Make it eleven P.M. tomorrow night, Western and Adams, Chief Exley’s authorization.”
Sid whistled. “Care to explain?”
BRAINSTORM:
“And tell the squad lieutenant I need a row of interrogation rooms, and tell Junior Stemmons to meet me at the station, I want him in on this.”
Scribble sounds. “It’s on paper. You want that message now?”
“Shoot.”
“The Pawnshop Detail turned the Kafesjian silverware. Some Mexican tried to pawn it in Boyle Heights, and the shop owner saw our bulletin and stalled him. He’s in custody at Hollenbeck Station.”
I whooped–heads turned. “Call Hollenbeck, Sid. Tell them to put the Mex in a sweat room. I’ll be right over.”
“On it, Skipper.”
Back to the party–Gas Chamber Bob swamped–no way to check out graceful. A blonde swirled by–Glenda–a blink–just some woman.
Side 61
Ellroy – White Jazz
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jesus Chasco–fat, Mex–not my peeper. No rap sheet, a ’58 green card running out. Scared–the sweat room sweats.
“Habla inglÈs, Jesus?”
“I speak English good as you do.”
Skim the crime sheet. “This says you attempted to sell stolen silverware to the Happytime Pawnshop. You told the officers that you didn’t steal the silverware, but you wouldn’t tell them where you got it. Okay, that’s one felony–receiving stolen goods. You gave your car as your address, so that’s a misdemeanor charge–vagrancy. How old are you, Jesus?”
T-shirt and khakis–sweated up. “Forty-three. Why you ask me that?”
“I’m figuring five years in San Quentin, then the boot back to Mexico. By the time you get back here, you might win a prize as the world’s oldest wetback.”
Chasco waved his arms; sweat flew. “I sleep in my car to save money!”
“Yeah, to bring your family up here. Now sit still or I’ll cuff you to your chair.”
He spit on the floor; I dangled my handcuffs eye-level. “Tell me where you got the silverware. If you prove it, I’ll cut you loose.”
“You mean you–”
“I mean you walk. No charges, no nada.”
“Suppose I don’t tell you?”
Wait him out, let him show some balls. Ten seconds–a classic pachuco shrug. “I do custodian work at this motel. It’s on 53rd and Western, called the Red Arrow Inn. It’s. . . you know, for _putas_ and their guys.”
Tingles. “Keep going.”
“Well . . . I was fixing the sink in room 19. I found all this nice-looking silver stuck into the bed … you know, the sheets and the mattress all ripped up. I . . . I figured .. . I figured the guy who rented the room went crazy. . .
and.. . and he wouldn’t press no charges if I swiped his stuff.”
Grab the lead: “_What does ‘the guy’ look like?_”
“I don’t know–a guy. I never seen him. Ask the night clerk, she’ll tell you.”
“She’ll tell both of us.”
“Hey, you said–”
“Put your hands behind your back.”
Balls–two seconds’ worth–another shrug. I cuffed him up loose– keep him friendly.
“Hey, I’m hungry.”
“I’ll get you a candy bar.”
“You said you’d cut me loose!”
“I’m going to.”
“But my car’s back here!”
Side 62
Ellroy – White Jazz
“Take a bus.”
“_Pinche cabrÛn! Puto! Gabacho maricÛn!_”
* * *
A half-hour run. Praise Jesus: no backseat noise, no cuff thrashing. The Red Arrow Inn: connected cabins, two rows, a center driveway. A neon sign:
“Vacancy.”
I pulled up to cabin 19: dark, no car out front. Chasco: “I got my master key.”
I unlocked his cuffs. High beams on–he opened 19, backlit nice.
“Come look! Just like I tol’ you, man!”
I walked over. Evidence: doorjamb jimmy marks–_recent_–fresh splinters. The room itself: small, linoleum floor, no furniture. The bed: slashed sheets, ripped mattress spilling kapok.
“Go get the clerk. Don’t run away, you’ll piss me off.”
Chasco hauled. I scoped the bed close up: fork holes in the mattress, stabs down to the springs. Semen stains–my peeper screamed CATCH ME NOW. I ripped off a sheet swatch–the jizz could be tested for blood type.
“No-good ofay trash!”
I turned around–“Ofay trash dee-stroy my nice bed!”–this jig granny flapping a rent card.
Grab it–“John Smith”–predictable–ten days paid up front, checkout time tomorrow. Granny popped spit; Chasco pointed outside.