by James Ellroy
Smart Noonan--shit draws flies.
4:00--Tommy sax-honks--my cue to leave. My own music juicing me--I was closing in on SOMETHING.
o o o
Early dusk--clouds, rain. A phone booth stop-Bob out, Riegle in. Bum station check news--no suicides clicked in PEEPER'S MOTHER.
Up to the set--hard rain--no shooting in progress. Luck: her trailer light on. A sprint--in the door dodging puddles.
Glenda was smoking, distracted. Sprawled on the bed--no rush to touch me.
Easy guess: "Miciak?"
She nodded. "Bradley Milteer came by. Apparently he and Herman Gerstein know each other independent of his work for Hughes. He told Herman that Miciak's body and car were found, and that all of Hughes' contract players were going to be discreetly questioned. Mickey overheard him tell Herman that detectives from the Malibu Sheriff's Station would be by to talk to me."
"That's all you heard?"
"No. Mickey said the Sheriff's are keeping their investigation under wraps to avoid embarrassing Howard."
"Did he mention the Hollywood Division LAPD? A killer named the Wino WiIl-o-the-Wisp?"
Glenda blew smoke rings. "No. I thought--I mean we thought Hughes would just push this under the table."
"No, we _wished_ it. And there's no evidence that Miciak was killed at..."
"At the _fuck pad_ where Howard Hughes used to _fuck_ me and the man I killed wanted to _fuck_ me?"
Stop her/make her think. "You bought it, and now you're paying for it. Now you act your way out."
"Direct me. Tell me something to make it easy."
_Touch me, tell me things_.
"You say you were home alone that night. You don't flirt with the officers or try to charm them. You subtly drop that Hughes is a lech and you can spill the goods on it. You reach for whatever it is that you won't tell me about that gave you the stones to. . . oh shit, Glenda."
"Okay"--just like that--"Okay."
I kissed her-dripping wet. "Is there a phone I can use?"
"Outside Mickey's trailer. You know, if I could cry on cue, I would."
"Don't, please."
"You're leaving?"
"I have to meet a man."
"Later, then?"
"Yeah, I'll come by your place."
"I won't expect much. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
o o o
Raining buckets--I ducked under Mickey's trailer awning. The phone worked--I dialed Gallaudet's private line.
He picked up himself. "Hello?"
"It's me, Bob."
"Dave, hi, and quid pro quo fulfilled. Are you listening?"
"Shoot."
"John Gerald Duhamel, age twenty-five. As far as IA personal files go, not much--I checked a few others for a comparison."
"And?"
"And aside from the interesting combination of a cum laude engineering degree and an amateur boxing career, not much of note."
"Family?"
"An only child. His parents were supposedly rich, but died in a plane crash and left the kid broke while he was still in college, and under known associates we've got the somewhat dicey Reuben Ruiz and his stickyfingered brothers, but of course Reuben's on our side now. The kid apparently has an undiscriminating appetite for poontang, which I did myself when I was twenty-five. There were unsubstantiated rumors that he tanked his one and only pro fight, and that's all the news that's fit to print."
No bells rang. "Thanks, Bob."
"I'll never high-hat you, son--I remember those crib sheets too well."
"Thanks."
"Take care, son."
I hung up, took a breath, ran--
"Dave! Over here!"
Lightning glow lit up the voice--Chick Vecchio under a tarp hang. Bums behind him, sucking T-Bird.
I dashed over--time to kill.
Chick: "Mickey's at home today."
Glenda--fifty-fifty he knew. "I should have known. Fuck, this rain."
"The _Herald_ said two inches. The _Herald_ also said that kid partner of yours had a heart attack. Why don't I believe the _Herald?_"
"Because your kid brother told you my kid partner shook him down in Fern Dell Park."
"Yeah, and I don't feature twenty-nine-year-old extortionist cops having heart attacks."
"Chick, _come on_."
"All right, all right. Touch told me he told you about him and Stemmons in Fern Dell, but there's something he didn't tell you."
