by James Ellroy
"I'm not so sure I buy it."
"So what? Business is business, and Mickey and those Armenians have got lots of stuff going down in Niggertown."
"Something's missing. Mickey doesn't clip people anymore, and he hasn't got ten grand liquid to save his life."
"So it was the Kafesjians direct, or Dan Wilhite through Chick. Look, what do you care who-"
"Wilhite doesn't know Chick personally, I'd bet on it."
My sister's lover--bored. "Look, Chick played on you and me as friends. He said Voldrich could spill to the Feds on you, so did I want to make ten G's and help a buddy out. _Now_, you want to tell me how you made me for the job?"
Links: obscured/hidden/fucked with--
"Dave--"
"The Feds saw a car like yours near Voldrich's place. They didn't get any plate numbers, or you'd have heard from them by now."
"So it was just an educated guess."
"You're the only clip guy I know with a powder-blue car."
"So what about Meg?"
"First you tell me how it stands with you two."
"It stands that she's thinking about leaving her husband and getting a place with me."
"A phone drop? Some crap-game pad?"
"We ruined her for squarejohn guys years ago, so don't act like she doesn't know the score."
That photo-a woman, two killers.
"The Feds have got me by the shorts. I'm going into custody day after tomorrow, and if they try to screw me on my immunity deal Meg might get hurt. I want you to tell her to pull our money out of the bank, and I want you to stash her some place safe until I call you."
"Okay."
"Just 'okay'?"
"Okay, send postcards from wherever the Feds hide you, and I've had a hunch that you were screwed for a couple of weeks now."
That picture--
Jack smiled. "Meg said she's doing this title search for you, and every time you talk on the phone you sound less like a strongarm guy."
"And more like a lawyer?"
"No, more like a guy trying to buy his way out."
"Look after her."
"Write when you can, Counselor."
o o o
A pay-phone call to Homicide. Shit news--no trace on Richie Herrick's Chino file. A message--meet Pete Bondurant--8:00, the Smokehouse, Burbank.
The Vecchio job--looming ugly.
Time to kill. Stone's throw: Silverlake to Griffith Park. I drove up the east road to the Observatory.
Smog clearing, a view: Hollywood, points south. Coin telescopes mounted by the entrance: 180-degree swivels.
Time to kill, pocket change-I aimed one at the set.
Glass blur asphalt, hills. Parked cars, up, over: the spaceship.
Crank the lens, squint--people.
Sid Frizell and Wylie Bullock talking: maybe their standard gore shtick. Blur, twist the lens: winos sleeping in the weeds.
Look:
A trailer door embrace: Touch and Rock Rockwell. Over right: Mickey C. spieling extras. Metal glare--Glenda's trailer, Glenda.
Sitting on the steps, her legs jammed up. Her vampire gown getting ratty--faded, threadbare.
Glass blur, sun streaks. People walking by-dark obstructions. Hard to see, easy to imagine:
Her breath catching low guiding me in.
Sweat matting her hair a shade darker.
Touching her scars--her eyes implicit: horror gave me the will--and I won't tell you how.
Sun spots, eyestrain. Twist the scope--a wino fistfight--pratfalls, gouging.
The lens clicked off--my time was up. My eyes hurt--I closed them and just stood there. Images hit me rapid-fire:
Dave Klein, strikebreaker--teeth on my truncheon.
Dave Klein, bet enforcer--baseball bat work.
Dave Klein, killer--hung over from cordite and blood stench.
Meg Klein, sobbing: "I don't want you to love me that way."
Joan Herrick: "Long history of insanity both our families."
Somebody, please: give me one last chance to know.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
". . . so Mr. Hughes is pissed. Some psycho chopped Harold Miciak, and he was hoping it'd be open and shut, but now the Malibu Sheriff's are thinking it's not that Wino Will-o-the-Wisp guy. They're thinking somebody chopped Miciak and strangled him to make it look like the Wisp, and Miciak's ex-wife is bothering Mr. Hughes to put private eyes on the job like he's supposed to spend _money_ on this thing. _Then_, on top of all _that_, Bradley Milteer finds out that _you're_ porking Glenda Bledsoe and that she's been stealing from Mr. Hughes' fuck pads, but you never reported it."
