The Big Nowhere (41 page)

Headlights bounced over the street, caught his windshield and went off. Mal heard a car door slamming and tapped his highbeams; Buzz walked over and said, “You do
your
homework?”

“Yeah. Like you said, circumstantial. But it’s there.”

“How’d you fix this up, Cap?”

Mal held back on the De Haven deal. “Danny wasn’t too subtle hitting up Claire for Loftis’ whereabouts on the killing dates, so she faked a meeting diary—Loftis alibied for the three nights. She says there were meetings, and he was there, but they were planning seditious stuff—that’s why she sugar-coated the damn thing. She says Loftis is clean.”

“You believe it?”

“Maybe, but my gut tells me they’re connected to the whole deal. This afternoon I checked Loftis’ bank records going back to ’40. Three times in the spring and summer of ’44 he made cash withdrawals of ten grand. Last week he made another one. Interesting?”

Buzz whistled. “From old Reynolds’s missing-file time. It’s gotta be blackmail, there’s blackmail all over this mess. You wanna play him white hat-black hat?”

Mal got out of the car. “You be the bad guy. I’ll get De Haven out of the way, and we’ll work him.”

They walked up to the door and rang the bell. Claire De Haven answered; Mal said, “You go somewhere for a couple of hours.”

Claire looked at Buzz, lingering on his ratty sharkskin and heater. “You mustn’t touch him.”

Mal hooked a thumb over his back. “Go somewhere.”

“No thank yous for what I did?”

Mal caught Buzz catching it. “Go somewhere, Claire.”

The Red Queen brushed past them out the door; she gave Buzz a wide berth. Mal whispered, “Hand signals. Three fingers on my tie means hit him.”

“You got the stomach for this?”

“Yes. You?”

“One for the kid, boss.”

Mal said, “I still don’t make you for the sentimental gesture type.”

“I guess old dogs can learn. What just happened with you and the princess?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure, boss.”

Mal heard coughing in the living room; Buzz said, “I’ll kick-start him.” A voice called, “Gentlemen, can we get this over with?”

Buzz walked in first, whistling at the furnishings; Mal followed, taking a long look at Loftis. The man was tall and gray per Upshaw’s suspect description; he was dashingly handsome at fifty or so and his whole manner was would-be slick—a costume of tweed slacks and cardigan sweater, a sprawl on the divan, one leg hooked over the other at the knee.

Mal sat next to him; Buzz thunked a chair down a hard breath away. “You and that honey Claire are gettin’ married, huh?”

Loftis said, “Yes, we are.”

Buzz smiled, soft and homespun. “ That’s sweet. She gonna let you pork boys on the side?”

Loftis sighed. “I don’t have to answer that question.”

“The fuck you don’t. You answer it, you answer it now.”

Mal came in. “Mr. Loftis is right, Sergeant. That question is not germane. Mr. Loftis, where were you on the nights of January first, fourth and the fourteenth of this year?”

“I was here, at meetings of the UAES Executive Committee.”

“And what was discussed at those meetings?”

“Claire said I didn’t have to discuss that with you.”

Buzz snickered. “You take orders from a woman?”

“Claire is no ordinary woman.”

“She sure ain’t. A rich bitch Commie that shacks with a fruitfly sure ain’t everyday stuff to me.”

Loftis sighed again. “Claire told me this would be ugly, and she was correct. She also told me your sole purpose was to convince yourselves that I didn’t kill anyone, and that I did not have to discuss the UAES business that was transacted on those three nights.”

Mal knew Meeks would figure out the Claire deal before too long; he joined his partner on the black hat side. “Loftis, I don’t think you did kill anybody. But I think you’re in deep on some other things, and I’m not talking politics. We want the killer, and you’re going to help us get him.”

Loftis licked his lips and knotted his fingers together; Mal touched his tie bar:
go in full
. Buzz said, “What’s your blood type?”

Loftis said, “O positive.”

“That’s the killer’s blood type, boss. You know that?”

“It’s the most common blood type among white people, and your friend just said I’m no longer a suspect.”

“My friend’s a soft touch. You know a trombone man named Marty Goines?”

“No.”

“Duane Lindenaur?”

“No.”

“George Wiltsie?”

Tilt: Loftis crossing and recrossing his legs, licking his lips. “No.”

Buzz said, “Horse fucking pucky, you don’t
Give
.”

“I said I never knew him!”

“Then why’d you describe him in the past tense?”

“Oh God—”

Mal flashed two fingers, then his left hand over his right fist:
He’s mine, no hitting.
“Augie Duarte, Loftis. What about him?”

“I don’t know him”—a dry tongue over dry lips.

