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

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 like 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 troubleprone 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?"

o o o

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 the window screaming.


CHAPTER THREE

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.