About the Book
About the Author
Also by James Ellroy
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Part I: Straight Life
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part II: Vampira
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part III: Darktown Red
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Part IV: Money Jungle
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Part V: Hushabye
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Copyright
Los Angeles, 1958: a city on the make. A boom town at the edge of a new era ripe for plunder.
Lieutenant Dave Klein: in turn a lawyer, bagman, slum landlord, mob killer. Klein stands at the centre of a complex web of plots where violence and death will intersect.
James Ellroy was born in Los Angeles in 1948. He is the author of the acclaimed ‘LA Quartet’: The Black Dahlia, The Big Nowhere, LA Confidential and White Jazz. His most recent novel, Blood’s a Rover, completes the magisterial ‘Underworld USA Trilogy’ – the first two volumes of which (American Tabloid and The Cold Six Thousand) were both Sunday Times bestsellers.
ALSO BY JAMES ELLROY
THE UNDERWORLD U.S.A. TRILOGY
American Tabloid
The Cold Six Thousand
Blood’s a Rover
THE L.A. QUARTET
The Black Dahlia
The Big Nowhere
L.A. Confidential
White Jazz
MEMOIR
My Dark Places
The Hilliker Curse
SHORT STORIES
Hollywood Nocturnes
JOURNALISM/SHORT FICTION
Crime Wave
Destination: Morgue!
EARLY NOVELS
Brown’s Requiem
Clandestine
Blood on the Moon
Because the Night
Suicide Hill
Killer on the Road
White Jazz
TO
Helen Knode
In the end I possess my birthplace and am possessed by its language.
—Ross MacDonald
All I have is the will to remember. Time revoked/fever dreams – I wake up reaching, afraid I’ll forget. Pictures keep the woman young.
L.A., fall 1958.
Newsprint: link the dots. Names, events – so brutal they beg to be connected. Years down – the story stays dispersed. The names are dead or too guilty to tell.
I’m old, afraid I’ll forget:
I killed innocent men.
I betrayed sacred oaths.
I reaped profit from horror.
Fever – that time burning. I want to go with the music – spin, fall with it.
Yesterday, a spokesman for the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Los Angeles announced that Federal agents are probing the ‘gangland infiltrated’ Southland prize fight scene, with an eye toward securing grand jury indictments.
U.S. Attorney Welles Noonan, former counsel to the McClellan Rackets Committee, said that Justice Department investigators, acting on information supplied by unnamed informants, are soon to question colorful Los Angeles ‘mob fringe character’ Mickey Cohen. Cohen, now thirteen months out of prison, is rumored to have attempted contract infringement on a number of local prize-fighters. Currently being questioned under hotel guard are Reuben Ruiz, bantamweight contender and regular attraction at the Olympic Auditorium, and Sanderline Johnson, former ranked flyweight working as a croupier at a Gardena poker establishment. A Justice Department press release stated that Ruiz and Johnson are ‘friendly witnesses’. In a personal aside to Herald reporter John Eisler, U.S. Attorney Noonan said: ‘This investigation is now in its infancy, but we have every hope that it will prove successful. The boxing racket is just that: a racket. Its cancerous tentacles link with other branches of organized crime, and should Federal grand jury indictments result from this probe, then perhaps a general probe of Southern California mob activity will prove to be in order. Witness Johnson has assured my investigators that boxing malfeasance is not the only incriminating information he has been privy to, so perhaps we might start there. For now, though, boxing is our sole focus.’
Some skepticism greeted news of the prize fight probe. ‘I’ll believe it when the grand jury hands down true bills,’ said William F. Degnan, a former FBI agent now retired in Santa Monica. ‘Two witnesses do not make a successful investigation. And I’m wary of anything announced in the press: it smacks of publicity seeking.’
Mr Degnan’s sentiments were echoed by a source within the Los Angeles District Attorney’s Office. Queried on the probe, a prosecuting attorney who wishes to remain anonymous stated: ‘It’s politics pure and simple. Noonan’s friends with [Massachusetts Senator and presidential hopeful] John Kennedy, and I’ve heard he’s going to run for California Attorney General himself in ’60. This probe has to be fuel for that run, because Bob Gallaudet [interim Los Angeles District Attorney expected to be elected to a full term as DA ten days hence] might well be the Republican nominee. You see, what a Federal probe implicitly states is that local police and prosecutors can’t control crime within their own bailiwick. I call Noonan’s grand jury business a political stepping-stone.’
U.S. Attorney Noonan, 40, declined comment on the above speculation, but a surprise ally defended him with some vigor. Morton Diskant, civil liberties lawyer and Democratic candidate for Fifth District City Councilman, told this writer: ‘I distrust the Los Angeles Police Department’s ability to maintain order without infringing on the civil rights of Los Angeles citizens. I distrust the Los Angeles District Attorney’s Office for the same reason. I especially distrust Robert Gallaudet, most specifically for his support of [Fifth District Republican Councilman] Thomas Bethune, my incumbent opponent. Gallaudet’s stand on the Chavez Ravine issue is unconscionable. He wants to evict impoverished Latin Americans from their homes to procure space for an L.A. Dodgers ballpark, a frivolity I deem criminal. Welles Noonan, on the other hand, has proven himself to be both a determined crimefighter and a friend of civil rights. Boxing is a dirty business that renders human beings walking vegetables. I applaud Mr. Noonan for taking the high ground in combatting it.’
