by James Ellroy
Jack Woods, glad tidings: he spotted Junior, tailed him for two hours and lost him. Busy Junior--three mndy pusher shakedowns-- Jack glommed descriptions and plate numbers.
Jack, verbatim: "He looked fried to the gills and fucking insane. I checked his car out while he stopped for cigarettes. You know what I saw in the backseat? A hypodermic kit, six empty tuna-fish cans and three sawed-off shotguns. I don't know what he's got on you, but in my opinion you should clip him."
The jukebox, unmistakable--Lester Lake's "Harbor Lights"--and not on my dime.
Bingo--Lester himself, oozing fear. "Hello, Mr. Klein."
"Sit down. Tell me about it."
"Tell you about what?"
"The look on your face and why you played that goddamn song."
Sitting down: "Just reassurance. Good to know Uncle Mickey keeps my tune in his Wurlitzers."
"Mickey should pull his boxes before the Feds pull him. What is it? I haven't seen you this spooked since the Harry Cohn thing."
"Mr. Klein, you know a couple of Mr. Smith's boys named Sergeant Breuning an' Sergeant Carlisle?"
"What about them?"
"Well, they workin' overtime at the Seven-Seven."
"Come on, get to it."
Breathless: "They goin' aroun' trying' to solve colored-on-colored killins, word is to forestall all this potential good Federal investigation publicity. You remember you ask me 'bout a maryjane pusher named Wardell Knox? You remember I tol' you he got hisself killed by person or persons unknown?"
Tommy K. snitched Knox to Narco--Dan Wilhite told Junior. "I remember."
"Then you should remember I tol' you ol' Wardell was a cunthound with a million fuckin' enemies. He was fuckin' a million different ladies, includin' this high-yellow cooze Tilly Hopewell that I was also climbin'. Mr. Klein, I heard them Mr. Smith boys been lookin' for me on account of some bogus rumor that I snuffed fuckin' Wardell, and it looks to me like they be measurin' me for a quick statistic. Now you want skinny on the fuckin' Kafesjians and their fuckin' known associates, so I got a real kneeslapper for you, which is that I just recently heard that crazy Tommy Kafesjian popped ol' Wardell roun' September, some kind of fuckin' dope or sex grievance, 'cause he was also climbin' that fine Tilly Hopewell on occasion."
Breathless/heaving.
"Look, I'll talk to Breuning and Carlisle. They'll lay off you."
"Yeah, maybe thas' true, 'cause ol' slumlord Dave Klein knows the right people. But Mr. Smith, he hates the colored man. An' I don' see you people pinnin' the Wardell Knox job on Tommy the K., your righteous motherfuckin' informant."
"So do you want to change the world or waltz on this thing?"
"I wants you to give me an extra month's free rent for all the fine skinny I gots on the fuckin' Kafesjian family."
"Harbor Lights" snapped on again. Lester: "And on that note, I heard the daughter's a righteous semipro hooker. I heard Tommy and J.C. beat up Mama Kafesjian and her like batting practice. I heard Madge--that's Mama--used to have a thing goin' with Abe Voldrich, he's this head guy in their dope operation, an' he runs one of their dry-cleaning joints on the side. I heard Voldrich dries up big bushels of mary jane in them big dryers they got at their plants. I heard the way they keep things copacetic with rival pushers is kickbacks from little Mickey Mouse independents that they tolerates, but no righteous organizations would ever try to infringe on the Southside, 'cause they knows the LAPD would come down hard just to keep them Armenian fucks happy. I heard the only humps they snitch to you people is the indies who won't kick back no operatin' tribute. I heard the family is fuckin' skin tight, even though they don't treat each other with so much fuckin' respect. I heard that outside of Voldrich an' this colored trim Tommy the K. goes for, the family only gots employees and customers, not no fuckin' friends. I heard Tommy used to be pals with some white kid named Richie, I don't know no last name, but I heard they blew these punk square horns together, like they pretended they had talent. That crazy-ass burglary you told me about-- them chopped-up watchdogs an' stolen silverware an' shit--l heard jackshit 'bout that. I also heard you thinkin' 'bout raisin' the rent in my buildin', so I--"
Cut him off: "What about Tommy fucking Lucille?"
"Say what? I didn' hear nothin' like that. I said 'skin tight,' not fuckin' skin deep."
"What about this Richie guy?"
"Shit, I tol' you what I heard, no more, no less. You want me-"
"Keep asking around about him. He might connect to this peeper guy I've been chasing."
