White Jazz

Exley pointing at the door.

I followed him outside. Spooky sunlight—trailer-park geeks watching us.

“What’s your assessment?”

Juke him/fuck him—LIE:

“I want to take Bullock in to Welles Noonan. I’m dodging custody, and he can help me smooth things out. He’s a key witness on Dudley and the Kafesjians, and if we cooperate with the Feds we can cut their probe off at the knees, especially with you giving them Narco.”

“He’s insane. He’s not a valid witness.”

“Yeah, but all he is to us is a psycho. He’s not even fit to stand trial.”

“Gallaudet will get indictments. He’ll prosecute him himself.”

“Bob’s dead. He was in with Dudley on some district gambling scheme. Dudley killed him.”

Weak knees—I steadied him—Edmund Je

“I’ve got Chick Vecchio stashed. He begged me for Federal custody, and Madge Kafesjian filled in some of Bullock’s story and told me how Dudley hooked J.C. up with the Department. Exley, it’s all contained. Vecchio, Bullock, Madge—they rat Dudley and only Narco gets hurt. It’s your basic plan, and all you have to do is cut me some slack before I take Bullock in.”

“Specifically?”

“Call Noonan. Tell him you’re handing your Narco dossiers over. Tell him to retract his warrant on me until I bring our witnesses in.”

Do it—grab the bait—I’ll run with your money—

“Exley…”

“Yes. Move Bullock some place safe after dark, then call me.”

“You’ll call Noonan?”

“Yes, I’ll call him now.”

“I’m surprised you’re trusting me.”

“I’ve betrayed your trust before, and I’m ru

I settled in.

Bullock talked pancakes and the Eyeball Man.

EVERYTHING spun me crazy—backward, forward—back to Meg, up to Glenda.

Escape plans. Buyouts. Schemes—nothing jelled.

Dusk came on—I kept the lights off Music somewhere—EVERYTHING spun me fresh.

Nothing jelled.

Bullock fell asleep cuffed to his chair.

Nothing jelled.

Bullock muttered gibberish in his sleep.

Shakes, shudders—something like a whimper ripping through me.

I braced myself against the wall—

Killings, beatings, bribes, payoffs, kickbacks, shakedowns. Rent coercion, muscle jobs, strikebreaker work. Lies, intimidation, vows trashed, oaths broken, duties scorned. Thievery, duplicity, greed, lies, killings, beatings, bribes, payoffs, Meg—

That whimper got loose—Bullock cocked his head to hear it better. Sobs then-choking back tears, sobs racking through me so hard the trailer shook.

EVERYTHING.

Spi

I don’t know how long it lasted.

I came out of it thinking:

NOT ENOUGH.

I made the call.

Chapter Fifty-Four

The Sears & Roebuck parking lot: wide open, empty. A block off: my Eastside building.

Early. Arclights on asphalt—he’d see us.

683 grand stuffed in four attaché cases.

My .45 taped to my ankle.

Wylie Bullock in the front seat-cuffed with his hands in his lap.

Exley’s cleaver beside him.

Headlights coming.

I laid the money bags on the hood. No suitcoat, no holster—frisk me.

Headlights up, brakes, lights off. Dudley Smith stepped out, smiling.

Coatless, empty holster—frisk me.

“Lad, you’re early.”

“I’m cautious.”

“Given your circumstances, I would be, too. And that man I glimpse in your car?”

“He’s a pilot. He’s flying me south.”

He looked in—the passenger window half down. Bullock stayed calm, my suitcoat draped over his cuffs.

“What grand briefcases! Have you tallied the amount?”

“Almost seven hundred thousand.”

“Is this my share?”

“It’s yours.”

“In exchange for?”

“The safety of the people I leave here.”

“You used the plural, lad. Have you loved ones beyond your sister?”

“Not really.”

“Aah, grand. And Vecchio?”

“He’s dead.”

“Have you brought the verification I requested?”

“It’s in with the money.”

“Well, then given that Edmund Exley is unapproachable and somewhat compromised, I would say this is goodbye.”

I stepped closer—blocking his view—cover for Bullock.

“I’ve still got those curiosities.”

“Such as?”

Louder—barely—don’t rile him yet:

“Madge Kafesjian told me about the blind man killings. I wondered how you cut your deal with J.C. and Phil Herrick.”

Dudley roared—huge stage laughs.

I reached back and freed the door.

“I was brazen then, lad. I understood the metaphors of greed and blind rage, and the absurdity of a sightless man wielding a ten-gauge did not escape me.”

“I wish I could have seen you cut the deal.”

“It was fairly prosaic, lad. I simply told Mr. Kafesjian and Mr. Herrick that their thriftily brewed liquor caused four deaths and assorted untold suffering. I informed them that in exchange for a percentage of their bus iness holdings that suffering would remain strictly a point of contention between them and God.”

“Just like that?”

Bullock mumbling.

“I also offered visual persuasion. A coroner’s photograph of a young couple rendered headless expressed a certain shock value.”

Mumbling louder—I coughed to cover the noise.

“Lad, is your pilot confrere talking to himself?”

Getting hinky—watch his hands.

“Lad, will you open the briefcase that contains my verification?”

I stepped closer.

Dudley flexed his hands one single beat too quick.

I pivoted to slam a knee shot; he sidestepped me.

Shivs dropping out his shirt cuffs—grab a briefcase, swing it—

Two stilettos palmed deft.

Stabbing at me—ripping leather—two blades stuck.

I dropped the briefcase.

Dudley stood wide open.

Bullock piled out, hands on the cleaver.

“EYEBALL MAN! EYEBALL MAN!”

I slammed a knee shot.

Dudley went down.

Bullock went at him cleaver-first.

Wild swings—the handcuffs fucked his grip up—the blade ripped Dudley’s mouth ear to ear. Roundhouse coup de grace—the cleaver hit asphalt.

“EYEBALL MAN!”—Bullock on Dudley:

Biting.

Clawing.

Ripping at his eyes.

Look:

One gushing red socket.

“NO!”—my scream/my gun out/aiming at them tangled up together.

I fired twice-two misses—ricochets off the pavement.

Two more shots braced against the hood—Bullock’s face exploded.

Bone spray in my eyes.

Firing blind—ricochet zings, a jammed slide.

Dudley on Bullock—prying at his hands.

Dudley weaving, screaming exultant—his eye cupped back to his face.

I grabbed the money and ran. Echoes boomed behind me: “EYEBALL MAN! EYEBALL MAN!”

A week—backtrack it:

I ran that one block to my building. Old bookie stash holes in the basement—I tucked the money away.

Calls from the janitor’s phone:

Glenda, long distance: come down, grab the cash, hide. Pete in El Segundo: cut Chick loose—Glenda’s got twenty grand for you.

Pandemonium at Sears—prowl cars responding to shots. Bullock dead, Dudley rushed to Queen of Angels. My explanation: ask Chief Exley.

I was arrested—bagged on Exley’s APB. I was allowed one phone call—I buzzed Noonan.

A custody battle ensued—LA.PD vs. Feds—Noonan victorious.

Material witness protection—no charges filed on me yet.

A Statler Hilton suite, friendly guards: Jim Henstell and Will Shipstad.

A TV in my room—dig the news: