White Jazz Page 12

  Big sobs.

  I pushed Stop. "Was that you, Mr. Kaltenborn?"

  Sobs, nods. Junior squirmed--junkie shitbird.

  "Quit crying, Mr. Kaltenborn. The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we'll let you go."

  His fez slid down cockeyed. "Lydia?"

  "What?"

  "My wife, she won't . . ."

  "This is strictly confidential. _Is_ that you on the tape, Mr. Kaltenborn?"

  "Yes, yes it is. Did. . . did the police record that . . ."

  "That _illegal_ extramarital assignation? No, we didn't. Do you know who did?"

  "No, of course not."

  "_Did_ you play the daddy?"

  Muffled, sob-choked: "Yes."

  "Then tell me about it."

  Fretting the fez--twisting it, stroking it. "I wanted to go again, so the girl put on her clothes and begged me to rip them off. She said, 'Rip my clothes off, Daddy.' I did it, and we went again, and that's all. I don't know her name-I never saw her before and I haven't seen her since. This is all just a terrible coincidence. That girl was the only prostitute I ever trafficked with, and I was at a meeting with my Shrine brothers to discuss our charity fish fry when one of them asked me if I knew where prostitutes could be procured, so I--"

  "Did the girl talk about a man named Tommy?"

  "No."

  "A _brother_ named Tommy?"

  "No."

  "A man who might be following her, or tape-recording her or eavesdropping on her?"

  "No, but I--"

  "_But what?_"

  "But I heard a man in the room next to us crying. Maybe it was my imagination, but it was as if he was listening to us. It was as if what he heard disturbed him."

  Peeper bingo.

  "Did you see the man?"

  "No."

  "Did you hear him say or mutter specific words?"

  "No."

  "Did the girl mention other members of her family?"

  "No, she just said what I told you and what you played me on that tape. Officer. . . where did you get that? I.. . I don't want my wife to hear--"

  "Are you _sure_ she didn't mention a man named Tommy?"

  "Please, Officer, you're shouting!"

  Change-up: "I'm sorry, Mr. Kaltenborn. Sergeant, do you have any questions?"

  Sergeant--this gun-fondling hophead--"N-no"--watch his hands.

  "Mr. Kaltenborn, did the girl wear a FUR COAT?"

  "No, she wore tight toreador pants and some sort of inexpensive wrap."

  "Did she say she dug STRIPTEASE?"

  "No."

  "Did she say she frequented a Negro club named BIDO LITO'S?"

  "No."

  "Did she say that peeling off a HOT FUR COAT was ecstasy?"

  "No. What are you--?"

  Junior dropped his hands--watch for a quick draw.

  "Mr. Kaltenborn, did she say she knew a GORGEOUS BLOND POLICEMAN who used to be a boxer?"

  "No, she didn't. I. . . I don't understand the thrust of these questions, Officer."

  "Did she say she knew a shakedown-artist cop with a THRUST for young blond guys?"

  RABBIT--

  Out the door, down the hall--Junior, his piece unholstered. Outside, chase him, sprint--

  He made his car--heaving breathless. I grabbed him, pinned his gun hand, bent his head back.

  "_I'll let you slide on all of it. I'll pull you off the Kafesjian job before you fuck things up worse. We can trade off right now_."

  Greasy pomade hair--he thrashed his head free. Stray headlights hit this dope face oozing spittle: "That cuut killed Dwight Gilette, and you're suppressing it. Ainge left town, and maybe I got the gun she fired. You're queer for that cunt and I think you pushed that witness out the window. No trade, and you just watch me take you and that cunt down."

  I grabbed his neck and dug in to kill him. Obscene--his breath, his lips curled to bite. I edged back--slack--a knee slammed me. Down, sucking wind, kicked prone-tires spinning gravel.

  Headlights: Jack Woods in tail pursuit.

  o o o

  West L.A., 3:00 A.M. Junior's building--four street-level units--no lights on. No Junior Ford parked nearby--pick the lock, hit the lights.

  Aches groin to ribcage--hurt him, kill him. I left the lights on--_let him_ show.

  Bolt the door, walk the pad.

  Living room, dinette, kitchen. Matched wood--fastidious. Neatness, grime: squared-off furniture, dust.

  The sink: moldy food, bugs.

  The icebox: amyl nitrite poppers.

  Butt-filled ashtrays--Junior's brand--lipstick-smudged.

