Welles Noonan on KNX: “… and I’m not saying that the surprising death of an allegedly healthy young policeman is connected to the other five deaths that have occurred within the past twenty-four hours in South Central Los Angeles, but it seems curious to me that the Los Angeles Police Department should be so eager to explain it all away and be done with it.”
Smart Noonan–shit draws flies.
4:00–Tommy sax-honks–my cue to leave. My own music juicing me–I was closing in on SOMETHING.
* * *
Early dusk–clouds, rain. A phone booth stop-Bob out, Riegle in. Bum station check news–no suicides clicked in PEEPER’S MOTHER.
Up to the set–hard rain–no shooting in progress. Luck: her trailer light on. A Side 139
Ellroy – White Jazz
sprint–in the door dodging puddles.
Glenda was smoking, distracted. Sprawled on the bed–no rush to touch me.
Easy guess: “Miciak?”
She nodded. “Bradley Milteer came by. Apparently he and Herman Gerstein know each other independent of his work for Hughes. He told Herman that Miciak’s body and car were found, and that all of Hughes’ contract players were going to be discreetly questioned. Mickey overheard him tell Herman that detectives from the Malibu Sheriff’s Station would be by to talk to me.”
“That’s all you heard?”
“No. Mickey said the Sheriff’s are keeping their investigation under wraps to avoid embarrassing Howard.”
“Did he mention the Hollywood Division LAPD? A killer named the Wino WiIl-o-the-Wisp?”
Glenda blew smoke rings. “No. I thought–I mean we thought Hughes would just push this under the table.”
“No, we _wished_ it. And there’s no evidence that Miciak was killed at…”
“At the _fuck pad_ where Howard Hughes used to _fuck_ me and the man I killed wanted to _fuck_ me?”
Stop her/make her think. “You bought it, and now you’re paying for it. Now you act your way out.”
“Direct me. Tell me something to make it easy.”
_Touch me, tell me things_.
“You say you were home alone that night. You don’t flirt with the officers or try to charm them. You subtly drop that Hughes is a lech and you can spill the goods on it. You reach for whatever it is that you won’t tell me about that gave you the stones to. . . oh shit, Glenda.”
“Okay”–just like that–“Okay.”
I kissed her-dripping wet. “Is there a phone I can use?”
“Outside Mickey’s trailer. You know, if I could cry on cue, I would.”
“Don’t, please.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I have to meet a man.”
“Later, then?”
“Yeah, I’ll come by your place.”
“I won’t expect much. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
* * *
Raining buckets–I ducked under Mickey’s trailer awning. The phone worked–I dialed Gallaudet’s private line.
He picked up himself. “Hello?”
“It’s me, Bob.”
“Dave, hi, and quid pro quo fulfilled. Are you listening?”
Side 140
Ellroy – White Jazz
“Shoot.”
“John Gerald Duhamel, age twenty-five. As far as IA personal files go, not much–I checked a few others for a comparison.”
“And?”
“And aside from the interesting combination of a cum laude engineering degree and an amateur boxing career, not much of note.”
“Family?”
“An only child. His parents were supposedly rich, but died in a plane crash and left the kid broke while he was still in college, and under known associates we’ve got the somewhat dicey Reuben Ruiz and his stickyfingered brothers, but of course Reuben’s on our side now. The kid apparently has an undiscriminating appetite for poontang, which I did myself when I was twenty-five. There were unsubstantiated rumors that he tanked his one and only pro fight, and that’s all the news that’s fit to print.”
No bells rang. “Thanks, Bob.”
“I’ll never high-hat you, son–I remember those crib sheets too well.”
“Thanks.”
“Take care, son.”
I hung up, took a breath, ran–
“Dave! Over here!”
Lightning glow lit up the voice–Chick Vecchio under a tarp hang. Bums behind him, sucking T-Bird.
I dashed over–time to kill.
Chick: “Mickey’s at home today.”
Glenda–fifty-fifty he knew. “I should have known. Fuck, this rain.”
“The _Herald_ said two inches. The _Herald_ also said that kid partner of yours had a heart attack. Why don’t I believe the _Herald?_”