Джеймс Эллрой - The Black Dahlia

Lee squeezed the trigger a second time; I held in belly laughs when the hammer clicked again and Hacksaw licked his balls, bored over the whole thing. Mrs. Albanese was praying fervently with her eyes shut. Lee said, “Time to meet your maker, doggy” the woman blurted, “No no no no no! Bruno’s tending bar in Silverlake! The Buena Vista on Vendome! Please leave my baby alone!”

Lee showed me the .38’s empty cylinder, and we walked back to the car with Hacksaw’s happy barks echoing behind us. I laughed all the way to Silverlake.

The Buena Vista was a bar and grill shaped like a Spanish rancho — whitewashed adobe walls and turrets festooned with Christmas lights six weeks before the holiday. The interior was cool, all dark wood. There was a long oak bar just off the entrance foyer, with a man behind it polishing glasses. Lee flashed his shield at him and said, “Bruno Albanese?” The man pointed to the back of the restaurant, lowering his eyes.

The rear of the grill was narrow, with Leatherette booths and dim lighting. Wolfish eating noises led us to the last booth — the only one occupied. A thin, swarthy man was hunched over a plate piled high with beans, chili and huevos rancheros, shoveling the slop in like it was his last meal on earth.

Lee rapped on the table. “Police officers. Are you Bruno Albanese?”

The man looked up and said, “Who, me?”

Lee slid into the booth and pointed to the religious tapestry on the wall. “No, the kid in the manger. Let’s make this fast, so I don’t have to watch you eat. You’ve got outstanding warrants, but me and my partner like your dog, so we’re not taking you in. Ain’t that nice of us?”

Bruno Albanese belched, then said, “You mean you want some skinny?”

Lee said, “Whiz kid,” and smoothed the Maynard mug shot strip on the table. “He cornholes little boys. We know he sells to you, and we don’t care. Where is he?”

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.

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.”

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.

During those hours we hardly spoke a word. Lee gripped the wheel with white-knuckled fingers, slow lane crawling. The only time his expression changed was when we pulled over to check out kids at play. Then his eyes clouded and his hands shook, and I thought he would either weep or explode.

But he just kept staring, and the simple act of moving back into traffic seemed to calm him. It was as if he knew exactly how far to let himself go as a man before getting back to strict cop business.

Shortly after 3:00 we headed south on Van Ness, a run by Van Ness Avenue Elementary. We were a block away, going by the Polar Palace, when green De Soto BV 1432 passed us in the opposite direction and pulled into the parking lot in front of the rink.

I said, “We’ve got him. Polar Palace.”

Lee hung a U-turn and drew to the curb directly across the street from the lot. Maynard was locking the De Soto, eyeing a group of kids skipping toward the entrance with skates slung over their shoulders. “Come on,” I said.

Lee said, “You take him, I might lose my temper. Make sure the kids are out of the way, and if he pulls any hinky moves, kill him.”

Solo plainclothes rousts were strictly against the book. “You’re crazy. This is a —”

Lee shoved me out the door. “Go get him, goddamnit! This is Warrants, not a fucking classroom! Go get him!”

I dodged traffic across Van Ness to the parking lot, catching sight of Maynard entering the Polar Palace in the middle of a big throng of children. I sprinted to the front door and opened it, telling myself to go smooth and slow.

Cold air stunned me; harsh light reflecting off the ice rink stung my eyes. Shielding them, I looked around and saw papier mâché fjords and a snack stand shaped like an igloo. There were a few kids twirling on the ice, and a group of them oohing and aahing at a giant taxidermied polar bear standing on its hind legs by a side exit. There was not an adult in the joint. Then it hit me: check the men’s room.