by James Ellroy
"Why not? Live by the sword, die by the sword."
"You dumb shit, I want to hear this guy's take on the Kafesjians."
o o o
Three E-Z Kleen shops--1248 South Normandie closest. I drove over--the pink Ford stood out front.
I double-parked; a guy ran out looking anxious. Make him: Abe Voldrich, Kafesjian high-up.
"Please, Officer. They don't know anything about this goddamn break-in. Call Dan Wilhite, talk to him about the . . . uh. .
"Ramifications?"
"Yeah, that's a good word. Officer--"
"Lieutenant."
"Lieutenant, let it rest. Yes, the family has enemies. No, they won't tell you who they are. You could ask Captain Dan, but I doubt if he'd tell you."
Smart little hump. "So we won't discuss enemies."
"Now we're cooking with gas!"
"What about stelfactiznide chloride?"
"What? Now you're talking Greek to me."
"It's a dry-cleaning chemical."
"That end of the business I don't know from."
Walking in: "I want an employee list--all your shops."
"No. We hire strictly colored people for the cleaning and pressing work, and most of them are on parole and probation. They wouldn't appreciate you asking questions."
Jig crime-no-it played wrong. "Do you have colored salespeople?"
"No, J.C. doesn't trust them around money."
"Let me check your storeroom."
"For that what you call it chemical? Why?"
"The watchdogs were burned with it."
Sighing: "Go, just don't roust the workers."
I skirted the counter. A small factory in back: pressers, vats, darkies folding shirts. Wall shelves: jars, bottles.
Check labels--two run-throughs, a catch: stelfactiznide chloride, skull and crossbones.
I sniffed a jug--foul/familiar--my eyes burned. Put it back, dawdle-- the women might show. No luck--just darting slave eyes. I walked back up front popping sweat.
Lucille at the counter, hanging shirts. Bump bump-ass grinds to a radio beat. Bump, flash: a vamp smile.
I smiled back. Lucille zipped her mouth, threw away a pretend key. Outside: Voldrich and Madge. Mama K.: wet makeup, tears.
I walked out to the car. Whispers--I couldn't hear shit.
o o o
I hit a pay phone-fuck the E-Z Kleen shops.
I called Ad Vice and left a message for Junior: buzz Dan Wilhite, bag a Kafesjian snitch list. Probably futile-he'd refuse, hot to placate J.C. A message _from_ Junior: he'd checked around, learned stel-what-the-fuck was a standard dry-cleaning chemical used worldwide.
Back to South Tremaine--one black & white in front. Bethel waved me over. "Sir, we got two more confirmations on that prowler night before last."
"More details on his description?"
"No, but it looks like he's a peeper too. We got that same 'young, white' make, and both people said he was peeping in windows."
Think: burglary/mutilation tools. "Did they say he was carrying anything?"
"No, sir, but I think he could have secreted the B&E stuff on his person."
"But the people didn't call in complaints."
"No, sir, but I got a lead that might tie in."
Coax him: "So tell me, Officer."
"Well, the woman in the house directly across the street told me that sometimes Lucille Kafesjian dances naked in her bedroom window. You know, with the lights on behind her at night. She said she does it when her parents and her brother are out for the evening."
Guesswork:
Exhibitionist Lucille, peeper/prowler/B&E man hooked on the family.
"Bethel, you're going places."
"Uh, yessir. Where?"
"In general. Right now, though, you stick here. You keep going back to the addresses where no one was home earlier. You try to flesh out the description of the peeper. Got it?"
"Yessir!"
o o o
Rolling shitwork:
Wilshire Station, paper checks: arrest rosters, MO files, FI cards. Results: window-peeping young white men--zero. Dog-slashing burglars-- zero.
University Station, arrest/MO--buppkis. Fl cards, three recent: a "youngish," "average build" white man was reported peeping whore motels. _My_ eyeball man?--maybe--but:
No motel addresses--just "South Western Avenue" listed. No complainant names or badge ID numbers listed.
No place to go right now.
I called 77th Street Station. The squad boss, bored:
No dog snuffs. A young white peeper spotted roof-prowling: fuck-pad motels, jazz clubs. No arrests, no suspects, no Fl cards--the squad had a new card system pending. He'd route me the club/motel locations--if and when he found them.
Tommy K.'s _jazz_ records smashed?