Preempt him: "You, Touch and Pete Bondurant are planning your own shakedown gig. It's sex, and it's cough up or _Hush-Hush_ gets the pictures. Stemmons got it out of Touch, so now you're afraid that _we_ know."
"Hey, _you_ know."
I lied: "Stemmons told me. The regular Bureau doesn't have a clue, and if they knew they'd bury it to protect the kid's reputation. Your gig's covered."
"Copacetic, but I still don't feature no heart attack."
"Off the record?"
"Uh-huh, and on the QT, like _Hush-Hush_."
I cupped a whisper. "The kid was fucking around with J.C. and Tommy Kafesjian. He was popping H, and he OD'd or took a hotshot. It's a toilet job, and it's headed for a whitewash."
Chick cupped a whisper. "Feature the K. boys are not to screw around with."
"Feature I'm starting to think that Ed Exley's going to take those humps down two seconds after the Fed heat peters out."
"Which may be a while, the way things are looking."
Wind, rain. "Chick, what's with Mickey? I saw some new guys moving slots out of the Rick Rack, with Feds right across the street taking pictures."
Chick shrugged. "Mickey's Mickey. He's this hebe hardhead you can't talk sense to half the time."
"The whole thing played funny. A couple of the slot guys were Mex, and Mickey never hires spics. I tipped him on the Feds early on, but he still won't pull his metal."
"Touch and me are staying out of all this Southside business. It sounds to me like Mickey's hiring freelance."
Winos pissing on the spaceship. "Yeah, and maybe cut-rate, like your crew here. Does he need money that bad? I know he's buffered, but sooner or later the Feds will pin those machines on him."
"Off the record?"
"Sure."
"Then feature Mickey's paying off a syndicate loan with his slot percentages, so he's got to let the machines linger a bit. I guess he knows it's risky, but he's scuffling."
"Yeah--'He's a scrapper, and scrappers always get results.'"
"I said it and I meant it."
"And he thinks he'll get a district gambling franchise."
"Feature that bill could pass."
"Feature the AG's office under Gas Chamber Bob Gallaudet? Feature him granting _Mickey Cohen_ a franchise?"
Smirking: "Feature I don't think you came here to see Mickey."
Wet ground--the spaceship capsized--bums cheered. "I hope this movie makes money."
"So does Mickey. Hey, where you going?"
"Lynwood."
"Hot date?"
"Yeah, with a pretty-boy strongarm cop."
"I'll tell Touch--he'll be jealous."
Adrenaline-rain peaked it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Lynwood--wind, rain--streets running crisscross and diagonal. Dark--hard to see; Aviation and Hibiscus--that pay phone on the corner.
Tombstone laughs--Jack's call reprised:
"He kicked natural or got snuffed by somebody else? Come on, let me redeem myself. Say Welles Noonan for that same ten?"
Stucco pads--quasi slums; empty bungalow courts. Spindrift--the 4900 block--I skimmed numbers.
24, 38, 74. 4980: a two-deck stucco dive, abandoned.
One light on-downstairs left, the door open.
I walked up.
An empty living room--cobwebs, dusty floor--Schoolboy Johnny standing there calm.
No jacket, empty holster--trust me.
Trust shit--watch his hands.
"Are you grieving for Junior, Johnny?"
"Wh
at do you know about Stemmons and me?"
"I know he made you for the fur heist. I know that other stuff doesn't count."
"Other stuff" made him blink. Ten feet apart--watch his hands.
"He had evidence on you, too. He felt terrible things for certain people, and he collected evidence on them to even things out."
"We can work out a deal. I don't care about the fur job."
"You don't know the half"--eye flickers craaaazy.
Footsteps behind me.
My hands pinned/my mouth cupped--smothered/my sleeves rolled up/stabbed.
o o o
Walking air--tunnel vision--peripheral grass. Tingles/flutters up my groin/toasty warm.
Side doorways, shoes, trouser legs flapping.
Elbow dipped, shoes on concrete, right turn--
A door opened--warm air, light. Mirrored walls, herringbone patterns up close. Somebody stretched me prone.
Light overhead--snowflake blurry.
_Whir, click/click_--cylinder noise, like a camera. Sliding on my knees-- white wax paper under me.
