to round up vagrants: the chief wanted local stumblebums chilled so they wouldn’t crash Mayor Bowron’s lawn party for underprivileged kids and snarf up all the cookies. Last Christmas, some crazy n—— whipped out his wang, pissed in a pitcher of lemonade earmarked for some orphanage brats and ordered Mrs. Bowron to “Strap on, bitch.” William H. Parker’s first yuletide as chief of the Los Angeles Police Department was spent transporting the mayor’s wife to Central Receiving for sedation, and now, a year later, he was paying the price.
The back seat, booze-packed, had his spine jammed to Jell-O. Ed Exley, the assistant watch commander, was a straight arrow who might get uppity over a hundred cops juicing in the muster room. And Johnny Stompanato was twenty minutes late.
Bud turned on his two-way. A hum settled: shopliftings, a liquor store heist in Chinatown. The passenger door opened; Johnny Stompanato slid in.
Bud turned on the dash light. Stompanato said, “Holiday cheers. And where’s Stensland? I’ve got stuff for both of you.”
Bud sized him up. Mickey Cohen’s bodyguard was a month out of work—Mickey went up on a tax beef, Fed time, three to seven at McNeil Island. Johnny Stomp was back to home manicures and pressing his own pants. “It’s Sergeant Stensland. He’s rousting vags and the payoff’s the same anyway.”
“Too bad. I like Dick’s style. You know that, Wendell.”
Cute Johnny: guinea handsome, curls in a tight pompadour. Bud heard he was hung like a horse and padded his basket on top of it. “Spill what you got.”
“Dick’s better at the amenities than you, Officer White.”
“You got a hard-on for me, or you just want small talk?”
“I’ve got a hard-on for Lana Turner, you’ve got a hard-on for wife beaters. I also heard you’re a real sweetheart with the ladies and you’re not too selective as far as looks are concerned.”
Bud cracked his knuckles. “And you fuck people up for a living, and all the money Mickey gives to charity won’t make him no better than a dope pusher and a pimp. So my fucking complaints for hardnosing wife beaters don’t make me you. Capisce, shitbird?”
Stompanato smiled—nervous; Bud looked out the window. A Salvation Army Santa palmed coins from his kettle, an eye on the liquor store across the street. Stomp said, “Look, you want information and I need money. Mickey and Davey Goldman are doing time, and Mo Jahelka’s looking after things while they’re gone. Mo’s diving for scraps, and he’s got no work for me. Jack Whalen wouldn’t hire me on a bet and there was no goddamn envelope from Mickey.”
“No envelope? Mickey went up flush. I heard he got back the junk that got clouted off his deal with Jack D.”
Stompanato shook his head. “You heard wrong. Mickey got the heister, but that junk is nowhere and the guy got away with a hundred and fifty grand of Mickey’s money. So, Officer White, I need money. And if your snitch fund’s still green, I’ll get you some fucking-A collars.”
“Go legit, Johnny. Be a white man like me and Dick Stensland.”
Stomp snickered—it came off weak. “A key thief for twenty or a shoplifter who beats his wife for thirty. Go for the quick thrill, I saw the guy boosting Ohrbach’s on the way over.”
Bud took out a twenty and a ten; Stompanato grabbed them. “Ralphie Kinnard. He’s blond and fat, about forty. He’s wearing a suede loafer jacket and gray flannels. I heard he’s been beating up his wife and pimping her to cover his poker losses.”
Bud wrote it down. Stompanato said, “Yuletide cheer, Wendell.”
Bud grabbed necktie and yanked; Stomp banged his head on the dashboard.
“Happy New Year, greaseball.”
• • •
Ohrbach’s was packed—shoppers swarmed counters and garment racks. Bud elbowed up to floor 3, prime shoplifter turf: jewelry, decanter liquor.
Countertops strewn with watches; cash register lines thirty deep. Bud trawled for blond males, got sideswiped by housewives and kids. Then—a flash view—a blond guy in a suede loafer ducking into the men’s room.
Bud shoved over and in. Two geezers stood at urinals; gray flannels hit the toilet stall floor. Bud squatted, looked in—bingo on hands fondling jewelry. The oldsters zipped up and walked out; Bud rapped on the stall. “Come on, it’s St. Nick.”
The door flew open; a fist flew out. Bud caught it flush, hit a sink, tripped. Cuff links in his face, Kinnard speedballing. Bud got up and chased.
Through the door, shoppers blocking him; Kinnard ducking out a side exit. Bud chased—over, down the fire escape. The lot was clean: no cars hauling, no Ralphie. Bud ran to his prowler, hit the two-way. “4A31 to dispatcher, requesting.”
Static, then: “Roger, 4A31.”
“Last known address. White male, first name Ralph, last name Kinnard. I guess that’s K-I-N-N-A-R-D. Move it, huh?”
