Side 204
Ellroy – White Jazz
1:01: J.C. at a hot-dog stand.
1:03–1:04: Tommy driving northbound.
1:06: Unit 3-B67, walkie-talkie:
“I talked to the clown Tommy leaned on, and he said that Richie bought dirty magazines there. He said Richie said something about a pad in Lincoln Heights, and he told Tommy about it to get him off his back.”
1:11: Tommy–Pasadena Freeway north.
1:14: Tommy–Lincoln Heights off-ramp.
1:19: J.C. eating lunch: five kraut dogs, Bromo Seltzer.
1:21: Lucille heading out in her Ford Vicky.
1:23: Tommy cruising North Broadway, Lincoln Heights.
1:26: Madge at home.
1:34: J.C. scarfing dessert: jelly doughnuts and beer.
1:49: Tommy cruising side streets, Lincoln Heights.
1:53: Lucille–Pasadena Freeway northbound.
1:56: Lucille–Lincoln Heights off-ramp.
1:59: 3-B67/3-B71–crosstalk:
Lucille cruising Lincoln Heights.
Tommy cruising Lincoln Heights.
North/south/east/west zigzags–missing each other.
Educated guess:
Two Richie chasers chasing Richie–cross-purposes.
Maybe Lucille got a phone tip-maybe the skin-mag clerk.
2:00–2:04: All J.C./Tommy/Lucille units:
No Richie Herrick sightings.
Transmitter static. I flipped dials–squelch, odd words: “multiple,” “maybe mob stuff,” “Watts.”
A clerk tapped me. “Sorry, Lieutenant, a Code 3 screwed up the lines.”
“What is it?”
“Homicides at the Haverford Wash. Maybe shotguns, maybe gangster stuff.”
My hackles jumped. “You monitor band 7, I’m going.”
* * *
Watts–Code 3, join the crowd: black & whites, lab vans, Fed cars. _Deep_
Watts–rural–fields, scattered shacks.
A bluff–cop vehicles at the edge. I skidded up and fishtailed in close.
Men looking down–Feds and LAPD combined. Push through, scope it: Side 205
Ellroy – White Jazz
A concrete run-off ditch–twenty feet deep.
Sewage water ankle-high–tech men kicking through it.
Blood streaks down the right-side embankment.
Four garbage-soaked bodies just below.
Steep cement leading down–I skidded all the way. Tech guys snapping pix–bulb light bouncing off bloody water.
I looked up:
Trees lining the embankment–good cover.
I looked down:
Shotgun shells bobbing in the muck.
Call it:
Tree-cover ambush–buckshot blew them down.
I sloshed over–techs swarming–more sirens up top. Four bottomsucking dead men–their backsides ripped tailbone to ribcage.
Jumbled voices on the bluff: Noonan, Shipstad, Exley. Lab men flipping bodies, getting gore-splashed.
Four stiffs face-up now–two white, two Mex. I made three: goons working Mickey C. coin.
Snap conclusion:
Dudley ambush–NO FACE SHOTS–Darktown slot geek victims.
Snap theory:
Staged killings for the Feds–some onus dropped on out-of-town gangs. A Dudley Smith charade–SOMEHOW.
Look:
Exley kicking up water–his cuffs soaked.
Noonan closer–trousers rolled, fucking garters.
Tech talk, scrambled:
Handguns on the stiffs.
Spent rounds up top–threads attached–the killers wore bulletproof vests.
Lab men swamping Exley, holding him back. Noonan on me, splashing me.
Waving photos–matching dead men–dead panicked.
“Oh God, oh no. We identified these–”
I steered him clear of Exley. Noonan kicked at the water–shotgun shells jumped.
“We identified these men. Mickey Cohen divested his Southside coin machines to them. They’re part of a midwestern syndicate…. Mickey said they’re the ones who killed those men of his who just disappeared a while ago. Mickey’s got no stomach for the rackets anymore. .. . He sold them his coin business to get out of it.”
Bullshit–actor Mickey–Glenda critiqued his “style.”
Side 206
Ellroy – White Jazz
Noonan: “We turned Mickey as a witness. We granted him immunity and promised him a Federal Service Medal. He thinks it will help him secure a district gambling franchise, which is absurd, since that bill will never pass the State Legislature.”
Mr. U.S. Attorney–plaid garters.
“Klein, do _you_ know anything about this?”
“Major Witness” Mickey–confirmed. A flash: Bob Gallaudet supported district gambling.
Exley watching us.
“Klein–”
“No, I don’t.”
“This may hurt us. Mickey was going to testify against those men.”
“Us”/”we”–Glenda juked Fed royal.
“I want an extra day before I enter custody.”
“Under no circumstances. Don’t ask me again, and don’t even consider begging additional favors. This is your last day to resolve your curiosity vis-‡-vis the Kafesjians, and as of tomorrow those curiosities will become a matter of Federal testimony.”
Mr. U.S. Attorney–used rubbers stuck to his ankles.
“Who do you think killed these guys?”
“I would say East Coast mafiosi. I would say the word got out that Mickey divested his coin machines, and some East Coast men are attempting to crash the racket.”
Clueless dumbfuck.
“Trust ME, lad”–Dudley Smith in my head.