Hands up–placating me. “Okay, okay, guilty. I owed a favor to this old student of mine at the Academy. He’s working Hollywood Vice and he’s swamped, the squad boss has him detached to that wino-killing job. I just made a few collars and let him do the booking. Look, I’m sorry if I didn’t go by the rules.”
“_Learn the fucking rules_.”
“Sure, Dave, sorry.”
Shaky, sweaty–I gave him a handkerchief. “Have you heard of a pimp named Georgie Ainge? He sells guns on the side.”
Head bobs, eager to please. “I heard he’s a rape-o. Some squadroom guy told me he likes gigs where he gets to hurt women.”
“Wipe your goddamn face, you’re sweating up my floor.”
Junior quick-drawed–the gun bobbed at _me_. Quick–slap him–my law school ring drew blood.
White knuckles on his piece. Brains–he pointed it down.
“Stay angry, tough guy. We’ve got an outside job, and I want you pissed.”
* * *
Separate cars, let him stew with half the picture: good guy/bad guy, no arrest.
Stay pissed: I’ve got a moonlight gig going, a fake kidnap might deep-six it.
Junior–“Sure, Dave, sure”–eager beaver.
I got there first–a mock chateau–four floors, maybe ten units per. A ’51 Eldo at the curb-a match to the Ainge rap sheet.
I checked the mail slots: G. Ainge, 104. Junior’s Ford hit the curb–two wheels on the sidewalk. I beelined down the hail.
Junior caught up. I winked; he winked–half twitch. I pushed the buzzer.
Side 47
Ellroy – White Jazz
The door opened a crack. Ear tug–cue the bad guy.
Junior: “LAPD, open up!”–wrong–I signaled kick it in.
The door swung wide. Right there: a fat Iowlife, arms raised. Old tracks–hold for the “I’m Clean” pitch.
“I’m clean, Officers. I got me a nice little job, and I got me Nalline test results that prove I don’t geez no more. I’m still on County probation, and my P0 knows I switched from horse to Silver Satin.”
I smiled. “We’re sure you’re clean, Mr. Ainge. May we come in?”
Ainge stood aside; Junior closed the door. The flop: Murphy bed, wine bottles tossed helter-skelter. TV, magazines: _Hush-Hush_, girlie stuff.
Junior: “Kiss the wall, shitbird.”
Ainge spread out. I scoped a _Hush-Hush_ cover: Marie “the Body” McDonald, fake kidnap supreme.
Georgie ate wallpaper; Junior frisked him slow. Page two: some boyfriend drove Marie to Palm Springs and stashed her in an old mining shack. A ransom demand–her agent called the FBI. Satire: stage your own publicity kidnap, five easy steps.
Junior dropped Ainge–a kidney shot–not bad.
Georgie sucked wind. I skimmed the mags–bondage smut–women gagged and harnessed.
Junior kicked Ainge prone. A blonde looked sort of like Glenda. Out loud:
“‘Lesson number one: call Hedda Hopper in advance. Lesson number two: don’t hire kidnappers from Central Casting. Lesson number three: don’t pay your publicist with marked ransom money.’ Whose idea, Georgie? You or Touch Vecchio?”
No answer.
I flashed two fingers: GO FULL. Junior slammed kidney shots; Georgie Ainge drooled bile.
Kneel down close. “Tell us about it. It’s not going to happen, but tell us anyway. Tell us nice and we won’t tell your P0. Stay snotty and we’ll pop you for possession of heroin.”
Gurgles, “Fuck you.”
Two fingers/GO FULL.
Rabbit shots–strong–Ainge curled up fetal-style. A punch hit the floor–Junior yelped and grabbed his piece.
I snatched it, worked the chamber, popped the clip.
Junior–“Dave, Jesus!” –farewell, tough guy.
Ainge groaned–Junior kicked him–ribs cracked.
“OKAY! OKAY!”
I hauled him into a chair; Junior grabbed his gun back. Silver Satin on the bed–toss it over.
Chugalug–Ainge coughed, burped blood. Junior crawled for his clip–hands and knees.
“Whose idea?”
Side 48
Ellroy – White Jazz
Ainge–“How’d you tumble?”–wincing.
“Never mind. I asked you, ‘Whose idea?'”
“Touch, Touch V., his idea. The deal was to goose his bun boy’s career, with that blond cooze along for some cheesecake. Touch said three hundred and no rough stuff. Listen, I just took the job to get a taste.”
Junior: “A taste of horse? I thought you were clean, shitbird.”
“‘Shitbird’ went out with vaudeville. Hey, you get your badge in a cereal box?”
I held Junior back. “A taste of what?”
Giggles. “I don’t sell guns no more, I don’t procure females for purposes of prostitution. I switched from H to jungle juice, so my tastes are none of–“