by James Ellroy
"Go, David. Take a bagel for the road."
I walked out; Chick walked in. I checked my envelope-five G's.
o o o
A pay phone, two dimes: the DMV cop line, Junior.
Stats: Glenda Louise Bledsoe, 5'8", 125, blond/blue, DOB 8/3/29, Provo, Utah. California license since 8/46, five moving violations. '56 Chevrolet Corvette, red/white, Cal. DX 413. Address: 2489½ N. Mount Airy, Hollywood.
Junior at the Bureau--no luck--the Ad Vice clerk said he didn't check in. I left a message: buzz me at Stan's Drive-in.
I dawdled over, grabbed a space by the phone booth. Coffee, a burger--scan those file carbons.
Burglars, confessors--physical stats/MO/priors--I took notes. The Wino Will-o-the-Wisp--shit, still at large. Names, names, names-- candidates for a psycho framee. Scribbling notes--distracted--flirty carhops, new money. Nagging me: a frame meant no payoff--no way to match Lucille and the burglar to WHY?
The phone--I ran, grabbed it. "Junior?"
"Yeah, the clerk said to call you."
Wary--not his style. "You got that note I left you, right?"
"Right."
"Right, and did you check the stationhouse whore files for paper on Lucille Kafesjian?"
"I'm working on it. Dave, I can't talk now. I'll--look, I'll call you later."
"The fuck later, you _jump_ on that work--" CLICK--dead air.
o o o
Home, paperwork. Pissed at Junior--an erratic punk getting worse. Paperwork: Exley's Kafesjian report padded up fat. Lists next: potential Glenda tailers, potential pervert framees. Calls in: Meg--Jack Woods glommed our back rent. Pete B: do Mr. Hughes solid, I convinced him you're not a Hebe. Calls out: Ad Vice, Junior's pad, no luck--find him, ream his insubordinate heart. My tailer list, bum luck holding--no men to start tonight. _My_ job by default--a publicity date meant contract breaker.
Back to Hollywood: side streets, the freeway. No tails on me: dead sure. Up Gower, Mount Airy, left turn.
2489: courtyard bungalows--peach stucco. A carport--with a red and white Corvette snuggled in.
5:10--just dark. I parked close--courtyard/carport view.
Time dragged--the stakeout blues--piss in a cup, toss it, doze. Auto/ foot traffic--light. 7:04-three cars at the curb.
Doors open, flashbulbs popping: Rock Rockwell--tuxedo, bouquet. A jog to the courtyard, back with Glenda--nice--a tight sweater dress. Bulb glare caught her patented Look--it's a joke and I know it. Zoom: all three cars U-turned southbound.
Rolling stakeout--f our cars long--Gower, Sunset west. The Strip, Club Largo, three-car pile-out.
Valets swooped in, servile. More photos--Rockwell looked bored. I parked in the red and fixed my windshield: "Official Police Vehicle." The entourage hit the club.
I badged in, badged a Shriner off a bar stool. Turk Butler on stage-- bistro belter supreme. Ringside: Rock, Glenda, scribes. Photo men by the exit--zoom lenses zoomed in.
Break that contract.
Dinner: club soda, pretzels. Easy eyeball work: Glenda talked, Rock sulked. The reporters ignored him--snore city.
Turk Butler off stage, chorus girls on. Glenda smoked and laughed. Big lungs on the dancers--Glenda pulled her sweater up for chuckles. Rock hit the sauce--whiskey sours.
A club hop at ten sharp-across Sunset on foot to the Crescendo. Another bar stool, eyeball surveillance: pure Glenda. Showstopper Glenda-odd wisps of Meg, and her own SOMETHING.
Midnight--a dash for the cars--I tailed the convoy brazen close. Back to Glenda's pad, sidewalk arc lights: a dud goodnight kiss caught on film.
The newsman took off; Glenda waved. Quiet out--voices carried.
Rock: "Hell, now I've got no wheels."
Glenda: "Take mine, and bring Touch back with you. Say two hours?"
Rock grabbed her keys and ran--gleeful. The Vette peeled out burning rubber--Glenda winced. "Bring Touch back with you" hit funny--tail him.
Gower south, Franklin east. Sparse traffic--still no tails on _me_. North on Western, say a movie set run--Mickey's permit kept the park road open.
Los Feliz, left turn, Fern Dell--streams and glades before the Griffith Park hills. Brake lights blinked--fuck--Fern Dell--Vice cops called it Cocksuckers' Paradise.
He parked--rush hour-cigarette tips red in the dark. I swung right and stopped--my beams on Rock and a cute young quiff.
