Джеймс Эллрой: White Jazz

Open window — nine-floor drop — this geek half-breed smiling.

“Sir, what do you think Jesus drives himself?”

I banged his head against the wall, threw him out the window screaming.

LAPD Homicide said suicide, case closed.

The DA: suicide probable.

Confirmation — Junior, Ruiz — Sanderline Johnson, crazy man.

Listen:

I watched him read, dozed off, woke up — Johnson announced he could fly. He went out the window before I could voice my disbelief.

Questioning: Feds, LAPD, DA’s men. Basics: Johnson crash-landed on a parked De Soto, DOA, no witnesses. Bob Gallaudet seemed pleased: a rival’s political progress scotched. Ed Exley: report to my office, 10:00 A.M.

Welles Noonan: incompetent disgrace of a policeman; pitiful excuse for an attorney. Suspicious — my old nickname — “the Enforcer.”

No mention: 187 PC — felonious homicide.

No mention: outside-agency investigations.

No mention: interdepartmental charges.

I drove home, showered, changed — no reporters hovering yet. Downtown, a dress for Meg — I do it every time I kill a man.

10:00 A.M.

Waiting: Exley, Gallaudet, Walt Van Meter — the boss, Intelligence Division. Coffee, pastry — fuck me.

I sat down. Exley: “Lieutenant, you know Mr. Gallaudet and Captain Van Meter.”

Gallaudet, all smiles: “It’s been ‘Bob’ and ‘Dave’ since law school, and I won’t fake any outrage over last night. Did you see the Mirror , Dave?”

“No.”

“ ‘Federal Witness Plummets to Death,’ with a sidebar: ‘Suicide Pronouncement: “Hallelujah, I Can Fly!” ’ You like it?”

“It’s a pisser.”

Exley, cold: “The lieutenant and I will discuss that later. In a sense it ties in to what we have here, so let’s get to it.”

Bob sipped coffee. “Political intrigue. Walt, you tell him.”

Van Meter coughed. “Well... Intelligence has done some political operations before, and we’ve got our eye on a target now — a pinko lawyer who has habitually bad-mouthed the Department and Mr. Gallaudet.”

Exley: “Keep going.”

“Well, Mr. Gallaudet should be elected to a regular term next week. He’s an ex-policeman himself, and he speaks our language. He’s got the support of the Department and some of the City Council, but—”

Bob cut in. “Morton Diskant. He’s neck and neck with Tom Bethune for Fifth District city councilman, and he’s been ragging me for weeks. You know, how I’ve only been a prosecutor for five years and how I cashed in when Ellis Loew resigned as DA. I’ve heard he’s gotten cozy with Welles Noonan, who just might be on my dance card in ’60, and Bethune is our kind of guy. It’s a very close race. Diskant’s been talking Bethune and I up as right-wing shitheads, and the district’s twenty-five percent Negro, lots of them registered voters. You take it from there.”

Play a hunch. “Diskant’s been riling the spooks up with Chavez Ravine, something like ‘Vote for me so your Mexican brothers won’t get evicted from their shantytown shacks to make room for a ruling-class ballpark.’ It’s five — four in favor on the Council, and they take a final vote sometime in November after the election. Bethune’s an interim incumbent, like Bob, and if he loses he has to leave office before the vote goes down. Diskant gets in, it’s a deadlock. We’re all civilized white men who know the Dodgers are good for business, so let’s get to it.”

Exley, smiling: “I met Bob in ’53, when he was a DA’s Bureau sergeant. He passed the bar and registered as a Republican the same day. Now the pundits tell us we’ll only have him as DA for two years. Attorney General in ’60, then what? Will you stop at Governor?”

Laughs all around. Van Meter: “I met Bob when he was a patrolman and I was a sergeant. Now it’s ‘Walt’ and ‘Mr. Gallaudet.’ ”

“I’m still ‘Bob.’ And you used to call me ‘son.’ ”

“I will again, Robert. If you disown your support of district gambling.”

Stupid crack — the bill wouldn’t pass the State Legislature. Cards, slots and bookmaking — confined to certain areas — taxable big. Cops hated it — say Gallaudet embraced it for votes. “He’ll change his mind, he’s a politician.”

No laughs — Bob coughed, embarrassed. “It looks like the fight probe is down. With Johnson dead, they’ve got no confirming witnesses, and I got the impression Noonan was just using Reuben Ruiz for his marquee value. Dave, do you agree?”

“Yeah, he’s a likable local celebrity. Apparently Mickey C. made some kind of half-baked attempt to muscle his contract, so Noonan probably wanted to use Mickey for his marquee value.”

Exley, shiv shot: “And we know you’re an expert on Mickey Cohen.”

“We go back, Chief.”

“In what capacity?”

“I’ve offered him some free legal advice.”

“Such as?”

“Such as ‘Don’t fuck with the LAPD.’ Such as ‘Watch out for Chief of Detectives Exley, because he never tells you exactly what he wants.’ ”

Gallaudet, calm: “Come on, enough. Mayor Poulson asked me to call this meeting, so we’re on his time. And I have an idea, which is to keep Ruiz on our side. We use him as a front man to placate the Mexicans in Chavez Ravine, so if the evictions go down ugly, we have him as our PR guy. Doesn’t he have some kind of burglary jacket?”

I nodded. “Juvie time for B&E. I heard he used to belong to a burglary gang, and I know his brothers pull jobs. You’re right — we should use him, promise to keep his family out of trouble if he goes along.”

Van Meter: “I like it.”

Gallaudet: “What about Diskant?”

I hit hard. “He’s a pinko, so he has to have some Commie associates. I’ll find them and strongarm them. We’ll put them on TV, and they’ll snitch him.”

Bob, head shakes: “No. It’s too vague and there’s not enough time.”

“Girls, boys, liquor — give me a weakness. Look, I screwed up last night. Let me do penance.”

Silence: long, loud . Van Meter, off a sigh: “I heard he loves young women. He supposedly cheats on his wife very discreetly. He likes college girls. Young, idealistic.”

Bob, a smirk fading: “Dudley Smith can set it up. He’s done this kind of thing before.”

Exley, weird emphatic: “No, not Dudley. Klein, do you know the right people?”

“I know an editor at Hush-Hush . I can get Pete Bondurant for the pix, Fred Turentine for bugging. Ad Vice popped a call house last week, and we’ve got just the right girl sweating bail.”

Stares all around. Exley, half smiling: “So do your penance, Lieutenant.”

Bob G. — diplomat. “He let me study his crib sheets in law school. Be nice, Ed.”

Exit line — he waltzed, Van Meter walked hangdog.

Say it: “Will the Feds ask for an investigation?”

“I doubt it. Johnson did ninety days observation at Camarillo last year, and the doctors there told Noonan he was unstable. Six FBI men canvassed for witnesses and got nowhere. They’d be stupid to pursue an investigation. You’re clean, but I don’t like the way it looks.”

“You mean criminal negligence?”

“I mean your longstanding and somewhat well-known criminal associations. I’ll be kind and say you’re ‘acquainted’ with Mickey Cohen, a focus of the investigation your negligence destroyed. Imaginative people might make a slight jump to ‘criminal conspiracy,’ and Los Angeles is filled with such people. You see how—”

“Chief, listen to—”

“No, you listen. I gave you and Stemmons that assignment because I trusted your competence and I wanted an attorney’s assessment of what the Feds had planned in our jurisdiction. What I got was ‘Hallelujah, I Can Fly’ and ‘Detective Snoozes While Witness Jumps Out Window.’ ”