Ellroy – White Jazz

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.

Side 189

Ellroy – White Jazz

“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 outrÈ 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: Side 190

Ellroy – White Jazz

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.”

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