The Big Nowhere (32 page)

Words came at him, filtered through coughs and garbled interruptions. He picked out a man’s shout: “Cohen and his farshtunkener lackeys have to go nutso first”; Claire’s “It’s all in knowing when to squeeze.” A soft, mid-Atlantic drawl: “We have to give the studios an out to save face with, that’s why knowing when is so important. It has to hit the fan just right.”

Danny kept checking his blind side for witnesses; he heard a long digression on the ’52 presidential election—who’d run, who wouldn’t—that degenerated into a childish shouting match, Claire finally dominating with her opinion of Stevenson and Taft, fascist minions of varying stripes. There was something about a movie director named Paul Doinelle and his “Cocteau-like” classics; then an almost complete duet: the soft-voiced man chuckling over “old flames,” a man with a stentorian Southern accent punch-lining, “But I got Claire.” Danny recalled the psychiatric files: Reynolds Loftis and Chaz Minear were lovers years ago; Considine told him that now Claire and Loftis were engaged to be married. He got stomach flip-flops and looked at his watch: 8:27, time to meet the enemy.

He walked around and rang the bell. Claire opened the door and said, “Right on time”; Danny saw that her makeup and slacks suit tamped down her wrinkles and showed off her curves better than the powder job and dress at the restaurant. He said, “You look lovely, Claire.”

Claire whispered, “Save it for later,” took his arm and led him into the living room, subtle swank offset by framed movie posters: Pinko titles from the grand jury package. Three men were standing around holding drinks: a Semitic-looking guy in tweeds, a small, trim number wearing a tennis sweater and white ducks, and a dead ringer composite for HIM—a silver-maned man pushing fifty, topping six feet by at least two inches, as lanky as Mal Considine but ten times as handsome. Danny stared at his face, thinking something about the set of his eyes was familiar, then looked away—queer or ex-queer or whatever, he was just an image—a Commie, not a killer.

Claire made the introductions. “Gentlemen, Ted Krugman. Ted, left to right we have Mort Ziffkin, Chaz Minear and Reynolds Loftis.”

Danny shook their hands, getting, “Hey there, slugger,” from Ziffkin, “A pleasure,” from Minear and a wry smile out of Loftis, an implicit aside: I allow my fiancée to dally with younger guys. He gave the tall man his strongest grip, snapping hard into Ted K. “The pleasure’s all mine, and I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Minear smiled; Ziffkin said, “Attaboy”; Loftis said, “You and Claire have a good strategy talk, but get her home early, you hear?”—a Southern accent, but no syrup and another aside: he was sleeping with De Haven tonight.

Danny laughed, knowing he’d just memorized Loftis’ features; Claire sighed, “Let’s go, Ted. Strategy awaits.”

They walked outside. Danny thought of rolling tails and steered Claire to his car. She said, “Where do you want to strategize”;
her
aside, her parody on Loftis playing cute. Danny opened the passenger door, getting an idea: prowl darktown with the protective coloration of a woman in tow. It was nearly two weeks since he’d gone strongarming down there, he probably wouldn’t be recognized in his non-cop outfit and HE was near the Southside strip just yesterday. “I like jazz. Do you?”

“I love it, and I know a great spot in Hollywood.”

“I know some places on South Central that really bop. What do you say?”

Claire hesitated, then said, “Sure, sounds like fun.”

East on Wilshire, south on Normandie. Danny drove fast, thinking of his midnight meeting and ways to chill Considine on the Niles ruckus; he kept checking the rear-view mock casual, gifting Claire with a smile each time so she’d think he was thinking of her. Nothing strange appeared in the mirror; Reynolds Loftis’ face stayed in his mind, a $$$ to make
the
face jump out and bite him. Claire chain-smoked and drummed her nails on the dashboard.

The silence played right, two idealists deep in thought. East on Slauson, south on Central, more mirror checks now that they were on HIS stomping ground. Danny pulled up in front of the Club Zombie; Claire said, “Ted, what are you afraid of?”

The question caught him checking his waistband for the sap he always packed on niggertown assignments; he stopped and grabbed the wheel, Red Ted the persecuted Negro’s buddy. “The Teamsters, I guess. I’m rusty.”

