Bud White sipped scotch alone at the far corner of the dark bar. The place was a dive, tucked on Hollywood Boulevard just past where the fancy folks liked to drink. It was a favorite waterhole for poor construction workers, cab drivers, lovers hiding from their own neighborhoods … and cops. Bud was hiding from them all that night.

He rubbed his eyes and swiveled his head, just a looksee to make sure he was still hidden, still safe from Stensland’s need for a hard drunk or the barmaid’s inviting cleavage. He wanted peace, the kind a decent scotch and no conversation could bring.

But it was conversation that sparked his curiosity and began to heat his blood. Hidden in the dark corner, other cops weren’t expecting to be overheard. That’s when he heard Mike Breuning and Bill Carlisle talking. He thought to just gulp the last of his drink and walk out, but then he caught what they were talking about and he listened hard over his escalating heartbeat.

Everyone knew that Breuning and Carlisle were Dudley Smith’s guys, the ones deep in the Captain’s confidence and the muscle that made sure things went the way he wanted. It was always interesting to overhear something coming from their mouths, especially when they didn’t know you were listening. It gave a cop the edge against the corruption that was Dudley Smith … or, it could give a cop the edge to get close enough to be a part of it. Either way, the Captain was the Captain, and which side of the man you came from made or broke a career. Bud listened intently.

“Oh, he’s goin’ down,” snorted Carlisle. “All the way to hell. Calloway ain’t got a fucking chance in hell to get past this. Dud’s got it planned to the last detail.”

“He got anyone else on the take for this hit?” Breuning hissed.

“Nope, it’s you and me and about four uniforms. Sid Hudgens is gonna be covering it too. It’ll be a famous ending, my friend. And you and me will be five hundred bucks richer.”

“Not to mention free from that goddamn I.A. fucker. I want another whisky … and a little head from that waitress. Think she’d do me for a few bucks?”

White didn’t wait to hear the barmaid’s standard fee for blow jobs; he was out the door and driving toward Calloway’s bungalow. Something told him the man was gonna need some protection. The only dilemma … should he warn Calloway … or should he just watch over him? Either way, he wasn’t letting the Captain Smith ruin a detective the caliber of Carson Calloway. Fucking A, he wasn’t gonna let it happen on his watch.

w

Another Saturday interview and it wasn’t until it was all said and done; until Calloway was putting together the recording equipment and shuffling the collection of hand jotted notes that he told them all the facts.

“We’re done gentlemen. Last night of the detail and I’d like to thank you all for your professionalism, your attention to detail and your respect.”

Stensland snorted. “Hallelujah.”

“Don’t get too excited, sport,” chuckled Vincennes. “It’s back to working on Saturdays for your sorry drunken ass.”

“Fuck you.”

Calloway shook his head and grinned. He asked White to return the night’s test subject to the station; a too skinny, too blonde and too smelly young hooker by the name of Sandra Expletio. Funny, Expletio meant Finish in Latin. Seemed serendipitous to Calloway.

As the men filtered out he flipped through his files, reviewing the records of those participating in the detail. Ah well, he thought, It wasn’t a complete failure … but like Vincennes, Calloway was itching to focus completely on his own caseload, utilize everything he’d learned. Hopefully the others would do the same. He’d told the men, but he hadn’t told Captain Smith or even Professor Skelly that he was calling it a day. He was finished with it. Expletio.

w

Her father’s office was dark, lit only by the patio lights shining through the half-closed shutters. Music from the live band blared through the walls. Outside, her parents and their friends were enjoying their semi-annual pool party, an event greatly anticipated by the Hollywood elite. Basically, in Jennifer’s opinion, it was just an excuse for a big fucking orgy fueled by large amounts of drugs and alcohol, but who was she to criticize? As long as it kept her father busy and away from his office, he could fuck the dog for all she cared.

She knew it was risky, slipping in again to find more dirt for the detective, but she wanted him to have enough to put the bastard away for a long, long time. Her heart hardened remembering the times her father passed her around to his clients, just like a pimp. She was their bonus for signing a big deal or winning an Oscar. At least on the streets, she got something for it. When her old man passed her around, she got nothing. She wiped an unwanted tear away and opening another file.

