Free The Big Nowhere by James Ellroy Page B

used the muzzle to turn his head toward him. Up close, he saw a chocolate brown punk next to tears, lips flapping, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he struggled for breath.
    Danny said, “Information or five years State time minimum. You call it.”
    Carlton W. Jeffries found a voice: high, squeaky. “What you think?”
    “I think you’re smart. Give me what I want, and I’ll put that envelope in the mail to you tomorrow.”
    “You could give it back now. Please. I need that money.”
    “I want a hard snitch. If you play both ends and I get hurt, I’ve got you nailed. Evidence, and the confession you just made.”
    “Man, I didn’t make no confession to you!”
    “Sure you did. You’ve been selling a pound a week. You’re the A-number-one Southside grasshopper.”
    “Man!”
    Danny rested his gun barrel on Carlton W. Jeffries’ nose. “I want names. Heroin pushers around here. Give.”
    “Man—”
    Danny flipped the .45 up and grabbed the muzzle, reversing his grip so the gun could be used as a bludgeon. “Give, goddamn you.”
    Jeffries took his hands off the dash and wrapped his arms around himself. “Only guy I know is a guy name of Otis Jackson. Lives above the laundromat on One-o-three and Beach and please don’t give me no rat jacket!”
    Danny holstered his piece and backed out the car door. His foot hit the DMV envelope just as he heard Carlton W. Jeffries start bawling. He picked the evidence up, tossed it on the seat and double-timed to his Chevy so he wouldn’t hear the sad little fuck blubber his gratitude.
    *  *  *
    103rd and Beach was a run-down intersection in the heart of Watts: hair-straightening parlors on two corners, a liquor store on the third, the Koin King Washeteria occupying number four. Lights were burning in the apartment above the laundromat; Danny parked across the street, doused his headbeams and scoped out the only possible access: side steps leading up to a flimsy-looking door.
    He walked over and up them, tiptoes, no hand on the railing for fear it would creak. At the top, he pulled his gun, put an ear to the door and listened, picking up a man’s voice counting: eight, nine, ten, eleven. Tapping the door, he faked a drawl straight from Amos ’n’ Andy: “Otis? You there, man? It’s me, man.”
    Danny heard “Shit!” inside; seconds later the door opened, held to the jamb by a chain. A hand holding a switchblade stuck out; Danny brought his gun barrel down on the shiv, then threw his weight inward.
    The switchblade hit the top step; a voice screeched; the door caved in, Danny riding it. Then it was a crash to the carpet and a topsy-turvy shot of Otis Jackson scooping junk bindles off the floor, stumbling to the bathroom, a toilet flushing. Danny got to his knees, sighted in and yelled, “Sheriff’s!” Otis Jackson flipped him his middle finger and weaved back to the living room wearing a shiteater grin.
    Danny stood up, his head pounding with jazz chords. Otis Jackson said, “The fuckin’ Sheriff’s ain’t fuckin’ shit around here.”
    Danny lashed the .45 across his face. Jackson hit the rug, moaned and spit out cracked bridgework. Danny squatted beside him. “You sell to a tall, gray-haired white man?”
    Jackson spat bloody phlegm and a slice of his tongue. “I’m with Jack D. and the Seven-Seven, mother—”
    Danny held his gun at eye level. “I’m with Mickey and the County, so what? I asked you a question.”
    “I deal Hollywood, man! I know lots of gray-haired suckers!”
    “Name them, and name everyone else you know who unloads at the clubs on South Central.”
    “I’ll let you kill me first, sucker!”
    The jazz noise was coming back, soundtracking images: Coleman Healy fondling his sax, the reefer guy about to beg. Danny said, “One more time. I want skinny on a tall white man. Middle-aged, silver hair.”
    “An’ I told you—”
    Danny heard footsteps coming up the stairs, grunts and the unmistakable sound of revolvers