White Jazz Read online

  Dig: The L.A. City Council is set to boot an egregiously entrenched enclave of impecunious, impoverished, impetuously machismo mangled Mexican-Americans from their sharecropper shingle shacks in that shady, smog-shrouded Shangri-La Chavez Ravine!!! Those pennant flopper, fly ball dropper L.A. Dodgers are moving in as soon as the dust clears and a stadium is built--and they'll have a new home from which to rule the National League cellar!!! Dig it!! You're happy, we're happy!! Go, Dodgers!!! But what will happen to those dourly dispossessed, Dodger doomed delinquents: the maladroitly mismanaged Mexicans?

  Digsville: The California State Bureau of Land and Way is granting shack dwellers $10,500 per family relocation expenses, roughly the cost of a slipshod, slapdash slum pad in such colorful locales as Watts, Willowbrook and Boyle Heights. The Bureau is also enterprisingly examining dervishly developed dump dives proferred by rapaciously rapid real estate developers: would-be Taco Terraces and Enchilada Estates where Burrito Bandits bounced from shamefully sheltered Chavez Ravine could live in jerry-rigged slum splendor, frolicking to fleabag firetrap fandangos!

  Dig, we've heard that among the sites being considered are converted horse paddock--jail cells once used to house Japanese internees during World War II, and a converted bungalow motel in Lynwood, replete with heart shaped beds and cheesy gilt-edged mirrors. Say! Those places sound like the office here at _Hush-Hush_!!!

  Hey! The rent here on the sin-tillating, salivatingly sensational Sunset Strip has steadily steepened--and we've heard that several dismayingly disgusted dispossessees have put in for their money and moved back to Mexico ahead of the general eviction date, leaving behind abandoned shacks! Hey--_Hush-Hush_ could move its operations into them! As a result, we could charge a lower price for this rag! If you believe that, we'll sell you a Pendejo Penthouse and a brand new Chorizo Chevrolet!

  But, to close on a more serious note, it appears that the L.A. powers-that-be have a front man chatting up the many remaining Chavez Ravine dwellers, passing out trinkets and doing his best to convince them to move out before the established eviction date without seeking legal injunctions. That man: popular bantamweight battler Reuben Ruiz, currently ranked 8th by _Ring_ Magazine, a man whom _Hush-Hush_ hastens to charge with a checkably checkered past.

  Item:

  Reuben Ruiz served time at the Preston Reformatory for juvenile burglary.

  Item:

  Reuben Ruiz has three brothers: Ramon, Reyes and Reynaldo-- !God!--alliteration to make _Hush-Hush_ proud!--and all three men have burglary and/or grand theft auto convictions on their records.

  Item:

  Reuben Ruiz was a guarded witness during Federal bright boy Welles Noonan's recently short lived boxing probe. (You recall that probe, hepcats: another witness jumped out the window while the LAPD detective guarding him resided in Snooze City.)

  Item:

  Reuben Ruiz was spotted a few days ago, lunching at the Pacific Dining Car with DA Bob Gallaudet and City Councilman Thomas Bethune. A late breaking extra, on the Q.T and _very_ Hush-Hush:

  Reuben Ruiz' brother Ramon was arrested for grand theft auto several days before, but now the charges have been mysteriously dropped.

  A captivatingly corrosive coercion conclusion to consider:

  Is Reuben Ruiz a bagman--P.R. man for the DA's Office and City Council? Does Ruiz' hellacious hermano rowdy Ramon owe his freedom to Reuben's politically prudent pandering? Will Reuben's extra-curricular efforts extricate his lethal left hook when he fights tough Stevie Moore at the Olympic next week?

  Remember, dear reader, you heard it first here: off the record, on the Q.T and very Hush-Hush.

  "Crimewatch" Feature, _Hush-Hush_ Magazine, 11/6/58:

  FUR FLIES FURTIVELY OUT OF FUR KING'S

  FREEZERS--FUR WHERE?

  You all know Sol "The Fur King" Hurwitz, hepcats: he does his own commercials on TV's Spade Cooley Show. His running gag is an animated snowstorm descending on Grauman's Chinese Theatre while unprepared Angelenos shiver in Bermuda shorts. He cuts these commercials on a sound stage made up like an igloo, with his marionette mascot Maurizio Mink supplying a hard sell Greek chorus: scientists are predicting a new ice age several centuries down the line, buy your Hurwitz Fur now at rock bottom low prices, easy monthly payments, store your fur during the "off season" at our San Fernando Valley fur warehouse free of charge. Follow the drift, kats and kittens? Sol Hurwitz knows that fur is a preposterous Southern California item, and he's poking fun at himself while neglecting to mention the basic fact of his business: people buy furs for two reasons: to look good and to show off how much money they have.