The music outside got louder, the laughter more strident. She hated them – fakes, all of them. Oh, in public, they were squeaky-clean. Church goers. People to admire. But, behind the scenes, a very different story. What would the public think if they knew their favorite blonde bombshell was an addict or that the handsome leading man preferred fucking boys? Oh yeah, liars and fakes, all of them.

That’s when she heard it, the soft click of the office door closing and she knew she was fucked.

“Jennifer, what am I going to do with you?”

She turned to face him but before she could react, her father’s large hand slammed across her cheek and smashed her face into the file cabinet.

“You stupid, little bitch.” His voice was filled with menace as he punched his fist into her stomach.

She crumbled to the ground and tried to crawl to the door, but he kicked her hard in the side, knocking all the wind out of her. She rolled to her back, gasping for air. “Daddy,” she wheezed.

“Oh, didn’t that whore of a mother tell you, little girl?” he spat. “I’m not your father. I wasn’t even around when she got knocked up with you.” He’d picked up the poker from the fireplace and was slapping it in his palm. “Your mother liked to spread her legs for anyone who had a big enough dick.” He took a swing, but missed when Jennifer rolled to the side. “Who the fuck knows who your father is.” He swung again, this time catching her side. “It certainly ain’t me.” He swung and caught her temple, causing a gushing wound. The blood, dripping on the expensive Persian rug infuriated him and he swung again and again, until he was exhausted and the beautiful rug ruined.

w

As quickly and strangely as the special interview detail had begun, it was over. Jack Vincennes had expected a sense of closure, but he couldn’t let go of a certain amount of bitterness. He would have been able to break open the Wolfowitz investigation over a week ago, but he was hardly the only one who had lost valuable lead time where individual cases were concerned.

Calloway had been rattled that evening, this much was certain. Perhaps he’d finally realized that what they were doing was hardly as ground breaking and career enhancing as he had hoped. Did any of their efforts really make a difference to anyone? Jack wondered about that. The women they had interviewed were all still working the streets and there seemed to be a never ending supply of new ones ready to join them. While there had been interesting moments of insight during the assignment, it still had the stench of sexual voyeurism.

No one had even bothered to say goodbye as they left the Victory for what would be the last time. It was as if they’d all been overcome with a sense of shame over what they had been trying to do. It just didn’t seem right somehow to take the dregs of society and hold them up under a microscope. Did cataloging a various sequence of events and behaviors really shed some sort of light on to anything? Who was actually benefiting from the information gleaned?

A shift change was in effect as Vincennes walked into the station, the desk sergeant barely acknowledging him as he finished up the evening’s report. Exley intercepted him as he made his way back to his desk, the younger man’s face pinched and reflecting what Vincennes took to be concern. “I wanted to talk to you about Calloway. I can’t help this feeling that something’s going down ...”

 Jack was about to shrug him off when the desk sergeant came after him.

“Detective Vincennes, you had a message” The man handed him a scrawled note. “I just got a call from homicide – seems they’ve found a body out in a field near Griffith Park and the deceased was carrying your card. The Captain said you were to get over there right away for possible identification.”

A foreboding tightness gripped at his gut as he looked the note over. “Exley, you wanna be useful then come with me on this one.” Truth was, Vincennes wasn’t in the mood to identify any bodies, especially if this turned out to be another one of his hapless contacts.

Exley’s eyes narrowed as he considered the offer. “Sure, I’ll come along.”

While Exley was hoping to gain some insight over the plight of Calloway, Vincennes welcomed the diversion. He’d been called out enough times to identify the remains of some unknown slob; working Vice had brought him in contact with numerous individuals who all, sooner or later, met rather unfortunate ends, but the amount of police activity that greeted them as they neared the vacant lot caught him by surprise.

“What do we have here?”  A simple snitch was hardly notable enough to draw so much attention.

Parking near the entrance of the abandoned lot, Vincennes and Exley made their way through the crowd of police and reporters. Straight ahead was a low wall; a camera’s flash illuminated the night. He caught snippets of conversation from the surrounding officers.

“Reminds me of the Black Dahlia …”

“She’s pretty young – you think she was a hooker?”

“… I wonder what she was doing out here …”

“Ah detective, I’m glad you’re here.”

Vincennes recognized the man speaking as Walt Kramer, the head of Homicide.