"Yeah, you mentioned that Peepin' Tom motherfucker, an' I knows how to improvise off what a man tells me. So I been askin' aroun' 'bout that, an' I ain't heard nothin'. Now, 'bout that rent increase-"
"Ask around if the Kafesjians have been looking for a peeper themselves. I have a hunch that they know who the burglar is."
"An' I got a hunch slumlord Dave Klein gonna raise my rent."
"No, and I'll carry you to January. If Jack Woods comes around to collect, call me."
"What about Mr. Smith's boys in hot pursuit of ol' Lester?"
"I'll take care of it. Do you know Tilly Hopewell's address?"
"Can my people dance? Have I strapped on at that love shack more than a few times myself?"
"Lester--"
"8491 South Trinity, apartment 406. Say, where you goin'?"
"The fights."
"Moore and Ruiz?"
"That's right."
"Bet on the Mex. I used to climb Stevie Moore's sister, an' she tol' me Stevie couldn't take it to the breadbasket."
o o o
I badged in ringside--late.
The sixth-round break-card girls strutting. Spectator chants: "Dodgers, no! Ruiz must go!" Boos, shouts: pachucos vs. Commies.
The bell--
Rockabye Reuben circling; Moore popping right-hand leads. Mid-ring clinch--Ruiz loose, the spook winded.
"Break! Break!"--the ref in and out.
Moore stalking slow--elbows up, open downstairs. Headhunter Reuben--near-miss hooks moving back.
Lazy Reuben, bored Reuben.
A snap guess: tank job.
Moore-no steam, no juice. Ruiz--lazy hooks, lazy right-hand leads.
Moore swarming and sucking in air; Reuben eating blockable shots-- the coon wide open.
Ruiz--a lazy left hook.
Moore catching wind, his guard low.
Bullseye--the wrong man went down.
Pachuco cheers.
Pinko boos.
Reuben--this oh-fuck look--stalling the count. Dawdle time--he oozed over to a neutral corner slow.
Six, seven, eight--Moore up, wobbly.
Ruiz dawdling center ring. Moore backing up--shot to shit. Bomb range, Reuben bombs--wild misses. Ten, twelve, fourteen--real air whizzers.
Ruiz fake-gasping; fake-weary arms flopping dead.
Moore threw a bolo shot.
Rockabye Reuben staggered.
Moore-left/right bolos.
Reuben hit the canvas--eyes rolling, fake out. Seven, eight, nine, ten-- Moore kissed Sammy Davis, Jr., at ringside.
Bleacher attack--get the Reds--spics tossing piss-filled beer cups. Placard shields--no help--the pachucos moved in swinging bike chains.
I hit an exit--coffee down the block, let things chill. Twenty minutes, back over--shitloads of prowl cars and Commies shackled up.
Back in--follow the liniment stench. Dressing rooms, Ruiz alone-- wolfing a taco plate.
"Bravo, Reuben. The best tank job I've ever seen."
"Hey, and the riot wasn't so bad neither. Hey, Lieutenant, what did those back-pedal hooks tell you?"
I shut the door--noise down the hall--newsmen and Moore. "That you know how to entertain the chosen few."
Chugging beer: "I hope Hogan Kid Bassey saw the fight, 'cause the deal was Moore gets the bantam elimination shot and I move up to the feathers and fight him. I'll kick his ass, too. Hey, Lieutenant, we ain't talked since that night Sanderline jumped."
"Call me Dave.
"
"Hey, Lieutenant, a nigger and a Mexican jump out a six-story window the same time. Who hits the ground first?"
"I've heard it, but tell me anyway."
"The nigger, 'cause the Mexican's got to stop on the way down and spray '_Ramón y Kiki por vida_' on the wall."
Ha, ha--polite.
"So, Lieutenant, I know you saw Will Shipstad watchdogging me at the ravine. Let me reassure you and Mr. Gallaudet that I'm grateful for this what you call public-relations gig you got me, 'specially since it got my goddamn brother off another GTA bounce. So, yeah, I'm a Fed witness again, but Noonan just wants me to testify on some stale-bread bookie stuff, and I'd never snitch Mickey C. or your buddy Jack Woods."
"I always figured you knew how to play."
"You mean play to the chosen few?"
"Yeah. Business is business, so you fuck your own people to get next to the DA."