The man rogered; Bud threw jabs: bam-bam-bam-bam-bam. The radio crackled: “4A31, roger your request.”
“4A31, roger.”
“Positive on Kinnard, Ralph Thomas, white male, DOB—”
“Just the goddamn address, I told you—”
The dispatcher blew a raspberry. “For your Christmas stocking, shitbird. The address is 1486 Evergreen, and I hope you—”
Bud flipped off the box, headed east to City Terrace. Up to forty, hard on the horn, Evergreen in five minutes flat. The 12, 1300 blocks whizzed by; 1400—vet’s prefabs—leaped out.
He parked, followed curb plates to 1486—a stucco job with a neon Santa sled on the roof. Lights inside; a prewar Ford in the driveway. Through a plate-glass window: Ralphie Kinnard browbeating a woman in a bathrobe.
The woman was puff-faced, thirty-fivish. She backed away from Kinnard; her robe fell open. Her breasts were bruised, her ribs lacerated.
Bud walked back for his cuffs, saw the two-way light blinking and rogered. “4A31 responding.”
“Roger, 4A31, on an APO. Two patrolmen assaulted outside a tavern at 1990 Riverside, six suspects at large. They’ve been ID’d from their license plates and other units have been alerted.”
Bud got tingles. “Bad for ours?”
“That’s a roger. Go to 5314 Avenue 53, Lincoln Heights. Apprehend Dinardo, D-I-N-A-R-D-O, Sanchez, age twenty-one, male Mexican.”
“Roger, and you send a prowler to 1486 Evergreen. White male suspect in custody. I won’t be there, but they’ll see him. Tell them I’ll write it up.”
“Book at Hollenbeck Station?”
Bud rogered, grabbed his cuffs. Back to the house and an outside circuit box—switches tapped until the lights popped off. Santa’s sled stayed lit; Bud grabbed an outlet cord and yanked. The display hit the ground: exploding reindeer.
Kinnard ran out, tripped over Rudolph. Bud cuffed his wrists, bounced his face on the pavement. Ralphie yelped and chewed gravel; Bud launched his wife beater spiel. “You’ll be out in a year and a half, and I’ll know when. I’ll find out who your parole officer is and get cozy with him, I’ll visit you and say hi. You touch her again I’m gonna know, and I’m gonna get you violated on a kiddie raper beef. You know what they do to kiddie rapers up at Quentin? Huh? The Pope a fuckin’ guinea?”
Lights went on—Kinnard’s wife was futzing with the fuse box. She said, “Can I go to my mother’s?”
Bud emptied Ralphie’s pockets—keys, a cash roll. “Take the car and get yourself fixed up.”
Kinnard spat teeth. Mrs. Ralphie grabbed the keys and peeled a ten-spot. Bud said, “Merry Christmas, huh?”
Mrs. Ralphie blew a kiss and backed the car out, wheels over blinking reindeer.
• • •
Avenue 53—Code 2 no siren. A black-and-white just beat him; two blues and Dick Stensland got out and huddled.
Bud tapped his horn; Stensland came over. “Who’s there, partner?”
Stensland pointed to a shack. “The one guy on the air, maybe more. It was maybe four spics, two white guys did our guys in. Brownell and Helenowski. Brownell’s maybe got brain damage, Helenowski maybe lost an eye.”
“Big maybes.”
Stens reeked: Listerine, gin. “You want to quibble?”
Bud got out of the car. “No quibble. How many in custody?”
“Goose. We get the first collar.”
“Then tell the blues to stay put.”
Stens shook his head. “They’re pals with Brownell. They want a piece.”
“Nix, this is ours. We get them booked, we write it up and make the party by watch change. I got three cases: Walker Black, Jim Beam and Cutty.”
“Exley’s assistant watch commander. He’s a nosebleed, and you can bet he don’t approve of on-duty imbibing.”
“Yeah, and Frieling’s the watch boss, and he’s a fucking drunk like you. So don’t worry about Exley. And I got a report to write up first—so let’s just do it.”
Stens laughed. “Aggravated assault on a woman? What’s that—six twenty-three point one in the California Penal Code? So I’m a fucking drunk and you’re a fucking do-gooder.”
“Yeah, and you’re ranking. So now?”
Stens winked; Bud walked flank—up to the porch, gun out. The shack was curtained dark; Bud caught a radio ad: Felix the Cat Chevrolet. Dick kicked the door in.
Yells, a Mex man and woman hauling. Stens aimed head high; Bud blocked his shot. Down a hallway, Bud close in, Stens wheezing, knocking over furniture. The kitchen—the spics dead-ended at a window.
They turned, raised their hands: a pachuco punk, a pretty girl maybe six months pregnant.
The boy kissed the wall—a pro friskee. Bud searched him: Dinardo Sanchez ID, chump change. The girl boo-hooed; sirens scree’d outside. Bud turned Sanchez around, kicked him in the balls. “For ours, Pancho. And you got off easy.”
