Джеймс Эллрой: White Jazz

Quash a laugh. “So what’s the upshot?”

“You tell me. Assess what the Feds have planned past the fight probe.”

“I’d say with Johnson dead, not much. Ruiz told me Noonan had some vague plans to mount an investigation into the Southside rackets — dope, the Darktown slot and vending machines. If that probe flies, the Department could be made to look bad. But if it goes, Noonan will announce it first — he’s headline happy. We’ll get a chance to prepare.”

Exley smiled. “Mickey Cohen runs the Southside coin business. Will you warn him to get his stuff out?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Off the topic, did you read my report on the bookie house?”

“Yes. Except for the shots fired, it was salutary. What is it? You’re looking at me like you want something.”

I poured coffee. “Throw me a bone for the Diskant job.”

“You’re in no position to ask favors.”

“After Diskant I will be.”

“Then ask.”

Bad coffee. “Ad Vice is boring me. I was passing through Robbery and saw a case that looked good on the board.”

“The appliance store heist?”

“No, the Hurwitz fur warehouse job. A million in furs clouted, no leads, and Junior Stemmons popped Sol Hurwitz at a dice game just last year. He’s a degenerate gambler, so I’d bet money on insurance fraud.”

“No. It’s Dudley Smith’s case, and he’s ruled insurance out. And you’re a commanding officer, not a case man.”

“So stretch the rules. I tank the Commie, you throw me one.”

“No, it’s Dudley’s job. The case is three days old and he’s already been assigned. Beyond that, I wouldn’t want to tempt you with saleable items like furs.”

Shivved — deflect it. “There’s no love lost between you and Dud. He wanted chief of detectives, and you got it.”

“COs always get bored and want cases. Is there any particular reason why you want this one?”

“Robbery’s clean. You wouldn’t be suspicious of my friends if I worked heist jobs.”

Exley stood up. “A question before you go.”

“Sir?”

“Did a friend tell you to push Sanderline Johnson out the window?”

“No, sir. But aren’t you glad he jumped?”

I slept the night off, a room at the Biltmore — figure reporters had my pad staked out. No dreams, room service: 6:00 A.M. breakfast, the papers. New banners: “U.S. Attorney Blasts ‘Negligent’ Cop”; “Detective Voices Regret at Witness Suicide.” Pure Exley — his press gig, his regret. Page three, more Exley: no Hurwitz-job leads — a gang with toolmaking/electronics expertise boosted a million plus in cold fur. Pix: a bandaged-up security guard; Dudley Smith ogling a mink.

Robbery, sweet duty: jack up heist guys and boost their shit.

Work the Commie: phone calls.

Fred Turentine, bug man — yes for five hundred. Pete Bondurant — yes for a grand — and he’d pay the photo guy. Pete, Hush-Hush cozy — more heat on the smear.

The Women’s Jail watch boss owed me; a La Verne Benson update cashed her out. La Verne — prostitution beef number three — no bail, no trial date. La Verne to the phone — suppose we lose your rap sheet — yes! yes! yes!

Antsy — my standard postmurder shakes. Antsy to itchy — drive.

A run by my pad — reporters — no haven there. Up to Mulholland, green lights/no traffic — 60, 70, 80. Fishtails, curve shimmy — slow down, think.

Think Exley.

Brilliant, cold. In ’53 he gunned down four niggers — it closed out the Nite Owl case. Spring ’58 — evidence proved he killed the wrong men. The case was reopened; Exley and Dudley Smith ran it: the biggest job in L.A. history. Multiple homicides/smut intrigue/interlocked conspiracies — Exley cleared it for real. His construction-king father killed himself non sequitur; now Inspector Ed got his money. Thad Green resigned as Chief of Detectives; Chief Parker jumped Dudley to replace him: Edmund Jennings Exley, thirty-six years old.

No love lost — Exley and Dudley — two good haters.

No Detective Division reforms — just Exley going iceberg cold.

Green lights up to Meg’s house — just her car out front. Meg in the kitchen window.

I watched her.

Dish duty — a lilt to her hands — maybe background music. Smiling — a face almost mine, but gentle. I hit the horn—

Yes — a primp — her glasses, her hair. A smile — anxious.

I jogged up the steps; Meg had the door open. “I had a feeling you’d bring me a gift.”

“Why?”

“The last time you got in the papers you bought me a dress.”

“You’re the smart Klein. Go on, open it.”

“Was it terrible? They had this clip on TV.”

“He was a dumb bunny. Come on, open it up.”

“David, we have to discuss some business.”

I nudged her inside. “ Come on .”

Rip, tear — wrapping paper in shreds. A whoop, a mirror dash — green silk, a perfect fit.

“Does it work?”

A swirl — her glasses almost flew. “Zip me?”

Shape her in, tug the zipper. Perfect — Meg kissed me, checked the mirror.

“Jesus, you and Junior. He can’t stop admiring himself either.”

A swirl, a flash: prom date ’35. The old man said take Sissy — the guys hounding her weren’t appropriate.

Meg sighed. “It’s beautiful. Just like everything you give me. And how is Junior Stemmons these days?”

“Thank you, you’re welcome, and Junior Stemmons is half smart. He’s not really suited for the Detective Bureau, and if his father didn’t swing me the command at Ad Vice I’d kick his ass back to a teaching job.”

“Not a forceful enough presence?”

“Right, with a hot-dog sensibility that makes it stand out worse, and itchy nerves like he’s raiding the dope vault at Narco. Where’s your husband?”

“Going over some blueprints for a building he’s designing. And while we’re on the subject...”

“Shit. Our buildings, right? Deadbeats? Skipouts?”

“We’re slumlords, so don’t act surprised. It’s the Compton place. Three units in arrears.”

“So advise me. You’re the real estate broker.”

“Two units are one month due, the other is two months behind. It takes ninety days to file an eviction notice, and that entails a court date. And you’re the attorney.”

“Fuck, I hate litigation. And will you sit down?”

She sprawled — a green chair, the green dress. Green against her hair — black — a shade darker than mine. “You’re a good litigator, but I know you’ll just send some goons down with fake papers.”

“It’s easier that way. I’ll send Jack Woods or one of Mickey’s guys.”

“Armed?”

“Yeah, and fucking dangerous. Now tell me you love the dress again. Tell me so I can go home and get some sleep.”

Counting points — our old routine. “One, I love the dress. Two, I love my big brother, even though he got all the looks and more of the brains. Three, by way of amenities, I quit smoking again, I’m bored with my job and my husband and I’m considering sleeping around before I turn forty and lose the rest of my looks. Four, if you knew any men who weren’t cops or thugs I’d ask you to fix me up.”

Points back: “I got the Hollywood looks, you got the real ones. Don’t sleep with Jack Woods, because people have this tendency to shoot at him, and the first time you and Jack tried shacking it didn’t last too long. I do know a few DAs, but they’d bore you.”

“Who do I have left? I flopped as a gangster consort.”

The room swayed — frazzled time. “I don’t know. Come on, walk me out.”

Green silk — Meg stroked it. “I was thinking of that logic class we took undergrad. You know, cause and effect.”