I killed my lights, cracked the window. Close--I caught the proposition:
"Hi."
"Hi."
"I . . . I think fall is the best time in L.A., don't you?"
"Yeah, sure. Listen, I just borrowed a _really_ nice car. We could maybe make last call at the Orchid Room, then go someplace. I've got some time to kill before I pick my boy--I mean somebody up."
"You don't mince words."
"I don't mince period. Come on, say yes."
"Nix, sweetie. You're big and brusque, which I like, but the last big brusque guy I said yes to turned out to be a deputy sheriff."
"Oh, come on."
"Nix, nyet, nein and no. Besides, I heard Administrative Vice has been operating Fern Dell."
Wrong--Ad Vice never popped fruits. Outside chance--gung-ho Junior, Vice cowboy.
Rock--"Thanks for the memories"--match flare, his cigarette lit. Prowling now--easy to track--I watched the tip glow queer to queer.
Time wheezed, a bum soundtrack: sex moans out in the woods. An hour, an hour ten--Rock walked back zipping his fly.
_Zoom_--the Vette peeled. I followed slow--no traffic-call the set his destination. A roadblock out of nowhere-baseball-bat men waved him through.
Truck headlights approaching--I backed up and watched.
Brake squeals--a big flatbed--picket clowns in back. A spotlight flashed--bright white blindness on the target.
Goons hit the truck swinging--nail-studded Louisville Sluggers. The windshield exploded--a man stumbled out belching glass. The driver ran--a nail shot took his nose off.
The bed gate crashed--goons went in close--ribcage work. Fats Medina dragged a guy by the hair--his scalp came off.
No screams--wrong--why no sound--
Back to Fern Dell, down to Glenda's. No screams--weird--then my pulse quit banging my ears so I could hear.
o o o
Wait the boys out: "Rock," "Touch"--the nance type, this eight-notch killer. Suspicious: 2:00 A.M., a B-movie siren set for hostess.
One courtyard light on--hers. I tapped the two-way, flipped bands to kill boredom. Dispatch calls--the Bureau frequency--voices.
Hurwitz fur-job talk--Robbery men. Make the voices: Dick Carlisle, Mike Breuning--Dudley Smith strongarms. No trace on the furs; Dud wanted fences braced hard. Crackle: station-to-station interference. Breuning: Dud pulled Johnny Duhamel off the Mobster Squad--a scary kick-ass ex-fighter. More static--I flipped dials--a liquor-store heist on La Brea.
The Vette hit the carport; the boys hit Glenda's pad nuzzled up.
One ring--the door open and shut.
Figure access.
The courtyard proper--too risky. Nix the roof--no way to get up. Behind the bungalows--maybe a window to peep.
Risk it--worth it--juicy hearsay.
I walked over, counted back doors down--one, two, three--hers locked tight. One window-curtains cracked--eyes to the glass:
A dark bedroom, a connecting door ajar.
Press the glass, slide it up. Open--no shimmy, no squeak. Vault the sill: up and in.
Smells: cotton, stale perfume. Dark going gray--I saw a bed and bookshelves. Voices--hug the door--listen:
Glenda: "Well, there is a precedent."
Touch: "Not a successful one, sweetie."
Rockwell: "Marie 'the Body' McDonald. A from-nowhere career, then this kidnapping out of nowhere. The papers smelled publicity stunt quicksville. I think--"
Glenda: "It wasn't realistic, that's why. Her hair wasn't even mussed. Remember, Mickey Cohen is bankrolling our movie. He's hot for me, so the press will think gangland intrigue right off. How
ard Hughes used to keep me, so we've got him for a supporting play--"
Touch: " 'Keep,' what a euphemism."
Rock: "What's a euphemism?"
Touch: "Lucky you're gorgeous, 'cause you'd never make it on brains."
Glenda: "Cut it out, and listen. I'm wondering what the police will think. It's not a kidnapping for ransom, because frankly nobody would pay good money to get Rock and I out of trouble. What I'm think--"
Touch: "The police will think revenge on Mickey or something, and Mickey won't know a thing. The police love to bother Mickey. Bothering Mickey is a favorite activity of the Los Angeles Police Department. And you two will be good. Georgie Ainge will slap you around just a little bit more than a smidgin, for realism's sake. The police will buy it, so just don't worry. You'll both be kidnap victims, and you'll both get lots of publicity."
Rock: "Method acting."
Glenda: "It compromises Howard, the creep. He'd never violate the contract of a beautiful kidnap victim."
Touch: "Tell true, sweetie. Was he hung?"
Glenda: "Hung like a cashew."
They all howled. The real howler: fake kidnaps always bombed.
