White Jazz

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 shit, 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 Be

“Gorgeous” Joh

“This policeman, he just kept rambling. He wouldn’t tell me details, he just ... kept rambling. He told me this crazy story about a whore 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 fu

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

Think:

Junior shakes down a guy at Bido Lito’s.

Hobnobs with Joh

Scopes out Lucille’s fur strip—Bido Lito’s.

More:

Junior—Kafesjian work fluffed off.

Fern Dell Park shakedowns—faggot 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 Perso

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, cum 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 Joh

Dudley co-opts Joh

My scuffle—rat him to Dud?—think it through. Tick tick tick—not yet—too circumstantial. My priority: sort Junior and Joh

Ghost chaser.

Glenda.

Results.

Time before the trick sweep—tail her.

The park road—wait her out.

Her routine: drive home at 2:00, pilfer later. Time to kill, time to think—

Easy: my “crush” stretched me too thin—catch her stealing and snitch her—TODAY. Kicks: get her a Commie lawyer enraged at big money—Morton Diskant, just the ticket. Arraignment, trial—Glenda pays cunthound Morty off in trade. “Guilty,” State time, Dave Klein there with flowers when they boot her.

Play the radio, drift.

Bop—maybe queer cops prowling Darktown—too jangly, too frantic. Skim the dial, ballads—”Te

Back to bop—jangly good now—think:

Lucille on tape: “I’ll be the daughter and you’ll be the daddy.” Lucille, nude: fleshy like this boot camp whore I had. Big-band tunes, the war, schoolgirl Glenda—close her out—

Noon, 1:00, 1:30—I snoozed and woke up cramped. Stomach growls, a piss in the weeds. Early: her Vette zooming by with the top down.

I rolled—a brown Chevy cut between us—weird familiar. Squint, make the driver: Harold John Miciak.

Three-car tail string—absurd.

Up to the Observatory; down to street level. Glenda carefree, her scarf billowing. Pissed: hit the siren, ream that shitbird.

Miciak gu

He swerved, banged the curb, stalled out. Glenda slowed down and stopped.

I got out.

Miciak got out.

Glenda watched—see it her way:

This big goon walks up shouting; this shoulder-holster shirtsleeves guy shouts back: “This is mine! You’ll get your results! Tell your fucking boss that!”

The goon stutters, kicks the ground, U-turns off.

The cop goes back to his car—his B-movie goddess is gone.

Time to kill, time to figure her route. I tried due east: Hughes’ Glendale fuck pad.

I drove there. Paydirt: a Tudor mansion flanked by airplane-shaped hedges. A circular driveway—her Vette by the door.

I pulled up. Drizzling—I got out and touched the rain. Glenda walked out carrying groceries.

She saw me.

I just stood there.

She tossed me a tin of caviar.