Buzz cracked his knuckles—loud. Loftis flinched; Mal said, “George Wiltsie was a male prostitute. Did you ever traffic with him? Tell the truth or my partner will get angry.”

Loftis looked down at his lap. “Yes.”

Mal said, “Who set it up?”

“Nobody set it up! It was just…a date.”

Buzz said, “A date you paid for, boss?”

“No.”

Mal said, “Felix Gordean set you up with him, right?”

“No!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“No!”

Mal knew a straight admission was out; he jabbed Loftis hard on the shoulder. “Augie Duarte. Was he just a date?”

“No!”

“Tell the truth, or I’ll leave you alone with the sergeant.”

Loftis pinched his knees together and hunched his shoulders down. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes. We dated once.”

Buzz said, “You sound like a one-night stand man. A date with Wiltsie, a date with Duarte. Where’d you meet those guys?”

“Nowhere…at a bar.”

“What bar?”

“The Oak Room at the Biltmore, the Macombo, I don’t know.”

“You’re rattlin’ my cage, boy. Duarte was Mex and those joints don’t serve spics. So try again. Two goddamn queer slash murder victims you got between the sheets with. Where’d you meet them?”

Reynolds Loftis stayed crimped up and silent; Buzz said, “You paid for them, right? It ain’t no sin. I’ve paid for pussy, so why shouldn’t somebody of your persuasion pay for boys?”

“No. No. No, that’s not true.”

Mal, very soft. “Felix Gordean.”

Loftis, trembling. “No no no no no.”

Buzz twirled a finger and smoothed his necktie—the switcheroo sign. “Charles Hartshorn. Why’d he kill himself?”

“He was tortured by people like you!”

Mal’s switcheroo. “You copped horse for Claire. Who’d you get it from?”

“Who told you that?”—Loftis actually sounding indignant.

Buzz leaned over and whispered, “Felix Gordean”; Loftis jerked back and banged his head on the wall. Mal said, “Duane Lindenaur worked at Variety International, where your friends Lopez, Duarte and Benavides are working. Juan Duarte is Augie Duarte’s cousin. You used to appear in Variety International movies. Duane Lindenaur was blackmailing Charles Hartshorn. Why don’t you put all that together for me.”

Loftis was sweating; Mal caught a twitch at
blackmail
. “Three times in ’44 and once last week you withdrew ten grand from your bank account. Who’s blackmailing you?”

The man was oozing sweat. Buzz flashed a fist on the QT; Mal shook his head and gave him the switch sign. Buzz said, “Tell us about the Sleepy Lagoon Defense Committee. Some strange stuff happened, right?”

Loftis wiped sweat off his brow; he said, “What strange stuff?”, his voice cracking.

“Like the letters the Committee got that said a big white man snuffed José Diaz. A deputy pal of ours seemed to think these here killings went back to Sleepy Lagoon—zoot stick time. All the victims were cut with zoot sticks.”

Loftis wrung his hands, popping more sweat; his eyes were glazed. Mal could tell Meeks went for a soft shot—innocuous stuff from his interrogation notes—but came up with a bludgeon. Buzz looked bewildered; Mal tamped down his black hat. “Loftis, who’s blackmailing you?”

Loftis squeaked, “No”; Mal saw that he’d sweated his clothes through. “What happened with the SLDC?”

“No!”

“Is Gordean blackmailing you?”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds that my answ—”

“You’re a slimy piece of Commie shit. What kind of treason are you planning at your meetings? Cop on that!”

“Claire said I didn’t have to!”

“Who’s that piece of tail you and Chaz Minear were fighting over during the war? Who’s that piece of fluff?”

Loftis sobbed and keened and managed a squeaky singsong. “I refuse to answer on the grounds that my answers might tend to incriminate me, but I never hurt anybody and neither did my friends so please don’t hurt us.”

Mal made a fist, Stanford ring stone out to do maximum damage. Buzz put a hand on his own fist and squeezed it, a new semaphore:
don’t hit him or I’ll hit you
. Mal got scared and went for big verbal ammo: Loftis didn’t know Chaz Minear ratted him to HUAC. “Are you protecting Minear? You shouldn’t, because he was the one who snitched you to the Feds. He was the one who got you blacklisted.”

Loftis curled into a ball; he murmured his Fifth Amendment spiel, like their interrogation was legal and defense counsel would swoop to the rescue. Buzz said, “You dumb shit, we coulda had him.” Mal turned and saw Claire De Haven standing there. She was saying, “Chaz,” over and over.

The picket line action was simmering.

