White Jazz

Head bobs, eager to please. “I heard he’s a rape-o. Some squadroom guy told me he likes gigs where he gets to hurt women.”

“Wipe your goddamn face, you’re sweating up my floor.”

Junior quick-drawed—the gun bobbed at me. Quick—slap him—my law school ring drew blood.

White knuckles on his piece. Brains—he pointed it down.

“Stay angry, tough guy. We’ve got an outside job, and I want you pissed.”

Separate cars, let him stew with half the picture: good guy/bad guy, no arrest. Stay pissed: I’ve got a moonlight gig going, a fake kidnap might deep-six it. Junior—”Sure, Dave, sure”—eager beaver.

I got there first—a mock chateau—four floors, maybe ten units per. A ‘51 Eldo at the curb-a match to the Ainge rap sheet.

I checked the mail slots: G. Ainge, 104. Junior’s Ford hit the curb—two wheels on the sidewalk. I beelined down the hail.

Junior caught up. I winked; he winked—half twitch. I pushed the buzzer.

The door opened a crack. Ear tug—cue the bad guy.

Junior: “LAPD, open up!”—wrong—I signaled kick it in.

The door swung wide. Right there: a fat Iowlife, arms raised. Old tracks—hold for the “I’m Clean” pitch.

“I’m clean, Officers. I got me a nice little job, and I got me Nalline test results that prove I don’t geez no more. I’m still on County probation, and my P0 knows I switched from horse to Silver Satin.”

I smiled. “We’re sure you’re clean, Mr. Ainge. May we come in?”

Ainge stood aside; Junior closed the door. The flop: Murphy bed, wine bottles tossed helter-skelter. TV, magazines: Hush-Hush, girlie stuff.

Junior: “Kiss the wall, shitbird.”

Ainge spread out. I scoped a Hush-Hush cover: Marie “the Body” McDonald, fake kidnap supreme.

Georgie ate wallpaper; Junior frisked him slow. Page two: some boyfriend drove Marie to Palm Springs and stashed her in an old mining shack. A ransom demand—her agent called the FBI. Satire: stage your own publicity kidnap, five easy steps.

Junior dropped Ainge—a kidney shot—not bad.

Georgie sucked wind. I skimmed the mags—bondage smut—women gagged and harnessed.

Junior kicked Ainge prone. A blonde looked sort of like Glenda. Out loud: “‘Lesson number one: call Hedda Hopper in advance. Lesson number two: don’t hire kidnappers from Central Casting. Lesson number three: don’t pay your publicist with marked ransom money.’ Whose idea, Georgie? You or Touch Vecchio?”

No answer.

I flashed two fingers: GO FULL. Junior slammed kidney shots; Georgie Ainge drooled bile.

Kneel down close. “Tell us about it. It’s not going to happen, but tell us anyway. Tell us nice and we won’t tell your P0. Stay snotty and we’ll pop you for possession of heroin.”

Gurgles, “Fuck you.”

Two fingers/GO FULL.

Rabbit shots—strong—Ainge curled up fetal-style. A punch hit the floor—Junior yelped and grabbed his piece.

I snatched it, worked the chamber, popped the clip.

Junior—”Dave, Jesus!”—farewell, tough guy.

Ainge groaned—Junior kicked him—ribs cracked.

“OKAY! OKAY!”

I hauled him into a chair; Junior grabbed his gun back. Silver Satin on the bed—toss it over.

Chugalug—Ainge coughed, burped blood. Junior crawled for his clip—hands and knees.

“Whose idea?”

Ainge—”How’d you tumble?”—wincing.

“Never mind. I asked you, ‘Whose idea?’”

“Touch, Touch V., his idea. The deal was to goose his bun boy’s career, with that blond cooze along for some cheesecake. Touch said three hundred and no rough stuff. Listen, I just took the job to get a taste.”

Junior:”A taste of horse? I thought you were clean, shitbird.”

“‘Shitbird’ went out with vaudeville. Hey, you get your badge in a cereal box?”