Claire put a hand on his cheek. “You’re tired and lonely and driven. You want to please and do the right thing so badly that it just about breaks my heart.”

Danny leaned into the caress, a catch in his throat like when he saw Considine’s bottle. Claire took her hand away and kissed the spot she’d touched. “I am such a sucker for strays. Come on, strong silent type. We’re going to listen to music and hold hands, and we’re
not
going to talk about politics.”

The catch stuck; the kiss was still warm. Danny walked ahead of Claire to the door; the bouncer from New Year’s Day was there and eyed him like he was just another white hepcat. Claire caught up just as the cold air got him back to normal: Krugman the Commie on a hot date, Upshaw the Homicide cop on overtime. He took her arm and led her inside.

The Zombie interior was just like two weeks before, with an even louder, more dissonant combo wailing on the bandstand. This time the clientele was all Negro: a sea of black faces offset by colored lighting, a flickering canvas where a white/gray face would stand out and scream, “Me!” Danny slipped the maitre d’ a five-spot and requested a wall table with a floor view; the man led them to seats near the back exit, took their order for a double bonded and a dry martini, bowed and motioned for a waitress. Danny settled Claire into the chair closest to the bandstand; he grabbed the one facing the bar and the audience.

Claire laced her fingers through Danny’s and beat time on the table with their hands, a gentle beat, counterpoint to the screechy bebop that filled the room. The drinks arrived; Claire paid, a fiver to the high-yellow waitress, her free hand up to refuse the change. The girl sashayed off; Danny sipped bourbon—cheap house stuff that burned. Claire squeezed his hand; he squeezed back, grateful for loud music that made talk impossible. Looking out at the crowd, he sensed that HIM here was just as impossible—he’d know the police now had him pegged as a darktown car thief—he’d avoid South Central like the plague.

But the place felt right, safe and dark. Danny closed his eyes and listened to the music, Claire’s hand on his still making a beat. The combo’s rhythm was complex: drums shooting a melody to the sax, the sax winging it off on digressions, returning to simpler and simpler chords, then the main theme, then the trumpet and bass taking flight, going crazy with more and more complicated riffs. Listening for the handoffs was hypnotic; half the sounds were ugly and strange, making him wish for the simple, pretty themes to come back. Danny listened, ignoring his drink, trying to figure the music out and predict where it was going. He felt like he was getting the synchronization when a crescendo came out of nowhere, the players quit playing, applause hit like thunder and bright lights came on.

Claire dropped his hand and started clapping; a mulatto lounge lizard sidled by the table, saying, “Hello, sweet. I ain’t seen you in a dog’s age.” Claire averted her eyes; Danny stood up; the mulatto said, “Forget old friends, see if I care,” and kept sidling.

Claire lit a cigarette, her lighter shaking. Danny said, “Who was that?”

“Oh, a friend of a friend. I used to have a thing for jazz musicians.”

The mulatto had made his way up to the bandstand; Danny saw him slip something into the bass player’s hand, a flash of green picked up at the same time. Considine on De Haven: she was a skin-popper and devotee of pharmacy hop.

Danny sat down; Claire stubbed out her cigarette and sparked another one. The lights were dimmed; the music started—a slow, romantic ballad. Danny tried the beating time maneuver, but Claire’s hand wouldn’t move. Her eyes were darting around the room; he saw the exit door across from them open up, spotlighting Carlton W. Jeffries, the grasshopper he’d strong-armed for a snitch on H pushers. The doorway cast a strip of light all the way over to Claire De Haven making with rabbity eyes, a rich white girl with a snout for lowlife afraid that more embarrassment might ruin her date with an undercover cop out to get her indicted for treason. The door closed; Danny felt her fear jump on him and turn the nice, dark, safe place bad, full of crazy jungle niggers who’d eat him whole, revenging all the niggers he’d pushed around. He said, “Claire, let’s leave, okay?”

Claire said, “Yes, let’s.”