“We’re hoping that you can identify the body. We got the call a couple of hours ago. A local was taking his dog for a walk when came across her. She’s been worked over pretty good, but she had your card on her. One of your connections, perhaps?”

Kramer’s comment had been full of poorly disguised innuendo, but Jack didn’t bite. “I have numerous connections, Detective. Every good officer cultivates as many as he possibly can.”

Kramer snorted. “Yeah, whatever. Over here.”

Vincennes and Exley followed after Detective Kramer who stopped a couple of feet from the body.

“Here she is. McBain, flash the light on her face for the detective.”

The uniform who had been standing watch over the body did as he was instructed and Jack’s expression grew grim.

“Yeah, I know her. Her name’s Jennifer Wolfowitz, and she goes by the name of LuLu LaRue.”

The poor kid had been worked over pretty good; her dress covered in blood and her face and arms a mess of cuts and contusions.

Exley leaned in for a closer look. “That’s the girl from … Do you have any idea who might be behind this?”

Vincennes nodded. “Officer Exley, how would you like to have a piece of the case I’m working on?”     

w

Dudley had no time to waste on a dead girl in the park; even if she was one of Vincennes’ contacts … Jennifer Wolfowitz wasn’t exactly the best contact for Hollywood Jack to have. Aaron Wolfowitz was a valued contact of Dudley’s, and as long as he could control and cultivate that contact, he made Dudley richer and richer. What’s a few dead daughters along the way … as long as they weren’t Dudley’s daughters he was fine with it all.

No, he had no time for Vincennes case, he had something far bigger in the works and it would go down while Vincennes and half the Hollywood department were busy with Lulu LaRue’s mutilated body.

It was falling perfectly and he felt his cock harden with the thrill of it all. He was about to take Carson Calloway down so low even God wouldn’t find the boyo. Come into Dudley Smith’s house and play the show-off detective from New York City? Captain was about to teach the man a lesson.

Franny Farmer was sufficiently stoked, high as a kite and crazed. Sid Hudgens was already in the movie star’s mansion, had not only fed the blonde bombshell the drugs, but planted a sufficient amount around the place for the cops to find and slip into Calloway’s pockets upon arrest. Hudgens himself was tucked behind a sofa; his camera aimed and ready.

Franny was so confused, she thought he’d left. What a nice man to come over and help her ease the pain of her disappointing marriage, that Mr. Hudgens. Black and whites were hidden around the corners and Dudley was glued to the radio in his unmarked Buick three doors away.

The only thing the Captain didn’t know, was that even as Calloway walked the flagstone path toward the front door, Detective Bud White was glued to a window on the far side of the house, standing ready to watch over him.

w

Calloway had ignored several calls from Franny over the weeks since her marriage, but as he dropped off a few folders at his desk that night, his phone gave a shrill ring and he glared at it. Flipping the receiver to his ear he groaned. “Calloway. What do you want at this late hour?”

“Oh … oh Jesus … oh!”

“Franny?” The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. He’d heard her use every professional acting technique in the book on him, none had worked because he’d seen through them, one and all. This … was no act. “Franny, honey? Are you okay?”

“Oh God, Carson. I need you. Please. Help me.”

When she opened the door his heart cracked in two. Taking her arms and quickly getting her inside, he took her to a chair and tried to calm her. The woman was seriously drugged, far more than was safe and definitely more than she would willingly take.

Franny was a stickler for her image, careful with every detail and obedient to a fault when the studio heads made their demands … thus her sham of a marriage to a swish. There was no way she’d want to be seen standing desperately at her doorway wearing a soiled, torn lace nightgown and opened silk robe. Her hair was mussed and she wore no makeup at all. Worse than all that … her eyes were as vacant as a filthy street addict’s.

“Shit, Franny! What the hell have you done?” He rushed to dampen a cloth and soothe her brow but she was so agitated he could hardly keep her still to the seat. She paced and talked gibberish until he finally took her into his arms to hold her still. “Hush! You gotta relax baby or I’m gonna have to call for a doctor. Come on, calm down.”

“Love me, Carson … oh God I need you to love me!”

“Love you? Christ, you can hardly talk sense. You need coffee. Let’s make you some coffee, baby.” He pushed her into the chair and turned to head for the kitchen.