  Dig that especially L.A. ethos? Good, you're on our wavelength. Dig further that Hurwitz' free storage come-on is good for lots of biz. Shiver, shiver, brrrr. Your beloved Charlie Chinchilla, Mindy Mink and Rachel Raccoon are safe with Sol, right? Well, up until October 25th you weren't whistling Dixie....

  On that fateful night, three or four daring desperadoes presumed to have toolmaking and electronics expertise _fur_tively _fur_thered their criminal careers by overpowering a security guard and absconding with an estimated one million dollars in "OffSeason" storaged furs. Did you read the small print on your "free" storage contracts, kool kats? If not, dig: in case of theft, Hurwitz Furs' insurance carrier reimburses you at the rate of 25% of the estimated value of your lost stole or coat, and _fur_thermore, the police have no clues as to who these _fur_shtinkener _fur_tive _fur_ heisters are!

  Captain Dudley Smith, head of the LAPD's Robbery Division, told reporters at Van Nuys Station: "We know that a large flatbed truck was the means of entry and escape, and the regrettably injured guard told us that three or four men wearing stocking masks disabled him. A complex freezer locking system was dismantled, giving the robbers access to the furs. Technical expertise is an obvious strong point of this gang of thieves, and I will not rest until they are apprehended."

  Assisting Captain Smith are Sergeant Michael Breuning and Sergeant Richard Carlisle. A surprise addition to the celebrated crimebuster's team: Officer John Duhamel, known to So Cal fight fans as "Schoolboy" Johnny Duhamel, former middleweight Golden Gloves champ. Captain Smith, Sergeant Breuning and Sergeant Carlisle refused to talk to _Hush-Hush_, but ace _Hush-Hush_ scribe Duane Tucker cornered Officer "Schoolboy" Duhamel at last week's Hollywood Legion Stadium fistfest. Off the record, on the Q.T and _very_ Hush-Hush, Officer "Schoolboy" spoke out of school.

  He called the robbery a baffler, and ruled out insurance fraud, even though Sol Hurwitz is rapaciously rumored to be a dice game degenerate. "Schoolboy" then bit his tongue and offered no further comments.

  In a _fur_ther development, a score of _fur_ious _fur_meisters picketed Sol Hurwitz' Pacoima scene-of-the-crime storage facility. With a scant 25% assessed value refund coming to them, these perplexed parents impatiently importuned Mindy Mink, Rachel Raccoon and Charlie Chinchilla:

  Come home! It's 80 degrees and we're freezing without you!

  Look for _fur_ther developments in upcoming Crimewatch features. Remember, you heard it _fur_st here: off the record, on the Q.T. and _very_ Hush-Hush!

  L.A. _Herald-Express_, 11/7/58:

  U.S. ATTORNEY ANNOUNCES

  SOUTHSIDE RACKETS PROBE

  This morning, in a brief, tersely worded prepared statement, U.S. Attorney Welles Noonan announced that Justice Department investigators assigned to the Southern California District Office would soon begin a "minutely detailed, complex and far reaching" probe into racketeering in South-Central Los Angeles. He called his investigation a "gathering of evidence aimed at establishing criminal conspiracies"; he said that his goal was to present "convincing evidence" to a specially convened Federal Grand Jury, with an eye toward securing major indictments.

  Noonan, 40, former counsel to the U.S. Senate's McClellan Rackets Committee, said that his investigation would encompass crimes including narcotics trafficking, jukebox, vending machine and slot machine illegalities, and that he would "thoroughly explore" rumors that the
Los Angeles Police Department allows vice to rage in Southside Los Angeles and rarely investigates homicides involving both Negro victims and perpetrators.

  The U.S. Attorney declined to answer reporters' questions, but stated that his task force would include four prosecuting attorneys and at least a dozen specially selected Justice Department agents. He closed his press conference stating that he fully expects the Los Angeles Police Department to refuse to cooperate with the probe.

  LAPD Chief William H. Parker and Chief of Detectives Edmund Exley were informed of U.S. Attorney Noonan's announcement. They declined to comment.

  PART TWO

  VAMPIRA

  CHAPTER TEN

  Scope the party:

  The Cocoanut Grove, a society band. Chief Parker, Exley--smiles for our boy: Gas Chamber Bob Gallaudet. Drink waiters, dancing--Meg brought Jack Woods so she could mambo. Dudley Smith, Mayor Poulson, Tom Bethune--no thank-you to me for the tank job.

