Ellroy – White Jazz

Howling: “Yeah, my ladyfriends. I make them think I gots queer tendencies, then they works that much harder to set me straight. Touch V. comes in with his sissy boys, and I studies his mannerisms. He brings in this bottle-blond sissy, it was like getting a righteous college degree in fruitness.”

I yawned–tiger stripes spun crazy.

“Get some sleep, Mr. Klein. You look all bushed.”

* * *

Fuck sleep–that magnet was still pulling me.

I zigzagged east and south–no gray Plymouths on my ass. Western Avenue-peeper turf–whore motels, no addresses to work off. Western and Adams–whore heaven–girls jungled up by Cooper’s Donuts. Colored, Mex, a few white–slit-leg gowns, pedal pushers. Jump start: Lucille’s hip huggers, slashed and jizzed on.

Brain jump:

Side 35

Ellroy – White Jazz

Western and Adams–University Division. University Vice, hooker ID stashes there: alias files, john lists, arrest-detention reports. Lucille smiling whorish, Daddy’s blood on her claws–jump to her selling it for kicks.

Big jump–odds against it.

I rolled anyway–

Uny Station, brace the squad whip–that whore stuff, a mishmash: Loose mug shots, report carbons. Names: whores, whore monikers, men detained/booked with whores. Three cabinets’ worth of paper in no discernable order.

Skimming through:

No “Kafesjian,” no Armenian names–an hour wasted–no surprisemost hookers got bailed out behind monikers. Punch line: if Lucille whored, _if_ she got popped–she’d probably call Dan Wilhite to chill things. 114 detention reports, 18 white girls–no physical stats matched Lucille. A half-ass system–most cops let whore reports slide, the girls always repeated. John lists: no Luce, Lucille, Lucy white girl listed–no Armenian surnames.

More mugs–some with neckboard numbers and printing: real names, john names, dates. Shine girls, Mexicans, whites–99.9 percent skank. Goosebumps: Lucille-profile, full face-no neckboard, no printing.

Go, do it: recheck all paper. Three go-rounds–zero, zilch, buppkis. No clicks back to Lucille.

Just one mug strip.

Call it lost paperwork.

Say Dan Wilhite yanked the paper–the mugs got overlooked.

Guess burglar = peeper = Lucille K. john.

I wrote it up, a note to Junior:

_Check all stationhouse john/prostie lists–try for information on Lucille’s tricks_.

Goosebumps: that godawful family.

* * *

I hit the Bureau, dropped the note on Junior’s desk. Midnight: Ad Vice empty.

“Klein?”

Dan Wilhite across the hall. I called him over–my squadroom.

“So?”

“So, I’m sorry for the run-in with Kafesjian.”

“I’m not looking for apologies. I’ll say it again: so?”

“So it’s a tight situation, and I’m trying to be reasonable. I didn’t ask for this job, and I don’t want it.”

“I know, and your Sergeant Stemmons already apologized for your behavior. He also asked for a tally of perpetrators J.C. and his people have informed on, which I refused to give him. Don’t ask again, because all notations pertaining to the Kafesjians have been destroyed. _So?_”

“So it’s like that. And the question should be ‘So what does Exley want?’

Side 36

Ellroy – White Jazz

Wilhite crowded up, hands on hips. “Tell me what you think this 459 is. I think it’s a dope mob warning. I think Narco is best suited to handle it, and I think you should tell Chief Exley that.”

“I don’t think so. I think the burglar’s hinked on the family, maybe Lucille specifically. It might be a window peeper who’s been working Darktown lately.”

“Or maybe it’s a crazy-man act. A rival mob using terror tactics.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. I’m not really a case man, but–”

“No, you’re a thug with a law degree–”

FROST/EASY/DON’T MOVE.

“–and I regret calling you into this mess. Now I’ve heard that that Fed probe is going to happen. I’ve heard Welles Noonan has auditors checking tax returns–my own and some of my men. That probably means that he knows about Narco and the Kafesjians. We’ve all taken gratuities, we’ve all got expensive items we can’t explain, so-”

Sweating on me, hot tobacco breath.

“–you do your duty to the Department. You’ve got your twenty in, I don’t and my men don’t. You can practice law and suck up to Mickey Cohen, and we can’t. You owe us, because you let Sanderline Johnson jump. Welles Noonan has got this Southside hard-on because you compromised his prizefight job. The heat on my men is because of you, so you square things. Now, J.C. and Tommy are crazy. They’ve never dealt with hostile police agencies, and if the Feds start pressing them they’ll go out of control. I want them quieted down. Stall this bullshit investigation of yours, feed Exley whatever you have to. Just get out of that family’s way.as quick as you can.”

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