White Jazz Part 18

"No."

"Did she describe this guy?"

"No."

"Did she say he chased colored girls?"

"No. Officer, look--"

I slapped the table--Big d.i.c.k crossed himself.

"Did she mention a man named Tommy Kafesjian?"

"No."

"Fur coats?"

"No."

"Fur-coat robberies?"

Junior squirming, scratching his hands.

"Officer, she just said she was banging this guy Tommy. She said he wasn't that good, but he turned her out, and you always pack a torch for the guy who took your cherry."

I froze.

Junior jumped bolt upright--that cuff link rolled under the door.

Itchy scratchy nerves--he jerked the door open. Standing outside: Dan Wilhite. Hall speaker blinks--he'd heard.

"Klein, come here."

I stepped forward. Wilhite jabbed my chest--I bent his hand back. "_This is my case. You don't like it, take it up with Exley_."

Narco goons right there--I let him go. Junior tried to waltz--I pulled him back.

Wilhite--pale, popping spit bubbles.

His boys flushed--wicked p.i.s.sed, spoiling to trash me.

Lo Bruto: "Jesus, I'm hungry."

I shut the door.

"Hey, I'm starved. Can I have a sandwich or something?"

I hit the intercom. "Sid, bring the other man in."

Lo Bruto out, Kaltenborn in: this fat geek wearing a fez. Junior sulked and hid his eyes.

The geek--"Please, I don't want any trouble"--his voice half-a.s.s familiar.

I hit Play.

Lucille: "In advance, sweet." Pause. "Yes, that means _now_."

Kaltenborn winced--hot potato.

Pause, "Okay, okay"--_more_ familiar. Mattress squeaks, grunts-- Fats sobbed along.

Lucille: "Let's play a little game. Now I'll be the daughter and you'll be the daddy, and if you're _reeeeal_ sweet we can go again no extra."

Big sobs.

I pushed Stop. "Was that you, Mr. Kaltenborn?"

Sobs, nods. Junior squirmed--junkie s.h.i.+tbird.

"Quit crying, Mr. Kaltenborn. The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we'll let you go."

His fez slid down c.o.c.keyed. "Lydia?"

"What?"

"My wife, she won't . . ."

"This is strictly confidential. _Is_ that you on the tape, Mr. Kaltenborn?"

"Yes, yes it is. Did. . . did the police record that . . ."

"That _illegal_ extramarital a.s.signation? No, we didn't. Do you know who did?"

"No, of course not."

"_Did_ you play the daddy?"

m.u.f.fled, sob-choked: "Yes."

"Then tell me about it."

Fretting the fez--twisting it, stroking it. "I wanted to go again, so the girl put on her clothes and begged me to rip them off. She said, 'Rip my clothes off, Daddy.' I did it, and we went again, and that's all. I don't know her name-I never saw her before and I haven't seen her since. This is all just a terrible coincidence. That girl was the only prost.i.tute I ever trafficked with, and I was at a meeting with my Shrine brothers to discuss our charity fish fry when one of them asked me if I knew where prost.i.tutes could be procured, so I--"

"Did the girl talk about a man named Tommy?"

"No."

"A _brother_ named Tommy?"

"No."

"A man who might be following her, or tape-recording her or eavesdropping on her?"

"No, but I--"

"_But what?_"

"But I heard a man in the room next to us crying. Maybe it was my imagination, but it was as if he was listening to us. It was as if what he heard disturbed him."

Peeper bingo.

"Did you see the man?"

"No."

"Did you hear him say or mutter specific words?"

"No."

"Did the girl mention other members of her family?"

"No, she just said what I told you and what you played me on that tape. Officer. . . where did you get that? I.. . I don't want my wife to hear--"

"Are you _sure_ she didn't mention a man named Tommy?"

"Please, Officer, you're shouting!"

Change-up: "I'm sorry, Mr. Kaltenborn. Sergeant, do you have any questions?"

Sergeant--this gun-fondling hophead--"N-no"--watch his hands.

"Mr. Kaltenborn, did the girl wear a FUR COAT?"

"No, she wore tight toreador pants and some sort of inexpensive wrap."

"Did she say she dug STRIPTEASE?"

"No."

"Did she say she frequented a Negro club named BIDO LITO'S?"

"No."

"Did she say that peeling off a HOT FUR COAT was ecstasy?"

"No. What are you--?"

Junior dropped his hands--watch for a quick draw.

"Mr. Kaltenborn, did she say she knew a GORGEOUS BLOND POLICEMAN who used to be a boxer?"

"No, she didn't. I. . . I don't understand the thrust of these questions, Officer."

"Did she say she knew a shakedown-artist cop with a THRUST for young blond guys?"

RABBIT-- Out the door, down the hall--Junior, his piece unholstered. Outside, chase him, sprint-- He made his car--heaving breathless. I grabbed him, pinned his gun hand, bent his head back.

"_I'll let you slide on all of it. I'll pull you off the Kafesjian job before you f.u.c.k things up worse. We can trade off right now_."

Greasy pomade hair--he thrashed his head free. Stray headlights. .h.i.t this dope face oozing spittle: "That cuut killed Dwight Gilette, and you're suppressing it. Ainge left town, and maybe I got the gun she fired. You're queer for that c.u.n.t and I think you pushed that witness out the window. No trade, and you just watch me take you and that c.u.n.t down."

I grabbed his neck and dug in to kill him. Obscene--his breath, his lips curled to bite. I edged back--slack--a knee slammed me. Down, sucking wind, kicked p.r.o.ne-tires spinning gravel.

Headlights: Jack Woods in tail pursuit.

West L.A., 3:00 A.M. Junior's building--four street-level units--no lights on. No Junior Ford parked nearby--pick the lock, hit the lights.

Aches groin to ribcage--hurt him, kill him. I left the lights on--_let him_ show.

Bolt the door, walk the pad.

Living room, dinette, kitchen. Matched wood--fastidious. Neatness, grime: squared-off furniture, dust.

The sink: moldy food, bugs.

The icebox: amyl nitrite poppers.

b.u.t.t-filled ashtrays--Junior's brand--lipstick-smudged.

Bathroom, bedroom: grime, makeup kit--the lipstick color matched the b.u.t.ts. A waste basket: red-lip-blotted tissue overflowing. An unmade bed, popped poppers on the sheets. I flipped the pillow: a silencer-fitted Luger and s.h.i.+t-caked d.i.l.d.o underneath.

Paperbacks on the nightstand: _Follow the Boys_, _The Greek Way_, _Forbidden Desire_.

A padlocked trunk.

A wall photo: Lieutenant Dave Klein in LAPD dress blues. Track queer thinking, zoooom: I'm not married.

No woman heat pre-Glenda.

Meg--he _couldn't_ know.

The Luger smiling--"Go ahead, shoot something."

I fired, point-blank silent: shattered gla.s.s/ripped plaster/ripped ME. I shot the trunk--splinters/cordite haze-the lock flew.