White Jazz Part 10

Glenda cheesecake-four walls' worth. "Let's say he miscalculated this time."

"As the song goes, 'I should care?'"

"You should care. Noonan's prizefight probe went out the window too, so now he's hot to get something going in n.i.g.g.e.rtown. If the Feds. .h.i.t the Southside, they'll raid your coin locations. If I get a line on it I'll tell you, but I might not know. Sam put your last going business in real trouble."

Chick V. by the doorway; Mickey, cheesecake eyes. "David, such tsuris you predict, such tsuris I am nonplussed by. My desires are strictly to see district gambling get in, then retire to Galapagos and watch turtles f.u.c.k in the sun."

Laugh it out. "District gambling will never pa.s.s the State Legislature, and if it did, you'd never get a franchise. Bob Gallaudet is the only reputable politician who supports it, and he'll change his mind if he makes attorney general."

Chick coughed; Mickey shrugged. A permit on the door: "ParksRecreation, Approval to Film." I squinted--"Robert Gallaudet," small print.

Laugh _that_ out. "Bob let you film here for a campaign contribution. He's about to make DA, so you think a grand or two gets you the inside track on district gambling. Jesus, you must be shooting dope like old Dracula."

Pinups galore--Mickey blew them kisses. "The prom date I never had in 1931. I could guarantee her a corsage and many fine hours of Bury the Brisket."

"She reciprocate?"

"Tomorrow, maybe yes, but today she breaks my heart. Dinner tonight was already finalized, then Herman Gerstein called. His company is set to distribute my movie, and he needs Glenda to accompany his faygeleh heartthrob Rock Rockwell on a publicity date. Such tsuris-- Herman is grooming that rump ranger for stardom apart from me, he's terrified the scandal rags will discover he takes his pleasure Greek. Such duplicity to lose her company, my comely brisketeer."

"Publicity date"--contract breaker. "Mickey, watch your coin biz. Remember what I told you."

"Go, David. Take a bagel for the road."

I walked out; Chick walked in. I checked my envelope-five G's.

A pay phone, two dimes: the DMV cop line, Junior.

Stats: Glenda Louise Bledsoe, 5'8", 125, blond/blue, DOB 8/3/29, Provo, Utah. California license since 8/46, five moving violations. '56 Chevrolet Corvette, red/white, Cal. DX 413. Address: 2489 N. Mount Airy, Hollywood.

Junior at the Bureau--no luck--the Ad Vice clerk said he didn't check in. I left a message: buzz me at Stan's Drive-in.

I dawdled over, grabbed a s.p.a.ce by the phone booth. Coffee, a burger--scan those file carbons.

Burglars, confessors--physical stats/MO/priors--I took notes. The Wino Will-o-the-Wisp--s.h.i.t, still at large. Names, names, names-- candidates for a psycho framee. Scribbling notes--distracted--flirty carhops, new money. Nagging me: a frame meant no payoff--no way to match Lucille and the burglar to WHY?

The phone--I ran, grabbed it. "Junior?"

"Yeah, the clerk said to call you."

Wary--not his style. "You got that note I left you, right?"

"Right."

"Right, and did you check the stationhouse wh.o.r.e files for paper on Lucille Kafesjian?"

"I'm working on it. Dave, I can't talk now. I'll--look, I'll call you later."

"The f.u.c.k later, you _jump_ on that work--" CLICK--dead air.

Home, paperwork. p.i.s.sed at Junior--an erratic punk getting worse. Paperwork: Exley's Kafesjian report padded up fat. Lists next: potential Glenda tailers, potential pervert framees. Calls in: Meg--Jack Woods glommed our back rent. Pete B: do Mr. Hughes solid, I convinced him you're not a Hebe. Calls out: Ad Vice, Junior's pad, no luck--find him, ream his insubordinate heart. My tailer list, b.u.m luck holding--no men to start tonight. _My_ job by default--a publicity date meant contract breaker.

