One room--an easy toss--closet, dresser, cupboards. Ainge blabbing non-stop--Junior coaxing him out from under the bed. Tossing hard, tossing zero: skin mags, probation forms, rubbers. Topsy-turvy glimpses: evidence prof Junior stacking pages.
No gun.
"Dave."
Ainge cozied up--a fresh bottle half guzzled. Junior: "Dave, we've got ourselves a homicide."
"No. It's too old, and there's just this geek's word."
"Dave, come on."
"No. Ainge, where's the gun?"
No answer.
"Tell me where the gun is, goddamn it."
No answer.
"Ainge, give up the fucking gun."
Junior, quick hand signals: LET ME WORK HIM.
Work shit--grab his notebook. Skim it--Georgie's pitch down-- details, approximate dates. No locate on the gun--call odds on latent prints thirty to one.
Junior, flexing his mean streak: "Dave, give me my notebook back."
I shoved it at him. "Wait outside."
This X-ray stare-not bad for a punk.
"_Stemmons, wait outside_."
Junior eeeased out, tough-guy slow. I locked the door and fixed on Ainge.
"Give up the gun."
"Not on your life. I was talking scared then, but now I figure different. You want my interpretation?"
Brass knucks, get ready.
"My interpretation is the kid thinks a murder beef for the Glenda cooze is a good idea, but for some reason you don't. I also know that if I give up that gun it's a probation violation vis-a-fucking-vis harboring contraband items. You know what a 'hole card' is? You know--"
On him--knucks downstairs/upstairs--flab rippers/broken face bones/fear-of-God time:
"No kidnapping. Not a word to Touch or Rockwell. You don't talk about Glenda Bledsoe, you don't go near her. You don't give that gun up to my partner or anyone else."
Coughs/moans/sputters trying to yes me. Bloody phlegm on my hands; shock waves up my knuck arm. I kicked through TV rubble getting out.
o o o
Junior on the sidewalk, smoking. No preamble: "We pop the Bledsoe woman for Gilette. Bob Gallaudet will grant Ainge immunity on the gun charge. Dave, she's Howard Hughes' ex-girlfriend. This is a big major case."
Head throbs. "It's shit. Ainge told me the gun story was a lie. What we've got is a three-year-old homicide with one convicted-felon hearsay witness. _It's shit_."
"No, Ainge lied _to you_. I think there is a gun extant."
"Gallaudet would never file. I'm an attorney, you're not. Believe me."
"Dave, just listen."
"No, forget it. You were damn good in there, but it's over. We came to break up an impending felony, and--"
"And protect this moonlight job of yours."
"Right, which I'll kick back to you on."
"Which is unreported income in violation of departmental regs."
Seeing red: "There's no case. We're on the Kafesjian job, which is a major case, because Exley's got a hard-on for it. If you want juice, play tight with me on that. Maybe we soft-pedal it, maybe we don't. We have to work angles on that case to protect the Department, and I don't want you going off half-cocked on some stale-bread pimp snuff."
"A homicide is a homicide. And you know what I think?"
Smug little shitbird. "What?"
"That you want to protect that woman."
Seeing red, seeing black.
"And I think that for a cop on the take, you take pretty small. If you want to steal, steal big. If I ever broke the regs, I wouldn't start at the bottom."
PURE BLACK--knucks out.
Pure rabbit--Junior tripped into his car. Pulling out, window down: "You owe me for the way you patronize me! You owe me! And I might collect damn soon!"
RED BLACK RED.
Junior fishtailed straight through a red light.
o o o
I drove to the set just to see her; I figured one look would say yes or no.
Big blue eyes looked right through me--I couldn't even guess. She acted; she laughed; she talked--her voice gave nothing away. I stuck to the trailers and framed her in longshots--Miss Vampire/maybe pimp slasher. A change of costume, demure stuff to low-cut gown--
Shoulder-blade scars. ID them: slash marks, one puncture wound/bone notch. Call it a la _Hush-Hush_:
HOOKER/ACTRESS MURDERS HALF-BREED PIMP! AIRPLANE MOGUL SMITTEN! ROGUE COP STEPS FROM CLOVER TO SHIT!
I watched her act, watched her subtle-goof the whole silly business. Dark came on, I just watched, no one bugged the skulking stage-door Johnny.