Southbound--Pete's car. Bonus armed: knucks and sap.
"I got you the Glenda gig. Mr. Hughes didn't trust me on it, 'cause he knows I'm susceptible to snatch. I figured, give the job to the old Enforcer, 'cause he's pretty stoical in the woman department."
I stretched--neck kinks, jangly nerves. "I'm paying you seven grand for this."
"Yeah, and you bought me a barbeque beef plate and a beer, which frankly Mr. Hughes never did. What I'm saying is that Mr. Hughes is pissed at you, which is grief you don't need."
Normandie south--Pete smoking--crack the window. Replay: my call to Noonan.
"You burned up potential Federal evidence. You're lucky I haven't revoked your immunity outright, and now you want this rather outsized favor."
"PLEASE."
"I like the tremor in your voice."
"_PLEASE_. Lift the surveillance on the Kafesjians tomorrow. It's my last full day before custody, and I want to see if I can learn a few things before I go in."
"My guess is that this pertains to the Kafesjians looking for that Richie character, who may be Richard Herrick of that rather outré triplehomicide case you're working."
"You're right."
"Good. I appreciate candor, and I'll do it if you formally depose your Richie information during your pre-grand-jury interviews."
"I agree."
"It's settled, then. Go with God, Brother Klein."
"Brother" Klein--Lutheran choirboy--fists/sap/knucks--
Pete nudged me. "Chick's meeting Joan Crawford at the Lucky Nugget. She'll be camouflaged up, and they're gonna play pokerino or something, then head for the fuck spot from there. I'm gonna snap some pictures on the QT, then Chick's gonna give me the high sign. We'll tail them to the spot, let them get cozy and take it from there."
Cold air, bouncing headlights. A billboard: "Dodger Stadium Is _Your_ Dream! Support the Chavez Ravine Bill!"
Pete: "Seven grand for your thoughts."
"I'm thinking Chick must have a money stash someplace."
"If you're thinking take it, it means we have to clip him."
"It's just a thought."
"And as thoughts go, not bad. Jesus, you and some ex-carhop actress. Is she-"
"Yeah, she's worth the trouble."
"I wasn't gonna ask you that."
"I know."
"Like that, huh?"
"Like that."
Straight south--Gardena--Pete talking grapevine:
Fred Turentine, _Hush-Hush_ bug man: scandal duty for off-the-books cash. Boozer Freddy, AWOL: from dry-out farms and his jail teaching gig. Fed heat, restless niggers--you couldn't score good ribs or dark poon for shit.
Gardena--poker-palace row pulsing neon. The Lucky Nugget-- Chick's Caddy in the lot, top down.
We pulled up behind it--tail ready. Front-seat action--Joan Crawford and Chick necking hot.
Pete said, "Duck down, they'll see you."
I ducked and listened--car doors slammed. Back up--lovebirds on the stroll.
Pete got out. "Take a snooze or something. Don't play the radio, you'll run the battery down."
Tracks inside: movie star, thug, shakedown man. I skimmed the radio dial: news, religious shit, bop.
Memory jog: rolling Gardena drunks back in high school. Bop to ballads, memory lane-zipping Meg's prom gown too slow.
Fuck it--spare the battery--I t
urned the music off and dozed. Pete at the door: "Wake up, they're leaving."
The Caddy rolled, ragtop up. Pete pulled out--not too close.
East, north-cool air woke me up. Easy tailwork--collusion--Pete drove nonchalant. One arm out her window, oblivious: Joan fucking Crawford.
Due north--Compton, LYNWOOD--spooky turf.
Chick out front: left turn, right turn--Spindrift Drive.
48, 4900--curb plates pulsing weird/nuts/strange. 4980--Johnny D.--"Why meet there?"
Hard to breathe-I rolled the window down.
Left turn, right turn.
Empty courtyards.
Dry-ice chills: hot and cold.
Pete: "Jesus, I never made you for such a fresh-air fiend."
Chick stopped--brake-light taps, signallike.
Memory lane:
Needle stabbed.
Toasty-warm tingly doped up.
Chick and Joanie, walking love-draped:
Into a vacant courtyard, up the RIGHT side walkway.
Then:
Carried, treading air.
RIGHT turn--a skanky room--MOVIE TIME.
