This is a work of fiction, using characters from the film, “LA Confidential".  No insult or invasion of privacy or infringement of copyright is intended. The story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

Deeper than an L.A. Rain Puddle

©2008 by: Riley

1950. Summer. Skin-crawling hot. Two years a detective and the Technicolor glow had long since worn off. Bud White lived and worked in the gritty fade-out blackness of the Los Angeles crime underbelly. That particular day, like most of the past six weeks, he was working it alone again. His partner Stensland, off the honor farm but awaiting reinstatement that just might not come, was drinking like a fish in his dark hell hole of a crib on the fringes of West Hollywood. On duty or off, it was all the same for Bud, unless he was lucky enough to find a few blissful hours fine-fucking Louise, but that wasn’t happening today. She was tied up with the upper crust movie-making fat cats, and Bud was eye-ball prowling the streets for something interesting to occupy his mind, if not his body.

All in all, a regular bust of a day off. As the bloody red sunset flashed an eerie glow on everything, Bud leaned against the filthy brick alley wall and lit a cigarette. Three quarters of his day was gone, but life never really started ‘til after dark, so he did a lounging Peeping Tom at the Formosa entrance. If nothing interesting came out, he’d go in. The parade flowed. High mileage whores with too much eye makeup. Mugs he’d seen on the bulletin board all hinked on too much dope or too much booze. Decent couples expecting a fair table to talk dirty in private. Tourists thinking to catch a movie star or two. Normal night. Until Rankin strolled out with a squirming little blonde bombshell in his grasp.

Bud held back, pressing his weight harder against the bricks to keep from prematurely charging. Rankin liked them buxom, full, pink, with yellow hair the color of butter. And he liked to make them bleed. Bud could feel his heartbeat accelerate. He’d been waiting for this fucker for months. Watching for him. Reading about him in the reports. Nice reports. Well written reports typed up by the likes of Exley and Connors. Fancy words too loaded with legal mumbo jumbo to find the real shit underneath.

The shit – not one buxom blonde ever pressed a charge. They bled. They broke. Some even ran for home, probably someplace in the pure white bread mid-west. They never complained and never once walked into the station to tell their story. Going on seven now. At least seven pretty, big breasted blondes who had witnesses to step up even though Goldilocks wouldn’t. Story was these were ugly attacks.

Story was story. Bud White was about to see it with his own eyes. He followed at a dusk-hidden distance, slinking along the buildings, his eyes glued to Rankin’s broad back. The information ticked off in Bud’s brain. William Washington Rankin. Nobody carpenter originally from Miami Florida, where there was a rap sheet a mile long, but not one extradition order issued. Bloody hands, but not one direct accusation. What the fuck was the bastard saying to these women? And were they stupid enough to believe it? It should be a piece of cake to catch Rankin in the act that very night. A cop as eye-witness? Rankin was going down. Bud’s chest ached with how hungry he was for the bastard.

An easy fifteen feet back, a turn off the main drag and again onto a back street. She’s screaming and Bud’s gone into a crouch, his feet skimming the slimy street, the asphalt sweating harder than he was. Closer. Closer. Rankin dragged Blondie behind a door. Bud was on cat’s feet. One quick leap placed him at the fire escape and nose to glass with the bedroom window. He wasn’t going to watch too long. Wasn’t going to let the woman get hurt any more than would justify putting some serious damage on Rankin. It was against his grain, but he was going to wait. The first spout of blood, even from a tooth-cut lip and he’d explode through the glass to do his worst.

Goldilocks cowered against the wall and Rankin stomped a pace in front of her. Didn’t say a word, just shot out an occasional hand to strip away another piece of fabric from her. A scream as the bastard’s hand whipped between her naked thighs. What the fuck was she doing in there with him? Why didn’t she run?

Rankin tugged out his cock and Bud leaned back for the strike.

BLAMM!

Bud blinked, Goldilocks screamed and Rankin dropped to the floor with a blood splattered slam, perfect round bullet hole in his forehead, glassy dead eyes looking right through the window at Peeping Cop.

White swung his head left then right. Spied a swift movement above, a polished black shoe disappearing over the edge of the roof. Bud was ignited, pistol in hand, climbing the fire escape, panting, gripping rusted metal and taking a leap over the top. The roof was empty. One door heading down. Bud’s brain sloshed through heated blood and logic. Not the door. He charged toward the edge of the roof and leaned over just in time to see the running form hit the pavement three floors below and melt into the darkness, footsteps still slapping on the street after he was long out of sight.