U.S. Attorney Noonan responded to Mr. Diskant’s statement. ‘I appreciate his support, but I do not want partisan political comments to cloud the issue. That issue is boxing and the best way to sever its links to organized crime. The U.S. Attorney’s Office does not seek to supersede the authority of the LAPD or to in any way ridicule or undermine it.’
Meanwhile, the boxing probe continues. Witnesses Ruiz and Johnson are in protective custody at a downtown hotel, guarded by Federal agents and officers on loan from the Los Angeles Police Department: Lieutenant David Klein and Sergeant George Stemmons, Jr.
Dig it, hepcats: Meyer Harris Cohen, the marvelous, benevolent, malevolent Mickster, has been out of Federal custody since September, ’57. He did 3 to 5 for income tax evasion; his ragtag band dispersed, and the former mob kingpin’s life since then has been one long series of skidmarks across the City of the Fallen Angels, the town he used to rule with bullets, bribes and bullspit bonhomie. Dig, children, and smell the burning rubber of those skids: off the record, on the Q.T. and very Hush-Hush.
April, ’58: former Cohen henchman Johnny Stompanato is shanked by Lana Turner’s daughter, a slinky 14 year old who should have been trying on prom gowns instead of skulking outside Mommy’s bedroom with a knife in her hand. Too bad, Mickster: Johnny was your chief strongarm circa ’49-’51, maybe he could have helped curtail your post prison tailspin. And tsk, tsk: you really shouldn’t have sold Lana’s sinsational love letters to Johnny – we heard you raided the ‘Stomp Man’s’ Benedict Canyon love shack while Johnny was still in the meat wagon on his way to Slab City.
More sin-tillating scoop on the Mickster:
Under the watchful eye of his parole officer, Mickey has since made attempts to straighten up and skid right. He bought an ice cream parlor that soon became a criminal haven and went bust when parents kept their children away in droves; he financed his own niteclub act, somnambulistic shtick at the Club Largo. Snore City: bum bits on Ike’s golf game, gags about Lana T. and Johnny S., the emphasis on ‘Oscar’, the Stomp Man’s Academy Award size appendage. And – Desperation City – the Mickster salaamed for Jesus during Billy Graham’s Crusade at the L.A. Coliseum!!!! The chutzpah of Mickey renouncing his Jewish heritage as a P.R. ploy!!!! For shame, Mickster, for shame!!!!! And now the scenario darkens.
Item:
Federal agents are soon to scold Mickey for infringing on the contracts of local prizefight palookas.
Item:
Four of Mickey’s goons – Carmine Ramandelli, Nathan Palevsky, Morris Jahelka and Antoine ‘The Fish’ Guerif – have mysteriously disappeared, presumably snuffed by person or persons unknown, and (very strangely, hepcats) Mickey is keeping his (usually on overdrive) yap shut about it.
Rumors are climbing the underworld grapevine: two surviving Cohen gunmen (Chick Vecchio and his brother Salvatore ‘Touch’ Vecchio, a failed actor rumored to be très lavender) are planning nefarious activities outside of Mickey’s aegis. Get it on the ground floor, Mickster – we’ve heard that your sole source of income is Southside vending and slot machines: cigarettes, rubbers, french ticklers and one-armed bandits stuffed into smoky back rooms in Darktown jazz clubs. For shame again, Mickey! Shvartze exploitation! Penny ante and beneath you, you the man who once ruled the L.A. rackets with a paralyzingly pugnacious panache!
Get the picture, kats and kittens? Mickey Cohen is Skidsville, U.S.A., and he needs moolah, gelt, the old cashola. Which explains our most riotous rumor revelation, raffishly revealed for the frenetically foremost first time!
Digsville:
Meyer Harris Cohen is now in the movie biz!!
Move over C. B. DeMille: the fabulous, benevolent, malevolent Mickster is now sub-rosa financing a horror cheapie currently shooting in Griffith Park! He’s saved his negro exploited nickels and is now partners with Variety International Pictures in the making of Attack of the Atomic Vampire. It’s sensational, it’s non-union, it’s a turkey of epic proportions!
Further Digsville:
Ever anxious to parsimoniously pinch pennies, Mickey has cast lavender loverboy Touch Vecchio in a key role – and the Touchster is hot, hot, hotsville with the star of the movie: limpwristed lothario Rock Rockwell. Off-camera homo hijinx! You heard it first here!
Final Digsville:
Enter Howard Hughes: Mr Airplane/Tool Magnate, lascivious luster after Hollywood lovelies. He used to own R.K.O. Studios; now he’s an independent producer known for keeping wildly well-endowed wenches welded to ‘personal service contracts’ – read as bit roles in exchange for frequent night-time visits. Dig: we’ve heard that Mickey’s leading lady left the mammary-mauling mogul spinning his own propeller – she actually amscrayed on a Hughes contract and car hopped until Mickey materialized at Scrivner’s Drive-In dying for a chocolate malt.
Are you smitten, Mickster?
Are you heartbroken, Howard?
Hollywood Cavalcade shifts gears with an open letter to the Los Angeles Police Department.
