December 17, 1957 My Dear Son,

I am so sad to be apart from you this holiday season. Circ.u.mstances have not been kind in the keeping us together department for several years now. The others of course do not miss you the way I do, which makes me miss you more and makes me miss the pretend happy family that we once had years ago.

The strange life that you have chosen to live is a strange comfort to me, though. I don't miss the housekeeping money I send you and it's like a secret joke when your father reads my itemized household expense lists with large "miscellaneous" amounts that I refuse to explain. He, of course, considers you just someone in hiding from the real responsibilities of life. I know that the circ.u.mstances of our family life and theirs too has done something to you. You cannot live the way other people do and I love you for not pretending to. Your musical interests must give you comfort and I always buy the records you tell me to buy even though the music is not normally the type of music I enjoy. Your father and sisters ignore the records and suspect that I buy them only to be in touch with you in this difficult absence of yours, but they don't know that they are direct recommendations! I only listen to them when the others are out and with all the lights off in the house. Every day I intercept the mailman before he gets to our house so the others will not know that you are contacting me. This is our secret. We are new to living this way, you and me, but even if we have to live this way always like long lost pen pals living in the same city I will do it because I understand the terrible things this long history of insanity both our families has endured has done to you. I understand and I don't judge you. That is my Christmas gift to you.

Love, Mother

Neat handwriting, ridged paper--non-print-sustaining. No Richie confirmation; "Long history of insanity/both our families." My peeper: mother/father/sisters. "Circ.u.mstances of our family life and theirs too has done something to you."

December 24, 1957 Dear Son,

Merry Christmas even though I don't feel the Christmas spirit and even though the jazz Christmas alb.u.ms you told me to buy didn't cheer me up, because the melodies were so out of kilter to my more traditional ear. I just feel tired. Maybe I have iron poor blood like on the Geritol TV commercials, but I think it is more like an acc.u.mulation that has left me physically exhausted on top of the other. I feel like I want it to be over. I feel more than anything else like I just don't want to know any more. Three months ago I said I was close to doing it and it spurred you to do a rash thing. I don't want to do that again. Sometimes when I play some of the prettier songs on the records you suggest to me I think that heaven will be like that and I get close. Your sisters are no comfort. Since your father gave me what that prost.i.tute gave him I can only use him for his money, and if I had my druthers I would give you all the money anyway. Write to me. The mail gets bollixed up at Xmastime, but I'll be watching for the postman at all different times.

Love, Mother

Sisters/music/well-heeled father.

Mother suicidal--close three months before--"it spurred you to do a rash thing."

"Your father gave me what that prost.i.tute gave him."

The peeper tape, Trick Man to Lucille: "that little dose you gave me."

Doug Ancelet fires Lucille--"She gave these tricks of hers the gonorrhea."

Snap call: The peeper taped Lucille and _his own father_.

"Insanity."

"Both our families."

"Our family life and _theirs_ too has done something to you."

I drove home, changed, grabbed the tape rig, extra sketches and my john list. A pay-phone stop, a call to Exley--I pitched him hard, no explanation: Leroy Carpenter/Steve Wenzel/Patrick Orchard--I want them. Send squadroom men out--_I want those pushers detained_.

Exley agreed--grudgingly. Agreed too: Wilshire Station detention. Suspicious: Why not 77th?

Unsaid: I'm having a cop killed/I don't want Dudley Smith around--he's too close to this fur-thief cop-- "I'll implement it, Lieutenant. But I want a full report on your interrogations."

"Yes, sir!"

10:30 A.M.--Premier Escorts should be open.

Out to Beverly Hills--Rodeo off the Beverly Wilshire. Open: a groundfloor suite, a receptionist.

"Doug Ancelet, please."

"Are you a client?"

"A potential one."

"May I ask who recommended you?"

"Peter Bondurant"--pure bluff--a big-time wh.o.r.ehound.

Behind us: "Karen, if he knows Pete, send him in."

I walked back. A nice office--dark wood, golf prints. An old man dressed for golf, PR smile on.

"I'm Doug Ancelet."

"Dave Klein."

"How is Pete, Mr. Klein? I haven't seen him in a dog's age."

"He's busy. Between his work for Howard Hughes and _Hush-Hush_ he's always on the run."

Pseudo-warm: "G.o.d, the stories that man has. You know, Pete has been both a client for several years _and_ a talent scout for companions for Mr. Hughes. In fact, we've introduced Mr. Hughes to several young ladies who've gone on to become contract actresses for him."

"Pete gets around."

"He does indeed. My G.o.d, he's the man who verifies the veracity of those scurrilous stories in that scurrilous scandal rag. Has he explained how Premier Escorts works?"

"Not in detail."

Practiced: "It's by word of mouth exclusively. People know people, and they recommend us. We operate on a principle of relative anonymity, and all our clients use pseudonyms and call us when they wish to have an introduction made. That way we don't have their real names or phone numbers on file. We have picture files on the young ladies we send out on dates, and they use appropriately seductive pseudonyms themselves. With the exception of a few clients like Pete, I doubt that I know a halfdozen of my clients and girls by their real names. Those picture files on the girls also list the pseudonyms of the men they've dated, to aid us in making recommendations. Anonymity. We accept only cash as payment, and I a.s.sure you, Mr. Klein--I've forgotten your real name already."

