“My guy’s white.”
“Yeah, but I keep to the dark side of town. Last time I heard of a white burglar was never.”
“Fair enough, but I’d call this guy a psycho. He cut up two Dobermans, stole nothing but silverware, then trashed some family-type belongings. Run with it.”
“Run with it nowheres. I know nothing ’bout a crazy man like that, ‘cept you don’t have to be Einstein to figure he’s bent on that family. Wayne Layne shits in washing machines, and he’s as crazy a B&E man as I care to be acquainted with.”
“Okay, peepers then.”
“Say what?”
“Peeping Toms. Guys who get their kicks looking in windows. I’ve got peeper reports nailed at my burglary location and all over the Southside–hot-sheet motels and jazz clubs.”
“I’ll ask around, but you sure ain’t getting much for your month’s rent.”
“Let’s try Wardell Henry Knox. He sold mary jane and worked as a bartender at jazz joints, presumably down here.”
“Presumably, ’cause white clubs wouldn’t hire him. And _was_ is correct, ’cause he got hisself snuffed a few months ago. Person or persons unknown, just in case you wants to know who did it.”
Jukebox blare close–jerk the cord–instant silence. “I know he was murdered.”
Indignant niggers mumbling–fuck them. Lester: “Mr. Klein, your questions are getting pretty far afield. I’ll guess a motive on Wardell, though.”
“I’m listening.”
“Pussy. Ol’ Wardell had hound blood. He was the righteous fuckin’ pussy hound supreme. If it moved, he’d poke it. He’d ream it, steam it, banana cream it. He must’ve had a million enemies. He’d fuck a woodpile on the off chance there was a snake inside. He liked to taste it and baste it, but he’d never waste it.
Side 34
Ellroy – White Jazz
He–”
“Enough, Jesus Christ.”
Lester winked. “Ask me something I might know something about.”
In close. “The Kafesjian family. You’ve got to know more than I do.”
Lester talked low. “I know they’re tight with your people. I know they only sell to Negroes and what you’d call anybody but square white folks, ’cause that’s the way Chief Parker likes things. Pills, weed, horse, they are _the_ number-one suppliers in Southside L.A. I know they lend money and take the vig out in snitch information, you know, independent pushers they can rat to the LAPD,
’cause that is part of their bargain with your people. Now, I _know_ J.C. and Tommy hire these inconspicuous-type Negro guys to move their stuff, with Tommy riding herd on them. And you want crazy?–try Tommy the K. He hangs out with the suedes at Bido Lito’s and gets up and plays this godawful tenor sax whenever they let him, which is frequently, ’cause who wants to refuse a crazy man, even a little skinny twerp like Tommy? Tommy is craaazy. He is bad fuckin’ juju. He is the Kafesjian muscle guy, and I heard he is righteous good with a knife. I also heard he will do anything to ingratiate hisself with Narco. I heard he clipped this drunk driver who hit-and-ran this Narco guy’s daughter.”
Craaazy. “That’s all?”
“Ain’t it enough?”
“What about Tommy’s sister, Lucille? She’s a geek, she parades around naked at her pad.”
“I say say what and so what. Too bad Wardell’s dead, he’d probably want to poke her. Maybe she likes it dark, like her brother. I’d poke her myself, ‘cept last time I tried white stuff I got my neck sliced. You should know, you was there.”
Jukebox trills–Lester himself–somebody put the plug back in. “They let you put your own songs in there?”
“Chick and Touch Vecchio do. They’re more sentimental ’bout that old neck-slicin’ time than slumlord Dave Klein. Long as they run the Southside slots and vending shit for Mr. Cohen, Lester Lake’s rendition of ‘Harbor Lights’ will be on that jukebox. Which gives me pause, ’cause the past two weeks or so these new out-of-town-lookin’ guys been working the hardware, which might bode bad for ol’ Lester.”
“Those haaarbor lights”–pure schmaltz. “Mickey should watch it, the Feds might be checking out the machinery down here. And did anyone ever tell you you sound like a homo? Like Johnnie Ray out of work?”