Now:
Sucking air--hard to breathe-Johnny replays zinging me.
Pete pulled up curbside. "Chick passed me a note. He knows some guys making smut films here, so he thought Joanie'd like that angle. Movie stars never fail to fucking amaze me."
Memory clicks--brutal late:
Glenda said Sid Frizell was shooting stag films.
"At some abandoned dive."
"Down in LYNWOOD."
"Hey, Klein, are you okay?"
Weapon check: .45, sap, knucks. "Let's go."
Pete loaded his camera. "It's all set. We go in on 'Baby, it's so good.'"
Ready: knuck teeth scraped my law-school ring.
Pete: "Now."
We ran in: stucco cubes, walkways, grass.
Place it then and now: Movie time, Johnny begging: "PLEASE DON'T KlLLME."
Sex grunts--a right-side shack midway down. Tiptoes up, listen:
Smut moans, Chick: "Baby, it's so gooood."
Pete camera ready.
Looks, nods, kicks--we snapped the door clean.
Pitch black half a second.
Flashbulb pops: Joan Crawford gobbling Chick V. tonsil-deep.
Speedo:
Bulb blips--Joanie running out the door bare-ass, shrieking.
Chick pawing at a wall switch--the lights on.
A magnum on the nightstand--I grabbed it and scoped the room:
Mirrored walls.
Linoleum floor--maroon dots-dried blood.
Chick on the bed, zipping his fly.
Knucks/gun butt--quick--
I bashed his face, racked his nuts, cracked his arms. Bone jar up my hands--Chick balled himself tight.
A shadow on the bed--Pete restraining me. "_Ease off_. I gave Crawford some clothes and some money. _We've got time to do this right_."
Chick doubled up, quaking, good cause: two giant fists flexing straight at him.
Canned shtick--Pete gleeful:
"The left one's the hospital, the right one's death. The right one steals your life while the left steals your breath. These hands are bad juju and the bad boogaloo, they're the teeth of the demon as he slides down the flue."
Chick stood up--bloody, trembly. "I am Outfit. I am a made guy. Feature you are both dead for this."
Pete: "Dave, ask the man a question."
I said, "You set me up. I told you I was meeting a 'pretty-boy strongarm cop' in Lynwood. Now, for starters you tell me who you told and how they got that home-movie idea."
"Feature I will tell you nothing."
Pete grabbed him by the neck. Flick: two hundred pounds airborne. Chick hit the far wall--mirror glass shattered.
Rag doll Chick--this "huh?" look.
Pete right there--stomp, stomp--fingers cracking under his heels. Chick showed balls: no audible grief.
I knelt down. "You set me up with the Kafesjians."
"Go fuck yourself."
"Chick, we go back. This doesn't have to be ugly."
"Feature you _are_ ugly."
"You fingered me to the Kafesjians. Cop to it and go from there."
"I didn't clue nobody you were meeting that cop you told me about. So you got set up, what the fuck, they set you up. Feature I knew they set you up, but feature it was after the goddamn fact."
"You said 'they.' You mean the Kafesjians?"
"I mean it's a figure of goddamn speech. You got set up 'cause you were born for it, all the shit you pulled and walked on. You got set up, but feature I didn't do it."
Pete: "I didn't know you knew the Kafesjians. I thought you were strictly a Mickey guy."
"Fuck you. You're a chump change pimp for Howard Hughes. I fucked your mother. My dog fucked your mother."
Pete laughed.
Chick--broken fingers, shock pale: "Feature I been roughhoused before. Feature I gave you a free introductory answer, but from here on in you get shit."
Blood flecks on the floor--Johnny begging.
"You said 'they.' You mean the Kafesjians? Give me some details I can use."
"You mean feed to the Feds? I know you rolled over for Welles Noonan."
This greaseball thug--sweating off Joan Crawford's perfume.
"Hand the fuckers up. Give me details."
"Detail this"--one smashed middle finger twirling. "Suck on this, you kraut cocksuck--"
I grabbed his hand--a wall socket close-jam that fuck-you finger in--
Sparks/smoke--Chick convulsing--live-wire jolts shaking me.
Pete shook me: "STOP IT, YOU'LL KlLL HIM!"
Chick shook free: juiced-up hip-hops on his knees, going green.