Propped up.
Tape strips on my eyes--slapped sticky blind.
Somebody hit me.
Somebody poked me.
Somebody burned me-hot/cold sizzles on my neck.
Not so tingly/toasty warm--no flutters up my groin.
Somebody pulled the tape off--sticky red blood in my eyes.
Cylinder _click-clicks_.
Propped up on white wax paper. Something in my right hand, heavy and shiny: MY souvenir Jap sword.
Shoved, focused in:
Johnny Duhamel naked, holding MY gun.
Burned: hot/cold--my neck, my hands.
Burned raw--Johnny kneeling, glassy eyes, taunting me.
Burned--steam in my face-Johnny taunting me-blue slant eyes.
Get him, cut him--wild swings, misses.
Johnny weaving--grip down, swing two-handed.
Miss, hit, miss--pale skin ripped, tattoos gouting blood. Hit, rip, rip--an arm gone, socket spray. Johnny jabbering Jap singsong, blue slant eyes--
Miss, miss--Jap Johnny prone, twitching crazy. Sight in--this chest tattoo--split it, split him--
Miss, miss--wax paper shredding.
Hit, jerk down--spine snaps/blade drag/pull--red EVERYWHERE.
Gasping--hard to breathe-blood in my mouth.
Somebody stabbed me--I went tingly/toasty warm/flutters up my groin.
Fading out: flamethrower burns toasty nice, Jap surrender.
o o o
Floating toasty black. _Tick tick_ somewhere--a clock--I counted seconds. Six thousand-drifting off--ten thou four hundred.
Jap zeros gliding, voices:
Meg: Pops never touched me--David, don't hurt him. The peeper: Daddy, Daddy. Lucille: He's _my_ Daddy.
Jap zeros strafing Darktown. _Tick tick_--fourteen thousand odd.
Toasty black.
o o o
Blurry: gray herringbones, shoes.
Wall mirrors topsy-turvy; Jap zeros. I tried to wave--stupid--tapeddown arms wouldn't let me.
A chair--taped in snug.
Projector clicks.
White light, a white screen.
Movie time--Pops and Meg?--don't let him grope her.
I thrashed--futile-sticky tape, no give.
A white screen.
Cut to:
Johnny Duhamel naked.
Cut to:
Dave Klein swinging a sword.
Zooming in--the sword grip: SSGT D.D. Klein USMC Saipan 7/24/43.
Cut to:
Johnny begging--"Please"--mute sound.
Cut to:
Dave Klein thrashing--stabbing, missing.
Cut to:
A severed arm twitching on wax paper.
Cut to:
Dave Klein, gutting motions--Johnny D. coughing entrails.
Cut to:
Lens glass dripping red; a finger flicking spine chips off the surface.
I screamed--
A needle stab cut me off mute.
o o o
Fading in--moving--night--windshield blur.
Niggertown--South Central.
Chest pains, neck pains. Beard stubble, no holster.
Swerving.
Sirens _whoop whoop_.
Burn aches.
Disinfectant stink--somebody washed me.
Where/what/who--Johnny Duhamel begging.
No.
Not for real.
THEY made me do it.
Please--I didn't like it.
Sirens, flames up ahead.
CHAPTER THIRTY
_______________________________________
Fire trucks, prowl cars. Beard stubble--say a day's worth. Smoke, fire--Bido Lito 's flaming skyward.
A roadblock--swing right-- I jumped the curb. Gray suit camera men right there--monsters.
Bumper crunch, this sign.' "Self-Determination Is Yours With the Prophet Muhammed."
Resting now--a nice soft dashboard. Fading out: "That's Klein. Grab him."
_______________________________________
"I think he's got a concussion."
"He looks drugged to me."
"I don't think this is legal."
"It's dicey, but it's legal. We found him blacked out near an arson homicide scene, and he's a major suspect in our overall investigation. Mr. Noonan has a source in the Coroner's Office. He told him that Klein's partner died of a heroin overdose, and just look at this man's condition."
"Jim, for the written record in case this reaches litigation."
"Shoot."