I held Junior back. “A taste of what?”

Giggles. “I don’t sell guns no more, I don’t procure females for purposes of prostitution. I switched from H to jungle juice, so my tastes are none of—”

“A taste of what?”

“Shit, I just wanted to bust up that Glenda cooze.”

I froze—Ainge kept talking—rank wine breath.

“... you know, I just wanted to put the hurt on something Howard Hughes put the boots to. I got fired at Hughes Aircraft during the war, so you could maybe call that Glenda cunt my payback. Va-va-voom, that is some fine piece of—”

I kicked his chair over, threw the TV at his head. He ducked—tubes popped, exploded. I grabbed Junior’s gun—aimed, fired—clicks, no fucking clip, fuck me.

Ainge snaked under the bed. Soft, talking nice:

“Look, you think that Glenda woman’s My Fair Lady? Look, I know her, she used to whore for this pimp Dwight Gilette. I can hand her up to you on a guaranteed gas-chamber bounce.”

“Gilette”—vague—a 187 unsolved. I unloaded my own piece—safety valve.

Ainge, soft: “Look, I sold guns then. Glenda knew that. Gilette was slapping her around, so she bought a .32 to protect herself. I don’t know, something happened, so Glenda shot Gilette. She shot him, and she ended up taking his knife away from him. She fucking cut him too, and then she sold me the gun back. I’ve got it stashed, you know, I figured maybe some day, some reason, maybe it’s got prints on it, I was go

Make the case:

‘55, ‘56—Dwight Gilette, mulatto pimp, dead at his pad. Highland Park dicks handled it: fatal shots, no gun found—the stiff stabbed postmortem. Knife man Gilette—aka “Blue Blade.” Forensics: two blood types made; female hair and bone chips found. Hypothesis: knife fight with a whore, some hooker shot/shanked a skilled blade freak.

Bugs up my spine.

Ainge kept talking—gibberish—I didn’t hear it. Junior scribbled up his notebook fast.

Fast—don’t think why—find the gun.

One room—an easy toss—closet, dresser, cupboards. Ainge blabbing non-stop—Junior coaxing him out from under the bed. Tossing hard, tossing zero: skin mags, probation forms, rubbers. Topsy-turvy glimpses: evidence prof Junior stacking pages.

No gun.

“Dave.”

Ainge cozied up—a fresh bottle half guzzled. Junior: “Dave, we’ve got ourselves a homicide.”

“No. It’s too old, and there’s just this geek’s word.”

“Dave, come on.”

“No. Ainge, where’s the gun?”

No answer.

“Tell me where the gun is, goddamn it.”

No answer.

“Ainge, give up the fucking gun.”

Junior, quick hand signals: LET ME WORK HIM.

Work shit—grab his notebook. Skim it—Georgie’s pitch down—details, approximate dates. No locate on the gun—call odds on latent prints thirty to one.

Junior, flexing his mean streak: “Dave, give me my notebook back.”

I shoved it at him. “Wait outside.”

This X-ray stare-not bad for a punk.

“Stemmons, wait outside.”

Junior eeeased out, tough-guy slow. I locked the door and fixed on Ainge.

“Give up the gun.”

“Not on your life. I was talking scared then, but now I figure different. You want my interpretation?”

Brass knucks, get ready.

“My interpretation is the kid thinks a murder beef for the Glenda cooze is a good idea, but for some reason you don’t. I also know that if I give up that gun it’s a probation violation vis-a-fucking-vis harboring contraband items. You know what a ‘hole card’ is? You know—”

On him—knucks downstairs/upstairs—flab rippers/broken face bones/fear-of-God time:

“No kidnapping. Not a word to Touch or Rockwell. You don’t talk about Glenda Bledsoe, you don’t go near her. You don’t give that gun up to my partner or anyone else.”

Coughs/moans/sputters trying to yes me. Bloody phlegm on my hands; shock waves up my knuck arm. I kicked through TV rubble getting out.