More calls: Central Jail, LAPD/Sheriff's R&I. Results: no dog-snuff arrests this year; zero on young white peeper/prowlers. 459 pops postKafesjian: no Caucasian perps.
Calls--a pay phone hogged three hours--every LAPD/Sheriff's squad room tapped. Shit: no young white peepers in custody; two wetback dog slashers deported to Mexico.
Waiting: the Bureau pervert file.
I roIled downtown. An office check--no messages, a report on my desk:
CONFIDENTIAL
10/30/58
TO: LIEUTENANT DAVID D. KLEIN
FROM: SERGEANT GEORGE STEMMONS, JR.
TOPIC: KAFESJIAN/459 P.C.
947.1 (HEALTH & SAFETY CODE--ANIMAL MAYHEM)
SIR:
As ordered, I checked the Central Bureau and Sheriff's Central Burglary files for 459's similar to ours. None were listed. I also cross-checked 947.1 offenders (very few were listed) against the 459 files and found no crossover names. (The youngest 947.1 offender is currently 39 years old, which contradicts the prowler lead that Officer Bethel gave us.) I also checked local/statewide homicide files back to 1950. No 187's/187's collateral to burglaries similar to our perpetrator's MO were listed.
Re: Captain Wilhite. I "diplomatically" asked him to supply us with a list of pushers/addicts informed on by the Kafesjians, and he said that their snitches were never tallied, that no records were kept to protect the family. Captain Wilhite offered one name, a man recently informed on by Tommy Kafesjian: marijuana seller Wardell Henry Knox, male negro, employed as a bartender at various jazz clubs. Captain Wilhite's officers could not locate Knox. Knox was recently murdered (unsolved). It was a negro on negro homicide that presumably recieved only a cursory investigation.
Re the E-Z Kleen shops: at all three locations the staff flatly refused to talk to me.
Returning to Captain Wilhite. Frankly, I think he lied about the Kafesjian's snitches never being tallied. He expressed displeasure over your argument with J.C. Kafesjian and told me he has heard rumors that the Federal rackets probe will be launched, centering on narcotics dealings in South-Central Los Angeles. He expressed concern that the LAPD's suborning of the Kafesjian family will be made public and thus discredit both the Department and the individual Narcotics Division officers involved with the family.
I await further orders.
Respectfully,
Sgt. George Stemmons, Jr.
Badge 2104
Administrative Vice Division
Junior--half-ass smart when he tried. I left him a note: the peeper, stripper Lucille updates. Orders: go back to the house, run the canvassers, avoid the family.
Keyed up--glom the pervert file. Dog stuff/B&E/Peeping Tom, see what jumped:
A German shepherd--fucking Marine. Doctor "Dog": popped for shooting his daughter up with beagle pus. Dog killers--none fit my man's specs. Dog fuckers, dog suckers, dog beaters, dog worshipers, a geek who chopped his wife while dressed up as Pluto. Panty sniffers, sink shitters, masturbators--lingerie jackoffs only. Faggot burglars, transvestite break-ins, "Rita Hayworth"--Gilda gown, dyed bush hair, caught blowing a chloroformed toddler. The right age-but a jocker cut his dick off, he killed himself, a full-drag San Quentin burial.
Peepers: windows, skylights, roofs--the roof clowns a chink brother act. No watchdog choppers, the geeks read passive, caught holding their puds with a whimper. Darryl Wishnick, a cute MO: peep, break, enter, rape watchdogs subdued by goofball-laced meat--too bad he kicked from syph in '56. One flash: peepers played passive, my guy killed badass canines.
No jumps.
5:45--keyed up, hungry. Rick's Reef the ticket--maybe Diskant on TV
I drove over, wolfed bar pretzels. TV news: Chavez Ravine, traffic deaths, the Red.
Boost the volume:
"... and so I'm withdrawing for personal reasons. Thomas Bethune will be reelected by default, which I fervently hope will not guarantee the facilitation of the Chavez Ravine land grab. I will continue to protest this travesty as a private citizen. I..."
No more appetite--I took off.
o o o
Nowhere to go-just a cruise. South--some magnet pulled me.
Figueroa, Slauson, Central. A gray cop Plymouth behind me-say LAD, Exley ordered. I gunned it--adios, maybe tail car.
Peeper turf--nightclubs, fuck flops. Bido Lito's, Klub Zamboanga, Club Zombie-low roofs, good for climbing. Lucky Time Motel, Tick Tock Motel. Easy peeping: roof access, weeds shoulder high. A brain click: catch Lester Lake at the Tiger Room.
