“No.”
“A _brother_ named Tommy?”
“No.”
“A man who might be following her, or tape-recording her or eavesdropping on her?”
“No, but I–”
“_But what?_”
“But I heard a man in the room next to us crying. Maybe it was my imagination, but it was as if he was listening to us. It was as if what he heard disturbed him.”
Peeper bingo.
“Did you see the man?”
“No.”
“Did you hear him say or mutter specific words?”
“No.”
“Did the girl mention other members of her family?”
Side 78
Ellroy – White Jazz
“No, she just said what I told you and what you played me on that tape. Officer.
. . where did you get that? I.. . I don’t want my wife to hear–”
“Are you _sure_ she didn’t mention a man named Tommy?”
“Please, Officer, you’re shouting!”
Change-up: “I’m sorry, Mr. Kaltenborn. Sergeant, do you have any questions?”
Sergeant–this gun-fondling hophead–“N-no”–watch his hands.
“Mr. Kaltenborn, did the girl wear a FUR COAT?”
“No, she wore tight toreador pants and some sort of inexpensive wrap.”
“Did she say she dug STRIPTEASE?”
“No.”
“Did she say she frequented a Negro club named BIDO LITO’S?”
“No.”
“Did she say that peeling off a HOT FUR COAT was ecstasy?”
“No. What are you–?”
Junior dropped his hands–watch for a quick draw.
“Mr. Kaltenborn, did she say she knew a GORGEOUS BLOND POLICEMAN who used to be a boxer?”
“No, she didn’t. I. . . I don’t understand the thrust of these questions, Officer.”
“Did she say she knew a shakedown-artist cop with a THRUST for young blond guys?”
RABBIT–
Out the door, down the hall–Junior, his piece unholstered. Outside, chase him, sprint–
He made his car–heaving breathless. I grabbed him, pinned his gun hand, bent his head back.
“_I’ll let you slide on all of it. I’ll pull you off the Kafesjian job before you fuck things up worse. We can trade off right now_.”
Greasy pomade hair–he thrashed his head free. Stray headlights hit this dope face oozing spittle: “That cuut killed Dwight Gilette, and you’re suppressing it. Ainge left town, and maybe I got the gun she fired. You’re queer for that cunt and I think you pushed that witness out the window. No trade, and you just watch me take you and that cunt down.”
I grabbed his neck and dug in to kill him. Obscene–his breath, his lips curled to bite. I edged back–slack–a knee slammed me. Down, sucking wind, kicked prone-tires spinning gravel.
Headlights: Jack Woods in tail pursuit.
* * *
West L.A., 3:00 A.M. Junior’s building–four street-level units–no lights on.
No Junior Ford parked nearby–pick the lock, hit the lights.
Aches groin to ribcage–hurt him, kill him. I left the lights on–_let him_
show.
Side 79
Ellroy – White Jazz
Bolt the door, walk the pad.
Living room, dinette, kitchen. Matched wood–fastidious. Neatness, grime: squared-off furniture, dust.
The sink: moldy food, bugs.
The icebox: amyl nitrite poppers.
Butt-filled ashtrays–Junior’s brand–lipstick-smudged.
Bathroom, bedroom: grime, makeup kit–the lipstick color matched the butts. A waste basket: red-lip-blotted tissue overflowing. An unmade bed, popped poppers on the sheets. I flipped the pillow: a silencer-fitted Luger and shit-caked dildo underneath.
Paperbacks on the nightstand: _Follow the Boys_, _The Greek Way_, _Forbidden Desire_.
A padlocked trunk.
A wall photo: Lieutenant Dave Klein in LAPD dress blues. Track queer thinking, zoooom:
I’m not married.
No woman heat pre-Glenda.
Meg–he _couldn’t_ know.
The Luger smiling–“Go ahead, shoot something.”
I fired, point-blank silent: shattered glass/ripped plaster/ripped ME. I shot the trunk–splinters/cordite haze-the lock flew.
I tore in. Neat paper stacks–fastidious Junior. Slow, inventory them pro–
Carbons:
Johnny Duhamel’s Personnel file. Dudley Smith fitness reports–all Class A.
Co-opt requests–Johnny to the fur job–fur-heist references checkmarked.
Strange: Johnny _never_ worked Patrol–he moved straight to the Bureau post-Academy.
More Duhamel–boxing programs–beefcake deluxe. Academy papers, Evidence 104–Junior told Reuben Ruiz he taught Johnny. Straight A’s, blind fag love-Duhamel’s prose style stunk. More fur-job paper: Robbery reports, figure Junior scooped Dudley–_he_ made Johnny as the thief and Dud never tumbled.
A formal statement: Georgie Ainge rats Glenda on the Dwight Gilette 187.
Lieutenant D. D. Klein suppresses the evidence; Junior tags the motive: lust.
Grab those pages, safe-deposit-box info underneath: figure Junior had backup statements stashed at some bank. No mention of the gun or Glenda’s prints on a gun–maybe Junior stashed the piece as a hole card.