Dear LAPD:
Recently, three wino bums were found strangled and mutilated in abandoned houses in the Hollywood area. Very Hush-Hush: we’ve heard the still-at-large killer snapped their windpipes post-mortem, utilizing great strength. The press has paid these heinously horrific killings scant attention; only the sin-sation slanted L.A. Mirror seems to care that three Los Angeles citizens have met such nauseatingly nasty nadirs. The LAPD’s Homicide Division has not been called in to investigate; so far only two Hollywood Division detectives are working the case. Hepcats, it’s the pedigree of the victims that determine the juice of investigation – and if three squarejohn citizens got choked by a neck-snapping psychopath, then LAPD Chief of Detectives Edmund J. Exley would waste no time mounting a full scale investigation. Often it takes a catchy tag name to bring dirty criminal business into the public’s consciousness and thus create a clamor for justice. Hush-Hush hereby names this anonymous killer fiend the ‘Wino Will-o-the-Wisp’ and petitions the LAPD to find him and set him up with a hot date in San Quentin’s green room. They cook with gas there, and this killer deserves a four-burner cookout.
Watch for future updates on the Wino Will-o-the-Wisp, and remember you heard it first here: off the record, on the Q.T. and very Hush-Hush.
THE JOB: TAKE down a bookie mill, let the press in – get some ink to compete with the flight probe.
Some fruit sweating a sodomy beef snitched: fourteen phones, a race wire. Exley’s memo said show some force, squeeze the witnesses at the hotel later – find out what the Feds had planned.
In person: ‘If things get untoward, don’t let the reporters take pictures. You’re an attorney, Lieutenant. Remember how clean Bob Gallaudet likes his cases.’
I hate Exley.
Exley thinks I bought law school with bribe money.
I said four men, shotguns, Junior Stemmons as co-boss. Exley: ‘Jackets and ties; this will end up on TV. And no stray bullets – you’re working for me, not Mickey Cohen.’
Someday I’ll shove a bribe list down his throat.
Junior set it up. Perfect: a Niggertown street cordoned off; bluesuits guarding the alley. Reporters, prowl cars, four jackets and ties packing twelve-gauge pumps.
Sergeant George Stemmons, Jr, snapping quick draws.
Hubbub: porch-loafing jigs, voodoo eyes. My eyes on the target – closed curtains, a packed driveway – make a full shift inside working bets. A cinderblock shack – figure a steel plate door.
I whistled; Junior walked over twirling his piece.
‘Keep it out, you might need it.’
‘No, I’ve got a riot gun in the car. We go in the door, we—’
‘We don’t go in the door, it’s plated. We start banging on the door, they burn their paper. You still hunt birds?’
‘Sure. Dave, what—’
‘You got ammo in your car? Single-aught birdshot?’
Junior smiled. ‘That big window. I shoot it out, the curtain takes the pellets, we go in.’
‘Right, so you tell the others. And tell those clowns with the cameras to roll it, Chief Exley’s compliments.’
Junior ran back, dumped shells, reloaded. Cameras ready; whistles, applause: wine-guzzling loafers.
Hands up, count it down—
Eight: Junior spreads the word.
Six: the men flanked.
Three: Junior window-aiming.
One: ‘Now!’
Glass exploded ka-BOOM, loud loud loud; recoil knocked Junior flat. Cops too shocked to yell ‘TRIPLE AUGHT!’
Window curtains in rags.
Screams.
Run up, jump the sill. Chaos: blood spray, bet slip/cash confetti. Phone tables dumped, a stampede: out the back door bookie fistfights.
A nigger coughing glass.
A pachuco minus some fingers.
‘Wrong Load’ Stemmons: ‘Police! Stop or we’ll shoot!’
Grab him, shout: ‘This was shots fired inside, a fucking criminal altercation. We went in the window because we figured the door wouldn’t go down. You talk nice to the new guys and tell them I owe them one. You get the men together and make fucking-A sure they know the drill. Do you understand me?’
Junior shook free. Foot thumps – window-storming plain-clothes-men. Cover noise: I pulled my spare piece. Two ceiling shots, a wipe – evidence.
Toss the gun. More chaos: suspects kicked prone, cuffed.
Moans, shouts, shotgun wadding/blood stink.
I ‘discovered’ the gun. Reporters ran in; Junior spieled them. Out to the porch, fresh air.
‘You owe me eleven hundred, Counselor.’
Make the voice: Jack Woods. Mixed bag – bookie/strong-arm/contract trigger.
I walked over. ‘Did you catch the show?’
‘I was just driving up – and you should put that kid Stemmons on a leash.’
‘His daddy’s an inspector. I’m the kid’s mentor, so I’ve got a captain’s job as a lieutenant. Did you have a bet down?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Slumming?’
‘I’m in the business myself, so I spread my own bets around for good will. Dave, you owe me eleven hundred.’
‘How do you know you won?’
‘The race was fixed.’
Jabber – newsmen, the locals. ‘I’ll get it out of the evidence vault.’
‘C’est la guerre. And by the way, how’s your sister?’
‘Meg’s fine.’
‘Say hi for me.’
Sirens; black & whites pulling up.
‘Jack, get out of here.’
