Джеймс Эллрой: White Jazz

Shouts inside — two men, two women. Junior: “I shooed the squadroom guys off. Some 459, huh?”

“Lay it out for me, I don’t want to question the family.”

“Well, they were all at a party. The wife had a headache, so she took a cab home first. She went out to let the dogs in and found them. She called Wilshire, and Nash and Miller caught the squeal. J.C., Tommy and the daughter — the two kids live here, too — came home and raised a ruckus when they found cops in the living room.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“Madge — that’s the wife — showed me the damage, then J.C. shut her up. Some heirloom-type silverware was stolen, and the damage was some strange stuff. Do you feature this? I have never worked a B&E job like this one.”

Yells, horn bleats.

“It’s not a job. And what do you mean ‘strange stuff’?”

“Nash and Miller tagged it. You’ll see.”

I flashed the yard — foamy meat scraps — call the dogs poisoned. Junior: “He fed them that meat, then mutilated them. He got blood on himself, then trailed it into the house.”

Follow it:

Back-door pry marks. A laundry porch — bloody towels discarded — the burglar cleaned up.

The kitchen door intact — he slipped the latch. No more blood, the sink evidence tagged: “Broken Whiskey Bottles.” Cabinet-drawers theft tagged: “Antique Silverware.”

Them:

“You whore, to let strange policemen into our home!”

“Daddy, please don’t!”

“We always call Dan when we need help!”

A dining room table, photo scraps piled on top: “Family Pictures.” Sax bleats upstairs.

Walk the pad.

Too-thick carpets, velvet sofas, flocked wallpaper. Window air coolers — Jesus statues perched beside them. A rug tagged: “Broken Records/Album Covers” — The Legendary Champ Dineen: Sooo Slow Moods; Straight Life : The Art Pepper Quartet; The Champ Plays the Duke .

LPs by a hi-fi — stacked neat.

Junior walked in. “Like I told you, huh? Some damage.”

“Who’s making that noise?”

“The horn? That’s Tommy Kafesjian.”

“Go up and make nice. Apologize for the intrusion, offer to call Animal Control for the dogs. Ask him if he wants an investigation. Be nice, do you understand?”

“Dave, he’s a criminal.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be brown-nosing his old man even worse.”

“DADDY, DON’T!” — booming through closed doors.

“J.C., LEAVE THE GIRL ALONE!”

Spooky — Junior ran upstairs.

“THAT’S RIGHT, GET OUT” — a side door slamming — “Daddy” in my face.

J.C. close up: a greasy fat man getting old. Burly, pockmarked, bloody facial scratches.

“I’m Dave Klein. Dan Wilhite sent me over to square things.”

Squinting: “What’s so important he couldn’t come himself?”

“We can do this any way you want, Mr. Kafesjian. If you want an investigation, you’ve got it. You want us to dust for prints, maybe get you a name, you’ve got it. If you want payback, Dan will support you in anything within reason, if you follow—”

“I follow what you mean and I clean my own house. I deal with Captain Dan strictly, not strangers in my parlor.”

Two women snuck by. Soft brunettes — nongrease types. The daughter waved — silver nails, blood drops.

“You see my girls, now forget them. They are not for you to know.”

“Any idea who did it?”

“Not for you to talk about. Not for you to mention business rivals who might want to hurt me and mine.”

“Rivals in the dry-cleaning biz?”

“Not for you to make jokes! Look! Look!”

A door tag: “Mutilated Clothing.” “Look! Look! Look!” — J.C. yanked the knob — “Look! Look! Look!”

Look: a small closet. Spread-legged, crotch-ripped pedal pushers tacked across the walls.

Stained — smell it — semen.

“Now it is not to laugh. I buy Lucille and Madge so many nice clothes that they must keep some down in the parlor. Perverted degenerate wants to hurt Lucille’s pretty things. You look .”

Tijuana whore stuff: “Pretty.”

“Not so funny now, Dan Wilhite’s errand boy. Now you don’t laugh.”

“Call Dan. Tell him what you want done.”

“I clean my own house!”

“Nice threads. Your daughter working her way through college?”

Fists clenching/veins popping/face-rips trickling — this fat greasy fuck pressing close.

Shouts upstairs.

I ran up. A room off the hall — scope the damage:

Tommy K. up against the wall. Reefers on the floor, tough guy Junior frisking him. Jazz posters, Nazi flags, a sax on the bed.

I laughed.

Tommy smiled nice — this skinny nongreaser.

Junior: “He flaunted that mary jane. He ridiculed the Department.”

“Sergeant, apologize to Mr. Kafesjian.”

Half pout, half shriek: “Dave... God... I’m sorry .”

Tommy lit up a stick and blew smoke in Junior’s face.

J.C., downstairs: “Go home now! I clean my own house!”

Bad sleep, no sleep.

Meg’s call woke me up: get our late rent settled, no silk-dress talk. I said, “Sure, sure” — hung up and pitched Jack Woods: twenty percent on every rent dollar collected. He jewed me up to twenty-five — I agreed.

Work calls: Van Meter, Pete Bondurant, Fred Turentine. Three green lights: La Verne’s pad was bugged; a photo man was stashed in the bedroom. Diskant — tailed and overheard: drinks at Ollie Hammond’s Steakhouse, 6:00 P.M.

The bait stood ready: our Commie consort. Pete said Hush-Hush loved it: pinko politico trips on his dick.

I called Narco — Dan Wilhite was out — I left a message. Bad sleep, no sleep — the nightmare Kafesjians. Junior last night, comic relief: “I know you don’t think I rate the Bureau, but I’ll show you, I’ll really show you.”

5:00 P.M. — fuck sleep.

I cleaned up, checked the Herald — Chavez Ravine bumped my dead man off page one. Bob Gallaudet: “The Latin Americans who lose their dwellings will be handsomely compensated, and in the end a home for the L.A. Dodgers will serve as a point of pride for Angelenos of all races, creeds and colors.”

Knee-slapper stuff — it doused my Kafesjian hangover.

Ollie Hammond’s — stake the bar entrance, wait.

Morton Diskant in the door, six sharp.

La Verne Benson in at 6:03 — tweed skirt, knee sox, cardigan.

6:14 — Big Pete B., sliding the seat back.

“Diskant’s with his friends, La Verne’s two booths down. Two seconds in and she’s giving him these hot looks.”

“You think he’ll tumble?”

“I would, but then I’m a pig for it.”

“Like your boss?”

“You can say his name — Howard Hughes. He’s a busy guy — like you.”

“He was a dumb fuck. If he didn’t jump, I probably would have pushed him.”

Pete tapped the dashboard — huge hands — they beat a drunk-tank brawler dead. The L.A. Sheriff’s canned him; Howard Hughes found a soulmate.

“ You been busy?”

“Sort of. I collect dope for Hush-Hush , I keep Mr. Hughes out of Hush-Hush . People try to sue Hush-Hush , I convince them otherwise. I scout pussy for Mr. Hughes, I listen to Mr. Hughes talk this crazy shit about airplanes. Right now Mr. Hughes has got me tailing this actress who jilted him. Dig this: this cooze blows out of Mr. Hughes’ number-one fuck pad, with a three-yard-a-week contract to boot, all to act in some horror cheapie. Mr. Hughes has got her signed to a seven-year slave contract, and he wants to get it violated on a morality clause. Can you feature this pussy pig preaching morality?”