by James Ellroy
Eerie--_no_ Narco men. Odd--no Dudley.
Exley at the mike: "The chief and I view this 'investigation' as conceived for political gain. Federal agents are not city policemen and certainly not conversant with the realities of maintaining order in Negro-inhabited sectors. Welles Noonan wishes to discredit both the Department and our colleague Mr. Gallaudet, and Chief Parker and I have agreed on measures to limit his success. I will be briefing each of you division heads individually, but before I commence I'll hit some key points you should all be aware of."
I yawned--bed-bruised, exhausted. Exley: "Division commanders should tell their men, both plainclothes and uniform: muscle and/or palm your informants and tell them not to cooperate with any Federal agents they might encounter. Along those lines, I want Southside club and bar owners visited. 'Visited' is a euphemism, gentlemen. 'Visited' means that the station COs at Newton, University and 77th Street should send intimidating plainclothesmen around to tell the owners that since we overlook certain infractions of theirs, they should overlook speaking candidly to the Feds. The Central Vagrant Squad will follow a parallel line: they will round up local derelicts to insure their silence vis-à-vis enforcement measures that quasi-liberals like Noonan might consider overzealous. The 77th Squad is to politely muscle white swells out of the area--we want no well-connected people federally entrapped. Robbery and Homicide Division detectives are currently sifting through recent Negro-on-Negro unsolved homicides, with an eye toward presenting indictment-ready evidence to Mr. Gallaudet--we want to counter Noonan's charge that we let colored 187s lie doggo. And finally, I think it's safe to say that the Feds might raid the slot and vending-machine locations controlled by Mickey Cohen. We will let them do this, and we will let Cohen take the fall. Central Vice has destroyed all the coin-hardware complaints that we've ignored, and we can always say that we didn't know those machines existed."
Implied: Mickey didn't yank his Southside coin. Warn him--again-- tell Jack Woods to pull his Niggertown book.
Parker walked out; Exley coughed--crypto-embarrassed. "The chief has never liked white women fraternizing with Negroes, and he's hardnosed the club owners down there who encourage it. Sergeant Breuning, Sergeant Carlisle--you men make sure that those club owners don't talk to the Feds."
Smirks--Dudley's boys loved strongarm. Exley: "That's all for now. Gentlemen, please wait outside my office, I'll be down to brief you individually. Lieutenant Klein, please remain seated."
Gavel bangs--meeting adjourned. A big exit; Gallaudet slipped me a note.
Exley walked over. Brusque: "I want you to stay on the Kafesjian burglary. I'm thinking of stepping it up, and I want a detailed report on the trick sweep."
"Why wasn't Narco represented at this meeting?"
"Don't question my measures."
"One last time: the Kafesjians are prime Fed meat. They're twenty years dirty with the Department. Rattling their cage is suicidal."
"One last time: don't question my motives. One last time: you and Sergeant Stemmons stay on the case full priority."
"Was there any specific reason why you wanted Stemmons on this job?"
"No, he just seemed like the logical choice."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning he works closely with you at Ad Vice, and he had excellent ratings as an evidence teacher."
Deadpan--a tough read. "I can't believe this personal-involvement routine. Not from you."
"Make it personal yourself."
Tight reins-don't laugh. "It's getting there."
"Good. Now what about the family's known associates?"
"I've got my best snitch looking into it. I spoke to a man named Abe Voldrich, but I don't think he knows anything about the burglary."
"He's a longtime Kafesjlan KA. Maybe he has some family background information."
"Yeah, but what do you want--a burglary suspect or family dirt?"
No retort--he walked. I checked Gallaudet's note:
Dave--
I understand your need to protect certain friends of yours who have Southside business dealings, and I think Chief Exley's fix on the Kafesjians is a bit untoward. Please do what you can to protect the LAPD's Southside interests, especially in light of this damn Fed probe. And please, without telling Chief Exley, periodically update me on the Kafesjian investigation.
_______________________________________
Four days--chase evidence, get chased back. Sprint, get chased harder-- pictures I couldn't outrun.
I told Mickey to pull his machines--he shrugged the whole Fed business off Shit-for-brains Mickey--Jack Woods yanked his biz in record time. Chase Exley with paper: Kafesjian 459 PC, record detail. Covered: the peeper tape and Q&A--those two Lucille tricks.