‘Good seeing you, Dave.’
Book the fuckers – Newton Street Station.
Rap sheet checks: nine outstanding warrants total. Missing Fingers came up a sweetheart: rape, ADW, flimflam. Shock pale, maybe dying – a medic fed him coffee and aspirin.
I booked the plant gun, bet slips and money – minus Jack Woods’ eleven hundred. Junior, press relations: the lieutenant owes you a story.
Two hours of pure shitwork.
4:30 – back to the Bureau. Messages waiting: Meg said drop by; Welles Noonan said the guard gig, six sharp. Exley: ‘Report in detail.’
Details – type them out, more shitwork:
4701 Naomi Avenue, 1400 hours. Set to raid a bookmaker’s drop, Sgt George Stemmons, Jr, and I heard shots fired inside the premises. We did not inform the other officers for fear of creating a panic. I ordered a shot-gun round directed at the front window; Sgt Stemmons misled the other men with a ‘birdshot assault’ cover story. A .38 revolver was found; we arrested six bookmakers. The suspects were booked at Newton Station; the wounded received adequate first aid and hospital treatment. R&I revealed numerous extant warrants on the six, who will be remanded to the Hall of Justice Jail and arraigned on felony charges 614.5 and 859.3 of the California Penal Code. All six men will be subsequently interrogated on the shots fired and their bookmaking associations. I will conduct the interrogations myself – as Division Commander I must personally guarantee the veracity of all proferred statements. Press coverage of this occurrence will be minimal: reporters at the scene were unprepared for the rapid transpiring of events.
Sign it: Lieutenant David D. Klein, Badge 1091, Commander, Administrative Vice.
Carbons to: Junior, Chief Exley.
The phone—
‘Ad Vice, Klein.’
‘Davey? Got a minute for an old gonif buddy?’
‘Mickey, Jesus Christ.’
‘I know, I’m supposed to call you at home. Uh … Davey … a favor for Sam G.?’
G. for Giancana. ‘I guess. What?’
‘You know that croupier guy you’re watchdogging?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well … the radiator’s loose in his bedroom.’
ROCKABYE REUBEN RUIZ: ‘This is the tits. I could get used to this.’
The Embassy Hotel: parlor, bedrooms, TV. Nine floors up, suite service: food and booze.
Ruiz belting Scotch, half-assed restless. Sanderline Johnson watching cartoons, slack-jawed.
Junior practicing quick draws.
Try some talk. ‘Hey, Reuben.’
Popping mock jabs: ‘Hey, Lieutenant.’
‘Hey, Reuben. Did Mickey C. try to infringe on your contract?’
‘He what you call strongly suggested my manager let him buy in. He sent the Vecchio brothers out to talk to him, then he punked out when Luis told them, “Hey, kill me, ’cause I ain’t signin’ no release form.” You want my opinion? Mickey ain’t got the stones for strongarm no more.’
‘But you’ve got the cojones to snitch.’
Jabs, hooks. ‘I got a brother deserted the army, maybe lookin’ at Federal time. I got three bouts coming up at the Olympic, which Welles Noonan can fuck up with subpoenas. My family’s what you call from a long line of thieves, what you call trouble prone, so I sorta like making friends in what you might call the law-enforcement community.’
‘Do you think Noonan has good stuff on Mickey?’
‘No, Lieutenant, I don’t.’
‘Call me Dave.’
‘I’ll call you Lieutenant, ’cause I got enough friends in the law-enforcement community.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as Noonan and his FBI buddy Shipstad. Hey, you know School-boy Johnny Duhamel?’
‘Sure. He fought in the Gloves, turned pro, then quit.’
‘You lose your first pro fight, you better quit. I told him that, ’cause Johnny and me are old friends, and Johnny is now Officer Schoolboy Johnny Duhamel, on the fuckin’ LAPD, on the righteous Mobster Squad, no less. He’s tight with the – what you call him? – legendary? – Captain Dudley Smith. So I got enough fuck—’
‘Ruiz, watch your language.’
Junior – pissed. Johnson goosed the TV – Mickey Mouse ran from Donald Duck.
Junior killed the volume. ‘I knew Johnny Duhamel when I taught at the Academy. He was in my evidence class, and he was a damn good student. I don’t like it when criminals get familiar with policemen. Comprende, pendejo?’
‘Pendejo, huh? So I’m the stupido, and you’re this punk cowboy, playin’ with your gun like that sissy mouse on fuckin’ television.’
Necktie pull, signal Junior: FREEZE IT.
He froze – fumbling his gun.
Ruiz: ‘I can always use another friend, Dave. There something you want to know?’
I boosted the TV. Johnson stared, rapt – Daisy Duck vamping Donald. Ruiz: ‘Hey, Dave. You wangle this job to pump me?’
Huddle close, semi-private. ‘You want to make another friend, then give. What’s Noonan have?’
‘He’s got what you call aspirations.’
‘I know that. Give.’
‘Well … I heard Shipstad and this other FBI guy talking. They said Noonan’s maybe afraid the fight probe’s too limited. Anyway, he’s thinking over this backup plan.’
‘And?’
