Джеймс Эллрой - White Jazz

In.

Close the door, bolt it — lights on, go.

I checked the living room walls: no pictures, no fake panels.

I checked the den — framed photos — Dudley Smith, Bureau toastmaster. Pull them, look behind—

No safe.

Upstairs — three bedrooms — more walls, more pictures:

Dudley Smith as Santa Claus — a polio ward, ’53.

Dudley Smith, guest speaker — Christian Anti-Communist Crusade.

Dudley Smith at a crime scene: ogling a dead jigaboo.

Three bedrooms — twenty Dudley Smith pictures — Exley hate fuel.

No safe.

Back downstairs — check the kitchen — nothing.

Check the carpets — every one tacked flat. Upstairs — hallway throw rugs — pull them—

A hinged panel under a red Persian.

Inset with a tumbler dial and handle.

Trembly — 34L–16R–31L — two run-throughs, snap/thunk — yank the handle.

Drawstring bank bags. Five. Nothing else.

Hundreds, fifties, twenties. Old bills.

I shut the lid, spun the dial and fixed the rugs. Downstairs, the kitchen—

Cutlery right there. I grabbed a cleaver — heebie-jeebies — Chick.

“Davey... please.”

Psychic: begging me two seconds in the door. A tattoo on his right hand: “Sally 4-Ever.”

“Davey, please.”

683 grand and that cleaver. Pete out chasing Madge, Fred asleep in the bedroom.

Chick, cuffed down — panic spritzing:

We go back, we had laughs, I’m sorry I got fresh with Glenda, but how can you blame me? We had laughs, we made money, Pete wants to kill me, he’s a fucking neon sign...

“Davey, please.”

Pillow bullet mufflers. Curtains for a makeshift shroud.

“Davey... Jesus Christ... Davey.”

Tired — no stones for it — yet.

Dead man talking:

I’ll disappear... you can trust me... Glenda’s great... Sid Frizell says she’s star stuff. Frizell... what a chump... no ideas... that camera guy Wylie Bullock’s got twice the smarts, and he couldn’t direct traffic on Mars. You and Glenda... I wish you the best... Davey, I know what you got planned, I can see it in your eyes...

Tired.

No stones for it — yet.

The phone rang — I cradled it up. “Yeah?”

“It’s Pete.”

“And?”

“And I found Madge Kafesjian.”

“ Where? ”

“The Skyliner Motel, Lankershim and Croft in Van Nuys. She’s in room 104, and the desk man says she’s on a hankie binge.”

“You’re staking her?”

“I’m on your payroll, and I’m watching that room till you say otherwise.”

“ Just stay there . I’ll be out soon, so—”

“Look, I talked to Mr. Hughes. He said the Sheriff’s found a witness who saw Glenda by the Hollywood Hills fuck pad like the approximate night that Miciak bought it. They think she’s hinky, and they’re looking for her as a suspect. It looks like she blew town, but—”

“ Just stick at the motel .”

“Your payroll, boss. How’s Chick—”

I hung up and dialed Chino direct.

“Deputy Warden Clavell’s office.”

“Is he in? It’s Lieutenant Klein, LAPD.”

“Oh, yes , sir. Mr. Clavell left me a list of names to read you.”

“Read off the released inmates first.”

“Current addresses too?”

“The names first, I want to see if something grabs me.”

“Yes, sir” — slow, precise:

“Altair, Craig V... Allegretto, Vincent W.... Anderson, Samuel NMI... Bassett, William A.... Beltrem, Ronald D.... Bochner, Kurt NMI... Bonestell, Chester W....

Bordenson, Walter S.... Bosnitch, Vance B.... Bullock, Wylie D.—”

Tilt/click/snap — SOMETHING missing/SOMETHING there:

Wylie Bullock.

Vampire cameraman.

Idea man — pressing gore on Sid Frizell.

“Burdsall, John C.... Cantrell, Martin NMI—”

“Go back to Wylie Bullock. Give me his parole date and his last known address.”

“Um... he was paroled on November 9, 1957, and his parole disposition address is the Larkview Trailer Court, Arroyo and Brand in Glendale.”

Freddy in the hallway — yawning.

“Sir, do you want the rest of these names?”

I put the phone down. “Was there a guy named Wylie Bullock in your class at Chino?”

“Yeah... riiight... he was that guy following Richie Herrick around.”

Adrenaline — zoooom .

Chick: “Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee.”

Stay of execution: dumb guinea luck.

R&I/DMV:

Bullock, Wylie Davis — DOB 7/16/25. Brown/brown, 5′10″, 165. Popped 3/56 — pornography beefs — 3 to 5, Chino.

Occupation: photographer-cameraman. Vehicle: ’54 Packard Clipper, white & salmon, Cal. GHX 617.

Freeways out to Glendale — my rat’s-ass car belched smoke. Wylie/Madge/Dudley — TELL ME THINGS.

Arroyo off-ramp, south to Brand — the Larkview Trailer Court.

Parking slots: and no two-tone Packard tucked in. A map out front: “W. Bullock” — three rows over, six trailers down.

Rock gardens, jacked-up trailers, white trash wives out sunning. My SOMETHING MISSING:

Frizell-Bullock confabs — Wylie assertive: Incest! Poke the vampire’s eyes out!

Three over, six down — a chromium Airstream. My .45 out surreptitious — knock.

No answer — no surprise — no Packard. I tried the door — locked — too many squarejohns around for a break-in.

The set — go.

Freeways back — my clunker wheezed. Griffith Park, the set — no Bullock vehicle in sight.

Mickey by the spaceship — wearing a Jew beanie.

“The Feds and LAPD were here chasing your tush. The Malibu Sheriff’s were looking for my erstwhile star Glenda Bledsoe, who I understand you are playing Bury the Brisket with. You break my heart, you handsome snatch bandit.”

No “crew” — just Mickey. “Where is everybody?”

“Shmuckface, Attack of the Atomic Vampire is in show-biz parlance a ‘wrap.’ Glenda may look a bit muscular in her concluding moments, given that Rock Rockwell portrayed her in long shots, but that aside I consider my movie a cinema landmark.”

“Where’s Wylie Bullock?”

“I should know? I should care?”

“Sid Frizell?”

“Paid off and on the night boat to Nowheresville for all I care.”

Beanie, flag lapel pin — hero Mickey. “You look happy.”

“I have a movie in the can, and I have made friends of the Federal persuasion. And do not judge me as a snitch fuck, because a certain U.S. attorney told me you have those tendencies yourself.”

Dudley’s lovable shmuck. “I’ll miss you, Mickey.”

“Run, David. The tsuris you have caused seeks retribution. Run to Galapagos and watch turtles fuck in the sun.”

The Cahuenga Pass — back over coughing fumes. Lankershim and Croft — the Skyliner Motel.

Horseshoe-shaped — cut-rate pool-view cabanas. Pete staked out curbside — snoozing with the seat back.

I parked behind him. Tell-me money in the trunk — I stuffed my pockets.

Skirt the pool over — room 104. I knocked — Madge opened up quick.

Haggard — heavy makeup made it worse. “You’re that policeman. Our house was broken into... you came over...”

“Hankie binge” — wet eyes, tear tracks.

“I’m sorry about your daughter.”

“It was a merciful death for both of them. Did you come to arrest me?”

“No. Why should I—”

“If you don’t know, I won’t tell you.”

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

“So you filled your pockets with money.”

C-notes spilling out. “I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

“Did Dan Wilhite send you?”

“He’s dead. He killed himself.”