White Jazz

Frizell: “Actors on their marks! Camera! Action!”

Rock: “Susie, I’m your big brother. The vampire virus has stunted your moral growth, and you’ve still got two years to go at Hollywood High.”

Glenda: “Todd, in times of historic struggle, the rules of the bourgeoisie don’t apply.”

A clinch, a kiss. Frizell: “Cut! It’s a take! Print it!”

Rock broke the clinch. Whistles, cheers. A wino booed; Glenda flipped him the finger. Mickey C. ducked in a trailer, lugging groceries.

I eased around the set and tapped the door.

“Wine money not disbursed until six o’clock! The tsuris you stumblebums inflict! This is a motion picture location, not the Jesus Saves Rescue Mission!”

I opened the door, caught a flying bagel. Stale-I tossed it back.

“David Douglas Klein, the ‘Douglas’ a dead giveaway you are not of my kindred blood, you farshtinkener Dutch fuck. Refuse my food, but I doubt you will refuse the money Sam Giancana has transmitted to me for you.”

Mickey tucked a wad under my holster. “Sammy says thank you. Sammy says damn good job on such short notice.”

“It was too close to home, Mick. It caused me lots of trouble.”

Mickey plopped into a chair. “Sammy doesn’t care from your troubles. You of all people should know the ethos of that farshtinkener crazy cocksucker.”

“He’s supposed to care about your trouble.”

“Which in his brutish spaghetti-bender fashion he does.”

Glenda cheesecake-four walls’ worth. “Let’s say he miscalculated this time.”

“As the song goes, ‘I should care?’”

“You should care. Noonan’s prizefight probe went out the window too, so now he’s hot to get something going in Niggertown. If the Feds hit the Southside, they’ll raid your coin locations. If I get a line on it I’ll tell you, but I might not know. Sam put your last going business in real trouble.”

Chick V. by the doorway; Mickey, cheesecake eyes. “David, such tsuris you predict, such tsuris I am nonplussed by. My desires are strictly to see district gambling get in, then retire to Galapagos and watch turtles fuck in the sun.”

Laugh it out. “District gambling will never pass the State Legislature, and if it did, you’d never get a franchise. Bob Gallaudet is the only reputable politician who supports it, and he’ll change his mind if he makes attorney general.”

Chick coughed; Mickey shrugged. A permit on the door: “ParksRecreation, Approval to Film.” I squinted—”Robert Gallaudet,” small print.

Laugh that out. “Bob let you film here for a campaign contribution. He’s about to make DA, so you think a grand or two gets you the inside track on district gambling. Jesus, you must be shooting dope like old Dracula.”

Pinups galore—Mickey blew them kisses. “The prom date I never had in 1931. I could guarantee her a corsage and many fine hours of Bury the Brisket.”

“She reciprocate?”

“Tomorrow, maybe yes, but today she breaks my heart. Di

“Publicity date”—contract breaker. “Mickey, watch your coin biz. Remember what I told you.”

“Go, David. Take a bagel for the road.”

I walked out; Chick walked in. I checked my envelope-five G’s.

A pay phone, two dimes: the DMV cop line, Junior.

Stats: Glenda Louise Bledsoe, 5’8”, 125, blond/blue, DOB 8/3/29, Provo, Utah. California license since 8/46, five moving violations. ‘56 Chevrolet Corvette, red/white, Cal. DX 413. Address: 2489Ѕ N. Mount Airy, Hollywood.

Junior at the Bureau—no luck—the Ad Vice clerk said he didn’t check in. I left a message: buzz me at Stan’s Drive-in.

I dawdled over, grabbed a space by the phone booth. Coffee, a burger—scan those file carbons.

Burglars, confessors—physical stats/MO/priors—I took notes. The Wino Will-o-the-Wisp—shit, still at large. Names, names, names—candidates for a psycho framee. Scribbling notes—distracted—flirty carhops, new money. Nagging me: a frame meant no payoff—no way to match Lucille and the burglar to WHY?

The phone—I ran, grabbed it. “Junior?”

“Yeah, the clerk said to call you.”

Wary—not his style. “You got that note I left you, right?”

“Right.”

“Right, and did you check the stationhouse whore files for paper on Lucille Kafesjian?”

“I’m working on it. Dave, I can’t talk now. I’ll—look, I’ll call you later.”

“The fuck later, you jump on that work—” CLICK—dead air.

Home, paperwork. Pissed at Junior—an erratic punk getting worse. Paperwork: Exley’s Kafesjian report padded up fat. Lists next: potential Glenda tailers, potential pervert framees. Calls in: Meg—Jack Woods glommed our back rent. Pete B: do Mr. Hughes solid, I convinced him you’re not a Hebe. Calls out: Ad Vice, Junior’s pad, no luck—find him, ream his insubordinate heart. My tailer list, bum luck holding—no men to start tonight. My job by default—a publicity date meant contract breaker.

Back to Hollywood: side streets, the freeway. No tails on me: dead sure. Up Gower, Mount Airy, left turn.

2489: courtyard bungalows—peach stucco. A carport—with a red and white Corvette snuggled in.

5:10—just dark. I parked close—courtyard/carport view.

Time dragged—the stakeout blues—piss in a cup, toss it, doze. Auto/ foot traffic—light. 7:04-three cars at the curb.

Doors open, flashbulbs popping: Rock Rockwell—tuxedo, bouquet. A jog to the courtyard, back with Glenda—nice—a tight sweater dress. Bulb glare caught her patented Look—it’s a joke and I know it. Zoom: all three cars U-turned southbound.

Rolling stakeout—f our cars long—Gower, Sunset west. The Strip, Club Largo, three-car pile-out.

Valets swooped in, servile. More photos—Rockwell looked bored. I parked in the red and fixed my windshield: “Official Police Vehicle.” The entourage hit the club.

I badged in, badged a Shriner off a bar stool. Turk Butler on stage—bistro belter supreme. Ringside: Rock, Glenda, scribes. Photo men by the exit—zoom lenses zoomed in.

Break that contract.

Di

Turk Butler off stage, chorus girls on. Glenda smoked and laughed. Big lungs on the dancers—Glenda pulled her sweater up for chuckles. Rock hit the sauce—whiskey sours.

A club hop at ten sharp-across Sunset on foot to the Crescendo. Another bar stool, eyeball surveillance: pure Glenda. Showstopper Glenda-odd wisps of Meg, and her own SOMETHING.

Midnight—a dash for the cars—I tailed the convoy brazen close. Back to Glenda’s pad, sidewalk arc lights: a dud goodnight kiss caught on film.

The newsman took off; Glenda waved. Quiet out—voices carried.

Rock: “Hell, now I’ve got no wheels.”

Glenda: “Take mine, and bring Touch back with you. Say two hours?”

Rock grabbed her keys and ran—gleeful. The Vette peeled out burning rubber—Glenda winced. “Bring Touch back with you” hit fu

Gower south, Franklin east. Sparse traffic—still no tails on me. North on Western, say a movie set run—Mickey’s permit kept the park road open.

Los Feliz, left turn, Fern Dell—streams and glades before the Griffith Park hills. Brake lights blinked—fuck—Fern Dell—Vice cops called it Cocksuckers’ Paradise.

He parked—rush hour-cigarette tips red in the dark. I swung right and stopped—my beams on Rock and a cute young quiff.