"All right. It's 3:40 A.M., November 19, 1958, and I am Special Agent Willis Shipstad. With me are Special Agents James Henstell and William Milner. We are at the downtown Federal Building with Lieutenant David Klein of the Los Angeles Police Department. Lieutenant Klein was picked up in a stuporous condition one hour ago at 67th Street and Central Avenue in South Los Angeles. He was unconscious and in a disheveled state. We brought him here to assure that he receives proper medical attention."
"That's a riot."
"Jim, strike Bill's comment. Resuming, Lieutenant Klein, whom our Intelligence records indicate to be forty-two years old, has sustained possible head injuries. His hands and neck have been burned, the scarring forensically consistent with burns caused by dry ice. There are bloodstains on his shirt and there is friction tape stuck to his jacket. He is unarmed. We properly parked his 1957 Plymouth police vehicle at the intersection where we found him. Prior to interrogation, Lieutenant Klein will be offered medical attention."
Propped up in a straight-backed chair.
Feds.
"Jim, have this typed and see that Mr. Noonan gets a carbon."
A sweat hole. Will Shipstad, two G-men. A table, chairs, a steno rig.
Shipstad: "He's coming to. Jim, get Mr. Noonan."
One Fed walked. I stretched--kinks and aches head to toe.
Shipstad: "You know me, Lieutenant. We met at the Embassy Hotel."
"I remember."
"This is my partner, Special Agent Milner. Do you know where you are?"
My Jap sword--wide screen/color.
"Do you want to see a doctor?"
"No."
Milner--fat, cheap cologne. "Are you sure? You're looking a little raggedy-ass."
"No."
Shipstad: "Witness that Mr. Klein refused medical attention. What about an attorney? Being one yourself, you know that we have the right to hold you for questioning."
"I waive."
"You're sure?"
Johnny--Jesus God.
"I'm sure."
"Bill, witness that Mr. Klein was offered and refused legal counsel."
"Why am I here?"
Milner: "Look at yourself. The question should be where have you been?"
Shipstad: "We picked you up at 67th and Central. A short time prior to that, the Bido Lito's club was arsoned. We had agents in the vicinity on general surveillance, and one of them
heard a witness talking to LAPD detectives. The witness said he was walking by Bido Lito's shortly after the club closed for the night and saw a broken front window. Seconds later the place caught fire. That certainly sounds like a firebombing to me."
Milner: "Three people died in that fire. So far, we're assuming it was the club's two owners and the cleanup man. Lieutenant, do you know how to concoct a Molotov cocktail?"
Shipstad: "We're not suggesting that _you_ torched Bido Lito's. Frankly, the condition we picked you up in suggests that you were incapable of lighting a cigarette. Lieutenant, look how this appears. Two nights ago, five people were killed at an after-hours club in Watts, and a somewhat reliable source told us that Ed Exley and Bob Gallaudet exerted a great deal of pressure to keep the details under wraps. _Now_, the following morning your colleague Sergeant George Stemmons, Jr., is found dead at Bido Lito's. Chief Exley feeds the press a song and dance about a heart attack, when we've heard that it was most likely a self-inflicted heroin overdose. _Now_, forty-odd hours after _that_, Bido Lito's is torched, and _you_ drive by not long after in a state that indicates narcotic-induced intoxication. Lieutenant, do you see how all this appears?"
Kafesjian setup. Johnny D. gouting blood--
Milner: "Klein, are you with us?"
"Yes."
"Do you routinely use narcotics?"
"No."
"Oh, just occasionally?"
"Never."
"How about submitting to a blood test?"
"How about releasing me on a prima facie evidence writ?"
Milner: "Hey, he went to law school."
Shipstad: "Where were you coming from when we picked you up?"
"I refuse to answer."
Milner: "Sure, on the grounds that it might incriminate you."
"No, on the grounds of nonincriminating information disclosure as detailed in _Indiana v. Harkness, Bodine, et al._, 1943."
"Hey, he went to law school. You got anything to add to that, hotshot?"
"Yeah, you're a fat piece of shit and your wife fucks Rin-Tin-Tin."
