Ellroy – White Jazz

Side 15

Ellroy – White Jazz

Meg broke it off–no finish. Fumbles: our clothes, words, the lights off.

I still wanted it.

She didn’t.

She ran crazy with Trombino and Brancato.

The fucks messed with Jack Dragna–the Outfit’s number-one man in L.A. Jack showed me a picture: Meg–bruises, hickeys–Trombino/ Brancato verified.

Verified–they popped a mob dice game.

Jack said five grand, you clip them–I said yes.

I set it up-a shakedown run–“We’ll rob this bookie holding big.” August 6, 1648

North Ogden–the Two Tonys in a ’49 Dodge. I slid in the backseat and blew their brains out.

“Mob Warfare” headlines–Dragna’s boss torpedo picked up quick. His alibi: Jack D.’s parish priest. Gangland unsolved–let the fucking wops kill each other.

I was paid–plus a tape bonus: a man raging at the scum who hurt his sister.

Dragna’s voice-squelched out. My voice: “I will fucking kill them. I will fucking kill them for free.”

Mickey Cohen called. Jack said I owed the Outfit–the debt kosher for a few favors. Jack would call, I’d be paid–strictly business.

Hooked.

Called:

June 2, ’53: I clipped a dope chemist in Vegas.

March 26, ’55: I killed two jigs who raped a mob guy’s wife.

September ’57, a rumor: Jack D.–heart disease bad.

I called him.

Jack said, “Come see me.”

We met at a beachfront motel–his fixing-to-die-fuck spot. Guinea heaven: booze, smut, whores next door.

I begged him: cancel my debt.

Jack said, “The whores do lez stuff.”

I choked him dead with a pillow.

Coroner’s verdict/mob consensus: heart attack.

Sam Giancana–my new caller. Mickey C. his front man: cop favors, clip jobs.

Meg sensed something. Lie away her part, take all the guilt. Sleep– restless, sweaty.

* * *

The phone-grab it–“Yes?”

“Dave? Dan Wilhite.”

Narco–the boss. “What is it, Captain?”

Side 16

Ellroy – White Jazz

“It’s . . . shit, do you know J. C. Kafesjian?”

“I know who he is. I know what he is to the Department.”

Wilhite, low: “I’m at a crime scene. I can’t really talk and I’ve got nobody to send over, so I called you.”

Hit the lights. “Fill me in, I’ll go.”

“It’s, shit, it’s a burglary at J.C.’s house.”

“Address?”

“1684 South Tremaine. That’s just off–”

“I know where it is. Somebody called Wilshire dicks before they called you, right?”

“Right, J.C.’s wife. The whole family was out for the evening, but Madge, the wife, came home first. She found the house burgled and called Wilshire Station.

J.C., Tommy and Lucille–that’s the other kid–came home and found the house full of detectives who didn’t know about our . . . uh . . . arrangement with the family. Apparently, it’s some goddamn nutso B&E and the Wilshire guys are making pests of themselves. J.C. called my wife, she called around and found me. Dave.

.

“I’ll go.”

“Good. Take someone with you, and count it one in your column.”

I hung up and called for backup–Riegle, Jensen–no answer. Shit luck–Junior Stemmons–“Hello?”

“It’s me. I need you for an errand.”

“Is it a call-out?”

“No, it’s an errand for Dan Wilhite. It’s smooth J.C. Kafesjian’s feathers.”

Junior whistled. “I heard his kid’s a real psycho.”

“1684 South Tremaine. Wait for me outside, I’ll brief you.”

“I’ll be there. Hey, did you see the late news? Bob Gallaudet called us

‘exemplary officers,’ but Welles Noonan said we were ‘incompetent freeloaders.’

He said that ordering room-service booze for our witnesses contributed to Johnson’s suicide. He said–”

“_Just be there_.”

* * *

Code 3, do Wilhite solid–aid the LAPD’s sanctioned pusher. Narco/J.C.

Kafesjian–twenty years connected–old Chief Davis brought him in. Weed, pills, H–Darktown trash as clientele. Snitch duty got J.C. the dope franchise. Wilhite played watchdog; J.C. ratted rival pushers, per our policy: keep narcotics isolated south of Slauson. His legit work: a drycleaning chain; his son’s work: muscle goon supreme.

Crosstown to the pad: a Moorish job lit up bright. Cars out front: Junior’s Ford, a prowl unit.

Flashlight beams and voices down the driveway. “Holy shit, holy shit”–Junior Stemmons.

I parked, walked over.

Light in my eyes. Junior: “That’s the lieutenant.” A stink: maybe blood rot.

Side 17

Ellroy – White Jazz

Junior, two plainclothesmen. “Dave, this is Officer Nash and Sergeant Miller.”