The Big Nowhere (31 page)

“…And Norm says you can fight. He’s a prizefighting fan, so it must be true. Now the question is, are you willing to fight in other ways—and for us.”

Danny looked across the table at Claire De Haven and Norman Kostenz. Five minutes into his audition; the woman all business so far, keeping friendly Norm businesslike with little taps that chilled his gushing about the picket line fracas. A handsome woman who had to keep touching things: her cigarettes and lighter, Kostenz when he gabbed too heavy or said something that pleased her. Five minutes in and he knew this about acting: a big part of the trick was sneaking what was really going on with you into your performance. He’d been up all night canvassing darktown straight off a weird jag of sobbing, coming up with nothing on the stolen Pontiac, but sensing HIM watching; the La Paloma Drive canvassing was a zero, ditto the bus line and cab company checks, and Mike Breuning had called to tell him he was trying to wangle four officers to tail the men on his surveillance list. He felt tired and edgy and knew it showed; he was running with
his
case, not this Commie shit, and if De Haven pressed for background verification he was going to play pissed and bring the conversation down to brass tacks: his resurgence of political faith and what UAES had for him to prove it with. “Miss De Haven—”

“Claire.”

“Claire, I want to help. I want to get moving again. I’m rusty with everything but my fists, and I have to find a job pretty soon, but I want to help.”

Claire De Haven lit a cigarette and sent a hovering waitress packing with a wave of her lighter. “I think for now you should embrace a philosophy of nonviolence. I need someone to come with me when I go out courting contributors. You’d be good at helping me secure contributions from HUAC widows, I can tell.”

Danny took “HUAC widows” as a cue and frowned, wounded by sudden memories of Donna Cantrell—hot love drowned in the Hudson River. Claire said, “Is something wrong, Ted?”; Norm Kostenz touched her hand as if to say, “Man stuff.” Danny winced, his muscle aches kicking in for real. “No, you just reminded me of someone I used to know.”

Claire smiled. “I reminded you or what I said did?”

Danny exaggerated a grimace. “Both, Claire.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Not quite yet.”

Claire called the waitress over and said, “A pitcher of martinis”; the girl curtsied away, writing the order down. Danny said, “No more action on the picket line, then?”

Kostenz said, “The time isn’t right, but pretty soon we’ll lower the boom”; Claire shushed him—a mere flicker of her zealot’s eyes. Danny horned in, Red Ted the pushy guy who’d step on anybody’s toes. “What ‘boom’? What are you talking about?”

Claire played with her lighter. “Norm has a precipitate streak, and for a boxing fan he’s read a lot of Gandhi. Ted, he’s impatient and I’m impatient. There was a grand jury investigation forming up, sort of a baby HUAC, but now it looks like it went bust. That’s still scary. And I listened to the radio on the ride over. There was another attempt on Mickey Cohen’s life. Sooner or later, he’ll go crazy and sic his goons on the picket line at us. We’ll have to have cameras there to catch it.”

She hadn’t really answered his question, and the passive resistance spiel sounded like subterfuge. Danny got ready to deliver a flirt line; the waitress returning stopped him. Claire said, “Just two glasses, please”; Norm Kostenz said, “I’m on the wagon,” and left with a wave. Claire poured two all ones; Danny hoisted his glass and toasted, “To the cause.” Claire said, “To all things good.”

Danny drank, making an ugh face, a nonboozer notching points with a juicehead woman; Claire sipped and said, “Car thief, revolutionary, ladies’ man. I am suitably impressed.”

Cut her slack, let
her
move, reel her in. “Don’t be, because it’s all phony.”

“Oh? Meaning?”

“Meaning I was a punk kid revolutionary and a scared car thief.”

“And the ladies’ man?”

The hook baited. “Let’s just say I was trying to recapture an image.”

“Did you ever succeed?”

“No.”

“Because she’s that special?”

Danny took a long drink, booze on top of no sleep making him misty. “She was.”

“Was?”

Danny knew she’d gotten the story from Kostenz, but played along. “Yeah, was. I’m a HUAC widower, Claire. The other women were just not…”

Claire said, “Not her.”

“Right, not her. Not strong, not committed, not…”

“Not her.”

Danny laughed. “Yeah, not her. Shit, I feel like a broken record.”

Claire laughed. “I’d give you a snappy rejoinder about broken hearts, but you’d hit me.”

“I only beat up fascists.”

“No rough stuff with women?”

“Not my style.”

“It’s mine occasionally.”

“I’m shocked.”

“I doubt that.”

Danny killed the drink. “Claire, I want to work for the union, more than just lubing old biddies for money.”