Rain shut things down--I would have watched all night otherwise.
o o o
A pay-phone stint, zero luck: no Exley at the Bureau, no Junior to wheedle or threaten. Wilhite, my feelers out--not at Narco, not at home. Down to the Vine Street Hody's: paperwork, dinner.
I wrote out two Exley reports: full disclosure and whore Lucille omitted--insurance if I swung Wilhite's way. That frame brainstorm--nix it--Exley wouldn't bite, the Kafesjians made one big monkey wrench. Hard to concentrate--Junior hovered--taunting me with murderess Glenda.
Ex-whore Glenda; whore Lucille.
Rain blurred people outside. Hard to see faces, easy to imagine them--easy to make women Glenda. A brunette looked in the window-- Lucille K. one split second. I banged the table getting up; she waved to a waitress, just some plain Jane.
Darktown--nowhere else to go.
o o o
Systematic:
No exact peeper locations--two divisions botched paperwork-- no whore motel/jazz club addresses to work from. South on Western, driving one-handed, one hand free to jot motel names. Systematic: no tails on _me_, forty-one hot-sheet flops Adams to Florence.
Jazz clubs, more confined: Central Avenue, southbound. Nineteen clubs, count bars in, boost the tally up to sixty-odd. Rain kept foot traffic thin; neon signs hit hypnotic--half-second blips in my windshield.
Rain fizzling--try the coffee-and-donuts routine.
A Cooper's stand on Central--whore heaven--I fed the girls coffee and showed the Lucille pix. Big nos, one yes--a Western-and-Adams girl stepping east. Her story: Lucille worked "occasional"--tight pedal pushers--no street name, no truck with other whores.
Pedal pushers--slashed/jacked off on--_my_ burglar.
Midnight--half the clubs shut down. Neon blipped off; I caught boss men locking their doors. Peeper/prowler questions--"Say what?"s straight across. The Lucille mugs--straight deadpans.
1:00 A.M., 2:00 A.M.--shit police work. B-girls at bus stops and cab stands--I talked Lucille with my brain revving Glenda. More nos, more rain--I ducked into a diner.
A counter, booths. Packed--all spooks. Whispers, nudges--niggers smelling Law. Two B-girl types in a front booth--hands under the table furtive quick.
I joined them. One bolted--I jerked her back by the wrist. Sitting beside me: a skanky high yellow. Bad juju percolating--I could feel it.
"Dump your purses on the table."
Slow and cool: two pseudo-snakeskin bags turned out. Felony tilt: tinfoil Benzedrine.
Change-up: "Okay, you're clean."
Darky: "Sheeeit!"
High Yellow: "Man, what you--?"
I flashed the Lucille pix. "Seen her?"
Purse debris zoomed back; High Yellow chased Bennies with coffee.
"_I said_, have you seen her?"
High Yellow: "No, but this other po-lice been--"
The dark girl shushed her--I felt the nudge.
"What 'other police'? And don't you lie to me."
High Yellow: "'Nuther officer was aroun' asking questions 'bout that girl. He didn' have no photographs, but he had this, this .. . po-lice sketch, he called it. Very same girl, good picture if you asks me."
"Was he a young man? Sandy-haired, late twenties?"
"That's right. He had this big pom-po-dour that he kept playin' with."
Junior--maybe working off a Bureau likeness sheet. "What kind of questions did he ask you
?"
"He ask did that mousy little white girl ho' roun' here. I say, 'I don't know.' He ask did I work the bars down here, and I say yes. He ask 'bout some Peepin' Tom, I say I don't know 'bout no jive Peepin' Tom."
Brace the dark girl: "He asked you the same questions, right?"
"Tha's right, an' I told him the same answers, which is the righteous whole truth."
"Yeah, but _you_ nudged your friend here, which means _you_ told her something else about that policeman, because _you_ are the one acting hinky. Now spill before I find something else in your purse."
Cop-hater rumbles--the whole room. "Tell me, goddamn it."
High Yellow: "Lynette tol' me she see that po-liceman shake down a man in Bido Lito's parking lot. Colored man, an' Lynette say the pom-podour cop take money from him. Lynette say she see that same po-lice at Bido's talkin' to that pretty-boy blond po-liceman who works for that mean Mr. Dudley Smith, who jist loves to have his strongarm men roust colored people. Am' all that whooole truth, Lynette?"