‘And it’s like a general L.A. rackets thing, mostly Southside stuff. Dope, slots, you know, illegal vending machines and that kind of shit. I heard Shipstad say something about the LAPD don’t investigate colored on colored homicides, and all this ties to Noonan making the new DA – what’s his name?’
‘Bob Gallaudet.’
‘Right, Bob Gallaudet. Anyway, it all ties to making him look bad so Noonan can run against him for attorney general.’
Darktown, the coin biz – Mickey C.’s last going stuff. ‘What about Johnson?’
Snickers. ‘Look at that mulatto wetbrain. Can you believe he used to be forty-three, zero and two?’
‘Reuben, give.’
‘Okay, give he’s close to a fuckin’ idiot, but he’s got this great memory. He can memorize card decks, so some made guys gave him a job at the Lucky Nugget down in Gardena. He’s good at memorizing conversations, and some guys weren’t so what you call discreet talking around him. I heard Noonan’s gonna make him do these memory tricks on the stand, which—’
‘I get the picture.’
‘Good. I quit my own trouble-prone ways, but I sure got a trouble-prone family. I shouldn’t of told you what I did, so since you’re my friend I’m sure this ain’t getting back to the Federal guys, right, Dave?’
‘Right. Now eat your dinner and get some rest, okay?’
Midnight – lights out. I took Johnson; Junior took Ruiz – my suggestion.
Johnson, bedtime reading: ‘God’s Secret Power Can Be Yours’. I pulled a chair up and watched his lips: glom the inside track to Jesus, fight the Jew-Communist conspiracy to mongrelize Christian America. Send your contribution to Post Office Box blah, blah, blah.
‘Sanderline, let me ask you something.’
‘Uh, yessir.’
‘Do you believe that pamphlet you’re reading?’
‘Uh, yessir. Right here it says this woman who came back to life said Jesus guarantees all gold-star contributors a new car every year in heaven.’
JESUS FUCK.
‘Sanderline, did you catch a few in your last couple of fights?’
‘Uh, no. I stopped Bobby Calderon on cuts and lost a split decision to Ramon Sanchez. Sir, do you think Mr. Noonan will get us a hot lunch at the grand jury?’
Handcuffs out. ‘Put these on while I take a piss.’
Johnson stood up – yawning, stretching. Check the heater – thick pipes – nix ballast.
Open window – nine-floor drop – this geek half-breed smiling.
‘Sir, what do you think Jesus drives himself?’
I banged his head against the wall, threw him out of the window screaming.
LAPD HOMICIDE SAID suicide, case closed.
The DA: suicide probable.
Confirmation – Junior, Ruiz – Sanderline Johnson, crazy man.
Listen:
I watched him read, dozed off, woke up – Johnson announced he could fly. He went out the window before I could voice my disbelief.
Questioning: Feds, LAPD, DA’s men. Basics: Johnson crash-landed on a parked De Soto, DOA, no witnesses. Bob Gallaudet seemed pleased: a rival’s political progress scotched. Ed Exley: report to my office, 10:00 A.M.
Welles Noonan: incompetent disgrace of a policeman; pitiful excuse for an attorney. Suspicious – my old nickname – ‘the Enforcer’.
No mention: 187 PC – felonious homicide.
No mention: outside-agency investigations.
No mention: interdepartmental charges.
I drove home, showered, changed – no reporters hovering yet. Downtown, a dress for Meg – I do it every time I kill a man.
10:00 A.M.
Waiting: Exley, Gallaudet, Walt Van Meter – the boss, Intelligence Division. Coffee, pastry – fuck me.
I sat down. Exley: ‘Lieutenant, you know Mr Gallaudet and Captain Van Meter.’
Gallaudet, all smiles: ‘It’s been “Bob” and “Dave” since law school, and I won’t fake any outrage over last night. Did you see the Mirror, Dave?’
‘No.’
‘“Federal Witness Plummets to Death”, with a sidebar: “Suicide Pronouncement: ‘Hallelujah, I Can Fly!’” You like it?’
‘It’s a pisser.’
Exley, cold: ‘The lieutenant and I will discuss that later. In a sense it ties in to what we have here, so let’s go to it.’
Bob sipped coffee. ‘Political intrigue. Walt, you tell him.’
Van Meter coughed. ‘Well … Intelligence has done some political operations before, and we’ve got our eye on a target now – a pinko lawyer who has habitually bad-mouthed the Department and Mr Gallaudet.’
Exley: ‘Keep going.’
‘Well, Mr. Gallaudet should be elected to a regular term next week. He’s an ex-policeman himself, and he speaks our language. He’s got the support of the Department and some of the City Council, but—’
Bob cut in. ‘Morton Diskant. He’s neck and neck with Tom Bethune for Fifth District city councilman, and he’s been ragging me for weeks. You know, how I’ve only been a prosecutor for five years and how I cashed in when Ellis Loew resigned as DA. I’ve heard he’s gotten cozy with Welles Noonan, who just might be on my dance card in ’60, and Bethune is our kind of guy. It’s a very close race. Diskant’s been talking Bethune and I up as right-wing shitheads, and the district’s twenty-five percent Negro, lots of them registered voters. You take it from there.’