Back to Hollywood: side streets, the freeway. No tails on me: dead sure. Up Gower, Mount Airy, left turn.

2489: courtyard bungalows--peach stucco. A carport--with a red and white Corvette snuggled in.

5:10--just dark. I parked close--courtyard/carport view.

Time dragged--the stakeout blues--p.i.s.s in a cup, toss it, doze. Auto/ foot traffic--light. 7:04-three cars at the curb.

Doors open, flashbulbs popping: Rock Rockwell--tuxedo, bouquet. A jog to the courtyard, back with Glenda--nice--a tight sweater dress. Bulb glare caught her patented Look--it's a joke and I know it. Zoom: all three cars U-turned southbound.

Rolling stakeout--f our cars long--Gower, Sunset west. The Strip, Club Largo, three-car pile-out.

Valets swooped in, servile. More photos--Rockwell looked bored. I parked in the red and fixed my windshield: "Official Police Vehicle." The entourage hit the club.

I badged in, badged a Shriner off a bar stool. Turk Butler on stage-- bistro belter supreme. Ringside: Rock, Glenda, scribes. Photo men by the exit--zoom lenses zoomed in.

Break that contract.

Dinner: club soda, pretzels. Easy eyeball work: Glenda talked, Rock sulked. The reporters ignored him--snore city.

Turk Butler off stage, chorus girls on. Glenda smoked and laughed. Big lungs on the dancers--Glenda pulled her sweater up for chuckles. Rock hit the sauce--whiskey sours.

A club hop at ten sharp-across Sunset on foot to the Crescendo. Another bar stool, eyeball surveillance: pure Glenda. Showstopper Glenda-odd wisps of Meg, and her own SOMETHING.

Midnight--a dash for the cars--I tailed the convoy brazen close. Back to Glenda's pad, sidewalk arc lights: a dud goodnight kiss caught on film.

The newsman took off; Glenda waved. Quiet out--voices carried.

Rock: "h.e.l.l, now I've got no wheels."

Glenda: "Take mine, and bring Touch back with you. Say two hours?"

Rock grabbed her keys and ran--gleeful. The Vette peeled out burning rubber--Glenda winced. "Bring Touch back with you" hit funny--tail him.

Gower south, Franklin east. Spa.r.s.e traffic--still no tails on _me_. North on Western, say a movie set run--Mickey's permit kept the park road open.

Los Feliz, left turn, Fern Dell--streams and glades before the Griffith Park hills. Brake lights blinked--f.u.c.k--Fern Dell--Vice cops called it c.o.c.ksuckers' Paradise.

He parked--rush hour-cigarette tips red in the dark. I swung right and stopped--my beams on Rock and a cute young quiff.

I killed my lights, cracked the window. Close--I caught the proposition: "Hi."

"Hi."

"I . . . I think fall is the best time in L.A., don't you?"

"Yeah, sure. Listen, I just borrowed a _really_ nice car. We could maybe make last call at the Orchid Room, then go someplace. I've got some time to kill before I pick my boy--I mean somebody up."

"You don't mince words."

"I don't mince period. Come on, say yes."

"Nix, sweetie. You're big and brusque, which I like, but the last big brusque guy I said yes to turned out to be a deputy sheriff."

"Oh, come on."

"Nix, nyet, nein and no. Besides, I heard Administrative Vice has been operating Fern Dell."

Wrong--Ad Vice never popped fruits. Outside chance--gung-ho Junior, Vice cowboy.

Rock--"Thanks for the memories"--match flare, his cigarette lit. Prowling now--easy to track--I watched the tip glow queer to queer.

Time wheezed, a b.u.m soundtrack: s.e.x moans out in the woods. An hour, an hour ten--Rock walked back zipping his fly.

_Zoom_--the Vette peeled. I followed slow--no traffic-call the set his destination. A roadblock out of nowhere-baseball-bat men waved him through.

Truck headlights approaching--I backed up and watched.