Exley said keep going Small talk: how's Stemmons handling the job?
I said just fine. Mental pictures: beefcake Johnny Duhamel, lipstick on cigarette butts.
Exley said keep going; I fed Bob Gallaudet information on the sly. Politics: he didn't want Welles Noonan reaping juice off the Kafesjians.
Chase, watch for chasers. No tails--near-crack-ups making sure. Exley/ Hughes/Narco/the Feds: potential chasers, big resources.
Chasing evidence:
I staked the Red Arrow Inn--no Lucille, no peeper suspects. I checked 77th: no peeper FI cards found. Tn-State MO checks: zero. Lester Lake said scoop soon--"maybe." Chasing secrets, chasing pictures--
Solo trick rousts--no new Lucille kickers confirmed. Western and Adams, points south--pressing for stories--I stayed high-octane juiced on that family.
Like Exley.
Call it lawyer style:
Disturbing the Kafesjians with a Federal narcotics probe in progress is certifiably insane. Edmund Exley is a certifiably brilliant detective with nationally recognized leadership skills. Narco was not present at Exley's Fed probe briefing. Narco is the most autonomous LAPD division. Narco and the Kafesjian family go back autonomously twenty-odd years. Exley knows that the Fed probe will succeed. Exley wants the probe diverted from the rankand-file LAPD. Exley knows that heads must roll. Exley has convinced Chief Parker that the least damaging most judicious move is to sacrifice Narco to the Feds--they can be portrayed as rogue cops autonomously run amok without severely damaging the overall prestige of the Department.
I didn't quite buy it--his hard-on for that family played too ugly.
Like mine, like Junior's.
George Stemmons II--my worst pictures.
I chased him four days-call him plain gone. Ad Vice: straight no-shows. The pad I trashed: locked tight Darktown: no. His father's house: no. Fern Dell: no. Fag bars: no, he didn't have the guts to go that blatant. Longshot-- Johnny Duhamel--_his_ known haunts.
Personnel shot me his address. I checked it three days/nights running--no Johnny, no Junior. No way to catch Duhamel on duty--I couldn't tip Dudley Smith. An instinct said Junior's crush ran unrequited-- Blond and Gorgeous didn 't play fruit Possible approach: Reuben Ruiz, Johnny's pal. Gallaudet turned him: front man set to oil the spics out of Chavez Ravine.
I fed Bob a snow job: Ruiz knew a guy I needed to lean on. Gallaudet: he's in training somewhere, check the Ravine in a few days--he'll be there working the crowd.
Tapped out
Clay pigeon:
Junior nails Glenda dead--for Murder One. A nigger pimp victim-- Gallaudet might not seek an indictment But: Howard Hughes snaps his fingers; Gas Chamber Bob jumps. Snap--pick the judge, stack the jury--Glenda green-room bound. Accessory charges pending: on me.
The upshot:
Neutralize Junior. Hush up his Kafesjian dealings--if Exley tumbles, he'll rat Glenda to buy out My buyout--Duhamel--feed him to Dudley, the peak moment, work for Exley--Junior/Glenda insurance.
I paid Jack Woods two grand: _find me Junior Stemmens_. My skip trace-- HER--a movie-set trailer late nights.
Miciak kept quiet--we both made his tail strictly freelance. I wrote Milteer fake reports--Glenda fed me fake details. The set--Mickey's wino crew passed out We t
alked low, made love and danced around IT
I never said I knew; she never pressed me. Biographies, gaps: I hid Meg, she bypassed whoring
I never said I kill people. I never said Lucille K made me a voyeur.
She said I used people up.
She said I only bet on rigged games.
She said ranking cop/lawyer put some distance on white trash.
She said I never got burned.
I said three out of four--not bad.
_______________________________________
PART THREE
DARKTOWN RED
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dirt roads, shacks. Hills trapping smog--Chavez Ravine.
Swamped--I parked long-distance and scanned it:
Geeks waving placards. Newsmen, bluesuits. Commie types chanting: "Justice, si! Dodgers, no!"
Friendly throngs--eyes on Reuben Ruiz, gladhander. Sheriff's bulls, Agent Will Shipstad.
Ruiz--Fed witness?
