Ellroy – White Jazz

“Kill him, Jack.”

“Okay by me. Ten?”

“Ten. Clip him and buy me some time.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The hills–a big Spanish off Mulholland.

Lights on, Glenda’s car out front. Twenty-odd rooms– fuck pad supreme.

I parked, beams on a ’55 Chevy. Bad familiar: Harold John Miciak’s.

Be sure, tweak the high beams–Hughes Aircraft decals on the back fender.

Late-night quiet–big dark houses, just one lit.

Side 99

Ellroy – White Jazz

I got out and listened. Voices–his, hers–muffled low.

Up, try the front door–locked. Voices–his edgy, hers calm. Circuit the house, listen:

Miciak:”… you could do worse. Look, you come across for me, you pretend it’s Klein. I seen him come see you in Griffith Park, and as far as that goes, you can still give it to him–I’m not possessive and I got no partners. Mr. Hughes, he’s never gonna know, just you come across for me and get that money I want from Klein. I know he’s got it, ’cause he’s connected with some mob guys. Mr.

Hughes, he told me so hisself.”

Glenda: “How do I know there’s just you?”

Miciak:” ‘Cause Harold John’s the only daddy-o in L.A. man enough to mess with Mr. Hughes and this cop who thinks he’s so tough.”

Around to the dining room window. Curtain gaps–look: Glenda edging backward; Miciak pressing up, grinding his hips.

Slow walking–both of them–a knife rack behind Glenda.

I tried the window–no give.

Glenda: “How do I know there’s just you?”

Glenda: one hand reaching back, one hand out come hither.

Glenda: “I think we’d be good together.”

Around the back, a side door–I shoulder-popped it and ran in.

The hallway, the kitchen, there–

A clinch: his hands groping, hers grabbing knives.

Slow-motion numb–I _couldn’t_ move. Shock-still frozen, look: Knives down–in his back, in his neck–twisted in hilt-deep. Bone cracks–Glenda dug in–two hands blood-wet. Miciak thrashing AT HER–

Two more knives snagged–Glenda stabbing blind.

Miciak clawing the rack, up with a cleaver.

I stumbled in close–numb legs–smell the blood–

He stabbed, missed, lurched into the knife rack. She stabbed–his back, his face–blade jabs ripped his cheeks out.

Gurgles/screeches/whines–Miciak dying loud. Knife handles sticking out at odd angles–I threw him down, twisted them, killed him.

Glenda–no screams, this look: SLOW, I’ve been here before.

* * *

SLOW:

We killed the lights and waited ten minutes–no outside response. Plans then–soft whispers holding each other bloody.

No dining room carpet–luck. We showered and swapped clothes– Hughes kept a male/female stash. We bagged our own stuff, washed the floor, the rack, the knives.

Blankets in a closet–we wrapped Miciak up and locked him in his car trunk. 1:50

Side 100

Ellroy – White Jazz

A.M.–out, back–no witnesses. Out and back again–our cars tucked below Mulholland.

A plan, a fall guy: the Wino Will-o-the-Wisp, L.A.’s favorite at-large killer.

Out to Topanga Canyon solo–I drove Miciak’s car. Hillhaven Kiddieland Kamp–defunct, wino turf. I flashlight-checked all six cabins–no bums residing.

I stashed the car out of sight.

I wiped it.

Kougar Kub Kabin–dump the body.

I throttled the corpse per the Wisp MO.

I rolled it through sawdust to stuff up the stab wounds. Forensic logic: impacted wounds made knife casting impossible. Hope logic: Howard Hughes, publicity shy–he might not push to find his man’s killer.

I walked back to Pacific Coast Highway. SLOW fear speeding up–

Sporadic tails dogging me.

A tail tonight meant grief forever.

Glenda picked me up at PCH. Back to Mulholland, two cars to my place, bed just to talk.

_Small_ talk–her will held. CinemaScope/Technicolor knife work–I pushed to know she didn’t like it.

——–

I hit the pillow by her face.

I shined the bed light in her eyes.

I told her:

My father shot a dog/I torched his toolshed/he hit my sister/I shot him, the gun jammed/these Two Tony fucks hurt my sister/I killed them/I killed five other men/I took money–what gives you the right to play it so stylish–

Hit the pillow, make her talk–no style, no tears: She was floating, carhopping, this pretend actress. She was sleeping around for rent money–a guy told Dwight Gilette. He propositioned her: turn tricks for a fifty-fifty split. She agreed, she did it–sad sacks mostly. Georgie Ainge once–no rough stuff from him–but regular beatings from Gilette.

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