Play a hunch. ‘Diskant’s been riling the spooks up with Chavez Ravine, something like “Vote for me so your Mexican brothers won’t get evicted from their shantytown shacks to make room for a ruling-class ballpark.” It’s five-four in favor on the Council, and they take a final vote sometime in November after the election. Bethune’s an interim incumbent, like Bob, and if he loses he has to leave office before the vote goes down. Diskant gets in, it’s a deadlock. We’re all civilized white men who know the Dodgers are good for business, so let’s get to it.’
Exley, smiling: ‘I met Bob in ’53, when he was a DA’s Bureau sergeant. He passed the bar and registered as a Republican the same day. Now the pundits tell us we’ll only have him as DA for two years. Attorney General in ’60, then what? Will you stop at Governor?’
Laughs all around. Van Meter: ‘I met Bob when he was a patrolman and I was a sergeant. Now it’s “Walt” and “Mr Gallaudet.’”
‘I’m still “Bob”. And you used to call me “son”.’
‘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 planned in our jurisdiction. What I got was “Hallelujah, I can Fly” and “Detective Snoozes While Witness Jumps Out Window.’”
Quash a laugh. ‘So what’s the upshot?’
‘You tell me. Assess what the Feds have planned past the fight probe.’
‘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 announce it first – he’s headline happy. We’ll get a chance to prepare.’
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 banners: ‘U.S. Attorney Blasts “Negligent” Cop’; ‘Detective Voices Regret at Witness Suicide.’ Pure Exley – his press gig, his regret. Page three, more Exley: no Hurwitz-job leads – a gang with toolmaking/electronics expertise boosted a million plus in cold fur. Pix: a bandaged-up security guard; Dudley Smith ogling a mink.
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 gunned down four niggers – it closed out the Nite Owl case. Spring ’58 – evidence proved he killed the wrong men. The case was reopened; Exley and Dudley Smith ran it: the biggest job in L.A. history. Multiple homicides/smut intrigue/interlocked conspiracies – Exley cleared it for real. His construction-king father killed himself non sequitur; now Inspector Ed got his money. Thad Green resigned as Chief of Detectives; Chief Parker jumped Dudley to replace him: Edmund Jennings Exley, thirty-six years old.
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.
I watched her.
Dish duty – a lilt to her hands – maybe background music. Smiling – a face almost mine, but gentle. I hit the horn—
Yes – a primp – her glasses, her hair. A smile – anxious.
I jogged up the steps; Meg had the door open. ‘I had a feeling you’d bring me a gift.’
‘Why?’
‘The last time you got in the papers you bought me a dress.’
‘You’re the smart Klein. Go on, open it.’
‘Was it terrible? They had this clip on TV.’
‘He was a dumb bunny. Come on, open it up.’
‘David, we have to discuss some business.’
I nudged her inside. ‘Come on.’
Rip, tear – wrapping paper in shreds. A whoop, a mirror dash – green silk, a perfect fit.
‘Does it work?’
A swirl – her glasses almost flew. ‘Zip me?’
Shape her in, tug the zipper. Perfect – Meg kissed me, checked the mirror.
‘Jesus, you and Junior. He can’t stop admiring himself either.’
A swirl, a flash: prom date ’35. The old man said take Sissy – the guys hounding her weren’t appropriate.
Meg sighed. ‘It’s beautiful. Just like everything you give me. And how is Junior Stemmons these days?’
‘Thank you, you’re welcome, and Junior Stemmons is half smart. He’s not really suited for the Detective Bureau, and if his father didn’t swing me the command at Ad Vice I’d kick his ass back to a teaching job.’
‘Not a forceful enough presence?’
‘Right, with a hot-dog sensibility that makes it stand out worse, and itchy nerves like he’s raiding the dope vault at Narco. Where’s your husband?’
‘Going over some blueprints for a building he’s designing. And while we’re on the subject …’
‘Shit. Our buildings, right? Deadbeats? Skipouts?’
‘We’re slumlords, so don’t act surprised. It’s the Compton place. Three units in arrears.’
‘So advise me. You’re the real estate broker.’
‘Two units are one month due, the other is two months behind. It takes ninety days to file an eviction notice, and that entails a court date. And you’re the attorney.’
‘Fuck, I hate litigation. And will you sit down?’
She sprawled – a green chair, the green dress. Green against her hair – black – a shade darker than mine. ‘You’re a good litigator, but I know you’ll just send some goons down with fake papers.’
‘It’s easier that way. I’ll send Jack Woods or one of Mickey’s guys.’
‘Armed?’
‘Yeah, and fucking dangerous. Now tell me you love the dress again. Tell me so I can go home and get some sleep.’
Counting points – our old routine. ‘One, I love the dress. Two, I love my big brother, even though he got all the looks and more of the brains. Three, by way of amenities, I quit smoking again, I’m bored with my job and my husband and I’m considering sleeping around before I turn forty and lose the rest of my looks. Four, if you knew any men who weren’t cops or thugs I’d ask you to fix me up.’
Points back: ‘I got the Hollywood looks, you got the real ones. Don’t sleep with Jack Woods, because people have this tendency to shoot at him, and the first time you and Jack tried shacking it didn’t last too long. I do know a few DAs, but they’d bore you.’
‘Who do I have left? I flopped as a gangster consort.’
The room swayed – frazzled time. ‘I don’t know. Come on, walk me out.’
