Ellroy – White Jazz

A cultured voice-Tommy/J.C. antithetical.

Sobs, louder.

Lucille: “These places are filled with losers and lonesome creeps.”

No hink/no recognition/no surveillance fear.

_Click_–figure a radio–“… chanson d’amour, ratta-tat-tatta, play encore.”

Blurred voices, _click_, Trick Man: “… of course, there was always that little dose you gave me.”

“Dose”: clap/syph?

I checked the reels–tape running out.

Sleepy voices jumbled–_more than a trick stand_. I shut my eyes– please, one more game.

Silent tape hiss–sleepy lovers. Hinge creak/”God!”–too close, too real–NOW

Eyes open–a white man standing by the door.

Fucked up blurry vision–I drew down, aimed, fired. Two shots–the doorjamb splintered; one more-wood scraps exploding.

The man ran.

I ran out aiming.

Screams, shouts.

Zigzags–my man bucking traffic. I fired running–two shots went wide. Aiming straight–a clear shot–this jolt: if you kill him, you won’t know WHY?

Bolting traffic, sighting in on this white head bobbing. Horns, brakes–black faces on the sidewalk, my white speck disappearing.

I tripped, stumbled, ran. Losing him–black all around me.

Shouts.

Black faces scared.

My reflection in a window: this terrified geek.

I slowed down. Another window–black faces–follow their eyes: A curbside roust–Feds and niggers. Welles Noonan, Will Shipstad, FBI muscle.

Grabbed, shoved–pinned to a doorway. Rabbit-punched–I dropped my piece.

Pinned–gray suit Fed gorillas. Welles Noonan sucker-punched me: spit in my face. His punch line: “That’s for Sanderline Johnson.”

Side 92

Ellroy – White Jazz

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Moonglow–early for Lester. Jukebox tunes killed time.

Noonan, backed by music–replays still smelling his spittle: Those Feds–cut-rate revenge. Back to Nat’s Nest–prowl cars responding to shots. I chased them off and bagged evidence: records, skin mags, tape rig, tape.

Calls next:

Orders to Ray Pinker: dust both rooms, bring a sketch man–make the clerk face-detail the peeper. Mugshot checks later–pray for good eyes.

Jack Woods, glad tidings: he spotted Junior, tailed him for two hours and lost him. Busy Junior–three mndy pusher shakedowns– Jack glommed descriptions and plate numbers.

Jack, verbatim: “He looked fried to the gills and fucking insane. I checked his car out while he stopped for cigarettes. You know what I saw in the backseat? A hypodermic kit, six empty tuna-fish cans and three sawed-off shotguns. I don’t know what he’s got on you, but in my opinion you should clip him.”

The jukebox, unmistakable–Lester Lake’s “Harbor Lights”–and not on my dime.

Bingo–Lester himself, oozing fear. “Hello, Mr. Klein.”

“Sit down. Tell me about it.”

“Tell you about what?”

“The look on your face and why you played that goddamn song.”

Sitting down: “Just reassurance. Good to know Uncle Mickey keeps my tune in his Wurlitzers.”

“Mickey should pull his boxes before the Feds pull him. What is it? I haven’t seen you this spooked since the Harry Cohn thing.”

“Mr. Klein, you know a couple of Mr. Smith’s boys named Sergeant Breuning an’

Sergeant Carlisle?”

“What about them?”

“Well, they workin’ overtime at the Seven-Seven.”

“Come on, get to it.”

Breathless: “They goin’ aroun’ trying’ to solve colored-on-colored killins, word is to forestall all this potential good Federal investigation publicity. You remember you ask me ’bout a maryjane pusher named Wardell Knox? You remember I tol’ you he got hisself killed by person or persons unknown?”

Tommy K. snitched Knox to Narco–Dan Wilhite told Junior. “I remember.”

“Then you should remember I tol’ you ol’ Wardell was a cunthound with a million fuckin’ enemies. He was fuckin’ a million different ladies, includin’ this high-yellow cooze Tilly Hopewell that I was also climbin’. Mr. Klein, I heard them Mr. Smith boys been lookin’ for me on account of some bogus rumor that I snuffed fuckin’ Wardell, and it looks to me like they be measurin’ me for a quick statistic. Now you want skinny on the fuckin’ Kafesjians and their fuckin’

known associates, so I got a real kneeslapper for you, which is that I just recently heard that crazy Tommy Kafesjian popped ol’ Wardell roun’ September, some kind of fuckin’ dope or sex grievance, ’cause he was also climbin’ that fine Tilly Hopewell on occasion.”

Breathless/heaving.

Side 93

Ellroy – White Jazz

“Look, I’ll talk to Breuning and Carlisle. They’ll lay off you.”

“Yeah, maybe thas’ true, ’cause ol’ slumlord Dave Klein knows the right people.

But Mr. Smith, he hates the colored man. An’ I don’ see you people pinnin’ the Wardell Knox job on Tommy the K., your righteous motherfuckin’ informant.”