  Bathroom, bedroom: grime, makeup kit--the lipstick color matched the butts. A waste basket: red-lip-blotted tissue overflowing. An unmade bed, popped poppers on the sheets. I flipped the pillow: a silencer-fitted Luger and shit-caked dildo underneath.

  Paperbacks on the nightstand: _Follow the Boys_, _The Greek Way_, _Forbidden Desire_.

  A padlocked trunk.

  A wall photo: Lieutenant Dave Klein in LAPD dress blues. Track queer thinking, zoooom:

  I'm not married.

  No woman heat pre-Glenda.

  Meg--he _couldn't_ know.

  The Luger smiling--"Go ahead, shoot something."

  I fired, point-blank silent: shattered glass/ripped plaster/ripped ME. I shot the trunk--splinters/cordite haze-the lock flew.

  I tore in. Neat paper stacks--fastidious Junior. Slow, inventory them pro--

  Carbons:

  Johnny Duhamel's Personnel file. Dudley Smith fitness reports--all Class A. Co-opt requests--Johnny to the fur job--fur-heist references checkmarked. Strange: Johnny _never_ worked Patrol--he moved straight to the Bureau post-Academy.

  More Duhamel--boxing programs--beefcake deluxe. Academy papers, Evidence 104--Junior told Reuben Ruiz he taught Johnny. Straight A's, blind fag love-Duhamel's prose style stunk. More fur-job paper: Robbery reports, figure Junior scooped Dudley--_he_ made Johnny as the thief and Dud never tumbled.

  A formal statement: Georgie Ainge rats Glenda on the Dwight Gilette 187. Lieutenant D. D. Klein suppresses the evidence; Junior tags the motive: lust. Grab those pages, safe-deposit-box info underneath: figure Junior had backup statements stashed at some bank. No mention of the gun or Glenda's prints on a gun--maybe Junior stashed the piece as a hole card.

  Plaster dust settling--my shots grazed some pipes. Miscellaneous folders, file cards:

  Folder number one--Chief Ed Exley clippings--the Nite Owl job. Number two--odd Exley cases '53--'58. Concise--the _Times_, _Herald_-- fastidious.

  WHY?

  The cards--LAPD FIs--four-by-six field questioning forms. "Name," "Location," "Comments"--filled in shorthand. I read through them and interpreted:

  All locations "F.D.P."--make that Fern Dell Park. Initials, no names. Numbers--California Penal Code designations--lewd and lascivious behavior.

  Comments: homo coitus interruptus, Junior levies on-the-spot fines-- cash, jewelry, reefers.

  Sweaty, close to breathless. Three cards clipped together--initials "T.V." Comments: the Touch Vecchio roust-credit Junior with extortion skill:

  Touch calls Mickey C. power-broke and desperate. He's hot to do something "on his own"; he's got his own shakedown gig brewing. Feature: Chick Vecchio to pork famous women; Touch to pork celebrated fruits. Pete Bondurant to take pix and apply the strongarm: cough up or _Hush-Hush_ gets the negatives.

  Chills--bad juju. The phone--once, stop, once--Jack's signal.

  I grabbed the bedside extension. "Yeah?"

  "Dave, listen. I tailed Stemmons to Bido Lito's. He met J.C. and Tommy Kafesjian in this back room they've got there. I saw them shake him for a wire, and I caught a few words before they shut the window."

  "_What?_"

  "What I heard was Stemmons talking. He offered to protect the Kafesjian family--he actually said 'family'--from you and somebody else, I couldn't catch the name."

  Maybe Exley--that clip file. "What else?"

  "Nothing else. St
emmons walked out the front door counting money, like Tommy and J.C. just palmed him. I tailed him down the street, and I saw him badge this colored guy. I think the guy was selling mary jane, and I think he palmed Stemmons."

  "Where is he now?"

  "Heading your way. Dave, you owe me--"

  I hung up, dialed 111, got Georgie Ainge's listing. Dial it, two rings, a message: "The number you have reached has been disconnected." Junior's story held: Ainge blew town.

  Options:

  Stall him, threaten to rat him as a homo. Maim him, trade him: depositions and print gun for no exposé.

  Shit logic--psychos don't barter.

  I doused the lights, packed the Luger. Kill him/don't kill him. Pendulum: if he walks in on the wrong swing he's dead.

