Clandestine

Our prisoner cleared his throat: "Edward Engels."

"Your address?"

"1911 Horn, West Hollywood."

"Your age?"

"Thirty-two."

"Your occupation?"

Engels hesitated. "Real estate liaison," he said.

"What the hell is a 'real estate liaison'?" Dudley barked. Engels groped for words. "Come on, man!" Dudley shouted.

"Ease off, Lieutenant," I said. "Mr. Engels, would you explain your duties in that capacity?"

"I . . . I . . . uh, help close real estate deals."

"Which entails?" I asked.

"Which entails fixing up buyers with real estate people."

"I see. Well, could you—"

Dudley cut in. "Horseshit, Inspector. This guy is a known gambler. I've got reports on him from bookies all over Hollywood. In fact, I've got several witnesses who say he's a bookie himself."

"That's not true," Engels cried. "I bet the ponies, but I don't book any action with bookies or make book myself, and I'm clean with the cops! I've got no criminal record!"

"The hell you say, Engels! I know better!"

I raised my hands and called for order. "That's enough! That's enough from both of you! Now, Mr. Engels, betting the horses is not illegal. Lieutenant Smith just got carried away because he hasn't picked any winners lately. Would you call yourself a winning gambler?"

"Yes, I'm a winner."

"Do you earn more at gambling than at your real estate job?"

Engels hesitated. "Yes," he said.

"Do you list these winnings on your income tax returns?" I asked.

"Uh . . . no."

"What did you file as your total income on this year's return?"

"I don't know."

"What about 1950?"

"I don't know."

"1949?"

"I don't know."

"1948?"

"I don't remember."

"1947?"

"I don't know!"

"1946?"

"I don't . . . I was in the navy then . . . I forget."

Dudley butted in: "You do pay income tax, don't you, Engels?"

Engels hung his head between his legs. "No," he said.

"You realize that income tax evasion is a federal crime, don't you, Engels?" Dudley continued, pressing.

"Yes."

"I pay income tax, so does the inspector, so do all good law-abiding citizens. What the hell makes you so special that you think you don't have to?"

"I don't know."

"Ease off, Lieutenant," I said. "Mr. Engels wants to cooperate. Mr. Engels, I'm going to name some people. Tell me of your association with them."

Engels nodded dumbly. Dudley handed me a carefully typed slip of paper broken down into three columns headed: "Gamblers," "Bookmakers," and "Hollywood Vice offenders." I started with the gamblers. Mike Breuning got out his steno pad and poised his pencil over it. Dudley lit a cigarette for himself and one for Engels, who accepted it gratefully.

"Okay, Mr. Engels, listen carefully: James Babij, Leslie 'Scribe' Thomas, James Gillis, Walter Snyder, Willard Dolphine. Any of those names sound familiar?"

Engels nodded confidently. "Those guys are high rollers, big spenders at Santa Anita. Entrepreneurs, you know what I mean?"

"Yes. Are you intimate with any of them?"

"What do you mean 'intimate'?" Engels narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"I mean have you gambled with any of these men? Have you entertained any of them in your home?"

"Oh, no. I just see those guys at the track, maybe they buy me a drink at the Turf Club, maybe I buy them one. That kind of thing."

"All right," I said, smiling and going to the list of the bookies. "William Curran, Louis Washington, 'Slick' Dellacroccio, 'Zoomer' Murphy, Frank Deffry, Gerald 'Smiler' Chamales, Bruno Earle, Duane 'The Brain' Tucker, Fred 'Fat Man' Vestal, Mark 'The Gimp' McGuire. Ring any bells, Mr. Engels?"

"Lotsa bells, Inspector. Those bimbos are all West L.A. handbooks. Cocktail lounge sharpies. Mark 'The Gimp' pimps nigger broads on the side. They're all small potatoes, strictly from nowhereville." Engels smiled at his captors cockily. He was starting to feel confident of our purpose. All three of us gave him a deadpan. It made him nervous. "Freddy Vestal pushes reefers, I heard talk," he blurted out.

I gave Engels a winning smile. "All right now, let's try these: Pat Morneau, 'Scooter' Coleman, Jack Foster, Lawrence Brubaker, Al Bay, Jim Waldleigh, Brett Caldwell, Jim Joslyn."

Engels went ashen-faced. He swallowed several times, and, recovering quickly, threw out a smile that was pure charm, pure bravado. "Don't know those guys, Inspector, sorry."

Dudley went on the attack, saying very softly, "Do you know who those men are, Engels?"

"No."

"Those men are known degenerates—pansies, sissies, nancy boys, queers, homos, faggots, pederasts, and punks. They all have long rap sheets with the vice squads of every police agency in L.A. County. They all frequent queer bars in West Hollywood. Places we know you frequent, Engels. Half of those men have identified you from photographs. Half—"

"What photographs?!" Engels screeched. "I'm clean! I ain't got a police record. This is all a lie! This is—"

I entered the fray: "Mr. Engels, just let me ask you once, for our official records: are you homosexual?"

"Fuck, no!" Eddie Engels practically screamed.

"All right. Thank you."