Джеймс Эллрой - White Jazz

“I wish I could have seen you cut the deal.”

“It was fairly prosaic, lad. I simply told Mr. Kafesjian and Mr. Herrick that their thriftily brewed liquor caused four deaths and assorted untold suffering. I informed them that in exchange for a percentage of their business holdings that suffering would remain strictly a point of contention between them and God.”

“Just like that?”

Bullock mumbling.

“I also offered visual persuasion. A coroner’s photograph of a young couple rendered headless expressed a certain shock value.”

Mumbling louder — I coughed to cover the noise.

“Lad, is your pilot confrere talking to himself?”

Getting hinky — watch his hands.

“Lad, will you open the briefcase that contains my verification?”

I stepped closer.

Dudley flexed his hands one single beat too quick.

I pivoted to slam a knee shot; he sidestepped me.

Shivs dropping out his shirt cuffs — grab a briefcase, swing it—

Two stilettos palmed deft.

Stabbing at me — ripping leather — two blades stuck.

I dropped the briefcase.

Dudley stood wide open.

Bullock piled out, hands on the cleaver.

“EYEBALL MAN! EYEBALL MAN!”

I slammed a knee shot.

Dudley went down.

Bullock went at him cleaver-first.

Wild swings — the handcuffs fucked his grip up — the blade ripped Dudley’s mouth ear to ear. Roundhouse coup de grace — the cleaver hit asphalt.

“EYEBALL MAN!” — Bullock on Dudley:

Biting.

Clawing.

Ripping at his eyes.

Look:

One gushing red socket.

“NO!” — my scream/my gun out/aiming at them tangled up together.

I fired twice — two misses — ricochets off the pavement.

Two more shots braced against the hood — Bullock’s face exploded.

Bone spray in my eyes.

Firing blind — ricochet zings, a jammed slide.

Dudley on Bullock — prying at his hands.

Dudley weaving, screaming exultant — his eye cupped back to his face.

I grabbed the money and ran. Echoes boomed behind me: “EYEBALL MAN! EYEBALL MAN!”

A week — backtrack it:

I ran that one block to my building. Old bookie stash holes in the basement — I tucked the money away .

Calls from the janitor’s phone:

Glenda, long distance: come down, grab the cash, hide. Pete in El Segundo: cut Chick loose — Glenda’s got twenty grand for you .

Pandemonium at Sears — prowl cars responding to shots. Bullock dead, Dudley rushed to Queen of Angels. My explanation: ask Chief Exley .

I was arrested — bagged on Exley’s APB. I was allowed one phone call — I buzzed Noonan .

A custody battle ensued — LAPD vs. Feds — Noonan victorious .

Material witness protection — no charges filed on me yet .

A Statler Hilton suite, friendly guards: Jim Henstell and Will Shipstad .

A TV in my room — dig the news:

Mickey Cohen — solid-citizen Fed helper .

Gas Chamber Bob G. — nine days missing, where’s the DA?

Frequent visits from Welles Noonan .

My tack: total silence .

His tack: threats, lawyer logic .

Exley called him the day we glommed Bullock; dig the deal he offered:

A joint LAPD/Fed effort — Narco swings and Dave Klein brings in four witnesses. Cooperation assured; Exley quoted verbatim: “Let’s bury the hatchet and work together. One of the witnesses will be a high-ranking LAPD man, more like a hostile interrogatee. He has intimate knowledge on the Kafesjian family, and I would call him federally indictable on at least a half-dozen charges. I think he will more than make up for the loss of Dan Wilhite, who regrettably committed suicide last week. Mr. Noonan, this officer is very dirty. All I ask is that he be portrayed as a contained, totally autonomous entity within the LAPD, just as you’ve agreed to portray the Narcotics Division .”

Coming up: an LAPD/Fed press conference .

My “witnesses”:

Wylie Bullock — dead .

Chick V. — probably hiding .

Madge — grieving somewhere .

Dudley Smith — on the critical list .

“ Critical” PR — Exley press manipulation — no word on the Bullock thing issued. No City charges filed on me; Bullock cremated .

No “witnesses” — and Noonan was furious .

Threats:

“ I’ll prosecute your sister on tax charges .”

“ I’ll give the DA’s Office my bugging tapes — Glenda Bledsoe goddamn admitted she killed Dwight Gilette .”

“ I have you on tape telling a man named Jack to ‘kill him.’ If you refuse to talk to me, I’ll have Federal agents comb a list of your known associates for that man .”

My tack: total silence .

My ace: sole-witness status — I knew EVERYTHING .

Days dragged. No more L.A. “crime wave” news — Noonan and Exley put the fix in. Tommy and J.C. — under Fed surveillance, untouchable .

A visit from Ed Exley .

“ I think you stole money from me. Cooperate with Noonan and I’ll let you keep it. You’ll need money — and I won’t miss it .”

“ Without your testimony Dudley can’t be touched .”

“ If this agreement with the Feds falls through, the Department will look disgracefully ineffectual .”

My tack: total silence .

A visit from Pete B. Whispers: Glenda’s got the money — and she paid me my cut. Word’s out you’re a Fed snitch — Sam Giancana just issued a contract .

A visit from two Sheriff’s dicks: “We like Glenda Bledsoe for the Miciak job .”

My tack — confession — I killed him solo. I dropped knife wound details — they bought it — they said they’d file Murder One on me .

Noonan right there: “I will use the full power of the Federal Government to keep this man in my sole custody .”

A phone call — Jack Woods checking in:

“ Meg’s okay. Sam G. put the word out — you’re dead .”

Stale news .

Long days — playing cards with Will Shipstad killed time. Instincts: he hates Fed work, he hates Noonan. I threw out a bribe flyer: erase the Glenda tape for thirty grand .

He agreed .

Noonan confirmed it the next day: “Incompetent technicians!” — a huge tantrum .

Long nights — bad dreams — killings, beatings, bribes, shakedowns, lies .

Bad sleep, no sleep .

Afraid to sleep, nightmares on call: Johnny begging, one-eyed Dudley .

Glenda — hard to conjure — easy to hear:

“ You want to confess .”

Two nights, six legal pads — Dave “the Enforcer” Klein confesses —

Killings, beatings, bribes, payoffs, shakedowns — my police career up to Wylie Bullock. Lies, intimidation, vows trashed, oaths broken. Exley and Smith — my accessories — tell the world .

Ninety-four pages — Shipstad leaked it to Pete B .

Conduit Pete, copies to: Hush-Hush, the L.A . Times, the State AG .

Time ticking, Noonan crazed: the press conference is pending, I need you to talk .

Threats, offers, threats —

I talked:

“ Give me two days of freedom under Federal guard. When I return to custody we’ll prepare my testimony .”

Noonan — reluctant, half crazy: “Yes .”

L.A. Herald-Express , 12/6/58: