White Jazz Read online

  Three-car tail string--absurd.

  Up to the Observatory; down to street level. Glenda carefree, her scarf billowing. Pissed: hit the siren, ream that shitbird.

  Miciak gunned it--bumper-to-bumper close. Glenda looked around; he looked around--sixty miles an hour, kill the siren, hit the mike: "Police! Pull over now!"

  He swerved, banged the curb, stalled out. Glenda slowed down and stopped.

  I got out.

  Miciak got out.

  Glenda watched--see it her way:

  This big goon walks up shouting; this shoulder-holster shirtsleeves guy shouts back: "This is mine! You'll get your results! Tell your fucking boss that!"

  The goon stutters, kicks the ground, U-turns off.

  The cop goes back to his car--his B-movie goddess is gone.

  o o o

  Time to kill, time to figure her route. I tried due east: Hughes' Glendale fuck pad.

  I drove there. Paydirt: a Tudor mansion flanked by airplane-shaped hedges. A circular driveway--her Vette by the door.

  I pulled up. Drizzling--I got out and touched the rain. Glenda walked out carrying groceries.

  She saw me.

  I just stood there.

  She tossed me a tin of caviar.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Western and Adams--the whores briefed nice--quasi-deputies for the night.

  Bluesuits out in force: popping tricks, impounding trick cars.

  Prostie vans behind Cooper's Donuts; Vice bulls bagging IDs. Men stationed southbound and northbound--hot to foil sex prowlers hot to rabbit.

  My perch: Copper's roof. Ordnance: binoculars, a bullhorn.

  Dig the panic:

  Johns soliciting whores-cops grabbing them. Vehicles impounded, van detainment--fourteen fish bagged so far, prelim Q&A:

  "You married?"

  "You on parole or probation?"

  "You like it white or colored? Sign this waiver, we might cut you loose at the station."

  No Lucille K.

  Some clown tried to run--a rookie plugged his back tires.

  Epidemic boo-hoo--"DON'T TELL MY WIFE!" Leg-shackle clangs--the prostie vans shook.

  Luck--whores mixed fifty-fifty: white girls, coons. Fourteen tricks arrested--all Caucasian.

  Panic down below: Shriners bagged en masse. Five men, fez hats flying--a whore grabbed one and pranced.

  I hit the bullhorn: "We've got nineteen! Let's close it down!"

  o o o

  The station--dawdle over--let Sid Riegle work setup. Luck: Junior's Ford by the squadroom door. Headlight signals goosed me walking in: Jack Woods, contingency tail man.

  Squadroom, muster room, jail. I badged the jailer--_click/whoosh_--the door opened. Down the catwalk, turn the corner: the swish tank facing the drunk tank. Drunks and tricks hooting at the floorshow: drag queens masturbating.

  Riegle outside the bars, marking nametags. He shook his head--too much noise to talk.

  I scanned the fish--shit--nothing peeper-aged. Fuck it--I hit the show-up room.

  Chairs, a height strip stage: one-way glass lit up harsh. Rap sheets and IDs laid out for me--I checked them against my john alias list.

  No crossovers--expected--I'd run the fake names through the DMV. No real-name spinoffs; driver's license ages thirty-eight and up--my peeper ten years older minimum. Six tricks misdemeanor rapsheeted--no Peeping Toms, burglars, sex fiends. A cover note: sixteen out of nineteen men were married.

  Riegle walked in. I said, "Where's Stemmons?"

  "He's waiting in one of the interrogation rooms. Dave, is the scoop on this real? J.C. Kafesjian's daughter is some kind of prostie?"

  "It's true, and don't ask me what Exley wants, and don't tell me how the Department doesn't need this shit with the Feds nosing around."

  "I was gonna mention it, but I think I'll stay on your good side. One thing, though."

  "What's that?"

  "I saw Dan Wilhite in the watch commander's office. Given what he is to the Kafesjians, I'd say he's more than a little pissed."

  "Shit, that's more shit I don't need."

  Sid smiled. "Yeah, but it's a duck shoot--they _all_ signed the falsearrest waivers."

  I smiled back. "Move them in."

  Riegle walked back out; I grabbed the intercom mike. Shackle clang, shackle shuffle-whore chasers lit up on stage.

  "Good evening, gentlemen, and listen closely"--the speaker kicked on loud.

