My readout:
Patrick Dennis Orchard, male caucasian–1704 S. Hi Point; Leroy George Carpenter, male negro–819 W. 71st Street, #114; Stephen NMI Wenzel, male caucasian, 1811 S. St. Andrews, #B.
Two white men–surprising. Think: Lester Lake shot me Tilly Hopewell’s address.
There, grab it: 8491 South Trinity, 406.
Close by–I got there quick. A four-story walk-up-I parked curbside.
No lift–I walked up for real. 406–push the buzzer.
Spyhole clicks. “Who is it?”
“Police.”
Chain noise, the door open. Tilly: a thirtyish high yellow, maybe half white.
“Miss Hopewell?”
“Yes”–no coon drawl.
“It’s just a few questions.”
She walked backward-dead cowed. The front room: shabby, clean. “Are you from the Probation?”
I closed the door. “LAPD.”
Goosebumps: “Narco?”
“Administrative Vice.”
She whipped papers off the TV. “I’m clean. I had my Nalline test today. See?”
“I don’t care.”
“Then . . .”
“Let’s start with Tommy Kafesjian.”
Tilly backed up, brushed a chair, plunked down. “Say what, Mr. Police?”
Side 105
Ellroy – White Jazz
“Say what shit, you’re not that kind of colored. _Tommy Kafesjian_.”
“I know Tommy.”
“And you’ve been intimate with him.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been intimate with Wardell Knox and Lester Lake.”
“That’s true, and I’m not the kind of colored who thinks it’s all a big sin, either.”
“Wardell’s dead.”
“I know that.”
“Tommy killed him.”
“Tommy’s evil, but I’m not saying he killed Wardell. And if he did, he’s LAPD
protected, so I’m not giving away anything you don’t already know.”
“You’re a smart girl, Tilly.”
“You mean for colored I’m smart.”
“Smart’s smart. Now give me a motive for Tommy killing Wardell. Was it bad blood over you?”
Sitting prim–this junkie schoolmarm. “Tommy and Wardell could never get that fired up over a woman. I’m not saying Tommy killed him, but if he killed him, it’s because Wardell was behind on some kind of dope payment. Which doesn’t mean anything to you, considering the Christmas baskets Mr. J.C. Kafesjian sends downtown.”
Change-up: “Do you like Lester Lake?”
“Of course I do.”
“You don’t want to see him get popped for a murder he didn’t commit, do you?”
“No, but who says that’s going to happen? Any plain fool can tell Lester’s not the kind of man who could kill anybody.”
“Come on, you know things don’t work that way.”
Getting antsy–raw off that dope cure. “Why do you care so much about Lester?”
“We help each other out.”
“You mean you’re the slum man Lester snitches for? You want to help him out, fix his bathtub.”
Change-up: “Johnny Duhamel.”
“Now I’ll say ‘say what’ for real. Johnny who?”
Name toss: “Leroy Carpenter . . . Stephen Wenzel . . . Patrick Orchard. . . .
Let’s try a policeman named George Stemmons, Jr.”
Cigarettes on a tray close by–Tilly reached trembly.
Kick it over, set her off–
“That Junior is trash! Steve Wenzel’s my friend, and that Junior trash stole his bankroll and his speedballs and called him a white nigger! That Junior talked this crazy talk to him! I saw that crazy Junior man popping goofballs right out Side 106
Ellroy – White Jazz
in the open by this club!”
Flash it–_my_ bankroll. “_What crazy talk?_ Come on, you’re just off the cure, you know you can use a fix. _Come on, what crazy talk?_”
“I don’t know! Steve just said crazy nonsense!”
“What else did he tell you about Junior?”
“Nothing else! He just said what I told you!”
“Patrick Orchard, Leroy Carpenter. _Do you know them?_”
“No! I just know Steve! And I don’t want a snitch jacket!”
Twenty, forty, sixty–I dropped cash on her lap. “Tommy and his sister Lucille.
Anything ugly. Tommy will never know you told me.”
Dope eyes now–fuck fear. “Tommy said that sometimes Lucille whores. He said that a man in Stan Kenton’s band recommended her to this Beverly Hills call-girl man. Doug something. . . Doug Ancelet? Tommy said that Lucille worked for that man for a while like several years ago, but he fired her because she gave these tricks of hers the gonorrhea.”
Recoil: Glenda, ex–Ancelet girl. My peeper tape–the trick to Lucille– “that little dose you gave me.”
Tilly: dope eyes, new money.
* * *