Ellroy – White Jazz

I called the Arden Dairy–a shot at a Joseph Arden make. Strikeout: no Arden-surname owners/employees; the founder dead, heirless.

I called University Station–4:00–nightwatch roll call in progress. Via intercom hookup:

Did any of you men trick-card Joseph Arden–white male alias?

One taker–“I _think_ I carded that alias”–no real name, vehicle or description recalled.

Joseph Arden–dead for now.

A teletype check: no Topanga Canyon 187s–Pincushion Miciak decomposing.

Dinner: candy bars from a vending machine. Grab a sweat room, wait.

I tilted a chair back–sleep waves hit me. Half dreaming: Mr. Third Party says hi!

The Red Arrow Inn–peeper jimmies Lucille’s door. Jimmy marks _on the peeper’s door_–nonmatching. Kafesjian 459: watchdogs chopped and blinded–eyes shoved Side 119

Ellroy – White Jazz

down their throats.

The peeper sobbing, listening to:

Lucille with odd tricks–and his own father.

Read the peeper passive.

Read the burglar brutal.

Silverware stolen, found: the peeper’s bed stabbed and ripped. Assumed: the peeper himself. My new instinct: third party/door chopper = burglar/bed slasher

=

One separate fiend.

Half dreaming–sex-fiend gargoyles chasing me. Half waking– “Doubleheader, Lieutenant”–Joe Plainclothes shoving two punks in.

One white, one colored. The plainclothesman cuffed them to chairs, their hands racked to the slats.

“Blondie’s Patrick Orchard, and the Negro guy’s Leroy Carpenter. My partner and me checked Stephen Wenzel’s place, and it looked like he cleaned it out in a hurry.”

Orchard–skinny, pimples. Carpenter–purple suit, this coon fashion plate.

“Thanks, Officer.”

“Glad to oblige”–smile–“Glad to earn a few points with Chief Exley.”

“Did you run them for warrants?”

“Sure did. Leroy’s a child-support skip, and Pat’s a Kern County probation absconder.”

“If they cooperate, I’ll cut them loose.”

He winked. “Sure you will.”

I winked. “Check the jail roster tomorrow if you don’t believe me.”

Orchard smiled. Leroy said, “Say what?” Plainclothes–huh?–back out shrugging.

Showtime.

I reached under the table-bingo–a sap taped on. “I meant what I said, and this has got _nothing_ to do with you. This is about a policeman named George Stemmons, Jr. He was observed rousting you two and a guy named Stephen Wenzel, and all I want is for you to tell me about it.”

Orchard–wet lips–snitch-eager.

Leroy–“Fuck you, ofay motherfuck, I know my rights.”

I sapped him–arms, legs–and dumped his chair. He hit the floor sideways–no bleats, no yelps–good stones.

Orchard, snitch frenzied: “Hey, I know that Junior cat!”

“And?”

“And he shook me down for my roll!”

“And?”

“And he stole my . . . my . . .”

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Ellroy – White Jazz

“And he stole your felony narcotics. _And?_”

“And he was stoned out of his fucking gourd!”

“_And?_”

“And he was talking this ‘I’m a criminal mastermind’ rebop!”

“_And?_”

“And he boosted my shit! He popped these goofballs right out in the open by the Club Alabam!”

Tilly Hopewell confirmed. “_And?_”

“An-an-an–”

I sapped his chair. “AND?”

“An-an-an’ I know Steve Wenzel. St-St-Steve s-said i-Junior t-t-talked this crazy shit to him!”

Tilly confirmation ditto. I checked Leroy–too quiet–watch his fingers–

Waistband pokes, surreptitious.

I hauled his chair up and jerked his belt–H bindles popped out of his pants.

Improvise:

“Pat, I didn’t find these on Mr. Carpenter, I found them on you. Now, do you have anything else to say about Junior Stemmons, Steve Wenzel and yourself?”

Leroy–“Crazy, daddy-o!”–dig the ofay.

“AND, Mr. Orchard?”

“An-an-and St-Steve s-said he c-cut a d-deal w-w-with c-crazy Junior. J-Junior p-promised Steve this b-big money to buy this b-bulk horse. C-couple days ago, Steve, he told me this. He s-s-said J-Junior n-needed twenty-four hours to get the money.”

Leroy: “Sissy fink stool pigeon motherfucker.”

Craaazy Junior–KILL HIM, JACK.

Twirling my sap: “Possession of heroin with intent to sell. Conspiracy to distribute narcotics. Assault on a police officer, because you just took a swing at me. AND, Mr. Orch–”

“Okay! Okay! Okay!”

I sapped the table. “AND?”

“A-and c-crazy Junior, he made me go with him to the club Alabam. Y-y-you know that b-boxer cop?”

“_Johnny Duhamel?_”

“R-right, who w-won the G-Golden Gloves, i-i-Junior, he started bothering the-the-the-”

Tongue tied bad–uncuff him, cut him slack.

Leroy: “You afraid to let _my_ hands free, Mr. Police?”

Orchard: “Fuck, that’s better.”

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“AND?”

“And J-Junior, he was bugging the G-Golden Gloves guy.”

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