I pressed up to the glass–smoke, distortion–“Fifth Amendment.”
“Abe, you never won a dime at poker.”
Pressing up–squinting, ears cocked.
“You really do want to help us out, Abe. Once you admit it you’ll feel a lot better.”
Door clangs–I eased off the wall.
Two Feds flanking Welles Noonan. I hit first: “You want to turn me as a witness.”
Noonan patted his hair. “Yes, and my wife’s pulling for you. She saw your picture in the papers, and she’s quite smitten.”
“Quid pro quo?”
“You’re not desperate enough, but try me.”
“Richie Something. Tell me what you’ve got on him.”
“No, and I’ll have to upbraid Agent Milner for leaving that speaker on.”
“Noonan, we can deal on this.”
“No, you’re not ready to beg yet. Gentlemen, escort Mr. Klein to a taxi.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Bido Lito’s–daybreak.
Scorched rubble, the bandstand dead center. Ash heaps, shattered glass.
Sidewalk phones intact. One dime in my pockets–be there, please.
Six rings–“Hello?” sleepy-voiced.
“It’s me.”
“_Where are you?_”
“I’m all right.”
“I didn’t ask you–David, where _were_ you?”
Tingles–just hearing her.
“I can’t–look, were you questioned?”
“Yes, two Sheriff’s men. They said it was routine, that all the Hughes contract actresses were being questioned. They didn’t seem to know that Howard had me under surveillance, and I didn’t have to give an alibi for a specific time, because they couldn’t establish the time Miciak died. They–”
“Don’t say names.”
“Why? Where are you calling from?”
Side 153
Ellroy – White Jazz
“A pay phone.”
“David, you sound frightened. Where _were_ you?”
“I’ll tell you if–I mean when it’s over.”
“Is this the Kafesjian thing?”
“How did you know that?”
“I just did. There’s things you don’t tell me, so–”
“There’s things you don’t tell me.”
Silence.
“Glenda?”
“Yes, and there’s things that I won’t.”
“Talk to me, then.”
“Come over.”
“I can’t, I have to sleep.”
“What kind of things should I tell you?”
“I don’t know, good things.”
Soft, sleepy-voiced: “Well, when I was seeing H.H. I pumped him for some stock tips and bought low. Those stocks are rising now, so I think I’ll make a nice profit. When you stood me up night before last, I had dinner with Mickey. He’s still enamored of me, and he had me critique his acting style, something to do with his making an important speech soon. My car has a loose clutch, and I–”
“Look, it’s going to be all right.”
“Is it _all_ going to be all right?”
“Sure.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’ll call you when I can.”
* * *
Vandals got my hubcabs. Movie time encore:
“PLEASE DON’T KILL ME.”
“PLEASE DON’T KILL ME LIKE YOU KILLED ALL THE OTHERS.”
Happytime Liquor two doors down.
I walked in, bought a pint of Scotch. Back to the car–three shots quick.
Shudders–no toasty-warm tingles.
I tossed the rest–booze was for perverts and cowards.
Meg taught me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
My place: neat and clean. I holstered up replacement goods: my Marine .45.
Side 154
Ellroy – White Jazz
A scream then:
My Jap sword on a bookshelf–blood-flecked.
Five grand beside it.
* * *
Sleep–JOHNNY BEGGING.
* * *
Noon–I woke up reaching for the phone. A quick reflex call: Lynwood City Hall.
Inquire:
4980 Spindrift–vacant four-flat–who’s it belong to? A clerk shuffle, the word: Lynwood City foreclosed–the owner died circa ’46. Abandoned for twelve years, rebuilding bids out: potential Chavez Ravine evictee housing. A title search?–impossible–storage-basement floods destroyed those records.
Lynwood–why meet there?
Duhamel: “Evidence.”
Out for the papers, back for coffee. Four L.A. dailies full of Darktown: The after-hours shootout–five dead, no clues, no suspects. Four shines ID’d–“Negro” Steve Wenzel deleted. Exley: “Experienced Homicide detectives are working this case full-time. It is a top LAPD priority.”
A flash:
Movie time-mirrored walls–familiar somehow–
The _Herald_:
“Three Dead in Jazz Club Fire: Arson Cops Tag Blaze ‘Accidental.'” Exley: “We believe that the fire at Bido Lito’s is in no way connected to the tragic heart attack death of Sergeant George Stemmons, Jr., two days before on those same premises.”
Instinct: Junior hotshot–by THEM.
Instinct: potential evidence torched.
The _Mirror-News_–skank-slanted:
Dead cop/niteclub inferno-what’s shaking? Stemmons, Sr., quoted: “Negro hoodlums killed my son!” Exley’s rebuttal: “Pure nonsense. Sergeant Stemmons died of cardiac arrest pure and simple. The Coroner’s Office will release findings along those lines within twenty-four hours. And the notion that the Los Angeles Police Department set fire to Bido Lito’s as revenge for Sergeant Stemmons’ death is simply preposterous.”