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.
Chapter Twenty-Four
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:
M.C.—
I agree wholeheartedly with everything but your assessment of Dudley’s methods. What you don’t realize is that Dudley is so effective that his methods minimize the chance that potential witness will balk and inform on us to UAES. Also, I can’t give you command of the investigation, not with the obvious dislike that exists between you and Dudley. It would ruffle the feathers of a man who up until yesterday shared your rank with many more years in grade. You’re equals in this investigation, and once we go to court you’ll never have to work with him again.
Something has come up on Deputy Upshaw. A Sgt. Breuning (LAPD) called to tell me that Upshaw got into a fistfight with another City officer (Sgt. G. Niles) this afternoon, over a stupid remark Niles made about “queers.” This is, in light of the interagency command we set up for Upshaw, intolerable. Breuning also stated that Upshaw demanded four officers for surveillance work, and that Dudley, wanting to keep him happy, found the men. This is also intolerable. Upshaw is a young, inexperienced officer who, however gifted, has no right to be making such demands. I want you to sternly inform him that we will tolerate no more fisticuffs or prima donna behavior.
Sgt. Bowman is now looking for Dr. Lesnick. I hope he didn’t die on us, too—he’s a valuable addition to our team.
E.L.
P.S.—Good luck in court tomorrow. Your promotion and current duties should help you secure a continuance. I think Jake Kellerman’s strategy is sound.
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 ca
se, 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.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The hall window scraping, three soft footsteps on the bedroom floor.
Buzz stirred, rolled away from Audrey, reached under the pillow and palmed his .38, camouflaging the movement with a sleep sigh. Two more footsteps, Audrey snoring, light through a crack in the curtains eclipsed. A shape coming around his side of the bed; the sound of a hammer being cocked; “Mickey, you’re dead.”
Buzz stiff-armed Audrey to the floor, away from the voice; a silencer snicked and muzzle flash lit up a big man in a dark overcoat. Audrey screamed; Buzz felt the mattress rip an inch from his legs. In one swipe, he grabbed his billy club off the nightstand and swung it at the man’s knees; wood-encased steel cracked bone; the man stumbled toward the bed. Audrey shrieked, “Meeks!”; a shot ripped the far wall; another half second of muzzle light gave Buzz a sighting. He grabbed the man’s coat and pulled him to the bed, smothered his head with a pillow and shot him twice in the face point-blank.
The explosions were muffled; Audrey screeching was siren loud. Buzz moved around the bed and bear-hugged her, killing her tremors with his own shakes. He whispered, “Go into the bathroom, keep the light off and your head down. This was for Mickey, and if there’s a back-up man outside, he’s comin’. Stay fuckin’ down and stay fuckin’ calm.”
Audrey retreated on her knees; Buzz went into the living room, parted the front curtains and looked out. There was a sedan parked directly across the street that wasn’t there when he walked in; no other cars were stationed curbside. He did a run-through on what probably happened:
He looked like Mickey from a distance; he drove a green ’48 Eldo. Mickey’s house was bombed yesterday; Mickey, wife and pet bulldog survived. He parked his car the standard three blocks away; half-assed surveillance convinced the gunman he was Mickey, a short fat okie subbing for a short fat Jew.
Buzz kept eyeballing the sedan; it stayed still, no tell-tale cigarette glow. Five minutes went by; no cops or backup men appeared. Buzz took it as a single-o play, walked back to the bedroom and flicked on the overhead light.
The room reeked of cordite; the bed was soaked in blood; the pillow was solid saturated crimson. Buzz lifted it off and propped up the dead man’s head. It had no face, there were no exit wounds, all the red was leaking out his ears. He rifled his pockets—and the wicked bad willies came on.
An LAPD badge and ID buzzer: Detective Sergeant Eugene J. Niles, Hollywood Squad. An Automobile Club card, vehicle dope in the lower left corner—maroon ’46 Ford Crown Victoria Sedan, Cal ’49 JS 1497. A California driver’s license made out to Eugene Niles, residence 3987 Melbourne Avenue, Hollywood. Car keys and other keys and pieces of paper with Audrey’s address and an architectural floor plan for a house that looked like Mickey’s pad in Brentwood.
Old rumors, new facts, killer shake
s.
The LAPD was behind the shootout at Sherry’s; Jack D. and Mickey had buried the hatchet; Niles worked Hollywood Division, the eye of the Brenda Allen storm. Buzz ran across the street on fear overdrive, saw that the sedan was ’46 Vicky JS 1497, unlocked the trunk and ran back. He hauled out a big bed quilt, wrapped Niles and his gun up in it, shoulder-slung him up and over to the Vicky and locked him in the trunk, folding him double next to the spare tire. Panting, sweat-soaked and shaky, he walked back and braced Audrey.
She was sitting on the toilet, naked, smoking. A half dozen butts littered the floor; the bathroom was a tobacco cloud. She looked like the woman from Mars: tears had melted her makeup and her lipstick was still smudged from their lovemaking.
Buzz knelt in front of her. “Honey, I’ll take care of it. This was for Mickey, so I think we’re okay. But I should stay away from you for a while, just in case this guy had partners—we don’t want them figurin’ out it was you and me instead of you and Mickey.”
Audrey dropped her cigarette on the floor and snuffed it with her bare feet, no pain registering. She said, “All right,” a hoarse smoker’s croak.
Buzz said, “You strip the bed and burn it in the incinerator. There’s bullets in the mattress and the wall, you dig ’em out and toss ’em. And you don’t tell nobody.”
Audrey said, “Tell me it’ll be all right.” Buzz kissed the part in her hair, seeing the two of them strapped down in the gas chamber. “Honey, this will surely be all right.”