White Jazz

“I will again, Robert. If you disown your support of district gambling.”

Stupid crack—the bill wouldn’t pass the State Legislature. Cards, slots and bookmaking—confined to certain areas—taxable big. Cops hated it—say Gallaudet embraced it for votes. “He’ll change his mind, he’s a politician.”

No laughs—Bob coughed, embarrassed. “It looks like the fight probe is down. With Johnson dead, they’ve got no confirming witnesses, and I got the impression Noonan was just using Reuben Ruiz for his marquee value. Dave, do you agree?”

“Yeah, he’s a likable local celebrity. Apparently Mickey C. made some kind of half-baked attempt to muscle his contract, so Noonan probably wanted to use Mickey for his marquee value.”

Exley, shiv shot: “And we know you’re an expert on Mickey Cohen.”

“We go back, Chief.”

“In what capacity?”

“I’ve offered him some free legal advice.”

“Such as?”

“Such as ‘Don’t fuck with the LAPD.’ Such as ‘Watch out for Chief of Detectives Exley, because he never tells you exactly what he wants.’”

Gallaudet, calm: “Come on, enough. Mayor Poulson asked me to call this meeting, so we’re on his time. And I have an idea, which is to keep Ruiz on our side. We use him as a front man to placate the Mexicans in Chavez Ravine, so if the evictions go down ugly, we have him as our PR guy. Doesn’t he have some kind of burglary jacket?”

I nodded. “Juvie time for B&E. I heard he used to belong to a burglary gang, and I know his brothers pull jobs. You’re right—we should use him, promise to keep his family out of trouble if he goes along.”

Van Meter: “I like it.”

Gallaudet: “What about Diskant?”

I hit hard. “He’s a pinko, so he has to have some Commie associates. I’ll find them and strongarm them. We’ll put them on TV, and they’ll snitch him.”

Bob, head shakes: “No. It’s too vague and there’s not enough time.”

“Girls, boys, liquor—give me a weakness. Look, I screwed up last night. Let me do penance.”

Silence: long, loud. Van Meter, off a sigh: “I heard he loves young women. He supposedly cheats on his wife very discreetly. He likes college girls. Young, idealistic.”

Bob, a smirk fading: “Dudley Smith can set it up. He’s done this kind of thing before.”

Exley, weird emphatic: “No, not Dudley. Klein, do you know the right people?”

“I know an editor at Hush-Hush. I can get Pete Bondurant for the pix, Fred Turentine for bugging. Ad Vice popped a call house last week, and we’ve got just the right girl sweating bail.”

Stares all around. Exley, half smiling: “So do your penance, Lieutenant.”

Bob G.—diplomat. “He let me study his crib sheets in law school. Be nice, Ed.”

Exit line—he waltzed, Van Meter walked hangdog.

Say it: “Will the Feds ask for an investigation?”

“I doubt it. Johnson did ninety days observation at Camarillo last year, and the doctors there told Noonan he was unstable. Six FBI men canvassed for witnesses and got nowhere. They’d be stupid to pursue an investigation. You’re clean, but I don’t like the way it looks.”

“You mean criminal negligence?”

“I mean your longstanding and somewhat well-known criminal associations. I’ll be kind and say you’re ‘acquainted’ with Mickey Cohen, a focus of the investigation your negligence destroyed. Imaginative people might make a slight jump to ‘criminal conspiracy,’ and Los Angeles is filled with such people. You see how—”

“Chief, listen to—”

“No, you listen. I gave you and Stemmons that assignment because I trusted your competence and I wanted an attorney’s assessment of what the Feds had pla

Quash a laugh. “So what’s the upshot?”

“You tell me. Assess what the Feds have pla

“I’d say with Johnson dead, not much. Ruiz told me Noonan had some vague plans to mount an investigation into the Southside rackets—dope, the Darktown slot and vending machines. If that probe flies, the Department could be made to look bad. But if it goes, Noonan will a

Exley smiled. “Mickey Cohen runs the Southside coin business. Will you warn him to get his stuff out?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Off the topic, did you read my report on the bookie house?”

“Yes. Except for the shots fired, it was salutary. What is it? You’re looking at me like you want something.”

I poured coffee. “Throw me a bone for the Diskant job.”

“You’re in no position to ask favors.”

“After Diskant I will be.”

“Then ask.”

Bad coffee. “Ad Vice is boring me. I was passing through Robbery and saw a case that looked good on the board.”

“The appliance store heist?”

“No, the Hurwitz fur warehouse job. A million in furs clouted, no leads, and Junior Stemmons popped Sol Hurwitz at a dice game just last year. He’s a degenerate gambler, so I’d bet money on insurance fraud.”

“No. It’s Dudley Smith’s case, and he’s ruled insurance out. And you’re a commanding officer, not a case man.”

“So stretch the rules. I tank the Commie, you throw me one.”

“No, it’s Dudley’s job. The case is three days old and he’s already been assigned. Beyond that, I wouldn’t want to tempt you with saleable items like furs.”

Shivved—deflect it. “There’s no love lost between you and Dud. He wanted chief of detectives, and you got it.”

“COs always get bored and want cases. Is there any particular reason why you want this one?”

“Robbery’s clean. You wouldn’t be suspicious of my friends if I worked heist jobs.”

Exley stood up. “A question before you go.”

“Sir?”

“Did a friend tell you to push Sanderline Johnson out the window?”

“No, sir. But aren’t you glad he jumped?”

I slept the night off, a room at the Biltmore-figure reporters had my pad staked out. No dreams, room service: 6:00 P.M. breakfast, the papers. New ba

Robbery, sweet duty: jack up heist guys and boost their shit.

Work the Commie: phone calls.

Fred Turentine, bug man—yes for five hundred. Pete Bondurant—yes for a grand—and he’d pay the photo guy. Pete, Hush-Hush cozy—more heat on the smear.

The Women’s Jail watch boss owed me; a La Verne Benson update cashed her out. La Verne-prostitution beef number three-no bail, no trial date. La Verne to the phone-suppose we lose your rap sheet—yes! yes! yes!

Antsy—my standard postmurder shakes. Antsy to itchy—drive.

A run by my pad—reporters—no haven there. Up to Mulholland, green lights/no traffic—60, 70, 80. Fishtails, curve shimmy—slow down, think.

Think Exley.

Brilliant, cold. In ‘53 he gu

No love lost—Exley and Dudley—two good haters.

No Detective Division reforms—just Exley going iceberg cold.

Green lights up to Meg’s house-just her car out front. Meg in the kitchen window.