“Carson, love me! Love me now!”

His head dropped back and he groaned, turned to again attempt to get her to pay attention. But as his eyes focused on hers, his heart skipped several beats. She stood with a shiny pistol in her trembling hand. He had no idea if it was loaded, and could only hope she was too weak to pull the trigger and too stoned to actually hit him.

“Franny, give me the gun, sweetheart.” He slowly stepped closer.

Her eyes welled with tears. “Please Carson, I need you to love me.”

“We can talk about that after you calm down and give me the gun. Honey.” Another step closer. Her hands were shaking and she was breathing harder. Just as his fingers reached hers … she pulled the trigger.

Bud White desperately crashed through the large window, exploding shards of glass everywhere as Detective Carson Calloway dropped to the floor, blood splattering from his chest. From behind the sofa … the sound of Sid Hudgen’s camera clicked away. White dropped to his knees and reached for Calloway’s already dead body. Dudley and several uniform officers charged into the house. It was Francine Farmer and not Carson Calloway who would be arrested that night … but Calloway was finally out of Captain Smith’s hair and he was exceedingly satisfied with the entire evening.

w

Francine Farmer was convicted of murder two in the shooting death of Los Angeles Police Detective Carson Calloway. She was given a reduced sentence after exposing her supplier for the drug kingpin he was. Aaron Wolfowitz was the last high profile name under Mickey Cohen’s rackets in all of L.A.

Detective Jack Vincennes got the collar for the Wolfowitz arrest, and when he brought the man in, Wolfowitz looked a lot like Bud White had gotten his hands on him. The most Jack could do, with all the activity surrounding the bust and indictment, was to send flowers for Calloway’s funeral. He had to admit, Carson Calloway was one hell of a detective. Period. And from Jack Vincennes … that was a lot.

w

Soon after the detail was over, Dudley informed Exley of his deep disappointment in his performance and that he was being bumped back down to his uniform. “You’re not ready, Edmund. The detail proved that.” It was a setback and Ed hated setbacks, but he would endure it. He was an excellent cop and he knew it. Proving it was the hard part.

Calloway’s funeral was in New York City and Ed took leave in order to attend. He wasn’t surprised that none of the others in the detail bothered to go, but it was the very least he could do to pay his respects to one of the real good guys. Calloway proved to be the detective that Ed aspired to be; smart, fair, and honest. He wasn’t on the take and he wanted to get the bad guys honestly.

What did surprise Ed was the funeral itself … Calloway came from a long line of police, four generations. He was buried with honors; a high mass in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, NYPD color guard, funeral march through the city, the works. It was an amazing sight, and Ed felt humbled to be a part of it.

w

For six solid days after the murder of Carson Calloway, Dick Stensland drank himself under the table, not wanting to admit he was mourning a man the likes of which he’d never again find himself associated with … not if his life continued on the path it seemed destined for … a path along side Captain Dudley Smith and his old friend, Buzz Meeks.

w

Midnight on a quiet, chilly Saturday night. Rain speckled Bud’s windshield as he sat alone atop Mount Lee in Griffith Park, overlooking the city and the Hollywood sign. Rain. It almost never fucking rains in Los Angeles, but somehow it seemed right to Bud. So much filth required an occasional washing.

It had been a difficult few weeks after Calloway’s murder. Some called him a hero, some continued to look for suspicious behavior in everything the man had accomplished. Chief Parker had spoken deeply respectful words during a department wide memorial. Cops hate losing their own, no matter what they thought of the man. The brotherhood always stood strong and prevailed, but could anyone really know what Calloway was and did?

He’d been jeered for organizing a silly detail … and given the Medal of Honor for his remarkable successes. He was loved by a professor and murdered by a movie star. He was many things, a mentor and a friend, a cop and a leader. And … Carson Calloway was a teacher.

At least that’s how Bud White saw him that night. Even in the rain, it was all suddenly crystal clear. The job of a detective was really about finding justice. Calloway would have called it ‘the discovery of injustice and the application of understanding’.

Injustice? Justice? The black and white of police work. Bud White would never again forget that … or look at a hooker the same way as long as he lived.

Bud sat until the rain stopped and the clouds slid away from a full, pure white moon. He stepped from the car and snapped a salute.