White Jazz Part 15

Moms and Jesus outside pitching tantrums.

I shoved through them double time. Granny chucked her tin can at me.

The Bureau--Code 3--a lab stop, orders: test the sheet-swatch j.i.z.z for blood type. My office, my old chem kit-dust the spool.

Smudges--no latent prints. Edgy now, I glommed a tape rig from the storeroom.

Night.w.a.tch lull--the squadroom stood quiet. I shut my door, pressed Play, killed the lights.

Listen: Static, traffic boom, window s.h.i.+mmy. Outside noises: business at the Red Arrow Inn.

Spook wh.o.r.es talking--ten minutes of pimp/trick rebop. I could SEE IT: hookers outside HER window. Silence, tape hiss, a door slamming. "In advance, sweet"--pause-"Yes, that means now"--Lucille.

"Okay, okay"--a man. A pause, shoes dropped, mattress squeaks-- three minutes' worth. The tape almost out, groans--his climax. Silence, garbled words, Lucille: "Let's play a little game. Now I'll be the daughter and you'll be the daddy, and if you're reeeeal sweet we can go again no extra."

Traffic noise, driveway noise, breath. Easy to imagine: That wall between them.

Surveillance not enough.

My peeper breathing hard--scared to bust down that wall.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Static garbled dreams: Lucille talking s.e.x jive to me. The lab, my wake-up call--the j.i.z.z tested out 0+. Chills off a late phone stint: Hollywood Vice called Junior's queer roust story bulls.h.i.+t.

"Horse pucky--whoever told you that lied through his teeth. We're too busy with the Will-o-the-Wisp to work fruits, and none of our guys have popped Fern Dell Park chicken in over a year."

Coffee-half a cup-my nerves jangled.

The buzzer--loud.

I opened up--f.u.c.k--Bradley Milteer and Harold John Miciak.

Stern looks--their cop colleague in a towel. Miciak scoped my j.a.p sword scar.

"Come in, gentlemen."

They shut the door behind them. Milteer: "We came for a progress report."

I smiled--servile. "I have sources on the movie set accruing information on Miss Bledsoe."

"You've been in Mr. Hughes' employ for a week, Lieutenant. Frankly, so far you haven't 'accrued' the results he hoped for."

"I'm working on it."

"Then please produce results. Are your normal police duties interfering with your work for Mr. Hughes?"

"My police duties aren't quite normal."

"Well, be that as it may, you are being paid to secure information on Miss Glenda Bledsoe. Now, Mr. Hughes seems to think that Miss Bledsoe has been pilfering foodstuffs from his actress domiciles. A criminal theft charge will violate her contract, so will you surveil her even more diligently?"

Miciak flexed his hands--no gang tattoos.

"I'll begin that surveillance immediately, Mr. Milteer."

"Good. I expect results, Mr. Hughes expects results."

Miciak--jailhouse eyes, cop-hater f.u.c.k.

"First Flats or White Fence, Harold?"

"Uh, what?"

"Those tattoos Mr. Hughes made you burn off."

"Listen, I'm clean."

"Sure, Mr. Hughes had your record wiped."

Milteer: "Lieutenant, _really_."

The geek: "Where'd you get that scar, hotshot?"

"A j.a.p sword."

"What happened to the j.a.p?"

"I stuck the sword up his a.s.s."

Milteer, rolled eyes oh-you-heathens: "Results, Mr. Klein. Harold, come."

Harold walked. Fist signals back at me--pure White Fence.

Movie-set bustle: Wine call--Mickey C. doling out T-Bird to his "crew." "Director" Sid Frizell, "cameraman" Wylie Bullock--poke the head monster's eyes out with a stick or a knife? Glenda feeding extras sturgeon, read _her_ eyes: "Who's _that_ guy, I've seen him before."

Rock Rockwell's trailer--tap the door.

"It's open!"

I walked in. Cozy: a mattress, one chair. Rockwell cranking push-ups on the floor. THE LOOK: cop, oh f.u.c.k.

"It's not a roust, I'm friends with Touch."

"Did I hear my name?"

Touch stepped out of the bathroom. No fixtures--just TV sets stacked high. "David, you didn't see those."

"See what?"

Rockwell slid up on the mattress; Touch tossed him a towel. "Meg's my first customer. She told me she wants to put TV's in all your furnished vacancies so she can raise the rent. Oh, excuse me. Rock Rockwell, David Klein."

No h.e.l.lo--Rock toweled off. Touch: "Dave, what's this about?"

Eyes on Rockwell--Touch caught the drift. "He can keep police-type confidences."

"I had some questions about activities in Fern Dell Park."

Rockwell scratched the mattress--Touch sprawled beside him. "_Vice_-type activities?"

I pulled the chair up. "Sort of, and it gets tricky because I think one of my men might be pulling shakedowns in Fern Dell."

Touch tensed up.

"What? What is it?"

