White Jazz

“Suppose he doesn’t have the stuff?”

“Then tell him to get it.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

The stash pad—my low-rent unit.

Pete, Freddy T.; Chick Vecchio cuffed to a heat pipe. A tape rig and shortwave set—with band 7 pickup.

Mobile units calling in to Newton. Broadcasting base to cars: Exley himself.

Incoming:

Tommy and Lucille cruising separate—Lincoln Heights, Chinatown, moving south.

The point man at the K. house:

“I heard it out the boom mike. It sounded to me like J.C. just slapped the piss out of Madge. To top it off, there’s Fed cars driving by on the QT every hour or so.”

Unit 3-B71: “Lucille’s walking around Chinatown asking questions. She’s looking sorta distraught, and that last joint she went into—the Kowloon—it looked like a dope front to me.”

Pete—wolfing spareribs.

Fred—nursing a highball.

Chick—purple bruises, half his scalp scorched.

Fred poured himself a refill. “The Kafesjians and you. I don’t get it.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Sure, and I wouldn’t mind listening to something other than these goddamn radio calls.”

Pete said, “Don’t tell him shit, it’ll end up in Hush-Hush.”

“I’m just thinking twelve mobile tail cars and Ed Exley monitoring calls himself means it’s some kind of big deal, which maybe Dave should elaborate on. Like for instance, who are these Tommy and Lucille chumps looking for?”

Light bulb:

Richie “Peeper” Herrick—Chino inmate/bugging know-how. Fred Turentine, drunk driver—Chino teaching gigs.

“Freddy, when were you teaching that electronics class up at Chino?”

“Early ‘57 up till I got bored and hung up my probation maybe six months ago. Why? What’s that got to do with—”

“Did a kid named Richie Herrick take the class?”

Light bulb—dim—juicer Freddy. “Riiiight, Richie Herrick. He escaped, and some psycho chopped his family.”

“So, did he take your class?”

“Sure did. I remember him, because he was a shy kid and he played these jazz records while the class worked on their projects.”

“And?”

“And that’s it. There was this other white guy that he palled with, and he took the class with Herrick. He stuck close to him, but I don’t think it was a queer thing.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“Nooo, I can’t place it.”

“Description?”

“Shit, I don’t know. Just your average white-trash inmate with a duck’s-ass haircut. I don’t even remember what he was in for.”

Something?/nothing?—tough call. Chino files missing—

“Dave, what’s this all ab—”

Pete: “Leave Klein alone, you’re getting paid for this.”

Band 7:

Tommy mobile—Chinatown.

Lucille mobile—Chinatown near Chavez Ravine.

I doused the volume and grabbed a chair. Chick edged his chair back.

In his face: “DUDLEY SMITH.”

“Davey, please”—raspy dry.

“He’s behind all the trouble in Niggertown, and he just sent Mike Breuning out to die. Spill on him, and I’ll cut you loose and give you some money.”

“Suppose I don’t?”

“Then I’ll kill you.”

“Davey…”

Pete signaled me: feed him liquor.

“Davey… Davey…please.”

I handed him Freddy’s glass.

“You guys don’t know Dudley. You don’t know the kind of stuff he’d do to me.”

Bonded sour mash—three fingers. “Drink it, you’ll feel better.”

“Davey…”

“Drink.”

Chick guzzled it down. Grab the glass, refill it, watch him swill.

Instant booze panache: “So what kind of money are you talking about? I’ve got expensive tastes, you know.”

“Twenty grand”—pure bullshit.

“That plays lowball to me.”

Pete said, “Talk to Klein or I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Okay, okay, okay”—refill gestures.

I filled the glass. “Chick, give.”

“Okay okay okay”—sipping slow.

I propped the tape rig up by his chair and hit Record.

“Dudley, Chick. The furs, Duhamel, the Kafesjians, the whole takeover story.”

“I guess I know most of it. Feature Dudley likes to talk, ‘cause he figures everybody’s too scared of him to tattle.”

“Get to it.”

Booze-brave: “I say Domenico ‘Chick’ Vecchio knows when to talk and when to shut up. I say fuck ‘em all except six, and save them for the pallbearers.”

Pete said, “Will you please fucking give?”

“Okay okay, feature Dudley, he was the boss at Robbery Division. Exley, he had this hard-on for him, because he made Dud for lots of stuff over the years—”

“Like the Nite Owl job?”

“Yeah, like the Nite Owl. Anyway, Dudley always took the most interesting robbery cases for himself, ‘cause that’s just the way he is. So Exley shot the Hurwitz Fur case to Robbery, and Dud grabbed it, and he got some leads that he later on figured out were planted by Exley, and those fucking leads led him to his very own so-called protégé, Joh

Freddy and Pete noshing spareribs—rapt.

“Keep going.”

“Okay, now Dudley, he’d recruited Schoolboy Joh

Tape hiss. Chick, snitching nice and loose now: “So feature that Dudley bagged Joh

“Dudley told Joh

“Yeah, sort of like a safeguard if you started leaning on the Kafesjians too hard.”

“Then what?”

“Then that goddamn Stemmons blundered in. He was Joh

“So at first Junior came on like a pal.”

“Right, and feature that all that Mobster Squad strongarm stuff wasn’t really Joh

“What ‘auditions’?”

“Dud was bringing these out-of-town guys in. He needed them to work the Southside coin, and he wanted the Feds to see them. Dud said later that Joh

Haverford Wash—four dead. “But Joh

“Right.”

“And the coin men were just pigeons set up to get clipped later?”

“Right.”

“What about the ‘auditions’ themselves?”

“Dudley told the out-of-town guys they had to earn the right to work for him. He said that meant enduring pain. He paid them money to let Joh

Pete said, “Holy shit.”

Freddy said, “I don’t believe this.”