Smiling nice: "I got a trouble-prone family, so I gotta figure they're more important than Mexicans in general. Hey, I kiss a little ass, so that what you call them--slumlords?--like you and your sister can stay fat. You know, _Dave_, the fuckin' Bureau of Land and Way's been checking out these dumps in Lynwood. There's supposed to be some what you call converted whorehouse that these hard boys want to dump my poor evicted _hermanos_ into, so maybe you and your goddamn slumlord sister can buy in on the ground floor."
Brains--fuck his bravado. "You know a lot about me."
"Hey, Dave 'the Enforcer' Klein, people talk about you."
Change-up: "Is Johnny Duhamel queer?"
"Are you nuts? He is the snatch hound to end all snatch hounds."
"Seen him lately?"
"We keep in touch. Why?"
"Just checking up. He's on the Hurwitz fur case, and it's a big assignment for an inexperienced officer. Has he talked to you about it?"
Head shakes--half-ass wary. "No. Mostly he talks about this Mobster Squad job he's got."
"Anything specific?"
"No, he said he's not supposed to talk about it. Hey, why you pumping me?"
"Why did you look so sad all of a sudden?"
Hooks, jabs--air whizzed. "I saw Johnny maybe a week ago. He said he'd been doing this bad stuff. He didn't, how you say, elaborate, but he said he needed a penance beating. We put on gloves, and he let me punch him around. I remember he had these what you call blisters on his hands."
Rubber-hose work--Johnny probably hates it. "Remember Sergeant Stemmons, Reuben?"
"Sure, your partner at the hotel. Nice haircut, but a punk if you ask me."
"Have you seen him?"
"No."
"Has Johnny mentioned him to you?"
"No. Hey, what's this Johnny routine?"
I smiled. "Just routine."
"Sure, subtle guy. Hey, what do you get when you cross a Mexican and a nigger?"
"I don't know."
"A thief who's too lazy to steal!"
"That's a riot."
Fondling a Schlitz: "You ain't laughing so hard, and I can tell you're thinking: at the ravine Rockabye Reuben said we should talk."
"So talk."
Pure pachuco--he bit off the bottle cap and guzzled. "I heard Noonan talking to Will Shipstad about you. He hates you like a goddamn dog. He thinks you pushed Johnson out the window and fucked up some guy named Morton Diskant. He tried to get me to say I heard you toss Johnson, and he said he's gonna take you down."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Forensics--at my living room desk.
Dust the magazines, tape rig, spools--smudges and four identical latents. I rolled my own prints to compare--it confirmed my own fumble-hand fuck-up.
The phone rang--
"Yes?"
"Ray Pinker, Dave."
"You're finished?"
"Finished is right. First, no viable suspect latents, and we dusted every touch surface in both rooms. We took elimination sets off the clerk, who's also the owner, the janitor and the chambermaid, all Negroes. We got _their_ prints in the rooms and nothing else."
"Fuck."
"Succinctly put. We also bagged the male clothing and tested some semen-stained shorts. It's O positive again, with the same cell breakdown--your burglar or whatever is quite a motel hopper."
"Shit."
"Succinct, but we had better luck on the sketch reconstruction. The clerk and the artist worked up a portrait, and it's waiting for you at the Bureau. Now--"
"What about mug shots? Did you tell the clerk we'll need him for a viewing?"
Ray sighed--half pissed. "Dave, the man took off for Fresno. He implied that your behavior disturbed him. I offered him an LAPD reimbursement for the door you shot out, but he said it wouldn't cover the aggravation. He also said don't go looking for him, because he is gone, no forwarding. I didn't press for him to stay, because he said he'd complain about that door you destroyed."
"Shit. Ray, did you check--"
"Dave, I'm way ahead of you. I asked the other employees if they had seen the tenant of that room. They both said no, and I believed them."
Shit. Fuck.
Half pouty: "Lots of trouble for a one-shot 459, Dave."
"Yeah, just don't ask me why."
_Click_--my ear stung.
Go, keep dusting:
Smudges off the album covers--grooved records themselves wouldn't take prints. Champ Dineen on my hi-fi: _Sooo Slow Moods, The Champ Plays the Duke_.
Background music--I skimmed Transom.
Piano/sax/bass--soft. Cheesecake pix, innuendo: blond siren M.M. craves she-man R.H.--she'll do anything to turn him around. Nympho J.M.--gigantically endowed--seeks double-digit males at Easton's Gym. Ten inches and up, please--J.M. packs a ruler to make sure. Recent conquests: B-movie hulk F.T; gagster M.B.; laconic cowboy star G.C.