Buzz watched from the Variety International walkway, three stories up. Jack Shortell and Mal were supposed to call; Ellis Loew had called him at home, yanking him out of another Danny nightmare. The DA’s command: convince Herman Gerstein to kick an additional five thou into the grand jury war chest. Herman was out—probably muff-diving Betty Grable—and there was nothing for him to do but stew on Considine’s foul-up and scope the prelim to slaughter down on the street.

You could see it plain:

A Teamster goon with a baseball bat was lounging near the UAES camera van; when the shit hit the fan and the film rolled, he’d be Johnny on the spot to neutralize the cinematographer and bust up his equipment. Teamster pickets were carrying double and triple banner sticks, taped grips, good shillelaghs. Four muscle boys were skulking by the Pinkos’ lunch truck—just the right number to tip it over and coffee-scald the guy inside. A minute ago he saw a Cohen triggerman make an on-the-sly delivery: riot guns with rubber-bullet attachments, wrapped in swaddling cloth like Baby Jesus. Over on De Longpre, the Teamsters had
their
moviemaking crew at the ready: actor/picketers who’d wade in, provoke just the right way and make sure a few UAES pickets whomped them; three camera guys in the back of a tarp-covered pickup. When the dust cleared, Mickey’s boys would survive on celluloid as the good guys.

Buzz kept posing Mal against the action. The Cap had almost shot Doc Lesnick’s confidentiality on the psych files—blowing the whistle on Minear squealing Loftis—just when they were getting close on the blackmail angle and Felix Gordean. He’d hustled him out of the house quicksville, so he wouldn’t keep trashing the team’s cover—if they were lucky, De Haven and Loftis figured a HUAC source gave them the dope on Minear. For a smart cop, Captain Malcolm Considine kept making stupid moves: it was twenty to one he’d cut a deal with Red Claire for the custody case continuance; ten to one his attack on Loftis came close to deep sixing it. The old nance was no killer, but the ’42 to ’44 gap in his psych file—a time he was terrified remembering—talked volumes, and he and De Haven were looking like prime suspects on the snatch of the kid’s paperwork. And Doc Lesnick being no-place was starting to look as wrong as Mal fucking up his own wet dream.

The Teamster men were passing around bottles; UAES was marching and shouting its sad old refrain: “Fair Wages Now,” “End the Studio Tyranny.” Buzz thought of a cat about to pounce on a mouse nibbling cheese on the edge of a cliff; he gave the matinee a pass and walked into Herman Gerstein’s office.

Still no mogul; the switchboard girl at the plant knew to forward his calls to Herman’s private line. Buzz sat behind Gerstein’s desk, sniffed his humidor, admired his starlet pics on the wall. He was speculating on his grand jury bonus when the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Meeks?”

Not Mal, not Shortell—but a familiar voice. “It’s me. Who’s this?”

“Johnny.”

“Stompanato?”

“How soon they forget.”

“Johnny, what’re you callin’ me for?”

“How soon they forget their good deeds. I owe you one, remember?”

Buzz remembered the Lucy Whitehall gig—it seemed like a million years ago. “Go, Johnny.”

“I’m paying you back, you cracker shitbird. Mickey knows Audrey’s the skimmer. I didn’t tell him, and I even kept hush on what you pulled with Petey S. It was the bank. Audrey put her skim in the Hollywood bank where Mick puts his race wire dough. The manager got suspicious and called him. Mickey’s sending Fritzie over to get her. You’re closer, so we’re even.”

Buzz saw Icepick Fritzie carving. “You knew about us?”

“I thought Audrey looked nervous lately, so I tailed her up to Hollywood, and she met you. Mickey doesn’t know about you and her, so stay icy.”

Buzz blew a wet kiss into the phone, hung up and called Audrey’s number; he got a busy signal, hauled down to the back lot and his car. He ran red lights and yellow lights and took every shortcut he knew speeding over; he saw Audrey’s Packard in the driveway, jumped the curb and skidded up on the lawn. He left the motor running, pulled his .38, ran to the door and shouldered it open.

Audrey was sitting on her bargain basement lounge chair, hair in curlers, cold cream on her face. She saw Buzz and tried to cover herself; Buzz beelined for her and started kissing, getting all gooey. He said, “Mickey knows you skimmed him,” between kisses; Audrey squealed. “This isn’t fair!” and “You’re not supposed to see me this way!” Buzz thought of Fritzie K. gaining ground, grabbed the lioness and slung her out to her car. He gasped, “Ventura by Pacific Coast Highway, and I’m right behind you. It ain’t the Beverly Wilshire, but it’s safe.”

Audrey said, “Five minutes to pack?”