Fast:
Pete tossed him on the bed. Pillows, sheets, blankets--one mummified geek inside seconds.
Hip-hops sputtering out, his green tinge fading.
Johnny Duhamel begging--IN THIS ROOM.
I grabbed the magnum and popped the cylinder. Six rounds--I dumped five.
Pete nodded: I _think_ he's okay.
Show the gun, show the cylinder--spin it, lock it.
Chick--read his eyes--"You wouldn't."
I aimed point blank--my gun, his head. "You said 'they.' Did you mean the Kafesjian family?"
No response.
I pulled the trigger--_click_--empty chamber.
"How'd you get in with the Kafesjians? I didn't know you knew them."
No response.
I pulled the trigger--_click_--empty chamber.
"I know you gave Jack Woods the contract on Abe Voldrich, and Jack said Mickey ordered it. I don't believe that, so you tell me who really did."
Chick, raspy: "Fuck you."
I pulled the trigger--twice----empty chambers.
Pete whooped: "Mother dog!"
Rainbow Chick turning gray/green/blue.
Cock the hammer, eeeaase the trigger sooo slooow . . .
"Okay, okay PLEASE!"
I pulled the gun back. Chick coughed, spat phlegm and talked:
"I got this order to recruit a hit on Abe Voldrich. Feature they figured I was too well known on the Southside to do it myself, so I thought, 'Dave Klein, he could get burned by this Federal biz,' and 'Jack Woods, he does a job for a price, he's Dave's buddy, he'd want to spare Dave grief,' so I talked him into it that way, not that he didn't jew me up on the ticket.."
Raspy working on hoarse: "So, feature--I _talked_ to Voldrich. The Feds cut him loose to take care of some stuff for a day or so, and I wanted to know what he knew before I had Jack clip him. Now, now, now"--snitch fever--"you just listen."
Pete popping his knuckles--loud, like hammer clicks.
Chick, thrashing his blankets: "Voldrich said the Feds were hot to turn you as a witness. He said he overheard Welles Noonan and this FBI man Shipstad talking. They said they bugged your pad, and they've got a tape with you talking this amorphous stuff about your mob hits, and Glenda Bledsoe saying she snuffed
some nigger pimp named Dwight Gilette. Feature, Davey: Noonan told Shipstad he was going to offer you immunity, get a shitload of information, then violate the agreement unless you testify against Glenda on the murder charge. Shipstad tried to talk Noonan out of crossing you, but Noonan hates you so bad he said he'd never agree."
Feature:
The bed spinning.
The room spinning.
The gun spinning--
"Who are 'they'?"
"Davey, please. I just did you this all-time solid."
"Something's off here. You're not the one the Kafesjians would send to pump Abe Voldrich. Now, who set me up to kill Johnny Duhamel?"
"Davey, _please_."
Everything spinning--
"Please, Davey. . ."
I hit him--gun-butt shots--his blankets caught the brunt. I pulled them down--ribcage work--the bed spun.
"Who set me up?"
No snitch.
"What's with Mickey? Why are those out-of-town guys working his slots with the Feds right there?"
No snitch.
"You're in with the Kafesjians? You're tight with them? _You fucking tell me what you know about Tommy chasing a guy named Richie Herrick_."
No snitch--ribcage work--my pistol grips shattered. Pete flashed me a signal: EASY.
I spun the cylinder again. "Is Sid Frizell shooting smut films here?"
No answer.
I pulled the trigger--_click_--empty chamber.
Chick balled up, quaking--
Pull the trigger--_click_--empty chamber.
Quaking/snitch-begging eyes: "They said they needed a strongarm place, so I said take this place, Sid and his crew were editing their stag stuff, so this place was empty."
"Did they tell you they were making their own movie?"
"No! They said 'strongarm spot'! That's all they said!"
"Who developed their film? Did someone on Mickey's movie crew help them out?"
"No! Frizell and his guys are fucking clowns! They don't know anybody except me!"
"Who's been running you?"
"No, Davey, please!"
I put the gun to the mattress--next to his head. "Who are THEY?"
"NO! I CAN'T! I WON'T!"
I pulled the trigger--_click_/_click_/_roar_--muzzle flash set his hair on fire.
This scream.