Ellroy – White Jazz

Rolling stakeout–f our cars long–Gower, Sunset west. The Strip, Club Largo, three-car pile-out.

Valets swooped in, servile. More photos–Rockwell looked bored. I parked in the red and fixed my windshield: “Official Police Vehicle.” The entourage hit the club.

I badged in, badged a Shriner off a bar stool. Turk Butler on stage– bistro belter supreme. Ringside: Rock, Glenda, scribes. Photo men by the exit–zoom lenses zoomed in.

Break that contract.

Dinner: club soda, pretzels. Easy eyeball work: Glenda talked, Rock sulked. The reporters ignored him–snore city.

Side 43

Ellroy – White Jazz

Turk Butler off stage, chorus girls on. Glenda smoked and laughed. Big lungs on the dancers–Glenda pulled her sweater up for chuckles. Rock hit the sauce–whiskey sours.

A club hop at ten sharp-across Sunset on foot to the Crescendo. Another bar stool, eyeball surveillance: pure Glenda. Showstopper Glenda-odd wisps of Meg, and her own SOMETHING.

Midnight–a dash for the cars–I tailed the convoy brazen close. Back to Glenda’s pad, sidewalk arc lights: a dud goodnight kiss caught on film.

The newsman took off; Glenda waved. Quiet out–voices carried.

Rock: “Hell, now I’ve got no wheels.”

Glenda: “Take mine, and bring Touch back with you. Say two hours?”

Rock grabbed her keys and ran–gleeful. The Vette peeled out burning rubber–Glenda winced. “Bring Touch back with you” hit funny–tail him.

Gower south, Franklin east. Sparse traffic–still no tails on _me_. North on Western, say a movie set run–Mickey’s permit kept the park road open.

Los Feliz, left turn, Fern Dell–streams and glades before the Griffith Park hills. Brake lights blinked–fuck–Fern Dell–Vice cops called it Cocksuckers’

Paradise.

He parked–rush hour-cigarette tips red in the dark. I swung right and stopped–my beams on Rock and a cute young quiff.

I killed my lights, cracked the window. Close–I caught the proposition:

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I . . . I think fall is the best time in L.A., don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure. Listen, I just borrowed a _really_ nice car. We could maybe make last call at the Orchid Room, then go someplace. I’ve got some time to kill before I pick my boy–I mean somebody up.”

“You don’t mince words.”

“I don’t mince period. Come on, say yes.”

“Nix, sweetie. You’re big and brusque, which I like, but the last big brusque guy I said yes to turned out to be a deputy sheriff.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Nix, nyet, nein and no. Besides, I heard Administrative Vice has been operating Fern Dell.”

Wrong–Ad Vice never popped fruits. Outside chance–gung-ho Junior, Vice cowboy.

Rock–“Thanks for the memories”–match flare, his cigarette lit. Prowling now–easy to track–I watched the tip glow queer to queer.

Time wheezed, a bum soundtrack: sex moans out in the woods. An hour, an hour ten–Rock walked back zipping his fly.

_Zoom_–the Vette peeled. I followed slow–no traffic-call the set his destination. A roadblock out of nowhere-baseball-bat men waved him through.

Truck headlights approaching–I backed up and watched.

Side 44

Ellroy – White Jazz

Brake squeals–a big flatbed–picket clowns in back. A spotlight flashed–bright white blindness on the target.

Goons hit the truck swinging–nail-studded Louisville Sluggers. The windshield exploded–a man stumbled out belching glass. The driver ran–a nail shot took his nose off.

The bed gate crashed–goons went in close–ribcage work. Fats Medina dragged a guy by the hair–his scalp came off.

No screams–wrong–why no sound–

Back to Fern Dell, down to Glenda’s. No screams–weird–then my pulse quit banging my ears so I could hear.

* * *

Wait the boys out: “Rock,” “Touch”–the nance type, this eight-notch killer.

Suspicious: 2:00 A.M., a B-movie siren set for hostess.

One courtyard light on–hers. I tapped the two-way, flipped bands to kill boredom. Dispatch calls–the Bureau frequency–voices.

Hurwitz fur-job talk–Robbery men. Make the voices: Dick Carlisle, Mike Breuning–Dudley Smith strongarms. No trace on the furs; Dud wanted fences braced hard. Crackle: station-to-station interference. Breuning: Dud pulled Johnny Duhamel off the Mobster Squad–a scary kick-ass ex-fighter. More static–I flipped dials–a liquor-store heist on La Brea.

The Vette hit the carport; the boys hit Glenda’s pad nuzzled up.

One ring–the door open and shut.

Figure access.

The courtyard proper–too risky. Nix the roof–no way to get up. Behind the bungalows–maybe a window to peep.

Risk it–worth it–juicy hearsay.

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