  "You have all been arrested for soliciting for purposes of prostitution, a California Penal Code violation punishable by up to a year in the Los Angeles County Jail. Gentlemen, I can make this easy or I can make this one of the worst experiences of your life, and the way I play it depends entirely on you."

  Blinks, shuffles, dry sobs--sad sacks all in a row. I read my john list and scoped reactions:

  "John David Smith, George William Smith-come on, be original. John Jones, Thomas Hardesty--that's more like it. D. D. Eisenhower-come on, that's beneath you. Mark Wilshire, Bruce Pico, Robert Normandie--street names, come on. Timothy Crenshaw, Joseph Arden, Lewis Burdette--he's a baseball player, right? Miles Swindell, Daniel Doherty, Charles Johnson, Arthur Johnson, Michael Montgomery, Craig Donaldson, Roger Hancock, Chuck Sepulveda, David San Vicente-Jesus, more street names."

  Fuck--I couldn't scan faces that quick.

  "Gentlemen, here's where it gets either easy or very difficult. The Los Angeles Police Department wishes to spare you grief, and frankly your _illegal_ extramarital pursuits do not concern us that greatly. Essentially, you have been detained to aid us in a burglary investigation. A young woman known to occasionally sell her services on South Western Avenue is involved, and I need to isolate men who have purchased those services."

  Riegle up on stage, mug shots out.

  "Gentleman, we can legally hold you for seventy-two hours prior to arraigning you in Misdemeanor Court. You are entitled to one phone call apiece, and should you decide to call your wives, you might tell them that you are being held at University Station on one-eighteen-dash-six-zero charges: soliciting for purposes of prostitution. I understand that you might be reluctant to do that, so listen closely, I'll only say it once."

  Rumbles--breath fogged the glass.

  "Officer Riegle will show you photographs of that young woman. If you have purchased her services, take two steps forward. If you have seen her streetwalking, but haven't purchased her services, raise your right hand."

  Pause a beat.

  "Gentlemen, _legitimate confirmations_ will get all of you released within several hours, _with no charges filed_. If none of you admit to purchasing this woman's services, then I will conclude that either you are lying or simply that none of you have ever seen her or dallied with her, which means in either case that all nineteen of you will be subjected to intensive questioning, and all nineteen of you will be booked, held for seventy-two hours and arraigned on soliciting charges. You will be held during that time in the facility that we reserve here for homosexual prisoners, i.e. the queer tank, where those nigger queens were shaking their dicks at you. Gentlemen, if any of you do admit to dallying with the young lady, and your statements convince us that you are telling the truth, you will in no way be criminally charged and your disclosures will be kept in the strictest confidence. Once we are convinced, you will all be released and allowed to claim your confiscated property and impounded cars. Your cars are being held at a County lot nearby, and as a reward for your cooperation you will not be charged the standard impound fee. Again: we want the truth. You cannot lie your way out of here by claiming that you fucked her when you didn't--your lies won't wash. Sid, pass the mugs."

  Handoff: Riegle to a scrawny granddad type.

  Dizzy, lawyer high--David Klein, Juris Doctor.

  I looked down, held a breath, looked up: one Shriner and one lounge lizard stood forward. I checked driver's license pix and matched up names:

  Shriner: Willis Arnold Kaltenborn, Pasadena. Lizard: Vincent Michael Lo Bruto, East L.A. A rap shee
t check, paydirt on the wop: child-support skips.

  Sid walked in. "We did it."

  "Yeah, we did. Stemmons is waiting, right?"

  "Right, and the tape recorder's in with him. The fourth booth down, he's there."

  "Put Kaltenborn in number 5, and the greaseball in with Junior. Take the rest of them back to the drunk tank."

  "Feed them?"

  "Candy bars. And no phone calls--a smart attorney could wangle writs. Where's Wilhite?"

  "I don't know."

  "Keep him away from the sweat rooms, Sid."

  "Dave, he's a captain."

  "Then . . . shit, just do it."

  Riegle strolled out--pissed. I strolled, itchy-over to sweat box row.

  Standard six-by-eights, peekaboo glass. Booth 5: fez man Kaltenborn. Number 4: Lo Bruto, Junior, a tape rig on the table.

  Lo Bruto rocked his chair; Junior squirmed. Touch V.'s take: Junior doped up at Fern Dell. The Ainge roust, a late make: dope eyes. Worse now--pin slits.