“You’ll get your chance. And they’re not old biddies—unless you think women
my
age are old.”

A prime opening. “How old are you? Thirty-one, thirty-two?”

Claire laughed the compliment out. “Diplomat. How old are you?”

Danny reached for Ted Krugman’s age, coming up with it maybe a beat too slow. “I’m twenty-six.”

“Well, I’m too old for boys and too young for gigolos. How’s that for an answer?”

“Evasive.”

Claire laughed and fondled her ashtray. “I’ll be forty in May. So thanks for the subtraction.”

“It was sincere.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Hook her now, get to the station early. “Claire, do I have political credibility with you?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Then let’s try this on the other. I’d like to see you outside our work for the union.”

Claire’s whole face softened; Danny got an urge to slap the bitch silly so she’d get mad and be a fit enemy. He said, “I mean it,” Joe Clean Cut Sincere, Commie version.

Claire said, “Ted, I’m engaged”; Danny said, “I don’t care.” Claire reached into her purse, pulled out a scented calling card and placed it on the table. “We should at least get better acquainted. Some of us in the union are meeting at my house tonight. Why don’t you come for the end of the meeting and say hello to everybody. Then, if you feel like it, we can take a drive and talk.”

Danny palmed the card and stood up. “What time?”

“8:30.”

He’d be there early; pure cop, pure work. “I look forward to it.”

Claire De Haven had gotten herself back together, her face set and dignified. “So do I.”

Krugman back to Upshaw.

Danny drove to Hollywood Station, parked three blocks away and walked over. Mike Breuning met him in the muster room doorway, grinning. “You owe me one, Deputy.”

“What for?”

“Those guys on your list are now being tailed. Dudley authorized it, so you owe him one, too.”

Danny smiled. “Fucking A. Who are they? Did you give them my number?”

“No. They’re what you might wanta call Dudley’s boys. You know, Homicide Bureau guys Dudley’s brought up from rookies. They’re smart guys, but they’ll only report to Dud.”

“Breuning, this is my investigation.”

“Upshaw, I know. But you’re damn lucky to have the men you’ve got, and Dudley’s working the grand jury job too, so he wants to keep you happy. Have some goddamn gratitude. You’ve got no rank and you’re running seven full-time men. When I was your age, I was rousting piss bums on skid row.”

Danny moved past Breuning into the muster room, knowing he was right, pissed anyway. Plainclothesmen and bluesuits were milling around, chuckling over something on the notice board. He looked over their shoulders and saw a new cartoon, worse than the one Jack Shortell ripped down.

Mickey Cohen, fangs, skullcap and a giant hard-on, pouring it up the ass of a guy in an LASD uniform. The deputy’s pockets were spilling greenbacks; Cohen’s speech balloon said: “Smile, sweetie! Mickey C. gives it kosher!”

Danny shoved a line of blues aside and pulled the obscenity off the wall; he pivoted around, faced a full contingent of enemy cops and tore the piece of cardboard to shreds. The LAPD men gawked, simmered and plain stared; Gene Niles pushed through them and faced Danny down. He said, “I talked to a guy named Leo Bordoni. He wouldn’t blab outright, but I could tell he’d been questioned before. I think you rousted him, and I think it was inside Goines’ pad. When I described the place it was like he’d already fucking been there.”

Except for Niles, the room was a blur. Danny said, “Not now, Sergeant,” brass, the voice of authority.

“Up your ass, not now. I think you B&E’d in my jurisdiction. I know you didn’t catch that squeal at the doughnut stand, and I’ve got a damn good lead where you did get it. If I can prove it, you’re—”

“
Niles not now
.”

“Up your ass, not now. I had a good robbery case going until you came along with your crazy homo shit. You’ve got a queer fix, you’re cuckoo on it and maybe you are a fucking queer!”

Danny lashed out, quick lefts and rights, short speed punches that caught Niles flush, ripped his face but didn’t move his body back one inch. The enemy cops dispersed; Danny launched a hook to the gut; Niles feinted and came in with a hard uppercut, slamming Danny into the wall. He hung there, a stationary target, pretending to be gone; Niles telegraphed a huge right hand at his midsection. Danny slid away just before contact; Niles’ fist hit the wall; he screeched into the sound of bones crunching. Danny sidestepped, swung Niles around and rolled sets at his stomach; Niles doubled over; Danny felt the enemy cops moving in. Somebody yelled, “Stop it!”; strong arms bear-hugged and picked him up. Jack Shortell materialized, whispering, “Easy, easy,” in the bear hugger’s ear; the arms let go; another somebody yelled “Watch Commander walking!” Danny went limp and let the old-timer cop lead him out a side exit.

Krugman to Upshaw to Krugman.

