James Ellroy - L. A. Confidential

"Young man, your five minutes are up. And I want a written guarantee that I will receive that reward."

Jack turned around smiling. "I'll mail it to you. And I need another minute or so to check their address book."

"No! No! They could come home at any moment! I want you to leave this instant!"

"Just one minute, ma'am."

"No, no, no! Out with you this second!"

Jack made for the door. The old bat said, "You remind me of that policeman on that television program that's so popular."

"I taught him everything he knows."

He felt a quickie shaping up.

Bobby Inge rats off the smut peddlers, turns state's, some kind of morals rap on him and Daryl Bergeron: the kid was a minor, Bobby was a notorious fruitfly with a rap sheet full of homopandering beefs. Wrap it up tight: confessions, suspects located, lots of paperwork for Millard. The big-time Big V cracks the big-time filth ring and wings back to Narco a hero.

Up to Hollywood, a loop by Stan's Drive-in--Christine Bergeron slinging hash on skates. Pouty, provocative-the quasihooker type, maybe the type to pose with a dick in her mouth. Jack parked, read the Bobby Inge sheet. Two outstanding bench warrants: traffic tickets, a failure-to-appear probation citation. Last known address 1424 North Hamel, West Hollywood -the heart of Lavender Gulch. Three fruit bars for "known haunts"-Leo's Hideaway, the Knight in Armor, B.J.'s Rumpus Room-all on Santa Monica Boulevard nearby. Jack drove to Hamel Drive, his cuffs out and open.

A bungalow court off the Strip: county turf, "Inge-Apt 6" on a mailbox. Jack found the pad, knocked, no answer. "Bobby, hey, sugar," a falsetto trill-still no bite. A locked door, drawn curtains-the whole place dead quiet. Jack went back to his car, drove south.

Fag bar city: Inge's haunts in a two-block stretch. Leo's Hideaway closed until 4:00; the Knight in Armor empty. The barkeep vamped him-"Bobby who?"-like he really didn't know. Jack hit B.J.'s Rumpus Room.

Tufted Naugahyde inside-the walls, ceiling, booths adjoining a small bandstand. Queers at the bar; the barman sniffed cop right off. Jack walked over, laid his mugshots out face up.

The barman picked them up. "That's Bobby something. He comes in pretty often."

"How often?"

"Oh, like several times a week."

"The afternoon or the evening?"

"Both."

"'When was the last time he was here?"

"Yesterday. Actually, it was around this time yesterday. Are you-"

"I'm going to sit at one of those booths over there and wait for him. If he shows up, keep quiet about me. Do you understand?"

"Yes. But look, you've cleared the whole dance floor out already."

"Write it off your taxes."

The barkeep giggled; Jack walked over to a booth near the bandstand. A clean view: the front door, back door, bar. Darkness covered him. He watched.

Queer mating rituals:

Glances, tête-à-têtes, out the door. A mirror above the bar: the fruits could check each other out, meet eyes and swoon. Two hours, half a pack of cigarettes-no Bobby Inge.

His stomach growled; his throat felt raw; the bottles on the bar smiled at him. Itchy boredom: at 4:00 he'd hit Leo's Hideaway.

3:53-Bobby Inge walked in.

He took a stool; the barman poured him a drink. Jack walked up.

The barman, spooked: darting eyes, shaky hands. Inge swiveled around. Jack said, "Police. Hands on your head."

Inge tossed his drink. Jack tasted scotch; scotch burned his eyes. He blinked, stumbled, tripped blind to the floor. He tried to cough the taste out, got up, got blurry sight back-Bobby Inge was gone.

He ran outside. No Bobby on the sidewalk, a sedan peeling rubber. His own car two blocks away.

Liquor brutalizing him.

Jack crossed the street, over to a gas station. He hit the men's room, threw his blazer in a trashcan. He washed his face, smeared soap on his shirt, tried to vomit the booze taste out-no go. Soapy water in the sink-he swallowed it, guzzled it, retched.

Coming to: his heart quit skidding, his legs firmed up. He took off his holster, wrapped it in paper towels, went back to the car. He saw a pay phone-and made the call on instinct.

Sid Hudgens picked up. "«Hush-Hush», off the record and on the QT."

"Sid, it's Vincennes."

"Jackie, are you back on Narco? I need copy."

"No, I've got something going with Ad Vice."

"Something good? Celebrity oriented?"

"I don't know if it's good, but if it gets good you've got it."

"You sound out of breath, Jackie. You been shtupping?"

Jack coughed-soap bubbles. "Sid, I'm chasing some smut books. Picture stuff. Fuck shots, but the people don't look like junkies and they're wearing these expensive costumes. It's welldone stuff, and I thought you might have heard something about it."

"No. No, I've heard bupkis."

Too quick, no snappy one-liner. "What about a male prostie named Bobby Inge or a woman named Christine Bergeron? She carhops, maybe peddles it on the side."

"Never heard of them, Jackie."

"Shit. Sid, what about independent smut pushers in general. What do you know?"

"Jack, I know that that is secret shit that I know nothing about. And the thing about secrets, Jack, is that everybody's got them. Including you. Jack, I'll talk to you later. Call when you get work."

The line clicked off.

EVERYBODY'S GOT SECRETS-INCLUDING YOU.

Sid wasn't quite Sid, his exit line wasn't quite a warning.

DOES HE FUCKING KNOW?

Jack drove by Stan's Drive-in, shaky, the windows down to kill the soap smell. Christine Bergeron nowhere on the premises. Back to 9849 Charleville, knock knock on the door of her apartment-no answer, slack between the lock and the doorjamb. He gave a shove; the door popped.

A trail of clothes on the living room floor. The picture frame gone.

Into the bedroom, scared, his gun in the car.

Empty cabinets and drawers. The bed stripped. Into the bathroom.

Toothpaste and Kotex spilled in the shower. Glass shelves smashed in the sink.

Getaway-fifteen-minute style.

Back to West Hollywood-fast. Bobby Inge's door caved in easy; Jack went in gun first.

Clean-out number two-a better job.

A clean living room, pristine bathroom, bedroom showing empty dresser drawers. A can of sardines in the icebox. The kitchen trashcan clean, a fresh paper bag lining it.

Jack tore the pad up: living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen-shelves knocked over, rugs pulled, the toilet yanked apart. He stopped on a flash: garbage cans, full, lined both sides of the street-

There or gone.

Figure an hour-twenty since his run-in with Inge: the fuck wouldn't run straight to his crib. He probably got off the street, cruised back slow, risked the move out with his car parked in the alley. He figured the roust was for his old warrants or the smut gig; he knew he was standing heat and couldn't be caught harboring pornography. He wouldn't risk carrying it in his car-the odds on a shake were too strong. The gutter or the trash, right near the top of the cans, maybe more skin IDs for Big Trashcan Jack.

Jack hit the sidewalk, rooted in trashcans-gaggles of kids laughed at him. One, two, three, four, five-two left before the corner. No lid on the last can; glossy black paper sticking out.

Jack beelined.

Three fuck mags right on top. Jack grabbed them, ran back to his car, skimmed-the kids made goo-goo eyes at the windshield. The same Hollywood backdrops, Bobby Inge with boys and girls, unknown pretties screwing. Halfway through the third book the pix went haywire.

Orgies, hole-to-hole daisy chains, a dozen people on a quiltcovered floor. Disembodied limbs: red sprays off arms, legs. Jack squinted, eye-strain, the red was colored ink, the photos doctored-limb severings faked, ink blood flowing in artful little swirls.