“Yeah, but you can bet the Feds were monitoring our radio calls.”
“They were there taking pictures, but so far as they know it was just some sort of glorified Negro altercation.”
“And since they’re charging us with giving shine killings the go-by, you sent a dozen Homicide dicks over for appearances.”
“Correct, and Bob and I spoke to an influential Negro minister. He has political aspirations, and he promised to talk to the victims’ loved ones. While he’s at it, he’s going to urge them not to talk to the Feds.”
Junior’s car–grime-streaked windows, filthy. “What did you find here?”
“Narcotics, canned food and homosexual literature. IA’s impounding it.”
Noise inside the club. Check the window: Stemmons, Sr., kicking chairs. “What about Junior?”
“We’ll tell the press it was accidental death. IA will investigate, very discreetly.”
“And steer clear of the Kafesjians.”
“They’ll be dealt with in time. Do you think Narco could have done this?”
Stemmons sobbing.
“Klein–”
“No. Sure, they could rig a hotshot, but I don’t think it’s them. I’m leaning toward a legit OD.”
“Why?”
“A patrolman said Junior had a front-door key in his pocket. He was a doped-up crazy fuck, and this place is a known Tommy K. dope drop and hangout. If they were going to kill him, they wouldn’t have left the body here.”
“What kind of condition did you find his apartment in?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, and you should let me forensic it. I aced forensics undergrad, and I trashed the place and probably left prints up the ying-yang.”
“Do it, then wipe it. And call Pacific Bell and get his phone records sealed.
Now, last night you said Stemmons had dope stored in safedeposit boxes.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know which banks?”
“I’ve got his bank books and the box keys.”
“Good, and you’re an attorney, so I’ll go along with your ‘dope stash’ fantasy and tell you to study your law books and figure out a strategy to bypass Welles Noonan and secure a bank writ.”
“_Fantasy?_”
Side 135
Ellroy – White Jazz
Sighing: “Stemmons has dirt on you. It’s most likely stored in those boxes. He was extorting you on some level, or you would have dealt with him in your inimitable strongarm fashion before this lunacy of his extended so far out of control.”
NOW, SPILL IT:
“He had a clipping file on _you_. It was hidden with some Personnel forms on Johnny Duhamel. Last night I made a bullshit comment on Duhamel that jacked your blood pressure up about twenty points, so don’t you fucking patronize me.”
“Describe the file”–no reaction, pure frost.
“All your Bureau cases. Thorough–Junior was as good a paperwork evidence man as I’ve ever seen. I broke into his apartment last week and found it. _Last night_
it was gone.”
“Interpret.”
I winked Dudley-style. “Let’s just say it’s nice to know that my good buddy Ed has got a personal stake in this too. And don’t worry on Kafesjian 459 PC–I’m in way too deep to stop.”
Window view–Papa Stemmons grieving. “You should calm him down, Eddie. We don’t want him screwing up this personal thing of ours.”
“Call me after your forensic”–about-face, watch him go.
Window view:
Exley waltzing up to Stemmons–no handshake, no embrace. Crack the window, listen:
“Your son.. . forbid you to interfere or talk to the press. . . spare you the pain of his pervert tendencies made public.”
Stemmons weaving, grief-crazy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Car radio downtown:
KMPC:
Policeman Found Dead at Southside Jazz Club–LAPD Says Heart Attack.
KGFJ: After-Hours Shootout! Five Negroes Dead!
Press blanket–Exley working fast.
Nothing on Harold John Miciak.
Police-band check–dipshit cops ID’ing Junior by name.
The Bureau, my office-a run for clean clothes. A locker-room shave and shower–keyed up, exhausted.
Down the hall to Personnel–I requisitioned Junior’s print abstract. Furtive: I grabbed Johnny Duhamel’s.
The lab–I bagged an evidence kit and a camera. A call to PC Bell– Exley’s name dropped.
Do this:
Compile all Gladstone 4-0629 calls going back twenty days.
List the names and addresses of all people called.
Side 136
Ellroy – White Jazz
Hold all George Stemmons, Jr., records–awaiting Chief Exley’s court order.
Call _me_ at that number–with full results–inside four hours.