“So do you want to change the world or waltz on this thing?”
“I wants you to give me an extra month’s free rent for all the fine skinny I gots on the fuckin’ Kafesjian family.”
“Harbor Lights” snapped on again. Lester: “And on that note, I heard the daughter’s a righteous semipro hooker. I heard Tommy and J.C. beat up Mama Kafesjian and her like batting practice. I heard Madge–that’s Mama–used to have a thing goin’ with Abe Voldrich, he’s this head guy in their dope operation, an’ he runs one of their dry-cleaning joints on the side. I heard Voldrich dries up big bushels of mary jane in them big dryers they got at their plants. I heard the way they keep things copacetic with rival pushers is kickbacks from little Mickey Mouse independents that they tolerates, but no righteous organizations would ever try to infringe on the Southside, ’cause they knows the LAPD would come down hard just to keep them Armenian fucks happy. I heard the only humps they snitch to you people is the indies who won’t kick back no operatin’ tribute. I heard the family is fuckin’ skin tight, even though they don’t treat each other with so much fuckin’ respect. I heard that outside of Voldrich an’ this colored trim Tommy the K. goes for, the family only gots employees and customers, not no fuckin’ friends. I heard Tommy used to be pals with some white kid named Richie, I don’t know no last name, but I heard they blew these punk square horns together, like they pretended they had talent. That crazy-ass burglary you told me about– them chopped-up watchdogs an’ stolen silverware an’ shit–l heard jackshit ’bout that. I also heard you thinkin’
’bout raisin’ the rent in my buildin’, so I–”
Cut him off: “What about Tommy fucking Lucille?”
“Say what? I didn’ hear nothin’ like that. I said ‘skin tight,’ not fuckin’ skin deep.”
“What about this Richie guy?”
“Shit, I tol’ you what I heard, no more, no less. You want me-”
“Keep asking around about him. He might connect to this peeper guy I’ve been chasing.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that Peepin’ Tom motherfucker, an’ I knows how to improvise off what a man tells me. So I been askin’ aroun’ ’bout that, an’ I ain’t heard nothin’. Now, ’bout that rent increase-”
“Ask around if the Kafesjians have been looking for a peeper themselves. I have a hunch that they know who the burglar is.”
“An’ I got a hunch slumlord Dave Klein gonna raise my rent.”
“No, and I’ll carry you to January. If Jack Woods comes around to collect, call me.”
“What about Mr. Smith’s boys in hot pursuit of ol’ Lester?”
“I’ll take care of it. Do you know Tilly Hopewell’s address?”
“Can my people dance? Have I strapped on at that love shack more than a few times myself?”
“Lester–”
“8491 South Trinity, apartment 406. Say, where you goin’?”
Side 94
Ellroy – White Jazz
“The fights.”
“Moore and Ruiz?”
“That’s right.”
“Bet on the Mex. I used to climb Stevie Moore’s sister, an’ she tol’ me Stevie couldn’t take it to the breadbasket.”
* * *
I badged in ringside–late.
The sixth-round break-card girls strutting. Spectator chants: “Dodgers, no! Ruiz must go!” Boos, shouts: pachucos vs. Commies.
The bell–
Rockabye Reuben circling; Moore popping right-hand leads. Mid-ring clinch–Ruiz loose, the spook winded.
“Break! Break!”–the ref in and out.
Moore stalking slow–elbows up, open downstairs. Headhunter Reuben–near-miss hooks moving back.
Lazy Reuben, bored Reuben.
A snap guess: tank job.
Moore-no steam, no juice. Ruiz–lazy hooks, lazy right-hand leads.
Moore swarming and sucking in air; Reuben eating blockable shots– the coon wide open.
Ruiz–a lazy left hook.
Moore catching wind, his guard low.
Bullseye–the wrong man went down.
Pachuco cheers.
Pinko boos.
Reuben–this oh-fuck look–stalling the count. Dawdle time–he oozed over to a neutral corner slow.
Six, seven, eight–Moore up, wobbly.
Ruiz dawdling center ring. Moore backing up–shot to shit. Bomb range, Reuben bombs–wild misses. Ten, twelve, fourteen–real air whizzers.
Ruiz fake-gasping; fake-weary arms flopping dead.
Moore threw a bolo shot.
Rockabye Reuben staggered.
Moore-left/right bolos.
Reuben hit the canvas–eyes rolling, fake out. Seven, eight, nine, ten– Moore kissed Sammy Davis, Jr., at ringside.