"Sho' is, sugar. The whoooole truth, if I'm lyin', I'm flyin'."
Flying:
Junior--shakedown artist?--"If you want to steal, steal big." "Prettyboy blond cop"--??????
"Who was the colored man at Bido Lito's?"
Lynette: "I don't know, an' I ain't seen him before or since."
"What did you mean by 'shakedown'?"
"I mean he put the arm on that poor man for money, and he be usin' rude language besides."
"Give me a name for that blond cop."
"Am' got a name, but I seen him with Mr. Smith, and he so cute I _give_ it free to him."
Lynette laughed; High Yellow howled. The whole room laughed-- at me.
o o o
Bido Lito's, 68th and Central--closed. Mark it: a lead on crazy man Junior.
I staked the parking lot--no suspicious shit--music out a door down the block. Squint, catch the marquee: "Club Alabam--Art Pepper Quartet Nitely." Art Pepper--_Straight Life_--a Tommy K. smashed record.
Strange music: pulsing, discordant. Distance distorted sounds--I synced a beat to people talking on the sidewalk. Hard to see faces, easy to imagine them: I made all the women Glenda. A crescendo, applause--I hit my brights to get a real look. Too bright--jigs passing a reefer--gone before I could blink.
I pulled up and walked in. Dark--no doorman/cover charge--four white guys on stage, backlit. Sax, bass, piano, drums--four beats--not music, not noise. I bumped a table, bumped a left-behind jug.
My eyes adjusted--bourbon and a shot glass right there. I grabbed a chair, watched, _listened_.
Sax solo--honks/blats/wails--I poured a shot, downed it.
Hot--I thought of Meg--juicehead parents scared us both away from liquor. Match flare: Tommy Kafesjian at ringside. Three shots quick--my breath timed itself to the music. Crescendos, no break, a ballad.
Pure beautiful: sax, piano, bass. Whispers: "Champ Dineen," "The Champ, that's his." Tommy's broken record: _Sooo Slow Moods_.
One more shot--bass notes--skipped heartbeats. Glenda, Meg, Lucille--some booze reflex warmed their faces.
Exit-door light--Tommy K. walking out. Validate this slumming, pure cop instincts:
Peeper/prowler/B&E man--all one man. Jazz fiend/voyeur--the noise fed the watching.
Noise/music--go, follow it--
o o o
Hot-sheet row--motels pressed tight--one long block. Stucco dives-- bright colors--an alley behind them.
Ladder roof access: I parked, climbed, looked.
Vertigo--noise/music and liquor still had me. Slippery, careful, a perch--pure balls made me choose a high signpost. A breeze, a view: windows.
A few showing light: fuck flop rooms--bare walls--nothing else. I shivered out the booze-the music hit harder.
Lights on and off. Bare walls--no way to see faces, easy to imagine:
Glenda killing that pimp.
Glenda naked--Meg's body.
Chills--I got the car, cranked the heater, drove--
Meg's--dawn--no lights on. Hollywood--Glenda's place dark. Back to my place--a letter from Sam G. in the mailbox.
USC season tickets. A P.S.: "Thanks for proving jungle bunnies can fly."
Noise/music--I smashed the mailbox two-handed.
L.A. _Times_, 11/4/58:
COUNCILMANIC RACE ANTICLIMACTIC;
CHAVEZ RAVINE SWING VOTE GAINED BY DEFAULT
A down to the wire run was expected in the race for Fifth District City Councilman; today's election vote should have been nip and tuck. But while state, municipal, and judicial candidates nervously awaited poll news, incumbent Republican Councilman Thomas Bethune relaxed with his family at his Hancock Park home.
Up until last week, Bethune was hotly challenged by Morton Diskant, his liberal Democratic opponent. Diskant, stressing his credentials as a civil liberties lawyer, sought to portray Bethune as a pawn of the Los Angeles political establishment, his chief focus the Chavez Ravine issue. The Fifth Councilmanic District, which has a 25% Negro population, became a litmus test: how would voters respond when an entire campaign revolved around whether or not to relocate impoverished Latin Americans in an attempt to create space for a Los Angeles Dodgers ballpark?