Bud took the roof door and pushed his way into the apartment. The woman was alone, naked and staring at Rankin’s dead body. He tenderly helped her dress, then kindly introduced himself and asked for a statement.

No statement.

Bud fucking hated typing up that report.

Whoever finished off Rankin had done it from the open room next to all the activity. He had to already be inside, and he had to be fast as fucking lightning to get out onto the fire escape two windows away from Bud, and escape. He took the jeers. He endured the jokes. And secretly, he thanked the mysterious shooter for eliminating one more female predator.

~*~

Three months later, again outside a bar but this time playing nursemaid. Fucking Stensland was in there, guzzling his career away and leaving Bud to keep an eye out should Sarge decided to check up on them. But White’s mind wasn’t on protecting Dick from another stint at the honor farm. It was on the mystery shooter.

Nine more murders during an attack or rape were reported. No one identified the shooter and no one witnessed his arrival or escape. Two of the shootings, right in front of Bud just like the Rankin incident! The squad room was teaming with jokes. Had White become the Jekyll and Hyde of the LAPD? Was he doing double time? Was he playing both sides of the fence? Lucky for Bud, Captain Smith wasn’t listening. More likely he didn’t care. He’d been playing a slow lure, teasing it like a carrot in front of White for nearly a year. Occasional comments or written notes dropped on Bud’s desk and always after a bout of especially brutal activity in the line of duty.

“Nice work, White.”

“Knowing when to use your physical strength is far more effective than not, boyo.”

“Keep up the good work and rewards will be made, White.”

All joviality and back thumping aside, Bud had another concern. This mystery shooter was becoming a big screen thorn in his side. Showing up where Bud was wanting to be, doing what Bud wanted to do. What was this fucker’s motivation? And how long before Bud was put directly on his tail? The whole department seemed to like having some demented civilian out there doing their job. Did they really want to eliminate this guy? These thoughts made Bud’s head ache.

But the shooter was nowhere in sight that night. Leaving Stensland to fend for himself, irritation burning like a rash over a wasted valuable three hours, Bud walked away. Louise was waiting and he wasn’t missing the smoothest hours of naked finesse he ever had. If sex was a fancy dance, Louise was the fucking star of the show. A prima ballerina.

Bud loved moving his skin all over this broad. She was like an elegant slut, smiling that perfect money smile right before wrapping it around your cock. Bud actually felt like he should be paying her top dollar every time she opened her legs for him. Louise was elegant cunt, no doubt about it. And not just for him either.

She didn’t whore herself out. She did her fucking for favors. A fixed traffic violation or possible possession charge. Vincennes was doing her regularly, Connors got a poke and prod in when she occasionally played around with H, but Exley was getting the best of Louise. That didn’t sit well with Bud, but did he give a rat’s ass on Thursday nights? Fuck no. It was his time. Why she spent time with White was a curiosity to them all. Aside from being the biggest, gruffest detective on the force, and most likely the most dangerous- there wasn’t reason one for Louise to smile her smile his way. He did no favors for her, except make sure she hit the ceiling screaming his name at least once every Thursday night. Even the bookies on Sunset weren’t likely to take odds because the odds were just that – odd. Louise Parker liked White. But stranger things had happened.

Bud parked and climbed out of his car, looked up then down the nice tree-lined street in the Valley. Never was a place to park close by, so he strolled like he belonged there. In six months of Thursdays, he’d started to feel more and more like he really did belong there. A nice, clean apartment building. Louise on the second floor waiting for him, and Bud wondered what the broad had up her sleeve that Thursday.

Occasionally she played the virginal Debbie Reynolds, sweet and clean faced, dinner hot and waiting for him at the kitchen table. Other times, the typical Hollywood vamp, low cut soft sweater, no bra holding up those perky melons. Silky negligee. He never knew what he’d be facing and wondered if the woman she showed him each time was the woman she was trying to get a part for. He tried not to wonder how far she went to get the parts she never got. Louise was gorgeous. She just had no fucking talent. At least, none the camera saw in those screen tests. Needless to say, only a fucking stupid casting agent would tell her she didn’t get the part until after he’d tasted the dessert.

But Louise never seemed to get disappointed. Variety pages were strewn around her apartment the way other women might strategically place doilies. She was an adventure. One star-stuck broad, pure and simple.  

A tap-tap. Slow swinging door and there she was. Bud leaned against the doorjamb and grinned. What the fuck was she trying to be that night? Her shiny black hair swept up in a French twist. Dark, dark glasses, stiletto heels that scared and thrilled him at once. And wrapped around her body – a full length mink held tight at her neck with satin glove covered fingers.