Brake squeals--a big flatbed--picket clowns in back. A spotlight flashed--bright white blindness on the target.

Goons. .h.i.t the truck swinging--nail-studded Louisville Sluggers. The windshield exploded--a man stumbled out belching gla.s.s. The driver ran--a nail shot took his nose off.

The bed gate crashed--goons went in close--ribcage work. Fats Medina dragged a guy by the hair--his scalp came off.

No screams--wrong--why no sound-- Back to Fern Dell, down to Glenda's. No screams--weird--then my pulse quit banging my ears so I could hear.

Wait the boys out: "Rock," "Touch"--the nance type, this eight-notch killer. Suspicious: 2:00 A.M., a B-movie siren set for hostess.

One courtyard light on--hers. I tapped the two-way, flipped bands to kill boredom. Dispatch calls--the Bureau frequency--voices.

Hurwitz fur-job talk--Robbery men. Make the voices: d.i.c.k Carlisle, Mike Breuning--Dudley Smith strongarms. No trace on the furs; Dud wanted fences braced hard. Crackle: station-to-station interference. Breuning: Dud pulled Johnny Duhamel off the Mobster Squad--a scary kick-a.s.s ex-fighter. More static--I flipped dials--a liquor-store heist on La Brea.

The Vette hit the carport; the boys. .h.i.t Glenda's pad nuzzled up.

One ring--the door open and shut.

Figure access.

The courtyard proper--too risky. Nix the roof--no way to get up. Behind the bungalows--maybe a window to peep.

Risk it--worth it--juicy hearsay.

I walked over, counted back doors down--one, two, three--hers locked tight. One window-curtains cracked--eyes to the gla.s.s: A dark bedroom, a connecting door ajar.

Press the gla.s.s, slide it up. Open--no shimmy, no squeak. Vault the sill: up and in.

Smells: cotton, stale perfume. Dark going gray--I saw a bed and bookshelves. Voices--hug the door--listen: Glenda: "Well, there is a precedent."

Touch: "Not a successful one, sweetie."

Rockwell: "Marie 'the Body' McDonald. A from-nowhere career, then this kidnapping out of nowhere. The papers smelled publicity stunt quicksville. I think--"

Glenda: "It wasn't realistic, that's why. Her hair wasn't even mussed. Remember, Mickey Cohen is bankrolling our movie. He's hot for me, so the press will think gangland intrigue right off. Howard Hughes used to keep me, so we've got him for a supporting play--"

Touch: " 'Keep,' what a euphemism."

Rock: "What's a euphemism?"

Touch: "Lucky you're gorgeous, 'cause you'd never make it on brains."

Glenda: "Cut it out, and listen. I'm wondering what the police will think. It's not a kidnapping for ransom, because frankly n.o.body would pay good money to get Rock and I out of trouble. What I'm think--"

Touch: "The police will think revenge on Mickey or something, and Mickey won't know a thing. The police love to bother Mickey. Bothering Mickey is a favorite activity of the Los Angeles Police Department. And you two will be good. Georgie Ainge will slap you around just a little bit more than a smidgin, for realism's sake. The police will buy it, so just don't worry. You'll both be kidnap victims, and you'll both get lots of publicity."

Rock: "Method acting."

Glenda: "It compromises Howard, the creep. He'd never violate the contract of a beautiful kidnap victim."

Touch: "Tell true, sweetie. Was he hung?"

Glenda: "Hung like a cashew."

They all howled. The real howler: fake kidnaps always bombed.

A doorway crack--I pressed up, squinted. Glenda--robe, wet hair: "He talked about airplanes to get himself excited. He called my b.r.e.a.s.t.s my propellers."

More laughs--Glenda edged out of my light. Needle scratches, Sinatra--wait the tune out for one more look.

No luck--just "Ebb Tide" done very slow. Through the bedroom, out the window, thinking crazy: _Don't snitch her_.

CHAPTER NINE