Buzz said, “No.”

Audrey said, “Oh shit. I really liked LA.”

Buzz said, “Say goodbye to it.”

Audrey popped off a handful of curlers and wiped her face. “Bye-bye, LA.”

The two-car caravan made it to Ventura in an hour ten. Buzz ensconced Audrey in the shack at the edge of his farmland, hid her Packard in a pine grove, left her all his money except a tensky and a single and told her to call a friend of his on the Ventura Sheriff’s for a place to stay—the man owed him almost as much as he owed Johnny Stompanato. Audrey started crying when she realized it really was bye-bye LA, bye-bye house, bank account, clothes and everything else except her bagman lover; Buzz kissed off the rest of her cold cream, told her he’d call his buddy to grease the skids and ring her at the guy’s place tonight. The lioness left him with a dry-eyed sigh. “Mickey was good with a buck, but he was lousy in bed. I’ll try not to miss him.”

Buzz drove straight into Oxnard, the next town south. He found a pay phone, called Dave Kleckner at the Ventura Court-house, made arrangements for him to pick up Audrey and dialed his own line at Hughes Aircraft. His secretary said Jack Shortell had called; she’d forwarded him to Herman Gerstein’s office and Mal Considine’s extension at the Bureau. Buzz changed his dollar into dimes and had the operator ring Madison-4609; Mal answered, “Yes?”

“It’s me.”

“Where are you? I’ve been trying to get you all morning.”

“Ventura. A little errand.”

“Well, you missed the goodies. Mickey went nuts. He gave his boys on Gower Gulch carte blanche, and they’re busting heads as we speak. I just got a call from a Riot Squad lieutenant, and he said it’s the worst he’s ever seen. Want to place bets?”

Odds on him getting the lioness out of the country: even money. “Boss, Mickey’s nuts on Audrey, that’s what probably ripped his cork. He found out she was skimmin’ at his shark mill.”

“Jesus. Does he know about—”

“Ixnay, and I wanta keep it that way. She’s stashed up here for now, but it can’t last forever.”

Mal said, “We’ll fix something. Are you still hot on payback?”

“More than ever. You talk to Shortell?”

“Ten minutes ago. Do you have something to write on?”

“No, but I got a memory. Shoot me.”

Mal said, “The last thing Danny worked was a connection between the Joredco Dental Lab on Bunker Hill—they make animal dentures—and a naturalist who raises wolverines a few blocks away. Nort Layman identified bite marks on the victims as coming from wolverine teeth—that’s what this is all about.”

Buzz whistled. “Christ on a crutch.”

“Yeah, and it gets stranger. One, Dudley Smith never put tails on those men Danny wanted under surveillance. Shortell found out, and he doesn’t know if it means anything or not. Two, Danny’s fix on the Sleepy Lagoon killing and the SLDC ties in to some burglary accomplice of Marty Goines—a youth back in the early ’40s—a kid with a burned face. Bunker Hill had a lot of unsolved B&Es the summer of ’42, and Danny gave Shortell eight names from FI cards—curfew was being enforced then, so there were plenty of them. Shortell ran eliminations on the names and came up with one man with O + blood—Coleman Masskie, DOB 5/9/23, 236 South Beaudry, Bunker Hill. Shortell thinks this guy may be a good bet as Goines’ burglar buddy.”

Buzz got the numbers down. “Boss, this Masskie guy ain’t even twenty-seven years old, which sorta contradicts the middle-aged killer theory.”

Mal said, “I know, that bothers me too. But Shortell thinks Danny was close to cracking the case—and
he
thought this burglary angle was a scorcher.”

“Boss, we gotta take down Felix Gordean. We were gettin’ close last night, when you…”

Silence, then Mal sounding disgusted. “Yeah, I know. Look, you take the Masskie lead, I’ll shake Juan Duarte. I put four Bureau men out to find Doc Lesnick, and if he’s alive and findable, he’s ours. Let’s meet tonight in front of the Chateau Marmont, 5:30. We’ll stretch Gordean.”

Buzz said, “Let’s do it.”

Mal said, “Did you figure out De Haven and me?”

“Took about two seconds. You don’t think she’ll cross you?”

“No, I’ve got the ace high hand. You and Mickey Cohen’s woman. Jesus.”

“You’re invited to the wedding, boss.”

“Stay alive for it, lad.”

Buzz took Pacific Coast Highway down to LA, Wilshire east to Bunker Hill. Dark clouds were brewing, threatening a deluge to soak the Southland, maybe unearth a few more stiffs, send a few more hardnoses out for payback. Two thirty-six South Beaudry was a low-rent Victorian, every single shingle weatherstripped and splintered; Buzz pulled up and saw an old woman raking leaves on a front lawn as jaundiced as the pad.

