Ellroy – White Jazz

He tapped his head. “Right here. We’re cramped for space in the plush offices of _Transom_ magazine.”

Itchy–thinking Glenda. “Do you pay the man by check?”

“No, always cash. When we talked on the phone he said cash only. Lieutenant, you’re getting antsy, so I’ll tell you. Check P0 box 5841 at the main downtown post office. That’s where I send the gelt. It’s always cash, and if you’re thinking of finking me to the IRS, don’t–because the Champ man is covered under various petty-cash clauses.”

Hot–the A.M. sweats. “How did he sound that one time you talked to him?”

“Like a square punk who always wanted to be a hepcat jazz musician. Say, did you know that my kid brother was a suspect in the Black Dahlia case?”

* * *

PO box stakeout?–too time-consuming. Glom a writ to bag the contents?–ditto.

Bust the box open?–yes—-call Jack Woods.

Phone dimes:

Jack–no answer. Meg–tap our property account for ten grand cash. Okay, no

“Why?”, news: She and Jack were an item again. I resisted a cheap laugh: give _him_ the ten–he’s killing Junior for me.

Shot/shivved/bludgeoned–picture it–Junior dead.

Pincushion Miciak–seeing it/_feeling_ it: knife blades snagged on his spine.

More calls:

Side 103

Ellroy – White Jazz

Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle–77th, the Bureau–no luck. Picture Lester Lake scared shitless–cops out to frame him.

Picture Glenda: “Shit, David, you caught me crying.”

I drove down to Darktown–a name-tossing run. Bars and early-open jazz clubs–go.

Names:

Tommy Kafesjian, Richie–an old Tommy friend? Tilly Hopewell– consort–Tommy and the late Wardell Knox. My wild card: Johnny Duhamel–ex-fighter cop.

Names tossed to:

B-girls, hopheads, loafers, juice friends, bartenders. My tossbacks: Richie–straight deadpans. White Peeping Toms–clitto. Tilly Hopewell– junkie talk–she was an ex-hype off a recent hospital cure. Wardell Knox–“He dead and I don’t know who did it.” Schoolboy Johnny– boxing IDs only.

My peeper sketch: zero IDs.

Dusk–more clubs open. More name tosses–zero results–I checked slot-machine traffic on reflex. A coin crew at the Rick Rack–white/s pic– Feds across the street, camera ready. Mickey slot men on film–Suicide Mickey.

Cop-issue Plymouths out thick–Feds, LAPD. Intermittent heebiejeebies–tails on me LAST NIGHT?

I stopped at a pay phone. Out of dimes–I used slugs.

Glenda–my place, her place–no answer. Jack Woods–no answer. Over to Bido Lito’s–toss names, toss shit–I got nothing but sneers back.

Two-drink minimum–I grabbed a stool and ordered two scotches. Voodoo eyes: wall-to-wall niggers.

I downed the juice fast–two drinks, no more. Scotch warm, this idea: wait for Tommy K. and shove him outside. Do you fuck your sister/does your father fuck your sister–brass knucks until he coughed up family dirt.

The barman had drink three ready–I said no. A combo setting up-I waved the sax man over. He agreed: twenty dollars for a Champ Dineen medley.

Lights down. Vibes/drums/sax/trumpet–go.

Themes–loud/fast, soft/slow. Soft–the barman talked mythic Champ Dineen.

Dig:

He came out of nowhere. He looked white–but rumor made his bloodlines mongrel.

He played piano and bass sax, wrote jazz and cut a few sides. Handsome, jumbo hung: he fucked in whorehouse peek shows and never had his picture taken. Champ in love: three rich-girl sisters, their mother. Four mistresses–four children born–a rich cuckold daddy shot the Champ Man dead.

A drink on the bar–I bolted it. _My_ mythic peeper-dig _his_ story, just maybe: Whorehouse peek equals _Transom_; family intrigue equals KAFESJIAN.

I ran outside–across the street to a phone bank. Jack Woods’ number, three rings–“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Dave, don’t ask. I’m still looking for him.”

Side 104

Ellroy – White Jazz

“Keep going, it’s not that.”

“What is it?”

“It’s another two grand if you want it. You know the all-night post office downtown?”

“Sure.”

“Box 5841. You break in and bring me the contents. Wait until three o’clock or so, you’ll get away clean.”

Jack whistled. “You’ve got Fed trouble, right? Some kind of seizure writ won’t do it, so–”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes. I like you in trouble, you’re generous. Call me tomorrow, all right?”

I hung up. My memory jolted–_plate_ numbers. Jack’s work–those Junior shakedownees he spotted. I dug my notebook out and buzzed the DMV.

Slow–read the numbers off, wait. Cold air juked my booze rush and cleared my head–pusher shakedown victims–potential Junior/Tommy snitchers.

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