A doorway crack--I pressed up, squinted. Glenda--robe, wet hair: "He talked about airplanes to get himself excited. He called my breasts my propellers."
More laughs--Glenda edged out of my light. Needle scratches, Sinatra--wait the tune out for one more look.
No luck--just "Ebb Tide" done very slow. Through the bedroom, out the window, thinking crazy: _Don't snitch her_.
CHAPTER NINE
Monsters:
Charles Issler, confessor--front-page-hot female snuffs. "Hit me! Hit me!"-- known to bite Homicide bulls who wouldn't oblige.
Michael Joseph Krugman, confessor--the Jesus Christ 187. His motive-revenge-Jesus fucked his wife.
Swirling:
Beaucoup confessors--find a patsy in LAPD file print. Some INSTINCT working through--
Donald Fitzhugh--queer snuff confessor; Thomas Mark Janeway--kiddie molestations strictly. That INSTINCT THING worked me over--almost a taunt. The Wino Will-o-the-Wisp: strangler/mutilator/ stumblebum slayer. No hard candidates--
I woke up. THAT INSTINCT big:
The Kafesjians _knew_ who trashed their pad--if I framed some geek they'd fuck things up.
Sweaty sheets/sweaty files/that rap sheet I glommed late:
George Sidney Ainge, aka "Georgie." White male, DOB 11/28/22. Pimp convictions '48, '53-fourteen months County time total. Gun sale rousts '56, '7, '8--no convictions. Last known address 1219 S. Dunsmuir, L.A. Vehicle: '51 Caddy Eldo, QUR 288.
Touch to Glenda: "Georgie Ainge will slap you around just a little bit more than a smidgin."
I shaved, showered, dressed. Glenda smiled, saying stall things for now.
o o o
The Bureau, an Exley memo waiting: "Kafesjian/459--report in full." 8:00, no daywatch men in yet--no potential Georgie Ainge skinny.
Coffee--overdue. Some DA called--that botched bookie raid--I shitted him lawyer to lawyer. Junior walking: up the side stairs, furtive. I whistled--long and shrill.
He walked over. I shut the door, shut my voice in: "Never hang up on me or get cute like that again. One more time and I'm submitting a transfer request that will ruin you in the Bureau so fast--"
"Dave--"
"Dave shit. Stemmons, you fucking toe the line. You obey my orders, you do what I tell you to do. _Now_, did you check the stationhouse files for paper on Lucille Kafesjian?"
"N-no listings, I ch-checked all around"--nervous, hinky.
Change-up: "Have you been hotdogging queers in Fern Dell Park?"
"W-what?"
"Some quiff said Ad Vice was operating the park, which we both know is bullshit. I repeat, were you--"
Hands up--placating me. "Okay, okay, guilty. I owed a favor to this old student of mine at the Academy. He's working Hollywood Vice and he's swamped, the squad boss has him detached to that wino-killing job. I just made a few collars and let him do the booking. Look, I'm sorry if I didn't go by the rules."
"_Learn the fucking rules_."
"Sure, Dave, sorry."
Shaky, sweaty--I gave him a handkerchief. "Have you heard of a pimp named Georgie Ainge? He sells guns on the side."
Head bobs, eager to please. "I heard he's a rape-o. Some squadroom guy told me he likes gigs where he gets to hurt women."
"Wipe your goddamn face, you're sweating up my floor."
Junior quick-drawed--the gun bobbed at _me_. Quick--slap him--my law school ring drew blood.
White knuckles on his piece. Brains--he pointed it down.
"Stay angry, tough guy. We've got an outside job, and I want you pissed."
o o o
Separate cars, let him stew with half the picture: good guy/bad guy, no arrest. Stay pissed: I've got a moonlight gig going, a fake kidnap might deep-six it. Junior--"Sure, Dave, sure"--eager beaver.
I got there first--a mock chateau--four floors, maybe ten units per. A '51 Eldo at the curb-a match to the Ainge rap sheet.
I checked the mail slots: G. Ainge, 104. Junior's Ford hit the curb--two wheels on the sidewalk. I beelined down the hail.
Junior caught up. I winked; he winked--half twitch. I pushed the buzzer.
The door opened a crack. Ear tug--cue the bad guy.
Junior: "LAPD, open up!"--wrong--I signaled kick it in.
The door swung wide. Right there: a fat Iowlife, arms raised. Old tracks--hold for the "I'm Clean" pitch.
"I'm clean, Officers. I got me a nice little job, and I got me Nalline test results that prove I don't geez no more. I'm still on County probation, and my P0 knows I switched from horse to Silver Satin."
