“I want a detailed confidential report on this within twenty-four hours.”
I crowded him–Bob G. watching. “_Nothing on paper_, are you fucking insane? And Side 130
Ellroy – White Jazz
while I’ve got you, you should know that Junior’s queer for Johnny Duhamel. Next time you see Dudley, tell him he’s got a fruit heartthrob working for him.”
Exley blinked–simple loose talk shivved him. “There must be a reason why you didn’t tell me these things about Stemmons before.”
“You don’t inspire friendly talks.”
“No, but you’re much too smart to bypass authority when it can get you what you want.”
“Then help me get a bank writ. Junior has some dope stashed in safedeposit boxes. Help me get it out before it embarrasses the Department.”
“Altruistic of you to be so concerned, but you’re the lawyer, bank writs are Fed business and Welles Noonan is the U.S. Attorney here.”
“You could petition a Federal judge.”
“No.”
“No, _and?_”
“_No_, and right now I want you to go by that man Wenzel’s place and toss it for evidence on his dealings with Junior Stemmons. If you find any, destroy it.
_That_ would be a service to the Department.”
“Chief, let _me_ take care of Stemmons.”
“No. I’m going to call out every man in IAD. I’m going to wrap that Watts shootout up, find Stemmons and sequester him where the Feds can’t find him.”
Junior ratting Glenda–wide screen/VistaVision/3-D–
“Will you quash _anything_ incriminating that comes out on me and mine?”
“Yes. But don’t cloak your self-serving motives in respect for the Department.
Given what you are, it’s pitifully transparent.”
Change-up: “Has IAD been tailing me sporadically since the Johnson thing?”
“No. If you’ve been under surveillance, it’s the Feds. I forgave you for _that_
murder, remember?”
X-ray eyes–the fuck made me blink.
“Clean yourself up, Lieutenant. You smell like blood.”
* * *
I cruised by Wenzel’s pad–J.C.’s car was parked outside. Call it: potential Tommy links snipped quick.
Shell-shock images:
The Feds bag Junior live. He plea bargains: queer exposure quashed in exchange for Dave Klein nailed. Junior, evidence-prof savant–all my killings, all my payoffs itemized.
Go–toss that insane hovel one more time–
I drove over, unlocked six padlocks to get in. Lights on, new horror: Shotgun shells in the oven.
Cherry bombs crammed down a toaster.
Razor blades choking a heat duct.
Side 131
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Do it:
Bag the spy camera.
Bag the gibberish notes.
Dump the furniture again–four chairs in–loose stitching. Rip, reach–
Cash tucked away–$56.
Gilette 187 carbons–Homicide-pilfered.
A new Glenda/Klein report–more detail:
PRIOR TO HER FATAL SHOOTING AND STABBING OF GILETTE, MISS BLEDSOE FIRED TWO
NON-WOUNDING SHOTS WITH THE AFOREMENTIONED .32 REVOLVER THAT SHE HAD PURCHASED
FROM GEORGE AINGE. (SEE BALLISTICS REPORT — 114-55 ATTACHED TO THE HIGHLAND
PARK SQUAD CASE FILE FOR DETAILS ON THE EXPENDED ROUNDS TAKEN FROM GILETTE’S
BODY AND FOUND EMBEDDED IN HIS LIVING ROOM WALLS.) THAT REVOLVER IS NOW SAFE IN
MY POSSESSION, LEFT WITH ME BY AINGE PRIOR TO HIS DEPARTURE FROM LOS ANGELES. I HAVE TEST FIRED SIX ROUNDS FROM IT, AND BALLISTICS ANALYSIS OF THE ROUNDS
INDICATES THAT THEY ARE IDENTICAL TO THE ROUNDS TAKEN FROM BOTH GILETTE’S BODY
AND THE GILETTE PREMISES. IT IS PLASTIC WRAPPED AND THE SMOOTH PEARL GRIPS
SUSTAINED RIGHT AND LEFT THUMB PRINTS WHICH MATCH TO ELEVEN COMPARISON POINTS
THE PRINTS ON FILE FROM GLENDA BLEDSOE’S 1946 JUVENILE SHOPLIFTING ARREST
I ripped it up, flushed it.
“Safe”/”wrapped”/powdered = safety-box-stashed.
I tapped the walls–no hollow spots.
I unzipped cushions–mousetraps set with Cheez Whiz snapped at me.
I yanked a loose floorboard–an electric dashboard Jesus glowed up iridescent.
I laughed–
99% CRAAAZY Junior–1% sane. Sane evidence-methodical, logical, concise, succinct, plausible–assume death provisions rigged–willing the concise, logical, plausible, succinct evidence to its most logical, potentially vindictive heir: Howard Fucking Hughes.
Laughing–hard to breathe–Rice Krispies popping on the floor. Voices next door–why’s that nice Mr. Stemmons laughing so CRAAAZY?
I grabbed the phone, fumbled it, dialed.
“Hello? Dav–”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Where are you? What happened with Doug?”
Ancelet–skewed time-ancient stuff. “I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“Then come over now.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I’m waiting someplace. There’s an off chance the guy who lives here might show up.”