U-turn, check the rearview, shit--a gray Plymouth cut off.
IAD or Narco? Goons keeping tabs?
Side streets-dawdling evasive--Lester's set closed at 8:00 sharp. Lester Lake: tenant, informant. Snitch duty cheap-he owed me.
Fall '52:
A call from Harry Cohn, movie kingpin. My "Enforcer" tag intrigued him; he figured "Klein" made me a Jewboy. A shvartze crooner was banging his girlfriend-clip him for ten grand.
I said no.
Mickey Cohen said no.
Cohn called Jack Dragna.
I knew I'd get the job--no refusal rights. Mickey: a taste for light poon don't rate death--but Jack insists.
I called Jack: this is petty shit, don't set a standard. Muscle Lester Lake--don't kill him.
Jack said _you_ muscle him.
Jack said take the Vecchio brothers.
Jack said take the nigger someplace, cut his vocal cords--
Gulp--one split second--
"Or I'll nail you for Trombino and Brancato. I'll drag your whore sister's name through the mud."
I grabbed Lester Lake at his crib: get cut or get killed--you call it. Lester said, cut, fast, please. The Vecchios showed--Touch packed a scalpel. A few drinks to loosen things up-knockout drops for Lester.
Anesthesia--Lester moaned for Mama. I hustled a disbarred doctor over--surgery in exchange for no abortion charge. Lester healed up; Harry Cohn found a new girlfriend: Kim Novak.
Lester's voice went baritone to tenor--he chased jig poon strictly now. Touch brought boyfriends to hear him.
Lester said he owed me. Our deal: a flop at my shine-only dive-- reduced rent for good information. Success: he talked spook to the spooks and snitched bookies.
The club--a tiger-striped facade, a tiger-tux doorman. Inside: tiger-fur walls, tiger-garb drink girls. Lester Lake on stage, belting "Blue Moon."
I grabbed a booth, grabbed a tigress--"Dave Klein to see Lester." She zipped backstage-slot machines clanged out the doorway. Lester: mockhumble bows, bum applause.
House lights on, dig it: jungle bunnies sprawled in tiger-fur booths. Lester right there, holding a plate.
Chicken and waffles--popping grease. "Hello, Mr. Klein. I was gonna call you."
"You're short on the rent."
He sat down. "Yeah, and you slumlords cut a man no slack. Could be worse, though. You could be a Jew slumlord."
Eyes our way. "I always meet you in public. What do people figure we're doing?"
"Nobody never asks, but I figure they figure you still collect bets for Jack Woods. I'm a betting man, so I'd say that's it. And speaking of Jack, he was collecting your rents this afternoon, which made me want to call you before he leaned on me like he leaned on that poor sucker down the hall."
"Help me out and I'll let you slide."
"You mean you asks, I answers."
"No. First you get rid of that slop, then I ask and you answer."
A tiger girl passed--Lester dumped his plate and swiped a shot glass. A gulp, a belch: "So ask."
"Let's start with burglars."
"Okay, Leroy Coates, out on parole and spending money. Wayne Layne, boss pad creeper, pimping his wife to make the nut on his habit. Alfonzo Tyrell--"
"My guy's white."
"Yeah, but I keep to the dark side of town. Last time I heard of a white burglar was never."
"Fair enough, but I'd call this guy a psycho. He cut up two Dobermans, stole nothing but silverware, then trashed some family-type belongings. Run with it."
"Run with it nowheres. I know nothing 'bout a crazy man like that, 'cept you don't have to be Einstein to figure he's bent on that family. Wayne Layne shits in washing machines, and he's as crazy a B&E man as I care to be acquainted with."
"Okay, peepers then."
"Say what?"
"Peeping Toms. Guys who get their kicks looking in windows. I've got peeper reports nailed at my burglary location and all over the Southside--hot-sheet motels and jazz clubs."
"I'll ask around, but you sure ain't getting much for your month's rent."
"Let's try Wardell Henry Knox. He sold mary jane and worked as a bartender at jazz joints, presumably down here."
"Presumably, 'cause white clubs wouldn't hire him. And _was_ is correct, 'cause he got hisself snuffed a few months ago. Person or persons unknown, just in case you wants to know who did it."
Jukebox blare close--jerk the cord--instant silence. "I know he was murdered."
