Red coils, heat. Tilly: “Steve heard that Tommy Kafesjian’s out to kill him.
This seller man Pat Orchard, he knows Steve, and he was in jail this afternoon.
This policeman strongarmed him–”
“That was me.”
“I’m not surprised, but just let me tell you. Anyway, according to Steve, that policeman which I guess was you asked this Pat Orchard all these questions about this Junior policeman. You released him, and he went to Tommy Kafesjian and snitched that Junior man and Steve. He said that Steve sold Junior this big stash, and that the Junior policeman was talking up all this dope-kingpin jive.
Steve said he moved out of his place, and he’s going to try to give Junior his money back, ’cause he heard Tommy’s out to get him.”
“And Wenzel left his shit with you for safekeeping.”
Antsy–squirming up her towels. “That’s right.”
“I cut Orchard loose no more than three hours ago. How did you learn all this so quickly?”
“Tommy came by here before Steve did. He told me, ’cause he knows I know Steve, and he thought I might know where he’s hiding. I didn’t tell him I talked to you the other night, and I said I don’t know where Steve is, which is the truth. He left, then Steve came by and dropped his stash off. I told him, ‘You run from that crazy Tommy and that crazy Junior.'”
Steve calls Junior–and gets me. “What else did you and Tommy talk about?”
Side 126
Ellroy – White Jazz
Stifling coil heat–Tilly dripped sweat. “He wanted to do it to me, but I said no ’cause you told me he killed Wardell Knox.”
“What else? The sooner I go, the sooner you can–”
“Tommy said he’s looking for this guy spying on his sister, Lucille. He said he’s going crazy looking for that spyer.”
“What else did he tell you about him?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he say his name was Richie?”
“No.”
“Did he say he was a musician?”
“No.”
“Did he say he had leads on where the guy was?”
“No. He said the spyer was like a f-ing phantom, and he didn’t know where he was.”
“Did he mention a different man, someone spying on the spyer?”
“No.”
“Did he mention _any_ name on the spyer?”
“No.”
“Champ Dineen?”
“Do you think I’m stupid? Champ Dineen was this music writer who died years ago.”
“What else did Tommy say about Lucille?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he mention the name Joseph Arden?”
“No. Please, I need to–”
“Did Tommy say _he_ was screwing Lucille?”
“Mister, you got an evil curiosity about that girl.”
Fast: out to the front room, back with the dope.
“Mister, that belongs to Steve.”
I cracked the window, looked down–a crap game in the alley dead below.
“Mister . . .”
I tossed a bindle out-dice-blanket bullseye. “What else did Tommy say about Lucille?”
“_Nothing_. Mister, please!”
Shouts downstairs-dope from heaven.
Two more bindles out–“Mister, I need that!”–four, five–alleyway roars.
“TOMMY AND LUCILLE”–six, seven, eight.
Side 127
Ellroy – White Jazz
Nine, ten–“It’s wrong to be thinking what you’re thinking. Would you be doing that with your own sister?!”
Crap-game reveries–praise Jesus.
Eleven, twelve–I threw them at Tilly.
* * *
Downtown–R&J–a run for Steve Wenzel’s rap sheet and mugshots. Wenzel–two dope falls, butt-ugly: lantern-jaw white trash. No KAs/ known haunts listed–I shifted to THEM.
A run by their house–lights on, cars out front. I parked, window reconned.
Down the driveway–dark–I watched for new dogs. Hop the fence, peep around–Madge cooking, no Lucille. Dark rooms, the den–J.C., Tommy and Abe Voldrich.
I squatted down. Closed windows–no sound. Eyeball it: J.C. waving papers; Tommy giggling. Voldrich–read his hands–be calm.
Muffled shouts–the window glass hummed.
I squinted; J.C. kept waving those papers. He moved closer–fuck–Ad Vice forms.
No way to read the fine print.
Probably Klein-to-Exley stuff–peeper leads. Stolen, leaked–maybe Junior, maybe Wilhite.
“Tommy going crazy chasing that spyer.”
I circuited back to my car. Peep surveillance–_my_ eyes on _her_ window. Forty minutes down–there-Lucille nonchalant naked. Her lights went out too fucking soon–I scoped the front door still hungry to watch.
Ten minutes, fifteen.
Slam–the three men ran out-over to separate cars. Tommy’s Merc crunched off the sidewalk dragging sparks.