I jogged into it--"Hey, hey! No, no! Don't drive us back to Mexico!" Badge out--blues eased me through.
Heckier hubbub:
Ruiz, fighting tonight--be there to cheer his opponent. The fascist Bureau of Land and Way: plans to relocate the spics to Lynwood slum pads. "Hey, hey! No, no! Justice, sI! Dodgers, no!"
Ruiz blasting bullhorn Spanish:
Move out early! Your relocation dough means Easy Street! New homes soon available! Enjoy the new Dodger Stadium YOU helped create!
Noise war--Reuben's bullhorn won. Deputies tossed tickets--spics genuflected, grabbed. I snatched one: Ruiz vs. Stevie Moore, Olympic Auditorium.
Chants, jabber--Ruiz saw me and bucked fans.
I shoved close. Reuben cupped a shout: "We should yak! Say my dressing room after my bout?"
I nodded yes--"Scum! Dodger pawn!"--no way to talk.
o o o
A quick run--the Bureau, my office.
A message from Lester Lake--meet me 8:00 tonight--Moonglow Lounge. Exley skirted Ad Vice-I gestured him over.
"I had a few questions."
"Ask them, as long as they're not 'What do you want?'"
"Let's try 'Why just two men on a case you're so hot to clear?'"
"No. Next question, and don't ask" 'Why me?'"
"Let's try 'What's in it for me?'
Exley smiled. "If you clear the case I'll exercise a rarely used chief of detective's prerogative and jump you to captain without a civil-service listing. I'll rotate Dudley Smith into Ad Vice and give you the Robbery Division command."
Jig heaven--don't swoon.
"Is something wrong, Lieutenant? I would have expected you to express your gratitude."
"Thanks, Ed. That's a dandy carrot you just dangled."
"Given what you are, I'd say it is. Now I'm busy, so ask your next question."
"Lucille Kafesjian's the key to this thing. I've got a hunch that the family knows damn well who the burglar is, and I want to bring her in for questioning."
"No, not yet."
Change-up: "Give me the Hurwitz fur job. Take it away from Dudley."
"No, and no emphatically, and don't ask me again. Now, let's wrap this up."
"Okay, then let me lean on Tommy Kafesjian."
"Explain 'lean on,' Lieutenant."
"_Lean on. Muscle_. I fuck Tommy up, he tells us what we want to know. You know, outré police methods, like the time you shot those unarmed niggers."
"No direct approach on the family. Other than that, you have carte blanche."
o o o
Carte blanche shitwork, overdue: big tucking distractions.
Simple:
Lucille pix/tape rig/motel list--haul them southbound and ask questions:
Have you rented to her?
Has a man requested a room adjoining hers?
Have wino/bums rented rooms here by proxy?
Bad odds--call the Red Arrow her sole trick pad.
Southbound--Central Avenue all the way. Police intrigue, big-time:
IA cars trailing Fed cars--discreet. Bum rousts--Vag cops spread thick. Prostie wagons prowling for whores.
Feds:
License-plate checks outside bars and nightclubs.
Kibitzing a sidewalk crap game.
Staking out a swanky coon whorehouse.
Crew-cut gray suit Feds Darktown rife.
I stopped at 77th Street Station and borrowed a tape rig. Sweat box row was packed: jig-on-jig 187 "clearance." Feds outside with cameras-- snapping cop IDs.
Shitwork now:
Tick Tock Motel, Lucky Time Motel--no to all my questions. Darnell's Motel, De Luxe Motel--straight nos. Handsome Dan's Motel, Cyril's Lodge--No City. Hibiscus Inn, Purple Roof Lodge--NO.
Nat's Nest--81st and Normandie. "Kleen Rooms Always"--brace the clerk.
"Yessir, I know this girl. She's a short-timer rental, an' she always ask for the same room."
I gripped the counter. "Is she registered now?"
"Nosir, an' not for maybe six, seven days."
"Do you know what she uses the room for?"
"Nosir. My motto is 'See no evil, hear no evil,' an' I adheres to that policy 'cept when they be makin' too much noise doin' whatever it is they be doin'."
"Does the girl ask for a front room with a street view?"
Shocked: "Yessir. How you know that?"
"Have you rented the room next to hers to a young white man? Did a bum request that particular room and register for him?"