Breathy sax, heartbeat bass.
Stories--traveling-salesman gems. Pix: big-tit slatterns drooping out of lingerie. Piano trills--gorgeous.
One issue down, Dineen percolating. _Transom_, June '58:
M.M. and baseball M.M. hot--her J.D.M. torch pushed her toward hitters. The swank Plaza Hotel--ten-day/ten-night homestand.
Alto sax riffs--Glenda/Lucille/Meg, swirling.
Ads: dick enlargers, home law school. "Mood Indigo" a Ia Dineen--low brass.
A daddy/daughter story--a straight-dialogue intro. Photos: this skank brunette, bikini-clad.
"Well .. . you look like my daddy."
"Look? Well, yeah, I'm old enough. I guess a game is a game, right? I can be the daddy because I fit the part."
"Well, like the song says, 'My heart belongs to Daddy.'"
Skim the text:
Orphan Loretta lusts for a daddy. The evil Terry deflowered her--she crawls for him, she hates it. She sells herself to older men--a preacher kills her. Accompanying pix: the skank sash-cord-strangled.
Champ Dineen roaring--think it through:
Loretta equals Lucille; Terry equals Tommy. "Orphan" Loretta--non sequitur. Lucille lusts for Daddy J.C.--hard to buy her hot for that greasy shitbird.
Call the dialogue voyeured.
Call the peeper "author."
_Transom_, July '58--strictly movie-star raunch. Check the masthead--a Valley address--hit it tomorrow.
The phone rang--cut the volume--catch it.
"Glen--"
"Yes. Are you psychic or just hoping?"
"I don't know, maybe both. Look, I'll come up to the set."
"No. Sid Frizell's shooting some night scenes."
"We'll go to a hotel. We can't use your place or my place--it's too risky."
_That_ laugh. "I read it in the _Times_ today. Howard Hughes and his entourage left for Chicago for some Defense Department meeting. David, the Hollywood Hills 'actress domicile' is available, and I have a key."
Past midnight--call it safe. "Half an hour?"
"Yes. Miss you."
I put the phone down and cranked the volume. Ellington/Dineen-- "Cottontail." Memory lane--'42--the Marine Corps. Meg--that tune-- dancing at th
e El Cortez Sky Room.
Raw now--sixteen years gone bad. The phone right there--do it.
"Hello?"
"I'm glad I got you, but I figured you'd be out after Stemmons."
"I had to get some sleep. Look, slavedriver--"
"Kill him, Jack."
"Okay by me. Ten?"
"Ten. Clip him and buy me some time."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The hills--a big Spanish off Mulholland.
Lights on, Glenda's car out front. Twenty-odd rooms-- fuck pad supreme.
I parked, beams on a '55 Chevy. Bad familiar: Harold John Miciak's.
Be sure, tweak the high beams--Hughes Aircraft decals on the back fender.
Late-night quiet--big dark houses, just one lit.
I got out and listened. Voices--his, hers--muffled low.
Up, try the front door--locked. Voices--his edgy, hers calm. Circuit the house, listen:
Miciak:"... you could do worse. Look, you come across for me, you pretend it's Klein. I seen him come see you in Griffith Park, and as far as that goes, you can still give it to him--I'm not possessive and I got no partners. Mr. Hughes, he's never gonna know, just you come across for me and get that money I want from Klein. I know he's got it, 'cause he's connected with some mob guys. Mr. Hughes, he told me so hisself."
Glenda: "How do I know there's just you?"
Miciak:" 'Cause Harold John's the only daddy-o in L.A. man enough to mess with Mr. Hughes and this cop who thinks he's so tough."
Around to the dining room window. Curtain gaps--look:
Glenda edging backward; Miciak pressing up, grinding his hips.
Slow walking--both of them--a knife rack behind Glenda.
I tried the window--no give.
Glenda: "How do I know there's just you?"
Glenda: one hand reaching back, one hand out come hither.
Glenda: "I think we'd be good together."
Around the back, a side door--I shoulder-popped it and ran in.
The hallway, the kitchen, there--
A clinch: his hands groping, hers grabbing knives.
Slow-motion numb--I _couldn't_ move. Shock-still frozen, look:
Knives down--in his back, in his neck--twisted in hilt-deep. Bone cracks--Glenda dug in--two hands blood-wet. Miciak thrashing AT HER--
Two more knives snagged--Glenda stabbing blind.