  Open the door, slam it. Junior nodded--half lurch.

  I sat down. "What do they call you--Vince? Vinnie?"

  Lo Bruto picked his nose. "The ladies call me Mr. Big Dick."

  "That's what they call my partner here."

  "Yeah? The nervous, silent type. He must get a lot."

  "He does, but we're not here to discuss his sex life."

  "Too bad, 'cause I got time. The old lady and the kids are in Tacoma, so I coulda done the whole seventy-two hours, but I figured, why spoil it for the other guys? Look, I fucked her, so why beat around the bush, no pun intended."

  I slid him cigarettes. "I like you, Vinnie."

  "Yeah, then call me Vincent. And save your money, 'cause I quit on March 4, 1952."

  Junior stripped the pack. Shot nerves: three swipes at a match.

  I leaned back. "How many times did you go with that girl?"

  "Once."

  "Why just once?"

  "Once qualifies as strange. More than once you might as well pop your old lady for all the surprises you get with whoo-ers."

  "You're a smart guy, Vincent."

  "Yeah, then why am I a security guard for a buck twenty an hour?"

  Junior smoking--huge drags. I said, "You tell me."

  "I don't know--I get to choke my mule on the Mighty Man Agency's time. It's a living."

  Hot--I took off my jacket. "So you solicited that girl just once, right?"

  "Right."

  "Had you seen her around before?"

  "No."

  "Have you seen her since?"

  "There hasn't been no since. Jesus Christ, I get paid, I go cruising for some strange and some punk kid cop strongarms me. Jesus fucking--"

  "Vincent, what attracted you to that girl?"

  "She was white. I got no taste for nigger stuff. I'm not prejudiced, I just don't dig it. Some of my best friends are nig--I mean Negroes, but I don't go for dark cooze."

  Junior smoking--hot--he kept his coat on.

  Lo Bruto: "Your partner don't talk much."

  "He's tired. He's been working undercover up in Hollywood."

  "Yeah? Wow, now I know why he's such a pussy bandit. Man-ohManischewitz, they say the snatch grows fine up there."

  I laughed. "It does, but he's been working fruits. Say, partner, remember how you popped those queers in Fern Dell? Remember--you helped out that Academy pal of yours?"

  "Sure"--dry-mouthed, scratchy.

  "Jesus, partner, it must have made you sick. Did you stop for some poon on the way home, just to get rid of the TASTE?"

  Sweaty knuckle pops--his sleeves dropped. WRIST TRACKS--he tugged his cuff links to hide them.

  Lo Bruto: "Hey, I thought this was my show."

  "It is. Sergeant Stemmons, any questions for Vincent?"

  "No"--dry, fretting those cuff links.

  I smiled. "Let's get back to the girl."

  Lo Bruto: "Yeah, let's do that."

  "Was she good?"

  "Strange is strange. She was better than the wife, but not as good as the amateur stuff handsome here probably gets."

  "He likes them _blond_ and _gorgeous_."

  "We all do, but I'm lucky to get it plain old Caucasian."

  Junior stroked his gun, spastic-handed.

  "So how was she better than your wife?"

  "She moved around more, and she liked to talk dirty."

  "What did she call herself?"

  "She didn't tell me no name."

  Lucille's window striptease--use it. "Describe the girl naked."

  Fast: "Chubby, low-slung tits. Big brown nipples, like she maybe had some _paisan_ blood."

  Tilt--he knew. "What was she wearing when you picked her up?"

  "Hip huggers--you know, pedal pushers."

  "Where did you screw her?"

  "In the snatch, where else?"

  "The location, Vincent."

  "Oh. I.. . uh. . . I think it was a dive called the Red Arrow Inn."

  I tapped the tape rig. "Listen close, Vincent. There's a man on this, but I don't think it's you. Just tell me if the girl talked up any similar stuff."

  Lo Bruto nodded; I punched Play. Static hiss, "Now I'll be the daughter and you'll be the daddy, and if you're reeeeal sweet we can go again no extra."

  I hit Stop. Junior--no reaction. Lo Bruto: "Boy, that sick kitten is just full of surprises."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning she didn't make me wear a safe."

  "Maybe she uses a diaphragm."

  "Nyet. Trust Mr. Big Dick, these girls _always_ go the rubber route."

  "And she didn't?"

  "What can I tell you, she let this jockey ride bareback. And let me tell you, _paisan_, my big sausage _works_. Witness the goddamn offspring that got me slaving to feed them."