Tweak him: "Lucille Kafesjian."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Another client mentioned her to me. A s.e.xy brunette, a little on the plump side. Frankly, he said she was great. Unfortunately, he also said that you dismissed her for giving your clients venereal disease."

"Unfortunately, I've dismissed a few girls for that offense, and one of them did use an Armenian surname. Who was the client who mentioned her?"

"A man in Stan Kenton's band."

Eyeing me--copwise now. "Mr. Klein, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm an attorney."

"And that's a tape recorder you're carrying?"

"Yes."

"And why are you carrying a revolver in a shoulder holster?"

"Because I command the Administrative Vice Division, Los Angeles Police Department."

Turning florid: "Did Pete Bondurant give you my name?"

Flash the peeper sketch, dig his reaction: "_He_ gave you my name? I've never seen him before, and that likeness reads much younger than the vast majority of my clients. Mr.--"

"Lieutenant."

"Mr. Lieutenant Whatever Out-of-Your-Jurisdiction Policeman, leave this office immediately!"

I shut the door. Ancelet flushed heart-attack red--baby him. "Are you in with Mort Ridd.i.c.k on the BHPD? Talk to him, he'll verify me. I bluffed in with Pete B., so call Pete and ask about me."

Turning beet-red/purple. A decanter set on his desk--I poured him a shot.

He guzzled it and made refill nods. I poured him a short one--he chased it with pills.

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h, using a trusted client of mine as subterfuge, you son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Refill number two--_he_ poured this time.

"A few minutes of your time, Mr. Ancelet. You'll make a valuable contact on the LAPD."

"No good son of a b.i.t.c.h"--winding down.

I flashed the john list. "These are trick names I got out of a police file."

"_I will not identify any of my client names or pseudonyms_."

"Former clients, then, that's all I'm asking."

Squinting, finger-scanning: "There, 'Joseph Arden.' He used to be a client several years back. I remember because my daughter lives near the Arden Dairy in Culver City. This man trucks with common street girls?"

"That's right. And johns always keep the same alias. Now, did this man trick with that Armenian-named girl you told me about?"

"I don't recall. And remember what I told you: I don't keep client files, and my picture file on that clap-pa.s.sing s.l.u.t is strictly ancient history."

Lying f.u.c.k--file cabinets stacked wall-to-wall. "Listen to a tape. It'll take two minutes."

He tapped his watch. "_One minute_. I'm due on the tee at Hillcrest."

Fast: rig the spools, press Play. Squelch, Stop, Start, there: Lucille: "These places are filled with losers and lonesome creeps."

Stop, Start, "Chanson d'Amour," the trick:". . . of course, there was always that little dose you gave me."

I pressed Stop. Ancelet, impressed: "That's Joseph Arden. The girl sounds somewhat familiar, too. Satisfied?"

"How can you be sure? You only listened for ten seconds."

More watch taps. "_Listen_, I do most of my business on the phone, and I recognize voices. Now, follow this train of thought: I have asthma. That man had a slight wheeze. I remembered that he called me out of the blue several years ago. He wheezed, and we discussed asthma. He said he heard two men in an elevator discussing my service and got the Premier Escorts number out of the Beverly Hills Yellow Pages, where frankly I advertise my more legitimate escort business. I set the man up with a few dates and _that was that_. Satisfied?"

"And you don't recall which girls he selected."

"Correct."

"And he never came in to look at your picture file."

"Correct."

"And of course you don't keep a pseudonym file on your clients."

_Tap tap_. "Correct, and Jesus Christ, they'll tee off without me. Now, Mr. Policeman Friend of Pete's Who I Have Humored Past the Point of Courtesy, please--"

In his face: "_Sit down. Don't move. Don't pick up the phone_."

He kowtowed--twitching and fuming dark red. File cabinets--nine drawers--go-- Unlocked, manilla folders, side tabs. Male names--lying old wh.o.r.emaster f.u.c.k. Alphabetical: "Amour, Phil," "Anon, d.i.c.k," "Arden, Joseph"-- Pull it: No real name/no address/no phone number.

Ancelet: "This is a rank invasion of privacy!"

a.s.signations: 7/14/56, 8/1/56, 8/3/56--Lacey Kartoonian--call her Lucille. 9/4/56, 9/11/56--Susan Ann Glynn, a footnote: "Make this girl use a pseudonym: I think she wants clients to be able to locate her thru normal channels to avoid paying commission."

"They are on the second hole already!"

I yanked drawers--one, two, three, four--male names only. Five, six, seven--initialed folders/nude wh.o.r.e pix.

"Get out now, you f.u.c.king hard-on voyeur, before I call Mort Ridd.i.c.k!"

Yanking folders--no L.K., no Lucille pictures-- "Karen, call Mort Ridd.i.c.k at the station!"

I yanked _his_ phone out by the cord--watch his face throb. My own throbs: f.u.c.k L.K., find G.B.-- "Mr. Ancelet, Mort's on his way!"

No L.K., files dwindling. There, G.B. paydirt--"Gloria Benson" in brackets. Glenda's movie name-she said she chose it.

I grabbed the file, grabbed the tape rig and hauled. Outside, my car-- I peeled rubber-down to my jurisdiction.

Look: Two nude snapshots dated 3/56--Glenda looked embarra.s.sed. Four "dates" listed, a note: "A headstrong girl who went back to carhopping."