Junior’s FI cards–Vecchio stud service–
–“and the capper is little Junior says he’s gonna take over Mickey Cohen’s kingdom, which as I understand it ain’t such a hot kingdom no more.”
“And?”
“And I was just thinking the money and dope I lost was worth it to catch this crazy motherfucker’s act.”
Woods’ surveillance–Junior, Tommy and J.C. at Bido Lito’s. Overheard: he’d protect THEM from ME. Double-agent Junior–mercy-kill him.
“Give me the dope back.”
“Man, you said I could have it!”
“Give it to me.”
“Fuck you, lying motherfucker!”
I sapped him down, broke his wrists, pried it free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Crazy motherfucker’s act.”
Junior’s door–six padlocks–crazy new precautions. The dumbfuck used LAPD
hardware–my master keys got me in.
Hit the lights–
Rice Krispies on the floor.
Piano wire strung ankle-high.
Closet doors nailed shut; mousetraps on the furniture.
CRAAAAZY.
Toss it slow now–the trunk distracted me last time–
I pried the closets open–nothing but food scraps inside.
Cornflakes and tacks on the kitchen floor.
Sink sludge–motor oil, glass shards; friction tape sealing the icebox. Peel it off–
Amyl nitrite poppers in an ice tray.
Reefer buds in a casserole dish.
Chocolate ice cream–plastic shoved down an open pint container. Dump it, yank–
One Minox spy camera–no film loaded in.
The hall–neck-high wires–duck. The bathroom–mousetraps, a medicine chest Side 124
Ellroy – White Jazz
glued shut. Smash it open–K-Y jelly and two C-notes on a shelf.
A hamper–nailed tight–pry, pull–
Bloody hypos–spikes up-a booby trap. Dump them–a small steel strongbox underneath.
Locked–I banged it open on the wall.
Booty:
One B of A Hollywood branch passbook–balance $9,183.40.
Two safe-deposit-box keys, one instruction card. Fuck: “Box access requires password and/or visual okay.”
Call it:
Evidence holes–Junior caution pre–complete CRAAAZY.
Logic:
Glenda/Klein dispositions stashed THERE–ditto the gun Georgie Ainge sold Glenda.
_Find the password_.
I tossed the bedroom–carpet glass spread thick–the trunk gone. The drawers–pure shit–paper scraps gibberish-scrawled.
I dumped the mattress, the couch, the chairs–no rips, no stash holes. I pulled the TV apart–mousetraps snapped. That wall section I shot out–stuffed with Kotex.
No password. No H cards. No depositions. No Exley/no Duhamel files.
Snap, crackle, pop–Rice Krispies underfoot.
Phone _bbrinng_–
The hall extension–grab it.
“Uh, yeah?”
“It’s me, Wenzel. Uh, Stemmons. . . look, man. . . I don’t want any part of dealing with you.”
I faked Junior’s voice: “Meet me.”
“No . . . I’ll get your money back to you.”
“Come on, let’s talk about–”
“No, you’re nuts!”–_click_, say it: Junior bought Wenzel’s dope; Wenzel wised up later.
Bank books, box keys–mine now. I clipped the padlocks fumblehanded–kill him, Jack.
* * *
I drove to Tilly’s place. Four flights up-knock–no answer.
Peep the spyhole, listen–light, TV laughs. A shoulder wedge snapped the door.
Tilly flipping channels–sprawled on the floor, hophead-dreamy.
Bindles on a chair–say a pound’s worth.
Side 125
Ellroy – White Jazz
Flip–Perry Como, boxing, Patti Page. Slack-face Tilly on cloud nine.
I crammed the door shut and bolted it. Tilly flipped stations, goofy-eyed: Lawrence Welk, Spade Cooley. I grabbed her, dragged her–
Clenching up, kicking–good. The bathroom, the shower, full-blast water–
Cold–soak her clothes, freeze her sober. Wet myself–fuck it.
Freezing her: big shivers, jumbo goosebumps. Teeth clicks trying to beg me–sweat her.
Hot water–fighting now–I let her hit, kick, squirm. Back to ice-cold– “All right! All right!”–no dope slur.
I pulled her out, sat her down on the toilet.
“I think Steve Wenzel left you that dope for safekeeping. He was going to give it to that policeman Junior Stemmons we talked about the other night, and Junior already paid him for it. Now he wants to give Junior his money back because Junior’s crazy and he’s scared. _Now you tell me what you know about that_.”
Tilly trembled–spastic shivers. I tossed her towels and tapped the heater.
She bundled up. “Are you going to tell the Probation?”
“Not if you cooperate with me.”
“And what about that…”
“That shit in your front room that will get you a dime in some dyke farm if I decide to get ugly?”
Popping cold sweat now. “Yes.”
“I won’t touch it. And I know you want to geez, so the sooner you talk to me, the sooner you can.”