Shortell got Danny back to his car, extracting a promise that he’d try to sleep. Danny drove home, woozy one second, all jitters the next. Finally pure exhaustion hit him and he employed Ted-Claire repartee to stay awake. The banter saw him straight to bed, a pass on Mal Considine’s bottle. With the Krugman leather jacket as his blanket, he fell asleep immediately.

And was joined by odd women and HIM.

The San Berdoo High senior hop, 1939. Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey on the PA system, Susan Leffert leading him out of the gym and into the boys’ locker room, a Mason jar of schnapps as bait. Inside, she fumbles at his shirt buttons, licking his chest, biting the hair. He tries to drum up enthusiasm by staring at his body in the dressing mirror, but keeps thinking of Tim; that feels good, but hurts, and finally having it both ways is just bad. He tells Susan he met an older woman he wants to be loyal to, she reminds him of Suicide Donna who bought him his nice bombardier jacket, a real war hero number. Susan says, “What war?”; the action fades because he knows something’s off, Pearl Harbor is still two years away. Then this tall, faceless man, silver-haired, naked, is there, all around him in a circle, and squinting to see his face makes him go soft in Susan’s mouth.

Then a whole corridor of mirrors, him chasing HIM, Karen Hiltscher, Roxy Beausoleil, Janice Modine and a bevy of Sunset Strip gash swooping down while he hurls excuses.

“I can’t today, I have to study.”

“I don’t dance, it makes me self-conscious.”

“Some other time, okay?”

“Sweetie, let’s keep this light. We work together.”

“I don’t want it.”

“No.”

“Claire, you’re the only real woman I’ve met since Donna.”

“Claire, I want to fuck you so bad just like I used to fuck Donna and all the others. They all loved it because I loved doing it so much.”

He was gaining ground on HIM, gaining focus on the gray man’s brick shithouse build. The apparition twirled around; he had no face, but Tim’s body and bigger stuff than Demon Don Eversall, who use to hang out in the shower, trap water in his jumbo foreskin, hold his thing out and croon, “Come drink from my cup of love.” Hard kissing; bodies mashed together, the two of them inside each other, Claire walking out of the mirror, saying, “That’s impossible.”

Then a gunshot, then another and another.

Danny jolted awake. He heard a fourth ring, saw that he’d sweated the bed sopping, felt like he had to piss and threw off the jacket to find his trousers wet. He fumbled over to the phone and blurted, “Yes?”

“Danny, it’s Jack.”

“Yeah, Jack.”

“Son, I cleared you with the assistant watch commander, this lieutenant named Poulson. He’s pals with Al Dietrich, and he’s reasonable about our Department.”

Danny thought: and Dietrich’s pals with Felix Gordean, who’s got LAPD and DA’s Bureau pals, and Niles is pals with God knows who on the Sheriff’s. “What about Niles?”

“He’s been yanked from our job. I told Poulson he’d been riding you, that he provoked the fight. I think you’ll be okay.” A pause, then, “Are you okay? Did you sleep?”

The dream was coming back; Danny stifled a shot of HIM. “Yeah, I slept. Jack, I don’t want Mal Considine to hear about what happened.”

“He’s your boss on the grand jury?”

“Right.”

“Well, I won’t tell him, but somebody probably will.”

Mike Breuning and Dudley Smith replaced HIM. “Jack, I have to do some work on the other job. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Shortell said, “One more thing. We got minor league lucky on our hot car queries—an Olds was snatched two blocks from La Paloma. Abandoned at the Samo Pier, no prints, but I’m adding ‘car thief’ to our records checks. And we’re a hundred and forty-one down on the dental queries. It’s going slow, but I have a hunch we’ll get him.”

HIM.

Danny laughed, yesterday’s wounds aching, new bone bruises firing up in his knuckles. “Yeah, we’ll get him.”

Danny segued back to Krugman with a shower and change of clothes, Red Ted the stud in Karen Hiltscher’s sports jacket, pegged flannels and a silk shirt from Considine’s disguise kit. He drove to Beverly Hills middle-lane slow, checking his rear-view every few seconds for cars riding his tail too close and a no-face man peering too intently, shining his headlights too bright because deep down he wanted to be caught, wanted everyone to know
WHY
. No likely suspects appeared in the mirror; twice his trawling almost got him into fender benders. He arrived at Claire De Haven’s house forty-five minutes early; he saw Caddies and Lincolns in the driveway, muted lights glowing behind curtained windows and one narrow side dormer cracked for air, screened and shade covered—but open. The dormer faced a stone footpath and tall shrubs separating the De Haven property from the neighboring house; Danny walked over, squatted down and listened.