Diskant pressed that issue, along with what he called "collateral matters": the allegedly overzealous enforcement measures of the Los Angeles Police Department and the "Gas Chamber Happy" Los Angeles District Attorney's Office. More than a litmus test, the Fifth District race was crucial to the passage of the Chavez Ravine bond issue: a Council straw vote showed that body currently standing 5 to 4 in favor, with all other Republican and Democratic candidates vying for Council seats also voicing their approval of the measure. Thus, only Diskant's election could force a City Council deadlock and legally postpone the wedding of Chavez Ravine and the Dodgers for some time.
But it was not to be. Last week, Diskant dropped out of the race, just as straw polls began to show him pulling ahead of his incumbent opponent. The Chavez Ravine Council vote will remain 5 to 4 in favor, and the bond issue is expected to be voted into law in midNovember. Diskant cited "personal reasons" as his motive for withdrawing; he did not elaborate further. Speculation in political circles has raged, and U.S. Attorney Welles Noonan, Chief Federal Prosecutor for the greater Southern California District, voiced this opinion to Times reporter Jerry Abrams: "I won't name names, and frankly I can't name names. But Diskant's withdrawal smacks of some sort of coercion. And I'll go on the record as a Democrat and a determined crimefighter with credentials including work for the McClellan Senate Rackets Committee: you can be both a moderate liberal and a foe of crime, as my good friend Senator John Kennedy proved by his work for the Committee."
Noonan declined to answer questions on his own political ambitions, and Morton Diskant could not be reached to voice his response. Councilman Bethune told the Times: "I hated to win this way, because I relish a good fight. Get those hot dogs and peanuts ready, (Dodger organization president) Walter O'Malley, because I'm putting in for season tickets. Play ball!"
L.A. _Mirror_, 11/5/58:
GALLAUDET ELECTED D.A.;
YOUNGEST IN CITY'S HISTORY
It was no surprise: Robert "Call Me Bob" Gallaudet, 38, a former LAPD and DA's Bureau officer who went to USC Law School nights, was elected Los Angeles District Attorney yesterday, topping a six man field with 59% of the total votes cast.
His election marks a fast rising career streaked with good luck, chiefly the resignation of former DA Ellis Loew last April. Gallaudet, then Loew's favored prosecutor, was appointed interim DA by the City Council, largely, it was believed, because of his friendship with LAPD Chief of Detectives Edmund Exley. A Republican, Gallaudet is expected to run for State Attorney General in 1960. He is a staunch law and order advocate, and a frequent target of death penalty repeal groups, who consider him overzealous in his recommendations of capital punishment.
A recent barb was thrown at the new District Attorney from another angle. Welles Noonan, U.S. Atto
rney for the Southern California Federal District and often spoken of as Gallaudet's likely opponent in the Attorney General's race, told the Mirror: "DA Gallaudet's support of the District Gambling Bill currently stalled in the California State Legislature stands out as a startling contradiction to this man's supposedly bedrock anti-crime philosophy. That bill (i.e.--proposed legitimate gambling zones confined to certain areas surveilled by local police agencies, where cards, slot machines, off track betting and other games of chance will be legal, but heavily surtaxed for State revenue purposes) is a moral outrage that condones compulsive gambling under the guise of political good. It will become a magnet for organized crime, and I exhort DA Gallaudet to retract his support of the measure."
At a press conference to announce his upcoming victory gala at the Ambassador Hotel's Cocoanut Grove two nights from now, Gallaudet pooh-poohed his critics, chiefly U.S. Attorney Noonan. "Look, he's running against me for A.G. already, and I just got elected to _this_ job. On my political future: no comment. My comment on my election as Los Angeles District Attorney: watch out, criminals. And take heart, Angelenos: I'm here to make this city a peaceful, safe haven for all its law-abiding citizens."
_Hush-Hush_ Magazine, 11/6/58:
HELLO DODGERS!!!
ADIOS HUDDLED MASSES!!!
Dig it, kats and kittens, chicks and charlies: we love the national pastime as much as you do, but enough is enough. Doesn't that great lady the Statue of Liberty have some kind of rebop inscribed by her tootsies? Something like: "Give us your poor, huddled, wretched masses yearning to be free?" Look, east coast geography isn't our strong suit, and we can tell you're tired of this patriotic shtick already. Look, _everybody_ wants a bonaroo home for the Dodgers, us included. _But_--iconoclasm dictates that we take a different tack, if only for the sake of our circuitously circling circulation. Social protest from _Hush-Hush_! They said it couldn't happen! Remember, dear reader, you heard it first here!