J.C. and Voldrich headed northbound.
Tommy–dead south.
Follow _him_–
La Brea south, Slauson east–this purple coon coach. Way east, Central Avenue south.
Peeper turf.
Light traffic–lay back, tail that jig rig. Way south–Watts-east.
Tommy, brake lights on–Avalon and 103–after-hours-party-club row.
Nigger Heaven:
Two tenements wood-plank-linked–three stories up, open windows, fire-escape access.
Tommy parked. I cruised by, backed up, watched him: He walked over to the right-side building.
Side 128
Ellroy – White Jazz
He climbed up the fire escape and stepped on the plank.
Tommy creeping–wobbly wood, rope holds.
Tommy crouching.
Tommy peeping the left-side window.
Big-time-hinky wrong: Tommy just plain looking.
I bolted my car, bolted the left-side steps. No lobby lookout–sprint.
Three floors up–bouncers at the door. Looks: who’s this cop know? Instant bouncer-doormen–I walked in.
Mock-zebra walls, party geeks–white, colored. Music, party noise.
I scanned the room–no peeper-sketch look-alikes, no Tommy.
Check the window–no Tommy on the plank.
Geeks packed tight–white hepcats/snazzy niggers–hard to move.
Reefer smoke close by–lantern-jaw Steve Wenzel passing a stick.
Geeks between us.
Tommy behind him, hands in his coat.
Hands out–a sawed-off pump getting loose.
I yelled–
Some nigger hit a switch–the room went black.
Shotgun roar–full auto–one long blast. Spatter spray/random pistol shots/screams–muzzle flash lit up Steve Wenzel, faceless.
Screams.
I ripped through them out the window.
I crawled the plank, glass and brains in my hair.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Harbor Freeway northbound, two-way squawk:
“Code 3 all units vicinity 103rd and Avalon multiple homicides 10342 South AvaIon third floor ambulances responding repeat all units multiple 187s 10342
South Avalon see the building superintendent–”
Breathing blood–my raincoat cleaned me up–clean, but still smellingit.
“Repeat all units four dead 10342 South Avalon Code 3 ambulances responding.”
Shell shock worse than Saipan–the road blurred.
“Traffic units vicinity 103 and Avalon Code 3 see Sergeant Disbrow Code 3
urgent.”
6th Street off-ramp, down to Mike Lyman’s–Exley’s late dinner spot. I palmed a waiter: get the Chief _now_.
Happy people all around me–gargoyles.
“Lieutenant, this way please!”
Side 129
Ellroy – White Jazz
I followed the waiter. A booth at the back–Exley standing, Bob Gallaudet sprawled–what’s this?
Exley: “Klein, what is it?”
Bar seats close–I gestured him over. Bob-feelers perking, out of earshot.
“Klein, what _is_ it?”
“You remember that pickup order you issued this morning?”
“Yes. Three men to be detained at Wilshire Station. You owe me an explanation on it, so start–”
“One of the men was an indie pusher named Steve Wenzel, and half an hour ago Tommy Kafesjian shotgunned him at one of those sanctioned after-hours pads in Watts. I was there, Four dead so far.”
“_Explain this to me_.”
“It all pertains to Junior Stemmons.”
“_Explain it_.”
“Fuck … he’s dirty past your wildest … luck, he’s shooting dope, he’s shaking down pushers. He’s a faggot, he’s extorting queers in Fern Dell Park, I think he’s leaking my 459 reports to you to the Kafesjians, he’s driving around Niggertown like a crazy man, talking up how he’s the new–”
Restraining me: “And you’ve been trying to take care of it yourself.”
I pulled loose. “That’s right. Junior bought Wenzel’s stash, to quote unquote
‘set himself up as the new Southside dope kingpin.’ One of the other men on that pickup order, _who I questioned extensively about Stemmons and Wenzel_, snitched both of them to Tommy K. I tailed Tommy down to Watts, and I was there when he took out Wenzel.”
Pure patrician frost: “I’ll send an LAD team down to seal those homicides. It was Wenzel and innocent bystanders?”
“Right.”
“Then I’ll make sure _his_ ID is kept away from the press, which will prevent that pickup order from coming back to haunt us.”
“You don’t want the Feds getting ahold of this, so you’d better drop a blanket on the press right now.”
“Klein, you know that you can’t approach–”
“I won’t go near Tommy Kafesjian–yet–even though I saw him kill a man, even though you won’t tell me why you’re using me to operate that family.”
No rebuke, no comeback.
“Where’s Stemmons now?”
“I don’t know”–KILL HIM, JACK.
“Do you think they’ll. . .”
“I don’t _think_ they’ll clip him. They might put Dan Wilhite on it, but I don’t think they’d clip an LAPD man.”