I smiled. "We're sure you're clean, Mr. Ainge. May we come in?"
Ainge stood aside; Junior closed the door. The flop: Murphy bed, wine bottles tossed helter-skelter. TV, magazines: _Hush-Hush_, girlie stuff.
Junior: "Kiss the wall, shitbird."
Ainge spread out. I scoped a _Hush-Hush_ cover: Marie "the Body" McDonald, fake kidnap supreme.
Georgie ate wallpaper; Junior frisked him slow. Page two: some boyfriend drove Marie to Palm Springs and stashed her in an old mining shack. A ransom demand--her agent called the FBI. Satire: stage your own publicity kidnap, five easy steps.
Junior dropped Ainge--a kidney shot--not bad.
Georgie sucked wind. I skimmed the mags--bondage smut--women gagged and harnessed.
Junior kicked Ainge prone. A blonde looked sort of like Glenda. Out loud: "'Lesson number one: call Hedda Hopper in advance. Lesson number two: don't hire kidnappers from Central Casting. Lesson number three: don't pay your publicist with marked ransom money.' Whose idea, Georgie? You or Touch Vecchio?"
No answer.
I flashed two fingers: GO FULL. Junior slammed kidney shots; Georgie Ainge drooled bile.
Kneel down close. "Tell us about it. It's not going to happen, but tell us anyway. Tell us nice and we won't tell your P0. Stay snotty and we'll pop you for possession of heroin."
Gurgles, "Fuck you."
Two fingers/GO FULL.
Rabbit shots--strong--Ainge curled up fetal-style. A punch hit the floor--Junior yelped and grabbed his piece.
I snatched it, worked the chamber, popped the clip.
Junior--"Dave, Jesus!" --farewell, tough guy.
Ainge groaned--Junior kicked him--ribs cracked.
"OKAY! OKAY!"
I hauled him into a chair; Junior grabbed his gun back. Silver Satin on the bed--toss it over.
Chugalug--Ainge coughed, burped blood. Junior crawled for his clip--hands and knees.
"Whose idea?"
Ainge--"How'd you tumble?"--wincing.
"Never mind. I asked you, 'Whose idea?'"
"Touch, Touch V., his idea. The deal was to goose his bun boy's career, with that blond cooze along for some cheesecake. Touch said three hundred and no rough stuff. Listen, I just took the job to get a taste."
Junior: "A taste of
horse? I thought you were clean, shitbird."
"'Shitbird' went out with vaudeville. Hey, you get your badge in a cereal box?"
I held Junior back. "A taste of what?"
Giggles. "I don't sell guns no more, I don't procure females for purposes of prostitution. I switched from H to jungle juice, so my tastes are none of--"
"_A taste of what?_"
"Shit, I just wanted to bust up that Glenda cooze."
I froze--Ainge kept talking--rank wine breath.
"... you know, I just wanted to put the hurt on something Howard Hughes put the boots to. I got fired at Hughes Aircraft during the war, so you could maybe call that Glenda cunt my payback. Va-va-voom, that is some fine piece of--"
I kicked his chair over, threw the TV at his head. He ducked--tubes popped, exploded. I grabbed Junior's gun--aimed, fired--clicks, no fucking clip, fuck me.
Ainge snaked under the bed. Soft, talking nice:
"Look, you think that Glenda woman's My Fair Lady? Look, I _know_ her, she used to whore for this pimp Dwight Gilette. I can hand her up to you on a _guaranteed gas-chamber bounce_."
"Gilette"--vague--a 187 unsolved. I unloaded my own piece--safety valve.
Ainge, soft: "Look, I sold guns then. Glenda knew that. Gilette was slapping her around, so she bought a .32 to protect herself. I don't know, something happened, so Glenda shot Gilette. She shot him, and she ended up taking his knife away from him. She fucking cut him too, and then she sold me the gun back. I've got it stashed, you know, I figured maybe some day, some reason, maybe it's got prints on it, I was gonna threaten her with it on the kidnap thing. Touch, he don't know about it, _but you can make this a fucking gas-chamber job_."
Make the case:
'55, '56--Dwight Gilette, mulatto pimp, dead at his pad. Highland Park dicks handled it: fatal shots, no gun found--the stiff stabbed postmortem. Knife man Gilette--aka "Blue Blade." Forensics: two blood types made; female hair and bone chips found. Hypothesis: knife fight with a whore, some hooker shot/shanked a skilled blade freak.
Bugs up my spine.
Ainge kept talking--gibberish--I didn't hear it. Junior scribbled up his notebook fast.
Fast--don't think why--find the gun.