Indignant niggers mumbling--fuck them. Lester: "Mr. Klein, your questions are getting pretty far afield. I'll guess a motive on Wardell, though."
"I'm listening."
"Pussy. Ol' Wardell had hound blood. He was the righteous fuckin' pussy hound supreme. If it moved, he'd poke it. He'd ream it, steam it, banana cream it. He must've had a million enemies. He'd fuck a woodpile on the off chance there was a snake inside. He liked to taste it and baste it, but he'd never waste it. He--"
"Enough, Jesus Christ."
Lester winked. "Ask me something I might know something about."
In close. "The Kafesjian family. You've got to know more than I do."
Lester talked low. "I know they're tight with your people. I know they only sell to Negroes and what you'd call anybody but square white folks, 'cause that's the way Chief Parker likes things. Pills, weed, horse, they are _the_ number-one suppliers in Southside L.A. I know they lend money and take the vig out in snitch information, you know, independent pushers they can rat to the LAPD, 'cause that is part of their bargain with your people. Now, I _know_ J.C. and Tommy hire these inconspicuous-type Negro guys to move their stuff, with Tommy riding herd on them. And you want crazy?--try Tommy the K. He hangs out with the suedes at Bido Lito's and gets up and plays this godawful tenor sax whenever they let him, which is frequently, 'cause who wants to refuse a crazy man, even a little skinny twerp like Tommy? Tommy is craaazy. He is bad fuckin' juju. He is the Kafesjian muscle guy, and I heard he is righteous good with a knife. I also heard he will do anything to ingratiate hisself with Narco. I heard he clipped this drunk driver who hit-and-ran this Narco guy's daughter."
Craaazy. "That's all?"
"Ain't it enough?"
"What about Tommy's sister, Lucille? She's a geek, she parades around naked at her pad."
"I say say what and so what. Too bad Wardell's dead, he'd probably want to poke her. Maybe she likes it dark, like her brother. I'd poke her myself, 'cept last time I tried white stuff I got my neck sliced. You should know, you was there."
Jukebox trills--Lester himself--somebody put the plug back in. "They let you put your own songs in there?"
"Chick and Touch Vecchio do. They're more sentimental 'bout that old neck-slicin' time than
slumlord Dave Klein. Long as they run the Southside slots and vending shit for Mr. Cohen, Lester Lake's rendition of 'Harbor Lights' will be on that jukebox. Which gives me pause, 'cause the past two weeks or so these new out-of-town-lookin' guys been working the hardware, which might bode bad for ol' Lester."
"Those haaarbor lights"--pure schmaltz. "Mickey should watch it, the Feds might be checking out the machinery down here. And did anyone ever tell you you sound like a homo? Like Johnnie Ray out of work?"
Howling: "Yeah, my ladyfriends. I make them think I gots queer tendencies, then they works that much harder to set me straight. Touch V. comes in with his sissy boys, and I studies his mannerisms. He brings in this bottle-blond sissy, it was like getting a righteous college degree in fruitness."
I yawned--tiger stripes spun crazy.
"Get some sleep, Mr. Klein. You look all bushed."
o o o
Fuck sleep--that magnet was still pulling me.
I zigzagged east and south--no gray Plymouths on my ass. Western Avenue-peeper turf--whore motels, no addresses to work off. Western and Adams--whore heaven--girls jungled up by Cooper's Donuts. Colored, Mex, a few white--slit-leg gowns, pedal pushers. Jump start: Lucille's hip huggers, slashed and jizzed on.
Brain jump:
Western and Adams--University Division. University Vice, hooker ID stashes there: alias files, john lists, arrest-detention reports. Lucille smiling whorish, Daddy's blood on her claws--jump to her selling it for kicks.
Big jump--odds against it.
I rolled anyway--
Uny Station, brace the squad whip--that whore stuff, a mishmash:
Loose mug shots, report carbons. Names: whores, whore monikers, men detained/booked with whores. Three cabinets' worth of paper in no discernable order.
Skimming through:
No "Kafesjian," no Armenian names--an hour wasted--no surprisemost hookers got bailed out behind monikers. Punch line: if Lucille whored, _if_ she got popped--she'd probably call Dan Wilhite to chill things. 114 detention reports, 18 white girls--no physical stats matched Lucille. A half-ass system--most cops let whore reports slide, the girls always repeated. John lists: no Luce, Lucille, Lucy white girl listed--no Armenian surnames.