  Think--queer pinup fever--psycho Junior hates heartthrob Glenda.

  Time went nutso.

  My ribs ached.

  The morning paper hit the door--I shot a chair. Bullet logic: this grief for a woman I never even touched.

  I walked outside. Dawn--milkman witnesses nixed murder.

  I dropped the Luger in a trashcan.

  I primped--don't think, just do it.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I knocked; she answered. My move--she moved first. "Thanks for yesterday."

  Set ready: gown and raincoat. My move--she moved first. "It's David Klein, right?"

  "Who told you?"

  She held the door open. "I saw you on the set, and I saw you following me a few times. I know what unmarked police cars look like, so I asked Mickey and Chick Vecchio about you."

  "And?"

  "And I'm wondering what you want."

  I walked in. Nice stuff--maybe fuck-pad furnished. TVs by the couch-- Vecchio stash.

  "Be careful with those televisions, Miss Bledsoe."

  "Tell your sister that. Touch told me he sold her a dozen of them."

  I sat on the couch--hot Philcos close by. "What else did he tell you?"

  "That you're a lawyer who dabbles in slum property. He said you turned down a contract at MGM because strikebreaking appealed to you more than acting."

  "Do you know why I was following you?"

  She pulled a chair up--not too close. "You're obviously working for Howard Hughes. When I left him, he threatened to violate my contract. You obviously know Harold Miciak, and you obviously don't like him. Mr. Klein, did you. . . ?"

  "Scare off Georgie Ainge?"

  "Yes."

  I nodded. "He's a pervert, and fake kidnaps never work."

  "How did you know about it?"

  "Never mind. Do Touch and his boyfriend know I scared him away?"

  "No, I don't think so."

  "Good, then don't tell them."

  She lit a cigarette--the match shook. "Did Ainge talk about me?"

  "He said you used to be a prostitute."

  "I was also a carhop and Miss Alhambra, and yes, I used to work for a call service in Beverly Hills. A very expensive one, Doug Ancelet's."

  Shake her: "You worked for Dwight Gilette."

  Stylish--that cigarette prop helped. "Yes, and I was arrested for shoplifting in 1946. Did Ainge mention anything--"

  "Don't tell me things you might regret."

  A smile--cheap--not _that_ smile. "So you're my guardian angel."

  I kicked a TV over. "Don't patronize me."

  Not a blink: "Then what do you want me to do?"

  "Quit stealing from Hughes, apologize to him and fulfill the stipulations of your contract."

  Her raincoat slid off--bare shoulders, knife scars. "Never."

  I leaned closer. "You've gone as far as you can on looks and charm, so use your brains and do the smart thing."

  Smiling: "Don't _you_ patronize me."

  _That_ smile--I smiled back. "Why?"

  "_Why?_ Because I was _dismissable_ to him. Because last year I was carhopping and one of his 'talent scouts' saw me win a dance contest. He got me an 'audition,' which consisted of me taking off my brassiere and posing for pictures, which Mr. Hughes liked. Do you know what it's like to get screwed by a man who keeps naked pictures of you and six thousand other girls in his Rolodex?"

  "Nice, but I'm not buying."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah, I think you got bored and moved on. You're an actress, and the style angle of jilting Howard Hughes appealed to you. You figured you could get yourself out of trouble, because you've been in shitloads of trouble before."

  "_Why_, Mr. Klein?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why are you putting yourself to such trouble to keep me out of trouble?"

  "I can appreciate style."

  "No, I don't believe you. And what else did Georgie Ainge say about me?"

  "Nothing. What else did the Vecchio brothers say about me?"

  Laughing: "Touch said he used to have a crush on you. Chick said you're dangerous. Mickey said he's never seen you with a woman, so maybe that rules out the standard reason for your being interested in me. I'm only thinking that there must be a payoff involved somewhere."

  Scope the room--books, art--taste she got somewhere. "Mickey's on the skids. If you thought you traded Hughes up for a big-time gangster, you're wrong."

  She chained cigarettes. "You're right, I miscalculated."

  "Then square things with Hughes."

  "Never."

  "Do it. Get us both out of trouble."

  "No. Like you said, I've been in trouble before."

  Zero fear--daring me to say I KNOW.

  "You should see yourself on camera, Miss Bledsoe. You're laughing at the whole thing, and it's real stylish. Too bad the movie's headed for drive-ins in Dogdick, Arkansas. Too bad no men who can help your career will see it."