One step. Another. He hipped the door closed and leaned in for a whiff. It was the fancy stuff, sweet but subtle. His nose leaned against the fur and his sausage fingers tugged for some flesh.

“No, no,” Louise stepped back, sultry, heating the room with a sway of her hips. “Let’s just hold onto the illusion, Officer White.” With a turn of her dark glasses, that undeniable gaze over her shoulder, Bud had already begun to follow, drool filling his mouth.

In her bedroom, she closed the door behind him, blocking the light switch.

“But,” it was a desperate grunt he didn’t even know he was making. He wanted to fucking see her, see himself unwrap her, see his cock drive into her.

“Hush, Officer. The illusion.”

Dark as pitch, Bud reached out, tugging fur, stripping gloves. Grasping and tossing her movie star glasses away, stubbing his foot on the way to the bed, Louise gasping in his clutch. A bouncing thud – the kind that made his skin tingle. Flesh against flesh, he slithered her into place, then himself to the feast. Louis was delicious. Better than her fucking pot roast and he was glad Debbie Reynolds hadn’t been waiting for him that night.

His mouth clasped onto her sex, lapping, sucking, biting and finally working her the way he liked to most. Getting her all the way was a piece of cake, keeping her there was his ultimate goal. But that night, in the dark, he couldn’t look at his wrist watch, couldn’t see the loud ticking alarm clock. He was left to guess. She cried out. Cried out again, then squealed delight. Not yet, not enough. His fingers plowed inside, raked her creamy come until he could feel her heating even more. Another squeal, then there it was. She was like an animal, writhing, squirming under him. His teeth grasped her clit and sent her over the edge. Bud didn’t stop until he felt her shudder, heard her suck back tears. Fuck, he wasn’t wanting to make her cry.

Wrapping himself around her, Bud let some of his weight settle her, mold against her. Lifting her legs at the ankles, he gripped tight.

“Oh!”

“What?”

She wriggled her ankle free. “Nothing. Fuck me, Bud. Please.”

Nothing? What the fuck? He reached for the lamp.

“No! Bud, fuck me in the dark, dammit!”

He heard a sniffle. Louise wasn’t a whiner. But he wanted in as bad as she wanted him in, so he thrust a heavy, deep pound. This time, a full out scream. Pain. He heard pain and swung for the lamp, nearly knocking it to the floor. Light flooded the room and Louise curled away.

“What the fuck is going on?” He tenderly pulled at her shoulder but she recoiled wrapping herself around herself. “Louise, come on.” Another tug, this time with more persuasion and Bud nearly fell back from the bed.

Her pretty dark eyes, bruised, almost purple and black. The pancake makeup was washing away, trickling to her chin mixed with salty tears, exposing more discoloration. He backed up, stood and held her shoulder. Louise flat, exposing it all. Someone had brutalized her and not too long ago, probably the very night before.

He paced, his soft cock sliding against his muscular thighs, eyes watching hers. “Who did this to you?”

“Nobody, I don’t know. I never met him before.”

“Name?”

Louise sobbed.

“Jesus fucking Christ. Did you report it?”

“No.”

“Why?” His shout was so loud, a neighbor pounded on the wall. Louise pulled herself up and wrapped arms around her knees, trembling and sniffling. Now he had Shirley Temple to deal with. He tugged on his slacks and ran a hand down his jaw. “Why didn’t you report this?”

“Bud?” Little girl voice. Weak, shaken, wringing his guts. He sat and took her into his arms.

“Yeah?”

“Please Bud. I was embarrassed. Ashamed. That never happened to me before.”

“Always a first time, Louise. You’re too loose, baby. Gotta be more careful.” And his head rambled on and on. No more casting agents, no more Hollywood Jack, no more Exley or Connors, no more fucking your way out of paying the rent or –

“Bud,” she whimpered. “Oh Bud, please make me feel safe. Please.”

He fucked her like she was something special, something precious he’d like to keep as his own.

~*~

Auto theft. Breaking and entering. Prostie beef embarrassing the guests at a Beverly Hills studio brass party. Like swish was news to them. Typical Saturday night and Bud had had enough. Leaving Stens to deal with the paperwork, he headed for the door. Splitsville. Time for a little stakeout of his own.

He’d checked records on all of Louise’s neighbors, interviewed several when she was out. The wall thumping bastard next door had the most to say. Called Louise a hooker; said she had different men there every night, but didn’t seem to recognize Bud at all. But the night in question, there was an old fucker with Louise.

