Ellroy - White Jazz

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Ellroy - White Jazz

James Ellroy

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

L.A. _Herald-Express_, 10/17/58:

BOXING PROBE IN PROGRESS;

FEDERAL GRAND JURY TO HEAR WITNESSES

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 prizefighters.

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 wilt 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."

POLITICAL STEPPINGSTONES HINTED

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

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Ellroy - White Jazz

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 steppingstone."

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."

WITNESSES UNDER GUARD

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.

"Hollywood Cavalcade" Feature, _Hush-Hush_ Magazine, 10/28/58:

MISANTHROPIC MICKEY SLIPS, SLIDES,

AND NOSEDIVES SINCE PAROLE

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 sin-sational 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

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Ellroy - White Jazz

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

_trËs_ lavender) are planning nefarious activities outside of Mickey's aegis.

Get in 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 wellendowed wenches welded to "personal

service contracts"--read as bit roles in exchange for frequent nighttime 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:

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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 postmortem, 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.

PART ONE. STRAIGHT LIFE

CHAPTER ONE

The job: take down a bookie mill, let the press in--get some ink to compete with

the fight 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

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Ellroy - White Jazz

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."

Side 5

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Ellroy - White JazzJames EllroyWhite JazzTo Helen KnodeIn the end I possess my birthplaceand am possessed by its language.--Ross MacDonaldAll 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: lin...

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