Green silk – Meg stroked it. ‘I was thinking of that logic class we took undergrad. You know, cause and effect.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I … well, a hoodlum dies in the papers, and I get a gift.’
Swaying bad. ‘Let it go.’
‘Trombino and Brancato, then Jack Dragna. Honey, I can live with what we did.’
‘You don’t love me the way I love you.’
REPORTERS AT MY door, wolfing take-out.
I parked out back, jimmied a bedroom window. Noise – newsmen gabbing my story. Lights off, crack that window: talk to defuse Meg’s bomb.
Straight: I’m a kraut, not a Jew – the old man’s handle got clipped at Ellis Island. ’38 – the LAPD; ’42 – Marines. Pacific duty, back to the Department ’45. Chief Horrall resigns; William Worton replaces him – a squeaky-clean Marine Corps major general. Semper Fi: he forms an ex-Marine goon squad. Espirit de Corps: we break strikes, beat uppity parolees back to prison.
Law school, freelance work – the GI Bill won’t cover USC. Repo man, Jack Woods’ collector – ‘the Enforcer’. Work for Mickey C: union disputes settled strongarm. Hollywood beckons – I’m tall, handsome.
Nix, but it leads to real work. I break up a squeeze on Liberace – two well-hung shines, blackmail pix. I’m in with Hollywood and Mickey C. I make the Bureau, make sergeant. I pass the bar, make lieutenant.
All true.
I topped my twenty last month – true. My Enforcer take bought slum pads – true. I shacked with Anita Ekberg and the redhead on ‘The Spade Cooley Show’ – false.
Bullshit took over; talk moved to Chavez Ravine. I shut the window and tried to sleep.
No go.
Lift that window – no newsmen. TV: strictly test patterns. Turn it off, run the string out – MEG.
It was always there scary wrong – and we touched each other too long to say it. I kept the old man’s fists off her; she kept me from killing him. College together, the war, letters. Other men and other women fizzled.
Rowdy postwar years – ‘the Enforcer’. Meg – pal, repo sidekick. A fling with Jack Woods – I let it go. Study ate up my time – Meg ran wild solo. She met two hoods: Tony Trombino, Tony Brancato.
June ’51 – our parents dead in a car wreck.
The guts, the will—
A motel room – Franz and Hilda Klein fresh buried. Naked just to see. On each other – every taste half recoil.
Meg broke it off – no finish. Fumbles: our clothes, words, the lights off.
I still wanted it.
She didn’t.
She ran crazy with Trombino and Brancato.
The fucks messed with Jack Dragna – the Outfit’s number-one man in L.A. Jack showed me a picture: Meg – bruises, hickeys – Trombino/Brancato verified.
Verified – they popped a mob dice game.
Jack said five grand, you clip them – I said yes.
I set it up – a shakedown run – ‘We’ll rob this bookie holding big.’ August 6, 1648 North Ogden – the Two Tonys in a ’49 Dodge. I slid in the backseat and blew their brains out.
‘Mob Warfare’ headlines – Dragna’s boss torpedo picked up quick. His alibi: Jack D.’s parish priest. Gangland unsolved – let the fucking wops kill each other.
I was paid – plus a tape bonus: a man raging at the scum who hurt his sister. Dragna’s voice – squelched out. My voice: ‘I will fucking kill them. I will fucking kill them for free.’
Mickey Cohen called. Jack said I owed the Outfit – the debt kosher for a few favors. Jack would call, I’d be paid – strictly business.
Hooked.
Called:
June 2, ’53: I clipped a dope chemist in Vegas.
March 26, ’55: I killed two jigs who raped a mob guy’s wife.
September ’57, a rumor: Jack D. – heart disease bad.
I called him.
Jack said, ‘Come see me.’
We met at a beachfront motel – his fixing-to-die-fuck spot. Guinea heaven: booze, smut, whores next door.
I begged him: cancel my debt.
Jack said, ‘The whores do lez stuff.’
I choked him dead with a pillow.
Coroner’s verdict/mob consensus: heart attack.
Sam Giancana – my new caller. Mickey C. his front man: cop favors, clip jobs.
Meg sensed something. Lie away her part, take all the guilt. Sleep – restless, sweaty.
The phone – grab it – ‘Yes?’
‘Dave? Dan Wilhite.’
Narco – the boss. ‘What is it, Captain?’
‘It’s … shit, do you know J. C. Kafesjian?’
‘I know who he is. I know what he is to the Department.’
Wilhite, low: ‘I’m at a crime scene. I can’t really talk and I’ve got nobody to send over, so I called you.’
Hit the lights. ‘Fill me in, I’ll go.’
‘It’s, shit, it’s a burglary at J.C.’s house.’
‘Address?’
‘1684 South Tremaine. That’s just off—’
‘I know where it is. Somebody called Wilshire dicks before they called you, right?’
‘Right, J.C.’s wife. The whole family was out for the evening, but Madge, the wife, came home first. She found the house burgled and called Wilshire Station. J.C., Tommy and Lucille – that’s the other kid – came home and found the house full of detectives who didn’t know about our … uh … arrangement with the family. Apparently, it’s some goddamn nutso B&E and the Wilshire guys are making pests of themselves. J.C. called my wife, she called around and found me. Dave …’
‘I’ll go.’