  Newsmen, Dodger execs. Gallaudet grinning, bombed by flashbulbs.

  Mingle, look:

  George Stemmons, Sr., two Smith goons: Mike Breuning, Dick Carlisle. Read their lips: FED PROBE, FED PROBE. Parker and Exley holding cocktails--talking FED PROBE--bet money. Meg danced Jack by-- hoodlums still jazzed her--my fault.

  Show-up time: I owed Bob congratulations. Better to wait, get him alone--_my_ bad PR lingered. I watched the crowd, matched thoughts to faces.

  Exley--tall, easy to spot. He'd read my 459 report: the Lucille/peeper leads, a bogus addendum--shitcan the job, it's dead-ended. He said keep going; some part of me rejoiced--I wanted to drag that family through the gutter. Both ends against the middle: I'd told Dan Wilhite I'd go easy.

  Inspector George Stemmons, Sr., by the punchbowl--Junior twentyodd years older. Junior missing since the Georgie Ainge roust--stalemate time-he knew Glenda Bledsoe killed Dwight Gilette. _His_ Kafesjian report: fluff. No john/whore file checks, my Darktown scoop made him too busy: that shakedown outside Bido Lito's; that confab with a "prettyboy blond cop." Pretty boy's ID: Johnny Duhamel, Dud Smith's new Mobster Squad lad.

  Junior: no way to trust him; no way to dump him off the case just yet.

  Solo now:

  I checked the stationhouse lists--luck at University--john names, no hooker names connected. I ran them through the DMV and R&I--all phonies--most Vice cops didn't press for real IDs--no heart to ream pussy prowlers. Luck crapped out--I saved the names to check against-- most johns kept the same alias.

  Darktown strutter:

  I questioned Western Avenue whores, three nights' worth--no Lucille plc IDs. I checked with the 77th Squad--still no locate on the peeper complaints. I peeped myself: the Kafesjian pad, car-radio jazz to kill boredom. Two nights--family brawls; one night, Lucille alone--a window striptease-the radio pulsed to her movements. Three nights total, no other watchers--make _me_ the only voyeur. That Big Instinct confirmed: prowler/peeper/B&E man--all one man.

  Homework, two nights' worth: Art Pepper, Champ Dineen--listening to what the burglar smashed. My phonograph, the volume torqued: that Instinct solid. One session pushed me back to the house-I tailed Tommy K. down to Bido Lito's. Tommy: _in with his own key_, weed bags stashed by slot machines. I called Lester Lake: glom me skinny on Tommy's known associates.

  Happy chatter--the party crowd swelling. Meg and Jack Woods talking--they'd probably start up again. Jack muscled our rent; we cut a percentage deal: his dice game, our Westside vacant. Holding hands: my sister, my hood friend. Exhausted--I shifted to Glenda Overdrive--

  Hooked bad--I couldn't subcontract the Hughes job. Moonlight work: I tailed her, watched for tails on me, ditched some maybes. Movie set skulks, rolling stakeouts:

  Glenda raids Hughes' fuck pads; Glenda donates stolen food to "Dracula's" rest home. Frequent Glenda guests: Touch V. and Rock Rockwell-- Georgie Ainge nowhere in sight. Last night, Good Deed Glenda: foie gras for the oldsters at the Sleepy Glade dump.

  R&I--Bledsoe, Glenda Louise:

  No wants, no warrants, no prostitution arrests. 12/46: ten days, juvie shoplifting. A Juvenile Hall file note: Glenda beat up an amorous bull dyke.

  LAPD Homicide-Dwight William Gilette, DOD 4/19/55 (unsolved)-- ZERO ON GLENDA LOUISE BLEDSOE.

  Fake reports to Bradley Milteer: Glenda's thefts deleted, her publicity date lied off--a "friendly outing." Glenda Overdrive driving me: good scary/scary good.

  I edged up to the crowd. Gallaudet had a new haircut: that Jack Kennedy/Welles Noonan style. A nod my way, but no shake--bad-press cops rated low. Walter O'Malley sidled by--Bob almost genuflected. Chavez Ravine, ballpark, ballpark--loud, happy.

  "Hello, lad."

  That brogue--Dudley Smith.

  "Hello, Dud."

  "A fine evening, is it not? Mark my words, we are celebrating the beginning of a splendid political career."

  An envelope passed: Dodger man to DA's man. "Bob was always ambitious."

  "Like yourself, lad. And does the prospect of a stadium for our home team thrill you?"

  "Not particularly."

  Dud laughed. "Nor I. Chavez Ravine was a splendid place to purchase spic trinkets, but now I fear it will be replaced by traffic jams and more smog. Do you follow baseball, lad?"