The ride back was all Claire with the jitters, rambling on what she’d accomplished with what organizations—a litany that sounded harmless and probably contained not one shred of information that Considine and Loew would find interesting. Danny let it wash over him, thinking of his meeting, wondering what Leo Bordoni told Gene Niles, if Niles really had a County source to place him inside 2307, and if he could prove it, would anybody care? Should he grease Karen Hiltscher on general principles, her being the only
real
snitch possibility, even though her even knowing Niles was unlikely? And how should he lay off the blame for the fight? How to make Considine think his future exec beating up one of his own men was kosher, when that man might just have him by the balls?

Danny turned onto Claire’s block, thinking of good exit lines; slowing down and stopping, he had two at the ready. He smiled and prepared to perform; Claire touched his cheek, softer than the first time. “I’m sorry, Teddy. It was a lousy first date. Rain check?”

Danny said, “Sure,” going all warm, the catch again.

“Tomorrow night, here? Just us, strategy and whatever the spirit moves us to?”

Her hand had reversed itself, knuckles lightly tracing his jawline. “Sure…darling.”

She stopped then, eyes shut, lips parted. Danny moved into the kiss, wanting the soft hand, not the hungry mouth painted pinkish red. Just as they touched, he froze and almost pulled away. Claire’s tongue slid across his teeth, probing. He thought of Reynolds Loftis, gave the woman his face and did it.

Mal was watching Buzz Meeks eat, thinking that suicide love must be good for the appetite: the fat man had devoured a plate of stuffed shrimp, two double-thick pork chops with onion rings, and was now killing a huge piece of peach pie buried in ice cream. It was their second meal together, with INS file work and his run by Jake Kellerman’s office in between; at lunch Meeks had wolfed a porterhouse, home fries and three orders of rice pudding. Mal picked at a plate of chicken salad and shook his head; Meeks said, “A growin’ boy’s got to feed. What time’s Upshaw due?”

Mal checked his watch. “I told him midnight. Why, do you have plans?”

“A late one with my sweetie. Howard’s usin’ his spot up by the Bowl, so we’re meetin’ at her place. I told her I’d be there by one at the latest, and I mean to be punctual.”

“Meeks, are you taking precautions?”

Buzz said, “We use the rhythm method. Her place when Howard’s rhythm moves us.” He dug in his coat pockets and fished out an envelope. “I forgot to tell you. When you were at your lawyer’s, Ellis came by. I gave him your memo, and he read it and wrote you one. Apparently, your boy traded blows with some LAPD dick. Ellis said to read this and abide by it.”

Mal opened the envelope and pulled out a slip of paper covered with Ellis Loew’s handwriting. He read:

Mal wadded the paper up and hurled it blindly; it bounced off the back of the booth and landed on Meeks’ butter plate. Buzz said, “Whoa, partner”; Mal looked up and saw Danny Upshaw hovering. He said, “Sit down, Deputy,” ticked until he noticed the kid’s hands were shaking.

Danny slid into the booth next to Meeks. Buzz said, “Turner Meeks” and gave him a shake; Danny nodded and turned to Mal. “Congratulations, Captain. And thanks for the jug.”

Mal eyed his decoy, thinking that right now he looked not one iota cop. “Thank you, and my pleasure. And before we get to business, what happened with Sergeant Niles?”

Danny gripped an empty water glass. “He’s got a crazy idea I B&E’d the place where the second and third victims were found. Essentially, he’s miffed at taking orders from me. Jack Shortell told me the watch commander yanked him off the case, so I’m glad he’s out of my hair.”

The answer sounded rehearsed. Mal said, “That’s all of it?”

“Yes.”

“And did you B&E?”

“No, of course not.”

Mal thought of the “queer” remark, but let it pass. “All right, then consider this a reprimand, from Ellis Loew
and
myself. No more of that,
period
. Don’t let it happen again. Got that?”

Danny raised the glass, looking chagrined when he found it empty. “Yes, Captain.”

“It’s still ‘Mal.’ Do you want something to eat?”

“No thanks.”

“A drink?”

Danny pushed the glass away. “No.”

Buzz said, “Save your dukes for the Police Golden Gloves. I knew a guy made Sergeant beatin’ up on guys his CO hated.”

