Champ Dineen–my car radio on low. Echoed out Lucille ‘s window–the same station.
Lucille in her window–no makeup, new hair–Richie’s bedroom pictures life-size.
A nightgown on–almost prim.
Feds on the street–family close.
Johnny begging–constant refrains–unshakable.
Two days down, two days left before custody. Two late nights with Glenda.
She said, “We might not walk.”
I said, “You will.”
She said, “You’re tired.”
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Ellroy – White Jazz
She said, “You want to confess.”
——–
PART FOUR. MONEY JUNGLE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Well, this writ _does_ appear to be in order. But what’s this stamp on the bottom?”
Agent Henstell: “It’s a routing stamp. The U.S. attorney here sent the paperwork to a judge back east.”
“Was there a reason for that?”
To bypass Exley-friendly jurists–open the vault, you officious little shit.
“No, Mr. Noonan simply knew that the Federal judge for this district was too busy to read writ requests.”
“I see. Well, I suppose–”
I goosed him: “The writ’s valid, so let’s move this along.”
“There’s no need to be brusque. This way, _gentlemen_.”
Teller cages, guard station, walk-in vault. Unlocked–a Pinkerton at parade rest. Henstell: “Before we go in, I want to recap Mr. Noonan’s instructions.”
“I’m listening.”
“One, you’re allowed to keep any money you might find. Two, you’re allowed to go through any personal papers you might find, alone, in an examination cubicle here on bank property. After you go through them, they are to be turned over to me, for booking as Federal evidence. Three, any contraband items such as narcotics, or firearms, will be seized as evidence immediately.”
“Firearms”–icy tingles. “Agreed.”
“All right, then. Mr. Welborn, after you.”
Quick march–Welborn leading. Gray metal aisles–safe-deposit boxes recessed floor to ceiling. Left turn, right turn, stop.
Welborn, dangling keys: “5290 and 5291. There’s an examination room around the corner.”
“And you’re to leave Agent Henstell and me alone.”
“As you wish.”
Two boxes knee-high; four key slots. Tingles–I stuck my keys in.
Welborn–master keys in–clicks simultaneous.
Handkerchiefs up my sleeves.
Welborn, prissy: “Good day, Officers.”
Quick now–Henstell picking a cuticle, bored–
I cracked the drawers–paper piles bulged the boxes wide. RIGHT THERE on top: A revolver–evidence bagged. Powder-dusted prints on the grips and barrel housing–protective glazed.
Side 175
Ellroy – White Jazz
Henstell picking his nose.
Quick:
Unwrap the gun–bury it–paper-pile cover.
Henstell: “What have we got?”
“Folders and paperwork so far.”
“Noonan wants it all, and I wouldn’t mind being out of here by lunchtIme.”
I dropped my hands; the handkerchiefs fell out. Block his view–wipe the piece–
Three times–Glenda–make sure.
I handed it over. “Henstell, look at this.”
He twirled the gun and snapped quick draws–bad dÈj‡ vu.
“Pearl grips–this Stemmons guy must have had a cowboy fetish. And look, no numbers on the barrel plate.”
I pulled the drawers out. “Do you want to look through these for narcotics?”
“No, but Noonan wants it all when you’re finished. He said I should pat-search you afterwards, but that’s not my style.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re going to love Federal custody. Noonan pops for steak lunch every day.”
Fake grunts: “You want to give me a hand with this?”
“Come on, they can’t be _that_ heavy.”
Good fake out–I moved on it–over to a catty-corner cubicle. One table, one chair, no inside lock–I jammed the chair under the doorknob.
Dump the drawers, check the contents:
Folders, photos, odd papers–I stacked them on the table.
Four keys on a fob–“Brownell’s Locksmiths, 4024 Wabash Aye, East Los Angeles.”
Loose newspaper clippings–I smoothed out the crumples.
Go–skim it all:
Typed depositions–Glenda Bledsoe/Dwight Gilette–Murder One. My evidence suppression–detailed in longhand.
Georgie Ainge’s statement: a typed original and five carbons.
Photo blow-ups: Glenda’s juvie print strip and the gun prints. A fingerprint analysis report; photo glossies with comparison points checked.
Witness Disposition Report:
“Mr. Ainge is currently living under an assumed name at an undisclosed location in the San Francisco area. I have telephone access to him and have given him money so that he might hide out and escape potential reprisals from Lieutenant David D. Klein. He remains available to me should he be called as a witness in the matter of the County of Los Angeles vs. Glenda Louise Bledsoe.”
My bullshit detector clicked in–Ainge bugged out on his own–I’d bet money.