Shut-my-mouth shocked--he dipped behind the counter and pulled out a rent card. "See, 'John Smith,' which in my opinion be an alias. See, he gots two days left on his rent. He am' in right now, I seen him leave this morn--"
"_Show me those rooms_."
He beelined outside, fumbling keys. Two doors opened quick--good and cop scared.
Separate bungalows--no connecting door.
I caught up. Easy now--frost him with a ten spot. "Watch the street. If that white guy shows up, stall him. Tell him you've got a plumber in his room, then come and get me."
"Yessir, yessir"--genuflecting streetside--
Two doors--no mutual access. Side windows--the peeper could WATCH her. Hedges below, a loose-stone walk path.
Look:
A wire out HIS window.
Into HIS hedge, out, under the stones.
I grabbed it and pulled--
Stones flew--the wire jerked taut. Into HER room--under the carpet, yank--a spacklecovered mike snapped off the wall.
Walk the cord back:
HIS window--jam the ledge up-step in. Pull--thunk--a tape machine under the bed.
Empty reels.
Back outside, check the doors--no pry marks. Figure HE went in HER window.
I shut both doors and tossed HIS room.
The closet:
Soiled clothes, empty suitcase, record player.
The dresser: skivvies, jazz albums--Champ Dineen, Art Pepper. Title matchers--Tommy K.'s smashed wax duplicated.
The bathroom:
Razor, shaving cream, shampoo.
Pull the rug:
Girlie mags--_Transom_--three issues. Cheesecake, text: movie-star "confessions."
No tape.
Dump the mattress, punch the pillow--a hard spot--tear, rip--
One tape spool--rig it up for a listen fast--
Nerves--I fumbled the goods, smeared potential prints. Spastic-handed--loop the tape/push Start.
Rustles, coughs. I shut my eyes and imagined it: lovers in bed.
Lucille: "You don't get tired of these games?"
Unknown Man: "Hand me a cigarette"--pause--"No, I don't tire of them. You certainly know how to-"
Sobs--distant--motel room walls shutting my man out.
Trick Man: "... and you know that father-daughter games have staying power. Really, given our age variance, it's quite a natural bed game to play."
A cultured voice-Tommy/J.C. antithetical.
Sobs, louder.
Lucille: "These places are filled with losers and lo
nesome creeps."
No hink/no recognition/no surveillance fear.
_Click_--figure a radio--"... chanson d'amour, ratta-tat-tatta, play encore." Blurred voices, _click_, Trick Man: "... of course, there was always that little dose you gave me."
"Dose": clap/syph?
I checked the reels--tape running out.
Sleepy voices jumbled--_more than a trick stand_. I shut my eyes-- please, one more game.
Silent tape hiss--sleepy lovers. Hinge creak/"God!"--too close, too real--NOW Eyes open--a white man standing by the door.
Fucked up blurry vision--I drew down, aimed, fired. Two shots--the doorjamb splintered; one more-wood scraps exploding.
The man ran.
I ran out aiming.
Screams, shouts.
Zigzags--my man bucking traffic. I fired running--two shots went wide. Aiming straight--a clear shot--this jolt: if you kill him, you won't know WHY?
Bolting traffic, sighting in on this white head bobbing. Horns, brakes--black faces on the sidewalk, my white speck disappearing.
I tripped, stumbled, ran. Losing him--black all around me.
Shouts.
Black faces scared.
My reflection in a window: this terrified geek.
I slowed down. Another window--black faces--follow their eyes:
A curbside roust--Feds and niggers. Welles Noonan, Will Shipstad, FBI muscle.
Grabbed, shoved--pinned to a doorway. Rabbit-punched--I dropped my piece.
Pinned--gray suit Fed gorillas. Welles Noonan sucker-punched me: spit in my face. His punch line: "That's for Sanderline Johnson."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Moonglow--early for Lester. Jukebox tunes killed time.
Noonan, backed by music--replays still smelling his spittle:
Those Feds--cut-rate revenge. Back to Nat's Nest--prowl cars responding to shots. I chased them off and bagged evidence: records, skin mags, tape rig, tape.
Calls next:
Orders to Ray Pinker: dust both rooms, bring a sketch man--make the clerk face-detail the peeper. Mugshot checks later--pray for good eyes.