  A flush--one split second. "I'm not as beholden to men as you think I am."

  "I didn't say you liked it, I just meant you know it's the game."

  "Like being a bagman and a strikebreaker?"

  "Yeah, wholesome stuff. Like you and Mickey Cohen."

  Smoke rings--nice. "I'm not sleeping with him."

  "Good, because guys have been trying to kill him for years, and it's the people around him who get hurt."

  "He was something once, wasn't he?"

  "He had style."

  "Which we both know you appreciate."

  This portrait on a shelf--a ghoul woman. "Who's that?"

  "That's Vampira. She's the hostess of an awful horror TV show. I used to carhop her, and she gave me pointers on how to act in your own movie when you're in someone else's movie."

  Shaky hands--I wanted to touch her.

  "Are you fond of Mickey, Mr. Klein?"

  "Sure. He had it once, so it's rough to see him diving for scraps."

  "Do you think he's desperate?"

  "_Attack of the Atomic Vampire?_"

  Glenda laughed and coughed smoke. "It's worse than you think. Sid Frizell is putting in all this gore and incest, so Mickey's afraid they'll have to book it straight into drive-ins to make a profit."

  I fixed the TV pile. "Be smart and go back to Hughes."

  "No. Frizell's directing some stag films on the side, though. He has a place in Lynwood fixed up with mirrored bedrooms, so maybe I could get work there."

  "Not your style. Does Mickey know about it?"

  "He's pretending he doesn't, but Sid and Wylie Bullock have been talking it up. Mr. Klein, what are you going to do about this?"

  Shelves packed tight--college texts. I opened one--comp stuff, doodling: a heart circling "G.B. & M.H."

  "Yes, I stole those. What are you going--"

  "What happened to M.H.?"

  _That_ smile. "He got another girl pregnant and died in Korea. David--"

  "I don't know. Maybe I'll just pull out and set you up with an attorney. But the best you can hope for is a violated contract and no criminal charges."

  "And the worst?"

  "Howard Hughes is Howard Hughes. One word to the DA gets you indicted for grand theft."

  "Mickey said you'r
e friends with the new DA."

  "Yeah, he used to study my crib sheets in law school, and Hughes put two hundred grand in his slush fund."

  "David--"

  "It's Dave."

  "I like David better."

  "No, my sister calls me that."

  "So?"

  "Let it rest."

  The phone rang--Glenda picked up. "Hello? ... Yes, Mickey, I know I'm late.... No, I've got a cold.... Yes, but Sid and Wylie can shoot around my scenes.... No, I'll try to come in this afternoon.... Yes, I won't forget our dinner.. . . No--goodbye, Mickey."

  She hung up. I said, "M.H. took off, but Mickey won't."

  "Well, he's lonely. Four of his men have disappeared, and I think he knows they're dead. Business was business, but I think he misses them more than anything else."

  "He's still got Chick and Touch."

  A breeze-Glenda shivered. "I don't know why they stay. Mickey has this scheme to have them seduce famous people. It's so un-Mickey it's pathetic."

  "Pathetic"--Junior's notes confirmed. Glenda--shivers, goosebumps.

  I grabbed her raincoat and held it out--she stood up smiling.

  Touching her.

  She slid the coat on; I pulled it back and touched her scars. Glenda: this slow turn around to kiss me.

  o o o

  Day/night/morning--the phone off the hook, the radio low. Talk, music-- soft ballads lulled Glenda sleepy. Losing her brought it ALL back.

  She slept hard, stirred hungry. Yawns, smiles-open eyes caught me scared. Kisses kept her from asking; the whole no-payoff feel kept me breathless.

  Pressed hard together--no thoughts. _Her_ breath peaking--no thoughts. Inside her when her eyes said don't hold back--no queers, no peepers, no dope-peddler-daughter whores taunting me.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ". . . and they are out there, within our jurisdiction, superseding our jurisdiction. So far as we know, there are seventeen Federal agents and three Deputy U.S. Attorneys backstopping Welles Noonan. Noonan has not requested an LAPD liaison, so we must fully assume that this is a hostile investigation aimed at discrediting us."

  Chief William H. Parker speaking. Standing by: Bob Gallaudet, Ed Exley. Seated: all stationhouse commanders and Detective Division COs. Missing: Dan Wilhite, Dudley Smith--Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle pinch-hitting.