White Jazz Part 47

"So what? Business is business, and Mickey and those Armenians have got lots of stuff going down in n.i.g.g.e.rtown."

"Something's missing. Mickey doesn't clip people anymore, and he hasn't got ten grand liquid to save his life."

"So it was the Kafesjians direct, or Dan Wilhite through Chick. Look, what do you care who-"

"Wilhite doesn't know Chick personally, I'd bet on it."

My sister's lover--bored. "Look, Chick played on you and me as friends. He said Voldrich could spill to the Feds on you, so did I want to make ten G's and help a buddy out. _Now_, you want to tell me how you made me for the job?"

Links: obscured/hidden/f.u.c.ked with-- "Dave--"

"The Feds saw a car like yours near Voldrich's place. They didn't get any plate numbers, or you'd have heard from them by now."

"So it was just an educated guess."

"You're the only clip guy I know with a powder-blue car."

"So what about Meg?"

"First you tell me how it stands with you two."

"It stands that she's thinking about leaving her husband and getting a place with me."

"A phone drop? Some c.r.a.p-game pad?"

"We ruined her for squarejohn guys years ago, so don't act like she doesn't know the score."

That photo-a woman, two killers.

"The Feds have got me by the shorts. I'm going into custody day after tomorrow, and if they try to screw me on my immunity deal Meg might get hurt. I want you to tell her to pull our money out of the bank, and I want you to stash her some place safe until I call you."

"Okay."

"Just 'okay'?"

"Okay, send postcards from wherever the Feds hide you, and I've had a hunch that you were screwed for a couple of weeks now."

That picture-- Jack smiled. "Meg said she's doing this t.i.tle search for you, and every time you talk on the phone you sound less like a strongarm guy."

"And more like a lawyer?"

"No, more like a guy trying to buy his way out."

"Look after her."

"Write when you can, Counselor."

A pay-phone call to Homicide. s.h.i.+t news--no trace on Richie Herrick's Chino file. A message--meet Pete Bondurant--8:00, the Smokehouse, Burbank.

The Vecchio job--looming ugly.

Time to kill. Stone's throw: Silverlake to Griffith Park. I drove up the east road to the Observatory.

Smog clearing, a view: Hollywood, points south. Coin telescopes mounted by the entrance: 180-degree swivels.

Time to kill, pocket change-I aimed one at the set.

Gla.s.s blur asphalt, hills. Parked cars, up, over: the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p.

Crank the lens, squint--people.

Sid Frizell and Wylie Bullock talking: maybe their standard gore shtick. Blur, twist the lens: winos sleeping in the weeds.

Look: A trailer door embrace: Touch and Rock Rockwell. Over right: Mickey C. spieling extras. Metal glare--Glenda's trailer, Glenda.

Sitting on the steps, her legs jammed up. Her vampire gown getting ratty--faded, threadbare.

Gla.s.s blur, sun streaks. People walking by-dark obstructions. Hard to see, easy to imagine: Her breath catching low guiding me in.

Sweat matting her hair a shade darker.

Touching her scars--her eyes implicit: horror gave me the will--and I won't tell you how.

Sun spots, eyestrain. Twist the scope--a wino fistfight--pratfalls, gouging.

The lens clicked off--my time was up. My eyes hurt--I closed them and just stood there. Images. .h.i.t me rapid-fire: Dave Klein, strikebreaker--teeth on my truncheon.

Dave Klein, bet enforcer--baseball bat work.

Dave Klein, killer--hung over from cordite and blood stench.

Meg Klein, sobbing: "I don't want you to love me that way."

Joan Herrick: "Long history of insanity both our families."

Somebody, please: give me one last chance to know.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

". . . so Mr. Hughes is p.i.s.sed. Some psycho chopped Harold Miciak, and he was hoping it'd be open and shut, but now the Malibu Sheriff's are thinking it's not that Wino Will-o-the-Wisp guy. They're thinking somebody chopped Miciak and strangled him to make it look like the Wisp, and Miciak's ex-wife is bothering Mr. Hughes to put private eyes on the job like he's supposed to spend _money_ on this thing. _Then_, on top of all _that_, Bradley Milteer finds out that _you're_ porking Glenda Bledsoe and that she's been stealing from Mr. Hughes' f.u.c.k pads, but you never reported it."