"David, what does this man of yours look like?"

"Five-ten, one-sixty, long sandy hair. Sort of cute--you might like him."

No laugh--Touch coiled toward Rockwell.

"Come on, tell me. We go back--you know nothing you say leaves this room."

"Well . . . since it sort of involves Mickey, and you're his friend..."

Coax him: "Come on--like the magazine says: 'off the record.'"

Touch stood up, threw a robe on, paced--"Last week, that guy, that policeman you just described to a T, he rousted me in Fern Dell. I told him who I was, _who I knew_, including Mickey Cohen, which _he_ was oblivious to. Look, I was cruising--you know what I am, David--Rock and I, we have this arrangement--"

Rockwell--BAM!--out the door pulling on pants.

"It's the way our kind of people have to be to get along, and this. . . oh s.h.i.+t, this _policeman_ said he'd seen me installing slots and coin hardware on the Southside a while back, and he said that Fed probe would happen and he'd snitch me to it if I didn't cooperate with him, so all right, _we_ both know how to do business, David, but _this policeman_ was acting so hopped-up and crazy that I _knew he didn't_ so I listened. He said, 'You must know Darktown pretty well,' I said yes, I got the impression he was messed up on Bennies or goofb.a.l.l.s _or both_, and _then_ he started rambling about--and I quote you, David--this 'gorgeous'--he actually used the word 'gorgeous'--other policeman working the Mobster Squad--"

"Gorgeous" Johnny Duhamel. My head throbbed--queer lilt synchronized-- "_This policeman, he just kept rambling_. He wouldn't tell me details, he just ... kept rambling. He told me this crazy story about a wh.o.r.e in a mink coat stripping and how the gorgeous Mobster Squad cop got panicky and made her stop. David, here's where it gets strange and funny and sort of . . . well.. . incestuous, because the crazy policeman saw that the fur-coat spiel made me just a tad suspicious. He came on strong, and he found a gun on me and threatened me with a concealment charge, and I said the fur thing spooked me because Johnny Duhamel, that sort-offamous ex-boxer, he tried to sell Mickey a bulk load of hot furs, which Mickey refused. The crazy cop, he laughed and laughed and started muttering 'Gorgeous Johnny,' and then he just sort of warned me off and walked away, and David, that policeman, he is one of us, if you catch my drift, dear heart, and I only told you all this because our mutual friend Mickey played just a tad of a supporting role."

Touch--hands in his robe, out with a piece-bet he almost shoved it up Junior's a.s.s.

Think: Junior shakes down a guy at Bido Lito's.

Hobn.o.bs with Johnny Duhamel--Bido Lito's.

Scopes out Lucille's fur strip--Bido Lito's.

More: Junior--Kafesjian work fluffed off.

Fern Dell Park shakedowns--f.a.ggot Junior--Touch knew the turf-- call it a maybe.

Touch: "I don't want you to tell Mickey what I told you. Duhamel just approached Mickey because he's Mickey. Mickey doesn't know anything about that extortionist policeman of yours, I just know it. Dave, are you listening to me?"

"I heard you."

"You won't tell Mickey?"

"No, I won't tell him."

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Lots of them."

Ghost chaser-- The Observatory lot--phone work.

Dime one: Jack Woods--set to bird-dog Junior post--trick sweep. Two: Ad Vice/Sid Riegle/confirmation: everything set, Junior told to stick at University Station. Orders: walk over to Robbery, skim the fur-heist file. Riegle: sure, I'll call you back.

_Tick tick tick_--my pulse outran my watch. Eleven minutes, Sid with stale news: No suspects, fences leaned on--no furs surfacing. Three to five men, a truck, solid knowhow: electronics and toolworking. Dud Smith ruled out fraud--no profit motive-Sol Hurwitz packed low payoff-rate insurance. Sid--"Why the interest?"--cut him off, work dime three--a Personnel clerk who owed me.

My offer: your debt wiped for a file check: Officer John Duhamel. He agreed; I asked one question: did Duhamel possess technical expertise?

I held the line--twenty long minutes. Results: Duhamel, c.u.m laude grad--engineering--USC, '56. Straight-A average--rah, rah, fellow Trojan.

Duhamel--possible fur thief. Possible partners: Reuben Ruiz and his brothers--Reuben and Johnny fought amateur together. Nix it on instinct: Ruiz boosted pads, ditto his brothers--the family topped out at auto theft. More likely: Dudley co-opts Johnny to the fur heist; Johnny gloms some solo leads and gloms some furs. Smart into dumb--he offers Mickey Cohen the goods--the kid doesn't know Mickey's scuffling.

_My_ scuffle--rat him to Dud?--think it through. _Tick tick tick_--not yet--too circ.u.mstantial. My priority: sort Junior and Johnny out, ease Junior off Glenda.

Ghost chaser.

Glenda.

Results.

Time before the trick sweep--tail her.