  A guess: scrape jobs made Lucille sterile. "What about that tape?"

  "What about it?"

  "Did the girl talk up any of that daddy-daughter stuff with you?"

  "No."

  "But you said she talked dirty."

  Tee-hee. "She said I was the biggest. I said they don't call me Mr. Big Dick for nothing. She said she's liked them big since way back when, and I said, 'Way back when to a kid like you means last week.' She said something like 'You'd be surprised.'"

  Junior tugged his cuff links. Tweak him: "This Lucille sounds like a Fern Dell Park faggot, partner. Big dicks, that's a queer fixation. _You've_ worked fruits more than me, wouldn't you say so?"

  Hot seat--Junior squirmed.

  "Wouldn't you say so, Sergeant?"

  "Y-yeah, s-sure"--hoarse.

  Back to Big Dick. "So the girl wore pedal pushers, right?"

  "Right."

  "Did she mention a guy perved on her, maybe peeping her trick assignations?"

  "No."

  "And she wore pedal pushers?"

  "Yeah, I told you that already."

  "What else did she wear?"

  "I don't know. A blouse, I think."

  "What about a _fur coat?_"

  Hophead nerves--Junior twitched a cuff link clean off.

  "No, no fur coat. I mean, Christ, she's a Western Avenue whoo-er."

  Change-up: "So you said the girl talked dirty to you."

  "Yeah. She said Mr. Big Dick sure deserved his nickname."

  "Forget about your dick. Did she talk dirty besides that?"

  "She said she was screwing some guy named Tommy."

  Tingles/goosebumps. "Tommy who?"

  "I don't know, she didn't say no last name."

  "Did she say he was her brother?"

  "Come on, that's crazy."

  "'Come on'? You remember that tape that I just played you?"

  "So that was a game. Daddy and daughter don't mean brother, and white people don't do that kind of stuff. It's a sin, it's an _infamia_, it's--"

  Hit the table. "_Did she say he was her brother?_"

  "No."

  "Did she say his last name?"

  "No"--soft--scared now.

>   "Did she say he was perved on her?"

  "No."

  "Did she say he was a musician?"

  "No."

  "Did she say he sold narcotics?"

  "No."

  "Did she say he paid her for it?"

  "No."

  "Did she say he was a burglar?"

  "No."

  "A peeper, a voyeur?"

  "No."

  "Did she say what he did?"

  "No."

  "Did she talk about her family?"

  "No."

  "Did she describe this guy?"

  "No."

  "Did she say he chased colored girls?"

  "No. Officer, look--"

  I slapped the table--Big Dick crossed himself.

  "Did she mention a man named Tommy Kafesjian?"

  "No."

  "Fur coats?"

  "No."

  "Fur-coat robberies?"

  Junior squirming, scratching his hands.

  "Officer, she just said she was banging this guy Tommy. She said he wasn't that good, but he turned her out, and you always pack a torch for the guy who took your cherry."

  I froze.

  Junior jumped bolt upright--that cuff link rolled under the door.

  Itchy scratchy nerves--he jerked the door open. Standing outside: Dan Wilhite. Hall speaker blinks--he'd heard.

  "Klein, come here."

  I stepped forward. Wilhite jabbed my chest--I bent his hand back. "_This is my case. You don't like it, take it up with Exley_."

  Narco goons right there--I let him go. Junior tried to waltz--I pulled him back.

  Wilhite--pale, popping spit bubbles.

  His boys flushed--wicked pissed, spoiling to trash me.

  Lo Bruto: "Jesus, I'm hungry."

  I shut the door.

  "Hey, I'm starved. Can I have a sandwich or something?"

  I hit the intercom. "Sid, bring the other man in."

  o o o

  Lo Bruto out, Kaltenborn in: this fat geek wearing a fez. Junior sulked and hid his eyes.

  The geek--"Please, I don't want any trouble"--his voice half-ass familiar.

  I hit Play.

  Lucille: "In advance, sweet." Pause. "Yes, that means _now_."

  Kaltenborn winced--hot potato.

  Pause, "Okay, okay"--_more_ familiar. Mattress squeaks, grunts-- Fats sobbed along.

  Lucille: "Let's play a little game. Now I'll be the daughter and you'll be the daddy, and if you're _reeeeal_ sweet we can go again no extra."