“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–
Side 193
Ellroy – White Jazz
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.
Side 194
Ellroy – White Jazz
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?”