White Jazz Part 34

"A favor."

"Name it--you've shot me a few recently."

"I need a look at an lAD personal file."

"Is this an Ed innovation? IA's very much his cadre."

"Yeah, it's an Exley thing. When a man makes the Detective Bureau, IAD does a very thorough background check. I'm meeting a man tonight, and I need more of a handle on him. It's about the Darktown trouble, and you could get a look at the file with no questions."

"You're doing this behind Ed's back."

"Yeah, like those Kafesjian reports I gave you."

A pause-seconds ticking. "Touche, so call me back in a few hours. It can't leave the Bureau, but I'll oblige you with a synopsis. What's the man's name?"

"John Duhamel."

"Schoolboy Johnny? I lost a bundle on his pro debut. Care to enlighten me?"

"When it's over, Bob. Thanks."

"Well, quid pro quo for now. And next time I see you, let me tell you about the meeting Ed and I had with this colored minister. Strange bedfellows, huh?"

That bed--laced hands. "The f.u.c.king strangest."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Surplus adrenaline--it jacked me up to peep the Kafesjians.

I staked their house from three doors down--no bedroom-window strip show. n.o.body peeper-chasing--three cars on the lawn.

Stakeout time killer--my car radio: Junior eulogized--LAPD chaplain Dudley Smith: "He was a grand lad. He was a dedicated crimefighter, and it is a cruel caprice of fate that so young a man should suffer cardiac arrest while chasing a common robber."

Welles Noonan on KNX: "... and I'm not saying that the surprising death of an allegedly healthy young policeman is connected to the other five deaths that have occurred within the past twenty-four hours in South Central Los Angeles, but it seems curious to me that the Los Angeles Police Department should be so eager to explain it all away and be done with it."

Smart Noonan--s.h.i.+t draws flies.

4:00--Tommy sax-honks--my cue to leave. My own music juicing me--I was closing in on SOMETHING.

Early dusk--clouds, rain. A phone booth stop-Bob out, Riegle in. b.u.m station check news--no suicides clicked in PEEPER'S MOTHER.

Up to the set--hard rain--no shooting in progress. Luck: her trailer light on. A sprint--in the door dodging puddles.

Glenda was smoking, distracted. Sprawled on the bed--no rush to touch me.

Easy guess: "Miciak?"

She nodded. "Bradley Milteer came by. Apparently he and Herman Gerstein know each other independent of his work for Hughes. He told Herman that Miciak's body and car were found, and that all of Hughes' contract players were going to be discreetly questioned. Mickey overheard him tell Herman that detectives from the Malibu Sheriff's Station would be by to talk to me."

"That's all you heard?"

"No. Mickey said the Sheriff's are keeping their investigation under wraps to avoid embarra.s.sing Howard."

"Did he mention the Hollywood Division LAPD? A killer named the Wino WiIl-o-the-Wisp?"

Glenda blew smoke rings. "No. I thought--I mean we thought Hughes would just push this under the table."

"No, we _wished_ it. And there's no evidence that Miciak was killed at..."

"At the _f.u.c.k pad_ where Howard Hughes used to _f.u.c.k_ me and the man I killed wanted to _f.u.c.k_ me?"

Stop her/make her think. "You bought it, and now you're paying for it. Now you act your way out."

"Direct me. Tell me something to make it easy."

_Touch me, tell me things_.

"You say you were home alone that night. You don't flirt with the officers or try to charm them. You subtly drop that Hughes is a lech and you can spill the goods on it. You reach for whatever it is that you won't tell me about that gave you the stones to. . . oh s.h.i.+t, Glenda."

"Okay"--just like that--"Okay."

I kissed her-dripping wet. "Is there a phone I can use?"

"Outside Mickey's trailer. You know, if I could cry on cue, I would."

"Don't, please."

"You're leaving?"

"I have to meet a man."

"Later, then?"

"Yeah, I'll come by your place."

"I won't expect much. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

Raining buckets--I ducked under Mickey's trailer awning. The phone worked--I dialed Gallaudet's private line.

He picked up himself. "h.e.l.lo?"