‘Good. Take someone with you, and count it one in your column.’
I hung up and called for backup – Riegle, Jensen – no answer. Shit luck – Junior Stemmons – ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me. I need you for an errand.’
‘Is it a call-out?’
‘No, it’s an errand for Dan Wilhite. It’s smooth J.C. Kafesjian’s feathers.’
Junior whistled. ‘I heard his kid’s a real psycho.’
‘1684 South Tremaine. Wait for me outside, I’ll brief you.’
‘I’ll be there. Hey, did you see the late news? Bob Gallaudet called us “exemplary officers”, but Welles Noonan said we were “incompetent free-loaders”. He said that ordering room-service booze for our witnesses contributed to Johnson’s suicide. He said—’
‘Just be there.’
Code 3, do Wilhite solid – aid the LAPD’s sanctioned pusher. Narco/J.C. Kafesjian – twenty years connected – old Chief Davis brought him in. Weed, pills, H – Darktown trash as clientele. Snitch duty got J.C. the dope franchise. Wilhite played watchdog; J.C. ratted pushers, per our policy: keep narcotics isolated south of Slauson. His legit work: a dry-cleaning chain; his son’s work: muscle goon supreme.
Crosstown to the pad: a Moorish job lit up bright. Cars out front: Junior’s Ford, a prowl unit.
Flashlight beams and voices down the driveway. ‘Holy shit, holy shit’ – Junior Stemmons.
I parked, walked over.
Light in my eyes. Junior: ‘That’s the lieutenant.’ A stink: maybe blood rot.
Junior, two plainclothesmen. ‘Dave, this is Officer Nash and Sergeant Miller.’
‘Gentlemen, Narco’s taking this over. You go back to the station. Sergeant Stemmons and I will file reports if it comes to that.’
Miller: ‘“Comes to that”? Do you smell that?’
Heavy, acidic. ‘Is this a homicide?’
Nash: ‘Not exactly. Sir, you wouldn’t believe the way that punk Tommy What’s-His-Name talked to us. Comes to—’
‘Go back and tell the watch commander Dan Wilhite sent me over. Tell him it’s J.C. Kafesjian’s place, so it’s not your standard 459. If that doesn’t convince him, have him wake up Chief Exley.’
‘Lieutenant—’
Grab a flashlight, chase the smell – back to a snipped chain-link fence. Fuck – two Dobermans – no eyes, throats slit, teeth gnashing chemical-soaked washrags. Gutted – entrails, blood – blood dripping toward a jimmied back door.
Shouts inside – two men, two women. Junior: ‘I shooed the squadroom guys off. Some 459, huh?’
‘Lay it out for me, I don’t want to question the family.’
‘Well, they were all at a party. The wife had a headache, so she took a cab home first. She went out to let the dogs in and found them. She called Wilshire, and Nash and Miller caught the squeal. J.C., Tommy and the daughter – the two kids live here, too – came home and raised a ruckus when they found cops in the living room.’
‘Did you talk to them?’
‘Madge – that’s the wife – showed me the damage, then J.C. shut her up. Some heirloom-type silverware was stolen, and the damage was some strange stuff. Do you feature this? I have never worked at B&E job like this one.’
Yells, horn bleats.
‘It’s not a job. And what do you mean “strange stuff”?’
‘Nash and Miller tagged it. You’ll see.’
I flashed the yard – foamy meat scraps – call the dogs poisoned. Junior: ‘He fed them that meat, then mutilated them. He got blood on himself, then trailed it into the house.’
Follow it:
Back-door pry marks. A laundry porch – bloody towels discarded – the burglar cleaned up.
The kitchen door intact – he slipped the latch. No more blood, the sink evidence tagged: ‘Broken Whiskey Bottles’. Cabinet-drawers theft tagged: ‘Antique Silverware’.
Them:
‘You whore, to let strange policemen into our home!’
‘Daddy, please don’t!’
‘We always call Dan when we need help!’
A dining room table, photo scraps piled on top: ‘Family Pictures’. Sax bleats upstairs.
Walk the pad.
Too-thick carpets, velvet sofas, flocked wallpaper. Window air coolers – Jesus statues perched beside them. A rug tagged: ‘Broken Records/Album Covers’ – The Legendary Champ Dineen: Sooo Slow Moods; Straight Life: The Art Pepper Quartet; The Champ Plays the Duke.
LPs by a hi-fi – stacked neat.
Junior walked in. ‘Like I told you, huh? Some damage.’
‘Who’s making that noise?’
‘The horn? That’s Tommy Kafesjian.’
‘Go up and make nice. Apologize for the intrusion, offer to call Animal Control for the dogs. Ask him if he wants an investigation. Be nice, do you understand?’
‘Dave, he’s a criminal.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be brown-nosing his old man even worse.’
‘DADDY, DON’T!’ – booming through closed doors.
‘J.C, LEAVE THE GIRL ALONE!’
Spooky – Junior ran upstairs.
‘THAT’S RIGHT, GET OUT’ – a side door slamming – ‘Daddy’ in my face.
J.C. close up: a greasy fat man getting old. Burly, pockmarked, bloody facial scratches.