He got out and approached her. Closer up, she showed a real faded beauty: pale, almost transparent skin over haute couture cheekbones, full lips and the comeliest head of gray-brown hair he’d ever seen. Only her eyes were off—they were too bright, too protruding.

Buzz said, “Ma’am?”

The old girl leaned on her rake; there was all of one leaf caught on the tines—and it was the only leaf on the whole lawn. “Yes, young man? Are you here to make a contribution to Sister Aimee’s crusade?”

“Sister Aimee’s been out of business awhile, ma’am.”

The woman held out her hand—withered and arthritic looking—a beggar’s paw. Buzz dropped some odd dimes in it. “I’m lookin’ for a man named Coleman Masskie. Do you know him? He used to live here seven, eight years ago.”

Now the old girl smiled. “I remember Coleman well. I’m Delores Masskie Tucker Kafesjian Luderman Jensen Tyson Jones. I’m Coleman’s mother. Coleman was one of the staunchest slaves I bore to proselytize for Sister Aimee.”

Buzz swallowed. “Slaves, ma’am? And you certainly do have a lot of names.”

The woman laughed. “I tried to remember my maiden name the other day, and I couldn’t. You see, young man, I have had many lovers in my role as child breeder to Sister Aimee. God made me beautiful and fertile so that I might provide Sister Aimee Semple McPherson with acolytes, and the County of Los Angeles has given me many a Relief dollar so that I might feed my young. Certain cynics consider me a fanatic and a welfare chiseler, but they are the devil speaking. Don’t you think that spawning good white progeny for Sister Aimee is a noble vocation?”

Buzz said, “I certainly do, and I was sorta thinkin’ about doin’ it myself. Ma’am, where’s Coleman now? I got some money for him, and I figure he’ll kick some of it back to you.”

Delores scratched the grass with her rake. “Coleman was always generous. I had a total of nine children—six boys, three girls. Two of the girls became Sister Aimee followers, one, I’m ashamed to say, became a prostitute. The boys ran away when they turned fourteen or fifteen—eight hours a day of prayer and Bible reading was too strenuous for them. Coleman remained the longest—until he was nineteen. I gave him a dispensation: no prayer and Bible reading because he did chores around the neighborhood and gave me half the money. How much money do you owe Coleman, young man?”

Buzz said, “Lots of it. Where is Coleman, ma’am?”

“In hell, I’m afraid. Those who rebuke Sister Aimee are doomed to boil forever in a scalding cauldron of pus and Negro semen.”

“Ma’am, when did you last see Coleman?”

“I believe I last saw him in the late fall of 1942.”

A half-sane answer—one that played into Upshaw’s timetable. “What was old Coleman doin’ then, ma’am?”

Delores pulled the leaf from her rake and crumbled it to dust. “Coleman was developing worldly ways. He listened to jazz records on a Victrola, prowled around in the evenings and quit high school prematurely, which angered me, because Sister Aimee prefers her slaves to have a high school diploma. He got a dreadful job at a dental laboratory, and quite frankly he became a thief. I used to find strange trinkets in his room, but I let him be when he confessed his transgressions against private property and pledged ten percent of his proceeds to Sister Aimee.”

The dental lab, Coleman as a burglar—Upshaw’s theory coming through. “Ma’am, was this ’42 when Coleman was doin’ his thievery?”

“Yes. The summer before he left home.”

“And did Coleman have a burned face? Was he disfigured somehow?”

The old loon was aghast. “Coleman was male slave beauty personified! He was as handsome as a matinee idol!”

Buzz said, “Sorry for impugnin’ the boy’s looks. Ma’am, who was Masskie? He the boy’s daddy?”

“I don’t really recall. I was spreading myself quite thin with men back in the early nineteen twenties, and I only took the surnames of man with large endowments—the better for when I chanted my breeding incantations. Exactly how much money do you owe Coleman? He’s in hell, you know. Giving me the money might win a reprieve on his soul.”

Buzz forked over his last ten-spot. “Ma’am, you said Coleman hightailed in the fall of ’42?”

“Yes, that’s true, and Sister Aimee thanks you.”

“Why did he take off? Where did he go?”

Delores looked scared—her skin sank over her cheekbones and her eyes bugged out another couple of inches. “Coleman went looking for his father, whoever he was. A nasty man with a nasty brogue came around asking for him, and Coleman became terrified and ran away. The brogue man kept returning with questions on Coleman’s whereabouts, but I kept invoking the power of Sister Aimee and he desisted.”