"It's me, Bob."

"Dave, hi, and quid pro quo fulfilled. Are you listening?"

"Shoot."

"John Gerald Duhamel, age twenty-five. As far as IA personal files go, not much--I checked a few others for a comparison."

"And?"

"And aside from the interesting combination of a c.u.m laude engineering degree and an amateur boxing career, not much of note."

"Family?"

"An only child. His parents were supposedly rich, but died in a plane crash and left the kid broke while he was still in college, and under known a.s.sociates we've got the somewhat dicey Reuben Ruiz and his stickyfingered brothers, but of course Reuben's on our side now. The kid apparently has an undiscriminating appet.i.te for poontang, which I did myself when I was twenty-five. There were unsubstantiated rumors that he tanked his one and only pro fight, and that's all the news that's fit to print."

No bells rang. "Thanks, Bob."

"I'll never high-hat you, son--I remember those crib sheets too well."

"Thanks."

"Take care, son."

I hung up, took a breath, ran-- "Dave! Over here!"

Lightning glow lit up the voice--Chick Vecchio under a tarp hang. b.u.ms behind him, sucking T-Bird.

I dashed over--time to kill.

Chick: "Mickey's at home today."

Glenda--fifty-fifty he knew. "I should have known. f.u.c.k, this rain."

"The _Herald_ said two inches. The _Herald_ also said that kid partner of yours had a heart attack. Why don't I believe the _Herald?_"

"Because your kid brother told you my kid partner shook him down in Fern Dell Park."

"Yeah, and I don't feature twenty-nine-year-old extortionist cops having heart attacks."

"Chick, _come on_."

"All right, all right. Touch told me he told you about him and Stemmons in Fern Dell, but there's something he didn't tell you."

Preempt him: "You, Touch and Pete Bondurant are planning your own shakedown gig. It's s.e.x, and it's cough up or _Hush-Hush_ gets the pictures. Stemmons got it out of Touch, so now you're afraid that _we_ know."

"Hey, _you_ know."

I lied: "Stemmons told me. The regular Bureau doesn't have a clue, and if they knew they'd bury it to protect the kid's reputation. Your gig's covered."

"Copacetic, but I still don't feature no heart attack."

"Off the record?"

"Uh-huh, and on the QT, like _Hush-Hush_."

I cupped a whisper. "The kid was f.u.c.king around with J.C. and Tommy Kafesjian. He was popping H, and he OD'd or took a hotshot. It's a toilet job, and it's headed for a whitewash."

Chick cupped a whisper. "Feature the K. boys are not to screw around with."

"Feature I'm starting to think that Ed Exley's going to take those humps down two seconds after the Fed heat peters out."

"Which may be a while, the way things are looking."

Wind, rain. "Chick, what's with Mickey? I saw some new guys moving slots out of the Rick Rack, with Feds right across the street taking pictures."

Chick shrugged. "Mickey's Mickey. He's this hebe hardhead you can't talk sense to half the time."

"The whole thing played funny. A couple of the slot guys were Mex, and Mickey never hires spics. I tipped him on the Feds early on, but he still won't pull his metal."

"Touch and me are staying out of all this Southside business. It sounds to me like Mickey's hiring freelance."

Winos p.i.s.sing on the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p. "Yeah, and maybe cut-rate, like your crew here. Does he need money that bad? I know he's buffered, but sooner or later the Feds will pin those machines on him."

"Off the record?"

"Sure."

"Then feature Mickey's paying off a syndicate loan with his slot percentages, so he's got to let the machines linger a bit. I guess he knows it's risky, but he's scuffling."

"Yeah--'He's a sc.r.a.pper, and sc.r.a.ppers always get results.'"

"I said it and I meant it."

"And he thinks he'll get a district gambling franchise."

"Feature that bill could pa.s.s."

"Feature the AG's office under Gas Chamber Bob Gallaudet? Feature him granting _Mickey Cohen_ a franchise?"

Smirking: "Feature I don't think you came here to see Mickey."

Wet ground--the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p capsized--b.u.ms cheered. "I hope this movie makes money."