“Grey, almost bald. Big gut. Clean. But it was a cheap suit. Might have taken her for dinner or cocktails. She brought the old geezer right in.”

“What did you hear?” Bud poised his pencil, waited.

Eye flinch, chewing lips.

“Well?” Bud spat.

The man shuffled, foot to foot, a nervous dance. “Some grunts, groans, couple of screams. Thuds, like he was tossing her around, off the walls.”

“And you didn’t think to report this kinda shit?”

“Sounded a hell of a lot like when you’re with her, Officer,” and he slammed the door in Bud’s face.

Weeks passed, Louise’s bruises faded and life looked nice again. Call it a bust, but Bud wasn’t giving up. He still wanted the shooter, and he still wanted the old bastard who’d marked his woman black and blue.

Late, one-finger clack-clacking at his desk, the report as stupid as the stolen baby Jesus case and exhaustion ragging at his nerves. Bud stretched, yawned. Stood to pull on his jacket when his phone rang. “Yeah, White.”

“I know it ain’t Thursday, but you need to get over to Louise Parker’s place pronto, Bud.”

“Vincennes, spit it out.”  Hollywood Jack and Louise in the same thought always gave him a hard on to flatten the fucker’s camera-loving face.

“The shooter. Caught some old fuck bruising our girl.”

Let it pass – not worth the time it would take to set Jack straight. “When?”

“Body’s still bleeding and Louise is asking for you and only you. Get your ass over here, White.”

By the time Bud got to Louise, the body had been taken, blood puddles stained the carpet and it took everything in him to peel her from his chest to get the skinny on what actually went down. The old fuck came to her door, banged until she opened. He charged inside and had barely got the first backhand in when the bullet cut him to the floor. Same story. Again. And Again. And again. Angle of the shot said the shooter was right outside the opened window. Clean shot, no chipped or shattered glass. A gaze up and down and curled brows. Bud rubbed his temples. The fucker had to be agile as a monkey to get up or down from there – but –

A quick grunt through the apartment and fast fist on the neighbor’s door. Bud squinted, pressed his ear to listen. Those were groans. No doubts about it. One swift kick and a big grin. Wall Pounder was tied and gagged. Finally, someone who could give a clear I.D. of the mystery shooter.

~*~

Nothing. No one. The neighbor looked at over three hundred mug shots and sat there with a deadpan shake of the head. Whoever was pulling the trigger wasn’t used to being caught. Bud asked for a national search, dead end cases with similar circumstances. Another blank. Dawn blushed into the squad room windows and still Bud searched, called, dug through files, even talked with his street informers. The shooter seemed to disappear into thin air, just like he always did.

Finally, the phone rang. No real answer, just a grunt.

“White. I need to see you down here.”

What the fuck did the coroner want with him? He trotted down to the basement, sucking deep breaths against the gagging smell and shaking off his tired numbness. Pushed through the door and spied the Coroner.

“What do you want, Cramer?”

“The latest Mystery Shooter victim.” Cramer stood from his lounge against a counter and led Bud into the examining room, pulled down the sheet. Graying skin to match sparse grey hair. Puffy, ugly pock-marked face. Bud glared at the big man on the slab. Shrugged.

“Don’t recognize this guy?”

Bud shook his head. “Should I?”

Cramer flipped opened a worn brown leather wallet and pulled out a driver’s license, handed it over. “Now you recognize him?”

Hard swallows, nausea crawling a bitter burn up his throat. Another shake to the negative.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Thought the same thing. Gotta be more than one Franklin White on the planet, right? But then I found this.”

Bud was seeing red, flashing lights inside his brain. Cramer held up the back of a photo. Hand scrawled: Bud and Moira, Christmas 1935. Then the Coroner turned the photo.

Not a coherent thought surfaced in Bud’s brain. Nothing except – it can’t be.

“When was the last time you saw your father?”

He cleared his throat. “The day the fucker murdered Moira.”

“So,” Cramer replaced all the I.D. and dropped the wallet onto the dead man’s barrel chest. “Should I say I’m sorry, or congratulations?” Bud turned to leave but the Coroner grasped his arm. “How the hell should we bury him?”

A jerk free and roll of his shoulder, White glared into Cramer’s eyes. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you throw the fucker into the dumpster out back,” and he walked away.

“Guess it’s congratulations then, huh White?” chuckled Cramer.