  "No."

  "Not interested in athletics? Is extracurricular money your only passion?"

  "It's this Jew name I got stuck with."

  Howls--his suitcoat gapped. Check the ordnance: magnum, sap, switchblade. "Lad, you have the power to amuse this old man."

  "I only get funny when I'm bored--and baseball bores me. Boxing's more my sport."

  "Ah, I should have known. Ruthless men always admire fisticuffs. And I phrase 'ruthless' as a compliment, lad."

  "No offense taken. And speaking of boxing, Johnny Duhamel's working for you, right?"

  "Correct, and a splendidly fear-inducing addition to the Mobster Squad he is. I've given him work on my fur-robbery job as well, and he is proving himself to be a splendid all-around young policeman. Why do you ask, lad?"

  "His name came up. One of my men used to teach at the Academy. Duhamel was a student of his."

  "Ahh, yes. George Stemmons, Jr., am I correct? What a memory for students past that lad must have."

  "That's him."

  Exley nailed me--a curt nod. Dud caught it: "Go, lad, Chief Exley beckons from across the room. Ah, the gaze of a shark he has."

  "Good seeing you, Dud."

  "My pleasure entirely, lad."

  I walked over. Exley, straight off: "There's a briefing day after tomorrow. Nine o'clock, all Bureau COs. Be there--we're going to discuss the Fed probe. Also, I want you to get ahold of the Kafesjian family's tax records. You're an attorney--find a loophole."

  "Income tax records require a Federal writ. Why don't you ask Welles Noonan? It's his district."

  White knuckles--his wineglass shook. "I read your report, and the john names interest me. I want a trick sweep on Western and Adams tomorrow night. Set it up with University Vice, and detach as many men as you need. I want detailed information on Lucille Kafesjian's customers."

  "Are you sure you want to risk riling that family with the Feds around the goddamn corner?"

  "Do it, Lieutenant. Don't question my motives or ask why."

  Pissed--I hit the lobby steaming. A phone, a dime-buzz the Bureau.

  "Administrative Vice, Officer Riegle."

  "Sid, it's me."

  "Hi, Skipper. You telepathic? Hollenbeck just left you a message."

  "Hold on, I need you to set something up first."

  "All ears."

  "Call University and set up a trick sweep. Say eight men and two whore wagons. Make it eleven P.M. tomorrow night, Western and Adams, Chief Exley's authorization."

  Sid whistled. "Care to explain?"

  BRAINSTORM:

  "And tell the squad lieutenant I need a row of interrogation rooms, and tell Junior Stemmons to meet me at the station, I want him in on this."

  Scribble sounds. "It's on pa
per. You want that message now?"

  "Shoot."

  "The Pawnshop Detail turned the Kafesjian silverware. Some Mexican tried to pawn it in Boyle Heights, and the shop owner saw our bulletin and stalled him. He's in custody at Hollenbeck Station."

  I whooped--heads turned. "Call Hollenbeck, Sid. Tell them to put the Mex in a sweat room. I'll be right over."

  "On it, Skipper."

  Back to the party--Gas Chamber Bob swamped--no way to check out graceful. A blonde swirled by--Glenda--a blink--just some woman.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jesus Chasco--fat, Mex--not my peeper. No rap sheet, a '58 green card running out. Scared--the sweat room sweats.

  "Habla inglés, Jesus?"

  "I speak English good as you do."

  Skim the crime sheet. "This says you attempted to sell stolen silverware to the Happytime Pawnshop. You told the officers that you didn't steal the silverware, but you wouldn't tell them where you got it. Okay, that's one felony--receiving stolen goods. You gave your car as your address, so that's a misdemeanor charge--vagrancy. How old are you, Jesus?"

  T-shirt and khakis--sweated up. "Forty-three. Why you ask me that?"

  "I'm figuring five years in San Quentin, then the boot back to Mexico. By the time you get back here, you might win a prize as the world's oldest wetback."

  Chasco waved his arms; sweat flew. "I sleep in my car to save money!"

  "Yeah, to bring your family up here. Now sit still or I'll cuff you to your chair."

  He spit on the floor; I dangled my handcuffs eye-level. "Tell me where you got the silverware. If you prove it, I'll cut you loose."

  "You mean you--"

  "I mean you walk. No charges, no nada."

  "Suppose I don't tell you?"

  Wait him out, let him show some balls. Ten seconds--a classic pachuco shrug. "I do custodian work at this motel. It's on 53rd and Western, called the Red Arrow Inn. It's. . . you know, for _putas_ and their guys."