Southbound--Pete's car. Bonus armed: knucks and sap.

"I got you the Glenda gig. Mr. Hughes didn't trust me on it, 'cause he knows I'm susceptible to s.n.a.t.c.h. I figured, give the job to the old Enforcer, 'cause he's pretty stoical in the woman department."

I stretched--neck kinks, jangly nerves. "I'm paying you seven grand for this."

"Yeah, and you bought me a barbeque beef plate and a beer, which frankly Mr. Hughes never did. What I'm saying is that Mr. Hughes is p.i.s.sed at you, which is grief you don't need."

Normandie south--Pete smoking--crack the window. Replay: my call to Noonan.

"You burned up potential Federal evidence. You're lucky I haven't revoked your immunity outright, and now you want this rather outsized favor."

"PLEASE."

"I like the tremor in your voice."

"_PLEASE_. Lift the surveillance on the Kafesjians tomorrow. It's my last full day before custody, and I want to see if I can learn a few things before I go in."

"My guess is that this pertains to the Kafesjians looking for that Richie character, who may be Richard Herrick of that rather outre triplehomicide case you're working."

"You're right."

"Good. I appreciate candor, and I'll do it if you formally depose your Richie information during your pre-grand-jury interviews."

"I agree."

"It's settled, then. Go with G.o.d, Brother Klein."

"Brother" Klein--Lutheran choirboy--fists/sap/knucks-- Pete nudged me. "Chick's meeting Joan Crawford at the Lucky Nugget. She'll be camouflaged up, and they're gonna play pokerino or something, then head for the f.u.c.k spot from there. I'm gonna snap some pictures on the QT, then Chick's gonna give me the high sign. We'll tail them to the spot, let them get cozy and take it from there."

Cold air, bouncing headlights. A billboard: "Dodger Stadium Is _Your_ Dream! Support the Chavez Ravine Bill!"

Pete: "Seven grand for your thoughts."

"I'm thinking Chick must have a money stash someplace."

"If you're thinking take it, it means we have to clip him."

"It's just a thought."

"And as thoughts go, not bad. Jesus, you and some ex-carhop actress. Is she-"

"Yeah, she's worth the trouble."

"I wasn't gonna ask you that."

"I know."

"Like that, huh?"

"Like that."

Straight south--Gardena--Pete talking grapevine: Fred Turentine, _Hush-Hush_ bug man: scandal duty for off-the-books cash. Boozer Freddy, AWOL: from dry-out farms and his jail teaching gig. Fed heat, restless n.i.g.g.e.rs--you couldn't score good ribs or dark poon for s.h.i.+t.

Gardena--poker-palace row pulsing neon. The Lucky Nugget-- Chick's Caddy in the lot, top down.

We pulled up behind it--tail ready. Front-seat action--Joan Crawford and Chick necking hot.

Pete said, "Duck down, they'll see you."

I ducked and listened--car doors slammed. Back up--lovebirds on the stroll.

Pete got out. "Take a snooze or something. Don't play the radio, you'll run the battery down."

Tracks inside: movie star, thug, shakedown man. I skimmed the radio dial: news, religious s.h.i.+t, bop.

Memory jog: rolling Gardena drunks back in high school. Bop to ballads, memory lane-zipping Meg's prom gown too slow.

f.u.c.k it--spare the battery--I turned the music off and dozed. Pete at the door: "Wake up, they're leaving."

The Caddy rolled, ragtop up. Pete pulled out--not too close.

East, north-cool air woke me up. Easy tailwork--collusion--Pete drove nonchalant. One arm out her window, oblivious: Joan f.u.c.king Crawford.

Due north--Compton, LYNWOOD--spooky turf.

Chick out front: left turn, right turn--Spindrift Drive.

48, 4900--curb plates pulsing weird/nuts/strange. 4980--Johnny D.--"Why meet there?"

Hard to breathe-I rolled the window down.

Left turn, right turn.

Empty courtyards.

Dry-ice chills: hot and cold.

Pete: "Jesus, I never made you for such a fresh-air fiend."

Chick stopped--brake-light taps, signallike.

Memory lane: Needle stabbed.

Toasty-warm tingly doped up.