White Jazz

A week — backtrack it:

I ran that one block to my building. Old bookie stash holes in the basement — I tucked the money away.

Calls from the janitor’s phone:

Glenda, long distance: come down, grab the cash, hide. Pete in El Segundo: cut Chick loose — Glenda’s got twenty grand for you.

Pandemonium at Sears — prowl cars responding to shots. Bullock dead, Dudley rushed to Queen of Angels. My explanation: ask Chief Exley.

I was arrested — bagged on Exley’s APB. I was allowed one phone call — I buzzed Noonan.

A custody battle ensued — LAPD vs. Feds — Noonan victorious.

Material witness protection — no charges filed on me yet.

A Statler Hilton suite, friendly guards: Jim Henstell and Will Shipstad.

A TV in my room — dig the news:

Mickey Cohen — solid-citizen Fed helper.

Gas Chamber Bob G. — nine days missing, where’s the DA?

Frequent visits from Welles Noonan.

My tack: total silence.

His tack: threats, lawyer logic.

Exley called him the day we glommed Bullock; dig the deal he offered:

A joint LAPD/Fed effort — Narco swings and Dave Klein brings in four witnesses. Cooperation assured; Exley quoted verbatim: “Let’s bury the hatchet and work together. One of the witnesses will be a high-ranking LAPD man, more like a hostile interrogatee. He has intimate knowledge on the Kafesjian family, and I would call him federally indictable on at least a half-dozen charges. I think he will more than make up for the loss of Dan Wilhite, who regrettably committed suicide last week. Mr. Noonan, this officer is very dirty. All I ask is that he be portrayed as a contained, totally autonomous entity within the LAPD, just as you’ve agreed to portray the Narcotics Division.”

Coming up: an LAPD/Fed press conference.

My “witnesses”:

Wylie Bullock — dead.

Chick V. — probably hiding.

Madge — grieving somewhere.

Dudley Smith — on the critical list.

“Critical” PR — Exley press manipulation — no word on the Bullock thing issued. No City charges filed on me; Bullock cremated.

No “witnesses” — and Noonan was furious.

Threats:

“I’ll prosecute your sister on tax charges.”

“I’ll give the DA’s Office my bugging tapes — Glenda Bledsoe goddamn admitted she killed Dwight Gilette.”

“I have you on tape telling a man named Jack to ‘kill him.’ If you refuse to talk to me, I’ll have Federal agents comb a list of your known associates for that man.”

My tack: total silence.

My ace: sole-witness status — I knew EVERYTHING.

Days dragged. No more L.A. “crime wave” news — Noonan and Exley put the fix in. Tommy and J.C. — under Fed surveillance, untouchable.

A visit from Ed Exley.

“I think you stole money from me. Cooperate with Noonan and I’ll let you keep it. You’ll need money — and I won’t miss it.”

“Without your testimony Dudley can’t be touched.”

“If this agreement with the Feds falls through, the Department will look disgracefully ineffectual.”

My tack: total silence.

A visit from Pete B. Whispers: Glenda’s got the money — and she paid me my cut. Word’s out you’re a Fed snitch — Sam Giancana just issued a contract.

A visit from two Sheriff’s dicks: “We like Glenda Bledsoe for the Miciak job.”

My tack — confession — I killed him solo. I dropped knife wound details — they bought it — they said they’d file Murder One on me.

Noonan right there: “I will use the full power of the Federal Government to keep this man in my sole custody.”

A phone call — Jack Woods checking in:

“Meg’s okay. Sam G. put the word out — you’re dead.”

Stale news.

Long days — playing cards with Will Shipstad killed time. Instincts: he hates Fed work, he hates Noonan. I threw out a bribe flyer: erase the Glenda tape for thirty grand.

He agreed.

Noonan confirmed it the next day: “Incompetent technicians!” — a huge tantrum.

Long nights — bad dreams — killings, beatings, bribes, shakedowns, lies.

Bad sleep, no sleep.

Afraid to sleep, nightmares on call: Johnny begging, one-eyed Dudley.

Glenda — hard to conjure — easy to hear:

“You want to confess.”

Two nights, six legal pads — Dave “the Enforcer” Klein confesses—

Killings, beatings, bribes, payoffs, shakedowns — my police career up to Wylie Bullock. Lies, intimidation, vows trashed, oaths broken. Exley and Smith — my accessories — tell the world.

Ninety-four pages — Shipstad leaked it to Pete B.

Conduit Pete, copies to: Hush-Hush, the L.A. Times, the State AG.

Time ticking, Noonan crazed: the press conference is pending, I need you to talk.

Threats, offers, threats—

I talked:

“Give me two days of freedom under Federal guard. When I return to custody we’ll prepare my testimony.”

Noonan — reluctant, half crazy: “Yes.”