The long walk back to the squad room, Bud wanted his jacket, his car keys, to get the hell out. With shaking fingers he lit a cigarette and dropped into his chair. The room was growing active, eight A.M. Everybody comes to work, but Bud was leaving. He was finished.

File clerk Francine strolled around the desks and he didn’t even note how her round ass looked in the tight skirt. Wasn’t listening to the chatter all around. He stood to tug on his jacket and make his escape.

“Oh! Hi, Bud,” Francine meowed, White recoiled. She dropped an envelope on his desk. “This just came for you, was sitting downstairs and I thought I’d save you the trip.”

He picked it up and walked out.

“You’re welcome, Detective White,” she whined.

Behind the wheel. How did he get there? Where were his keys? A digging jingle and into the ignition before he opened the envelope. Nicely typed. Neat on white watermarked paper.

Detective Wendell White,

This one was for you. If you’d like to thank me face to face, I’ll be on Signal Hill at nine sharp. South entrance. Third oil derrick.

Your friendly neighborhood Mystery Shooter

Signal Hill? Bud checked his watch. No time to fool around. All the way to Long Beach he attacked the gas pedal.

He should get back up. It was the collar to promote him – or kill him. He was supposed to go back to Louise, but since the first attack, she’d changed, become clingy. She was a woman who had made her own problems, but no woman deserved to be bloodied like that. There were a hundred reasons he knew he was finished with her. He wasn’t looking for a woman to protect. She didn’t need him before it happened. It wasn’t what she thought it was. It wasn’t love. Besides, what did Bud White want with love? And – he’d touched her. Franklin White had touched her, probably fucked her, beat her black and blue. No. He was finished with Louise. He wasn’t intending to tell her so, either.

He swerved a too fast slide into the lot, spinning on gravel and sand. The car came to a dead stop. Counted derricks. One. Two. Three. Silence. The early sun struggled through Los Angeles haze, skimming off mechanical monsters pumping, sucking oil from the ground. He drifted the car closer, drove all the way around the derrick then spotted him. First, just the glint of light off those polished shoes, a few feet further and there was the man, a relaxed slump, jacket off. Starched shirt so white it was blinding, pistol tucked neatly in a shoulder holster.

Bud’s pistol was in his hand and he stood cautiously. Watched. The man grinned, then took his handkerchief, brushed dust from the polished leather shoe and finally stood. Three easy steps from the car, barrel aimed directly at the shooter’s chest.

“You coming peacefully?”

“No, White. I won’t have to. Well, well,” the man said smoothly.

This was not what Bud was expecting. It was a young man, college boy, a lot like Exley. Clean cut. Neat as a pin. Perfect knife-sharp crease in his pin striped slacks.

“Detective Wendell White, we finally meet face to face. But I’ve been watching you for a while. Watching you watching me. You don’t know this, but you and me, we are a lot alike.”

“Not likely.” Bud took a step closer, finger twitching.

“Sure we are,” the man smoothed his black hair. “I was in the department. Few years ago.”

Bud blinked.

“Yes. Uniform. But there’s not much sympathy for a swish in the LAPD, so I was out. Out cold for about three weeks after a few brutes kicked the shit out of me in an alley, but it wasn’t the first time someone did that. There’s another similarity, White.”

Bud reached behind for his cuffs, but his eyes were glued to the shooter’s. What was this guy’s motivation?

“I too watched my own father beat my mom to death. Not as long ago as you did, but it had the same impact. You and me. Funny, White. I wish I was you, working on that side of the law, and you? You wish you were me, don’t you? The first one I killed was my old man. And the last one I killed was yours. So,” with a slow, easy turn the shooter pulled his own pistol, holding it lightly, dangling from his hand, aiming at the grit near his polished shoe. “There but by the grace of God go I, or you.”

“Put the gun down.”

“No. But it’d be nice if you’d thank me before this is all over.”

Bud’s head was spinning. Before what was all over? He had the aim; his gun was cocked and ready. Did the swish think it was going to be a shootout? “Who the fuck are you?” His foot inched closer, peripheral vision on the dangling gun.

“Does it matter?”

White thought to drag out the conversation, step closer and closer so slowly the man wouldn’t even realize. He thought to explain that just maybe he did want to thank him, that just maybe he did want to know his name. That just maybe –

But the shooter was fast, faster than Bud, smoother than fucking silk. The barrel buried in his own mouth and the back of his head flying in a bloody mass against the moving derrick before Bud could say word one.

As the dapper man slumped into a dusty heap, Bud White choked, caught his breath, blinked and simply said:

“Thank you.”

THE END

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