"Ellroy, James - White Jazz" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ellroy James)

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.

o o o

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 news 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 plainclothesmen. 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/strongarm/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 Ia guerre. And by the way, how's your sister?"
"Meg's fine."
"Say hi for me."