Джеймс Эллрой: White Jazz

Sirens; black & whites pulling up.

“Jack, get out of here.”

“Good seeing you, Dave.”

Book the fuckers — Newton Street Station.

Rap sheet checks: nine outstanding warrants total. Missing Fingers came up a sweetheart: rape, ADW, flimflam. Shock pale, maybe dying — a medic fed him coffee and aspirin.

I booked the plant gun, bet slips and money — minus Jack Woods’ eleven hundred. Junior, press relations: the lieutenant owes you a story.

Two hours of pure shitwork.

4:30 — back to the Bureau. Messages waiting: Meg said drop by; Welles Noonan said the guard gig, six sharp. Exley: “Report in detail.”

Details — type them out, more shitwork:

4701 Naomi Avenue, 1400 hours. Set to raid a bookmaker’s drop, Sgt. George Stemmons, Jr., and I heard shots fired inside the premises. We did not inform the other officers for fear of creating a panic. I ordered a shotgun round directed at the front window; Sgt. Stemmons misled the other men with a “birdshot assault” cover story. A .38 revolver was found; we arrested six bookmakers. The suspects were booked at Newton Station; the wounded received adequate first aid and hospital treatment. R&I revealed numerous extant warrants on the six, who will be remanded to the Hall of Justice Jail and arraigned on felony charges 614.5 and 859.3 of the California Penal Code. All six men will be subsequently interrogated on the shots fired and their bookmaking associations. I will conduct the interrogations myself — as Division Commander I must personally guarantee the veracity of all proferred statements. Press coverage of this occurrence will be minimal: reporters at the scene were unprepared for the rapid transpiring of events.

Sign it: Lieutenant David D. Klein, Badge 1091, Commander, Administrative Vice.

Carbons to: Junior, Chief Exley.

The phone—

“Ad Vice, Klein.”

“Davey? Got a minute for an old gonif buddy?”

“Mickey, Jesus Christ.”

“I know, I’m supposed to call you at home. Uh... Davey... a favor for Sam G.?”

G. for Giancana. “I guess. What?”

“You know that croupier guy you’re watchdogging?”

“Yeah.”

“Well... the radiator’s loose in his bedroom.”

Rockabye Reuben Ruiz: “This is the tits. I could get used to this.”

The Embassy Hotel: parlor, bedrooms, TV. Nine floors up, suite service: food and booze.

Ruiz belting Scotch, half-assed restless. Sanderline Johnson watching cartoons, slack-jawed.

Junior practicing quick draws.

Try some talk. “Hey, Reuben.”

Popping mock jabs: “Hey, Lieutenant.”

“Hey, Reuben. Did Mickey C. try to infringe on your contract?”

“He what you call strongly suggested my manager let him buy in. He sent the Vecchio brothers out to talk to him, then he punked out when Luis told them, ‘Hey, kill me, ’cause I ain’t signin’ no release form.’ You want my opinion? Mickey ain’t got the stones for strongarm no more.”

“But you’ve got the cojones to snitch.”

Jabs, hooks. “I got a brother deserted the army, maybe lookin’ at Federal time. I got three bouts coming up at the Olympic, which Welles Noonan can fuck up with subpoenas. My family’s what you call from a long line of thieves, what you call trouble prone, so I sorta like making friends in what you might call the law-enforcement community.”

“Do you think Noonan has good stuff on Mickey?”

“No, Lieutenant, I don’t.”

“Call me Dave.”

“I’ll call you Lieutenant, ’cause I got enough friends in the law-enforcement community.”

“Such as?”

“Such as Noonan and his FBI buddy Shipstad. Hey, you know Schoolboy Johnny Duhamel?”

“Sure. He fought in the Gloves, turned pro, then quit.”

“You lose your first pro fight, you better quit. I told him that, ’cause Johnny and me are old friends, and Johnny is now Officer Schoolboy Johnny Duhamel, on the fuckin’ LAPD, on the righteous Mobster Squad, no less. He’s tight with the — what you call him? — legendary? — Captain Dudley Smith. So I got enough fuck—”

“Ruiz, watch your language.”

Junior — pissed. Johnson goosed the TV — Mickey Mouse ran from Donald Duck.

Junior killed the volume. “I knew Johnny Duhamel when I taught at the Academy. He was in my evidence class, and he was a damn good student. I don’t like it when criminals get familiar with policemen. Comprende, pendejo? ”

“ Pendejo , huh? So I’m the stupido , and you’re this punk cowboy, playin’ with your gun like that sissy mouse on fuckin’ television.”

Necktie pull, signal Junior: FREEZE IT.

He froze — fumbling his gun.

Ruiz: “I can always use another friend, Dave . There something you want to know?”

I boosted the TV. Johnson stared, rapt — Daisy Duck vamping Donald. Ruiz: “Hey, Dave . You wangle this job to pump me?”

Huddle close, semi-private. “You want to make another friend, then give. What’s Noonan have?”

“He’s got what you call aspirations.”

“I know that. Give .”

“Well... I heard Shipstad and this other FBI guy talking. They said Noonan’s maybe afraid the fight probe’s too limited. Anyway, he’s thinking over this backup plan.”

“And?”

“And it’s like a general L.A. rackets thing, mostly Southside stuff. Dope, slots, you know, illegal vending machines and that kind of shit. I heard Shipstad say something about the LAPD don’t investigate colored on colored homicides, and like all this ties to Noonan making the new DA — what’s his name?”

“Bob Gallaudet.”

“Right, Bob Gallaudet. Anyway, it all ties to making him look bad so Noonan can run against him for attorney general.”

Darktown, the coin biz — Mickey C.’s last going stuff. “What about Johnson?”

Snickers. “Look at that mulatto wetbrain. Can you believe he used to be forty-three, zero and two?”

“Reuben, give .”

“Okay, give he’s close to a fuckin’ idiot, but he’s got this great memory. He can memorize card decks, so some made guys gave him a job at the Lucky Nugget down in Gardena. He’s good at memorizing conversations, and some guys weren’t so what you call discreet talking around him. I heard Noonan’s gonna make him do these memory tricks on the stand, which—”

“I get the picture.”

“Good. I quit my own trouble-prone ways, but I sure got a trouble-prone family. I shouldn’t of told you what I did, so since you’re my friend I’m sure this ain’t getting back to the Federal guys, right, Dave ?”

“Right. Now eat your dinner and get some rest, okay?”

Midnight — lights out. I took Johnson; Junior took Ruiz — my suggestion.

Johnson, bedtime reading: “God’s Secret Power Can Be Yours.” I pulled a chair up and watched his lips: glom the inside track to Jesus, fight the Jew-Communist conspiracy to mongrelize Christian America. Send your contribution to Post Office Box blah, blah, blah.

“Sanderline, let me ask you something.”

“Uh, yessir.”

“Do you believe that pamphlet you’re reading?”

“Uh, yessir. Right here it says this woman who came back to life said Jesus guarantees all gold-star contributors a new car every year in heaven.”

JESUS FUCK.

“Sanderline, did you catch a few in your last couple of fights?”

“Uh, no. I stopped Bobby Calderon on cuts and lost a split decision to Ramon Sanchez. Sir, do you think Mr. Noonan will get us a hot lunch at the grand jury?”

Handcuffs out. “Put these on while I take a piss.”

Johnson stood up — yawning, stretching. Check the heater — thick pipes — nix ballast.