Ellroy – White Jazz

I hit the gas–the lock man ate exhaust fumes.

* * *

Side 180

Ellroy – White Jazz

Echo Park off Sunset–a big warehouse. A parking lot, no door guard–my door key got me in.

Huge: crisscross hallways, locker-lined. A directory/map up front, number-coded.

The 32 codings were tagged “Jumbo.” Follow the map–two corridors down, left, stop:

Three floor-to-ceiling lockers six feet wide.

Scratched up–lock-pick marks.

Keys in, crack the doors:

158-32: mink coats hung eight feet deep, six feet wide.

Seven empty hangers.

159-32: stoles and pelts-dumped shoulder-high.

160-32: fox/mink/raccoon coats–fuckloads hung/dumped/piled/ folded/tossed.

Johnny/Junior/Reuben.

Dudley Smith, fur-heist boss–scooped/hoodwinked/stiffed.

Exley and Duhamel–operating WHO?

Mink–touch it, smell it. Empty hangers–Lucille’s fur strip? Johnny trying to sell Mickey Cohen bulk fur??

Reuben Ruiz: ex–B&E man/burglar brothers.

His direct key approach–no go.

Break-in scratches/no door guard/Lock-Your-Self: open twenty-four hours.

Key clicks/lock clicks/brain clicks–I got my notebook and pen out. Three lockers–I dropped three identical notes inside: I want to deal on Johnny Duhamel, Junior Stemmons and whatever or whoever else connects to this. This is for money, independent of Ed Exley.

D. Klein

Lock the doors–lock clicks/brain clicks–get to a phone.

I found a booth across Sunset. Ad Vice, two rings, “Riegle.”

“Sid, it’s me.”

“You mean it’s you and you want something.”

“You’re right.”

“So tell me, but I’ll tell you right now this Homicide work is wearing me thin.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Richie Herrick is nowhere. First Exley issues an APB, then he rescinds it, and we _still_ can’t locate one single white man known to frequent Negro areas.”

“I know, and our best bet is to let Tommy Kafesjian find him for us.”

“Which doesn’t seem too likely with those Armenian humps holed up with Fed surveillance outside their house. Jesus. .

Side 181

Ellroy – White Jazz

“Sid, write this down.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“The storage locker place at 1750 North Echo Park.”

“All right, I wrote it down. Now what?”

“Now you get your civilian car and stake out the entrance and parking lot. You write down the plate numbers on everyone who walks in. Every five or six hours you call in the stats to the DMV, and you go through until tomorrow morning and call me.”

Stage groans. “You’ll explain then?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s the Herrick job?”

“It’s fucking everything.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Reuben Ruiz–talk, strongarm–whatever it took.

R&I shot me his address: 229 South Loma. Not that far–a quick run over–

brother Ramon on the porch.

“Reuben’s at the ravine, bein’ a _puto_ for the City of Los Angeles.”

Another quick run–Chavez Ravine.

Swarming now-evictions pending. “Police Parking”–a dirt lot going in. Cop cars jammed up tail to snout: Sheriff’s, LAPD, Feds.

Hills fronting the main drag; Mex kids chucking rocks. Black & whites scratched and dented.

An access road up–narrow, dusty. I walked it, hit the top, caught the view: Hecklers bucking bluesuit containment–the main road cordoned off. Shack-lined roads/hills/gulleys–eviction notices rife. Camera crews shooting door to door: Feds and a bobbing sombrero.

Dig it: shack dwellers swarming that hat.

I walked down into it; blues juked me through the cordon. Catch the view: Shipstad, Milner, Ruiz in bullfighter garb.

Reuben:

Passing out money, spics swamping him.

“_Dinero!_”

“_El jefe Ruiz!_”

Big-time Mex jabber–incomprehensible.

Milner gaga-eyed: what _is_ this?

I shoved, waved–Shipstad saw me. Trembly and flushed–Henstell probably blabbed.

He shoved toward me. We collided: hands on suitcoats instinctive.

Side 182

Ellroy – White Jazz

“_Gracias el jefe Reuben!_”–Ruiz tossing cash away.

A dirt yard off the road–Shipstad pointed over. I followed him–tree shade, a sign: “Notice to Vacate.”

“Justify that firebug routine before Noonan revokes your immunity and has you arrested.”

Eyeball magnet: Reuben dishing out greenbacks.

“Look at me, Klein.”

At him, lawyer bullshit: “It was nontangential incriminating evidence. It in no way pertained to the Kafesjian family or to any focus of your investigation or my potential grand jury testimony. Noonan has enough on me as it is, and I didn’t want to feed him more potential indictable information.”

“Attorney to attorney, how can you live the way you do?”

Tongue tied–

“We’re trying to help you get out of this alive. I’m developing a plan to relocate you after you testify, and frankly Noonan doesn’t think I should be working so hard at it.”

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