Джеймс Эллрой: White Jazz

“Yeah?”

“I... well, a hoodlum dies in the papers, and I get a gift.”

Swaying bad. “Let it go.”

“Trombino and Brancato, then Jack Dragna. Honey, I can live with what we did.”

“You don’t love me the way I love you.”

Reporters at my door, wolfing take-out.

I parked out back, jimmied a bedroom window. Noise — newsmen gabbing my story. Lights off, crack that window: talk to defuse Meg’s bomb.

Straight: I’m a kraut, not a Jew — the old man’s handle got clipped at Ellis Island. ’38 — the LAPD; ’42 — the Marines. Pacific duty, back to the Department ’45. Chief Horrall resigns; William Worton replaces him — a squeaky-clean Marine Corps major general. Semper Fi: he forms an ex-Marine goon squad. Esprit de Corps: we break strikes, beat uppity parolees back to prison.

Law school, freelance work — the GI Bill won’t cover USC. Repo man, Jack Woods’ collector — “the Enforcer.” Work for Mickey C: union disputes settled strongarm. Hollywood beckons — I’m tall, handsome.

Nix, but it leads to real work. I break up a squeeze on Liberace — two well-hung shines, blackmail pix. I’m in with Hollywood and Mickey C. I make the Bureau, make sergeant. I pass the bar, make lieutenant.

All true.

I topped my twenty last month — true. My Enforcer take bought slum pads — true. I shacked with Anita Ekberg and the redhead on “The Spade Cooley Show” — false.

Bullshit took over; talk moved to Chavez Ravine. I shut the window and tried to sleep.

No go.

Lift that window — no newsmen. TV: strictly test patterns. Turn it off, run the string out — MEG.

It was always there scary wrong — and we touched each other too long to say it. I kept the old man’s fists off her; she kept me from killing him. College together, the war, letters. Other men and other women fizzled.

Rowdy postwar years — “the Enforcer.” Meg — pal, repo sidekick. A fling with Jack Woods — I let it go. Study ate up my time — Meg ran wild solo. She met two hoods: Tony Trombino, Tony Brancato.

June ’51 — our parents dead in a car wreck.

The guts, the will—

A motel room — Franz and Hilda Klein fresh buried. Naked just to see. On each other — every taste half recoil.

Meg broke it off — no finish. Fumbles: our clothes, words, the lights off.

I still wanted it.

She didn’t.

She ran crazy with Trombino and Brancato.

The fucks messed with Jack Dragna — the Outfit’s number-one man in L.A. Jack showed me a picture: Meg — bruises, hickeys — Trombino/Brancato verified.

Verified — they popped a mob dice game.

Jack said five grand, you clip them — I said yes.

I set it up — a shakedown run — “We’ll rob this bookie holding big.” August 6, 1648 North Ogden — the Two Tonys in a ’49 Dodge. I slid in the backseat and blew their brains out.

“Mob Warfare” headlines — Dragna’s boss torpedo picked up quick. His alibi: Jack D.’s parish priest. Gangland unsolved — let the fucking wops kill each other.

I was paid — plus a tape bonus: a man raging at the scum who hurt his sister. Dragna’s voice — squelched out. My voice: “I will fucking kill them. I will fucking kill them for free.”

Mickey Cohen called. Jack said I owed the Outfit — the debt kosher for a few favors. Jack would call, I’d be paid — strictly business.

Hooked.

Called:

June 2, ’53: I clipped a dope chemist in Vegas.

March 26, ’55: I killed two jigs who raped a mob guy’s wife.

September ’57, a rumor: Jack D. — heart disease bad.

I called him.

Jack said, “Come see me.”

We met at a beachfront motel — his fixing-to-die-fuck spot. Guinea heaven: booze, smut, whores next door.

I begged him: cancel my debt.

Jack said, “The whores do lez stuff.”

I choked him dead with a pillow.

Coroner’s verdict/mob consensus: heart attack.

Sam Giancana — my new caller. Mickey C. his front man: cop favors, clip jobs.

Meg sensed something. Lie away her part, take all the guilt. Sleep — restless, sweaty.

The phone — grab it — “Yes?”

“Dave? Dan Wilhite.”

Narco — the boss. “What is it, Captain?”

“It’s... shit, do you know J. C. Kafesjian?”

“I know who he is. I know what he is to the Department.”

Wilhite, low: “I’m at a crime scene. I can’t really talk and I’ve got nobody to send over, so I called you.”

Hit the lights. “Fill me in, I’ll go.”

“It’s, shit, it’s a burglary at J.C.’s house.”

“Address?”

“1684 South Tremaine. That’s just off—”

“I know where it is. Somebody called Wilshire dicks before they called you, right?”

“Right, J.C.’s wife. The whole family was out for the evening, but Madge, the wife, came home first. She found the house burgled and called Wilshire Station. J.C., Tommy and Lucille — that’s the other kid — came home and found the house full of detectives who didn’t know about our... uh... arrangement with the family. Apparently, it’s some goddamn nutso B&E and the Wilshire guys are making pests of themselves. J.C. called my wife, she called around and found me. Dave...”

“I’ll go.”

“Good. Take someone with you, and count it one in your column.”

I hung up and called for backup — Riegle, Jensen — no answer. Shit luck — Junior Stemmons — “Hello?”

“It’s me. I need you for an errand.”

“Is it a call-out?”

“No, it’s an errand for Dan Wilhite. It’s smooth J.C. Kafesjian’s feathers.”

Junior whistled. “I heard his kid’s a real psycho.”

“1684 South Tremaine. Wait for me outside, I’ll brief you.”

“I’ll be there. Hey, did you see the late news? Bob Gallaudet called us ‘exemplary officers,’ but Welles Noonan said we were ‘incompetent freeloaders.’ He said that ordering room-service booze for our witnesses contributed to Johnson’s suicide. He said—”

“ Just be there .”

Code 3, do Wilhite solid — aid the LAPD’s sanctioned pusher. Narco/J.C. Kafesjian — twenty years connected — old Chief Davis brought him in. Weed, pills, H — Darktown trash as clientele. Snitch duty got J.C. the dope franchise. Wilhite played watchdog; J.C. ratted rival pushers, per our policy: keep narcotics isolated south of Slauson. His legit work: a dry-cleaning chain; his son’s work: muscle goon supreme.

Crosstown to the pad: a Moorish job lit up bright. Cars out front: Junior’s Ford, a prowl unit.

Flashlight beams and voices down the driveway. “Holy shit, holy shit” — Junior Stemmons.

I parked, walked over.

Light in my eyes. Junior: “That’s the lieutenant.” A stink: maybe blood rot.

Junior, two plainclothesmen. “Dave, this is Officer Nash and Sergeant Miller.”

“Gentlemen, Narco’s taking this over. You go back to the station. Sergeant Stemmons and I will file reports if it comes to that.”

Miller: “ ‘Comes to that’? Do you smell that?”

Heavy, acidic. “Is this a homicide?”

Nash: “Not exactly. Sir, you wouldn’t believe the way that punk Tommy What’s-His-Name talked to us. Comes to —”

“Go back and tell the watch commander Dan Wilhite sent me over. Tell him it’s J.C. Kafesjian’s place, so it’s not your standard 459. If that doesn’t convince him, have him wake up Chief Exley.”

“Lieutenant—”

Grab a flashlight, chase the smell — back to a snipped chainlink fence. Fuck — two Dobermans — no eyes, throats slit, teeth gnashing chemical-soaked washrags. Gutted — entrails, blood — blood dripping toward a jimmied back door.