White Jazz

I badged in. Sweat box row was packed: nigger suspects, two cop teams twirling saps.

“Lad.”

Smith in the bullpen doorway. I walked over; he shot me a bonecrusher shake. “Lad, was it me you came to see?”

Sidestep: “I was looking for Breuning and Carlisle.”

“Ahh, grand. Those bad pe

Chairs right there-I grabbed two.

“Lad, in my thirty years and four months as a policeman I have never seen anything quite like this Federal business. You’ve been on the Department how long?”

“Twenty years and a month.”

“Ah, grand, with your wartime service included, of course. Tell me, lad, is there a difference between killing Orientals and white men?”

“I’ve never killed a white man.”

Dud winked—oh, you kid. “Nor have I. Jungle bu

“Yes.”

“Concisely put. And in that concise attorney’s ma

“Politics. Bob Gallaudet for the Republicans, Welles Noonan for the Democrats.”

“Yes, strange bedfellows. And ironic that the Federal Government should be represented by a man with fellow-traveler tendencies. I understand that that man spat in your face, lad.”

“You’ve got good eyes out there, Dud.”

“Twenty-twenty vision, all my boys. Lad, do you hate Noonan? It’s safe to say that he”—wink—“considers you negligent in the matter of Sanderline Johnson’s unscheduled flight.”

I winked back. “He thinks I bought him the ticket.”

Ho, ho, ho. “Lad, you dearly amuse this old man. By any chance were you raised Catholic?”

“Lutheran.”

“Aah, a Prod. Christianity’s second string, God bless them. Do you still believe, lad?”

“Not since my pastor joined the German-American Bund.”

“Aah, Hitler, God bless him. A bit unruly, but frankly I preferred him to the Reds. Lad, did your second-string faith feature an equivalent to confession?”

“No.”

“A pity, because at this moment our interrogation rooms are filled with confessees and confessors, that grand custom being utilized to offset any untoward publicity this Federal business might foist upon the Department. Brass tacks, lad. Dan Wilhite has told me of Chief Exley’s potentially provocative fixation on the Kafesjian family, with you as his agent provocateur. Lad, will you confess your opinion of what the man wants?”

Sidestep: “I don’t like him any more than you do. He got chief of detectives over you, and I wish to hell you’d gotten the job.”

“Grand sentiments, lad, which of course I share. But what do you think the man is doing?”

Feed him—my Joh

“A brilliant interpretation, lad. And as for the Kafesjian burglary itself, and your role as Exley’s chosen investigating officer?”

I ticked points: “You’re right, I’m an agent provocateur. Chronologically: Sanderline Johnson jumps, and now Noonan hates me. The Southside Fed probe is already rumored, and the Kafesjian burglary occurs coincident to it. Coincident to that, I operate a pinko politician who’s enamored of Noonan. Now, the Kafesjian burglary is nothing—it’s a pervert job. But the Kafesjians are scum personified and tight with the LAPD’s most autonomous and vulnerable division. At first I thought Exley was operating Dan Wilhite, but now I think he put me out there to draw heat. I’m out there, essentially getting nowhere on a worthless pervert 459. It’s a one—I mean two-man job, and if Exley really wanted the case cleared he would have put out a half-dozen men. I think he’s ru

Dudley, beaming: “Salutary, lad—your intelligence, your lawyer-sharp articulation. Now, what does Sergeant George Stemmons, Jr., think of the job? My sources say he’s been behaving rather erratically lately.”

Spasms—don’t flinch. “You mean your source Joh

“Joh

“Yeah, I’d heard. Isn’t he little green for a case like that?”

“He’s a grand young copper, and I heard that you yourself sought to command the job.”

“Robbery’s clean, Dud. I’m looking out for too many friends working Ad Vice.”

Ho-ho, wink-wink. “Lad, your powers of perception have just won you the undying friendship of a certain Irishman named Dudley Liam Smith, and I am frankly amazed that two bright lads such as ourselves have remained merely acquaintances all these many years.”

SNITCH DUHAMEL.

DO IT NOW.

“On the topic of friendship, lad, I understand that you and Bob Gallaudet are quite close.”

Hallway noise—grunts/thuds/”Dave Klein my friend!”

Lester—sweat box row.

I sprinted over—door number 3 was just closing. Check the window—Lester handcuffed, dribbling teeth—Breuning and Carlisle swinging saps overtime.

Shoulder wedge-I snapped the door clean.

Breuning—distracted—huh?

Carlisle—blood-fogged glasses.

Out of breath, pitch the lie: “He was with me when Wardell Knox was killed.”

Carlisle: “Was that a.m. or p.m.?”

Breuning: “Hey, Sambo, try to sing ‘Harbor Lights’ now.”

Lester spat blood and teeth in Breuning’s face.

Carlisle balled his fists—I kicked his legs out. Breuning yelped, bloodblind—I sapped his knees.

That brogue:

“Lads, you’ll have to release Mr. Lake. Lieutenant, bless you for expediting justice with your splendid alibi.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Dear Mr. Hughes, Mr. Milteer:

On the dates of 11/11, 11/12 and 11/13/58, Glenda Bledsoe participated in actively publicizing performers currently under contract to Variety International Pictures, a clear legal breach of her contract with Hughes Aircraft, Tool Company, Productions et aI. Specifically, Miss Bledsoe allowed herself to be photographed and interviewed with actors Rock Rockwell and Salvatore “Touch” Vecchio, on matters pertaining to their acting careers outside the production/publicity confines of Attack of the Atomic Vampire, the motion picture all three are currently involved with. Specifics will follow in a subsequent note, but you should now be advised that Miss Bledsoe’s Hughes contract is legally voided: she can be sued in civil court, du

Respectfully,

Dawn—the trailer. Glenda sleeping; Lester curled up outside by the spaceship.