Danny laughed; Mal wished that he’d order a shot for his nerves. “Tell me about the approach. Have you met with De Haven?”

“Yeah, twice.”

“And?”

“And she’s making a play for me.”

His operative was actually blushing. Mal said, “Tell me about it.”

“There’s not much to tell yet. We had a date tonight, we’ve got another one set for tomorrow night. I listened outside her house while a meeting was going on, and I picked up some stuff. Pretty vague, but enough to tell me that they have some kind of extortion angle going against the studios and they’re planning to time it with the Teamsters going crazy on the picket line. So tell Mickey to keep his guys in check. I could tell this angle is important to their strategy, and when I see De Haven tomorrow, I’m going to press her for details.”

Mal kicked the dope around, thinking that it played true to his take on the brain trusters: they were duplicitous, they talked a lot, they took their own sweet time acting and let outside events call the tune. “Who have you met besides Kostenz and De Haven?”

“Loftis, Minear and Ziffkin, but just briefly.”

“How did they impress you?”

Danny made an open-handed gesture. “They didn’t really impress me at all. I only spoke to them for a minute or so.”

Buzz chuckled and loosened his belt. “You were lucky old Reynolds didn’t jump your bones instead of De Haven. Nice-lookin’ young guy like you would probably get that old prowler stiffin’ up a hard yard.”

Danny flushed again. Mal thought of him working two twenty-four-hour-a-day cases, jamming them into one twenty-four-hour day. He said, “Tell me how your other job’s going.”

Danny’s eyes were darting, flicking over the neighboring booths, lingering on men at the bar before returning to Mal. He said, “Slow but well, I think. I’ve got my own home file, all the evidence and all my impressions, and that’s a help. I’ve got a bunch of records checks going, and so far that’s slow, but steady. Where I think I’m getting close is on the victims, putting them together. He’s not a random psycho, I
know
that. If I get closer, I might need a decoy to help draw him out. Would it be possible to get another man?”

Mal said, “No” ’ he watched Danny’s eyes follow two men walking past their booth. “No, not after your stunt with Niles. You’ve got those four officers Dudley Smith swung you—”

“They’re Dudley’s men, not mine! They won’t even report to me, and Mike Breuning’s jerking my chain! For all I know he’s bunked out on the whole job!”

Mal slapped the table, bringing Danny’s eyes back to him. “Look at me and listen. I want you to calm down and take things slow. You’re doing all you can on both your assignments, and aside from Niles you’re doing great. Now you’ve lost one man, but you’ve got your tailing officers, so just figure you’ve cut your goddamn losses, knuckle down and be a professional.
Be a policeman
.”

Danny’s eyes, blurry, held on Mal. Buzz said, “Deputy, you got any hard leads on your victims, any whatcha call common denominators?”

The operative spoke to his operator. “A man named Felix Gordean. He’s a homosexual procurer connected to one of the victims, and I
know
the killer’s got some kind of fix on him. I haven’t leaned on him too hard yet, because he’s paying off County Central Vice and he says he’s got influence with LAPD and the Bureau.”

Mal said, “Well, I’ve never heard of him, and I’m top Bureau dog. Buzz, do you know this guy?”

“Sure do, boss. Large City juice, larger County. One lean and mean fruitfly, plays golf with Sheriff Eugene Biscailuz, puts a few shekels in Al Dietrich’s pockets come Christmastime, too.”

As he said the words, Mal knew it was one of the finest moments of his life. “Lean on him, Danny. I’ll stand the heat, and if anyone gives you grief, you’ve got the Chief DA’s Investigator for the City of Los Angeles in your corner.”

Danny stood up, looking heartbreaker grateful. Mal said, “Go home and sleep, Ted. Have a nightcap on me.” The decoy left, saluting his brother officers; Buzz breathed out slowly. “That boy is up on a tall old tree limb lookin’ down at a tall old boy with a saw, and you’ve got more balls than brains.”

It was just about the nicest thing anyone ever told him. Mal said, “Have another piece of pie, lad. I’m picking up the check.”