Stens grabbed the girl. Bud said, “Go somewhere, sweetheart. Before my friend checks your green card.”
“Green card” spooked her—madre mia! Madre mia! Stens shoved her to the door; Sanchez moaned. Bud saw blues swarm the driveway. “We’ll let them take Pancho in.”
Stens caught some breath. “We’ll give him to Brownell’s pals.”
Two rookie types walked in—Bud saw his out. “Cuff him and book him. APO and resisting arrest.”
The rookies dragged Sanchez out. Stens said, “You and women. What’s next? Kids and dogs?”
Mrs. Ralphie—all bruised up for Christmas. “I’m working on it. Come on, let’s move that booze. Be nice and I’ll let you have your own bottle.”
2
Preston Exley yanked the drop-cloth. His guests oohed and aahed; a city councilman clapped, spilled eggnog on a society matron. Ed Exley thought: this is not a typical policeman’s Christmas Eve.
He checked his watch—8:46—he had to be at the station by midnight. Preston Exley pointed to the model.
It took up half his den: an amusement park filled with papier-mâché mountains, rocket ships, Wild West towns. Cartoon creatures at the gate: Moochie Mouse, Scooter Squirrel, Danny Duck—Raymond Dieterling’s brood—featured in the Dream-a-Dream Hour and scores of cartoons.
“Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Dream-a-Dreamland. Exley Construction will build it, in Pomona, California, and the opening date will be April 1953. It will be the most sophisticated amusement park in history, a self-contained universe where children of all ages can enjoy the message of fun and goodwill that is the hallmark of Raymond Dieterling, the father of modern animation. Dream-a-Dreamland will feature all your favorite Dieterling characters, and it will be a haven for the young and young at heart.”
Ed stared at his father: fifty-seven coming off forty-five, a cop from a long line of cops holding forth in a Hancock Park mansion, politicos giving up their Christmas Eve at a snap of his fingers. The guests applauded; Preston pointed to a snowcapped mountain. “Paul’s World, ladies and gentlemen. An exact-scale replica of a mountain in the Sierra Nevada. Paul’s World will feature a thrilling toboggan ride and a ski lodge where Moochie, Scooter and Danny will perform skits for the whole family. And who is the Paul of Paul’s World? Paul was Raymond Dieterling’s son, lost tragically as a teenager in 1936, lost in an avalanche on a camping trip—lost on a mountain just like this one here. So, out of tragedy, an affirmation of innocence. And, ladies and gentlemen, every nickel out of every dollar spent at Paul’s World will go to the Children’s Polio Foundation.”
Wild applause. Preston nodded at Timmy Valburn—the actor who played Moochie Mouse on the Dream-a-Dream Hour—always nibbling cheese with his big buck teeth. Valburn nudged the man beside him; the man nudged back.
Art De Spain caught Ed’s eye; Valburn kicked off a Moochie routine. Ed steered De Spain to the hallway. “This is a hell of a surprise, Art.”
“Dieterling’s announcing it on the Dream Hour. Didn’t your dad tell you?”
“No, and I didn’t know he knew Dieterling. Did he meet him back during the Atherton case? Wasn’t Wee Willie Wennerholm one of Dieterling’s kid stars?”
De Spain smiled. “I was your dad’s lowly adjutant then, and I don’t think the two great men ever crossed paths. Preston just knows people. And by the way, did you spot the mouse man and his pal?”
Ed nodded. “Who is he?”
Laughter from the den; De Spain steered Ed to the study. “He’s Billy Dieterling, Ray’s son. He’s a cameraman on Badge of Honor, which lauds our beloved LAPD to millions of television viewers each week. Maybe Timmy spreads some cheese on his whatsis before he blows him.”
Ed laughed. “Art, you’re a pisser.”
De Spain sprawled in a chair. “Eddie, ex-cop to cop, you say words like ‘pisser’ and you sound like a college professor. And you’re not really an ‘Eddie,’ you’re an ‘Edmund.’ ”
Ed squared his glasses. “I see avuncular advice coming. Stick in Patrol, because Parker made chief that way. Administrate my way up because I have no command presence.”
“You’ve got no sense of humor. And can’t you get rid of those specs? Squint or something. Outside of Thad Green, I can’t think of one Bureau guy who wears glasses.”
“God, you miss the Department. I think that if you could give up Exley Construction and fifty thousand a year for a spot as an LAPD rookie, you would.”
De Spain lit a cigar. “Only if your dad came with me.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. I was a lieutenant to Preston’s inspector, and I’m still a number two man. It’d be nice to be even with him.”
“If you didn’t know lumber, Exley Construction wouldn’t exist.”
“Thanks. And get rid of those glasses.”
Copyright © 1990 by James Ellroy. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
