The Big Nowhere (22 page)

The night was damp and chilly, hinting of rain; music echoed through the Marmont’s inner courtyard—string swells, boogie jumps and odd ballad tremolos. Danny took the footpath to 7941, chafing from the fit of Karen’s suit. 7941 was brightly lit, the velvet curtains he’d peered through open wide; the dance floor of three nights before gleamed behind a large picture window. Danny fidgeted with his jacket and rang the bell.

Chimes sounded; the door opened. A small man with a short dark beard and perfectly layered thin hair stood there. He was wearing a tuxedo with a tartan cummerbund, dangling a brandy snifter against his leg. Danny smelled the same fifty-year-old Napoleon he bought himself once a year as his reward for spending Christmas with his mother. The man said, “Yes? Are you with the Sheriff’s?”

Danny saw that he’d unbuttoned his coat, leaving his gun exposed. “Yes. Are you Felix Gordean?”

“Yes, and I don’t appreciate bureaucratic faux pas. Come in.”

Gordean stood aside; Danny walked in and ran eye circuits of the room where he’d glimpsed men dancing and kissing. Gordean moved to a bookcase, reached behind the top shelf and returned with an envelope. Danny caught an address: 1611 South Bonnie Brae, the Sheriff’s Central Vice operations front, where recalcitrant bookies got strong-armed, recalcitrant hookers got serviced, protections kickbacks got tallied. Gordean said, “I always mail it in. Tell Lieutenant Matthews I don’t appreciate in-person calls with their implied threat of additional charges.”

Danny let Gordean’s hand hover in front of him—buffed nails, an emerald ring and probably close to a grand in cash. “I’m not a bagman, I’m a detective working a triple homicide.”

Gordean smiled and held the envelope down at his side. “Then let me initiate you regarding my relationship with your Department, Mr.—”

“It’s Deputy Upshaw.”

“Mr. Upshaw, I cooperate fully with the Sheriff’s Department, in exchange for certain courtesies, chief among them your contacting me by telephone when you require information. Do you understand?”

Danny got a strange sensation: Gordean’s frost was making him frosty. “Yes, but as long as I’m here…”

“As long as you’re here, tell me how I can assist you. I’ve never been questioned on a triple homicide before, and frankly I’m curious.”

Danny speedballed his three victims’ names. “Martin Goines, George Wiltsie and Duane Lindenaur. Dead. Raped and hacked to death.”

Gordean’s reaction was more frost. “I’ve never heard of a Martin Goines. I brokered introductions for George Wiltsie throughout the years, and I think George mentioned Duane Lindenaur to me.”

Danny felt like he was treading on an iceberg; he knew going in for shock value wouldn’t play. “Duane Lindenaur was an extortionist, Mr. Gordean. He met and attempted to extort money from a man named Charles Hartshorn—who he allegedly met at a party you threw.”

Gordean smoothed his tuxedo lapels. “I know Hartshorn, but I don’t recall actually meeting Lindenaur. And I throw a lot of parties. When was this alleged one?”

“In ’40 or ’41.”

“That’s a long time ago. You’re staring at me very acutely, Mr. Upshaw. Is there a reason for that?”

Danny touched his own lapels, caught what he was doing and stopped. “I usually get at least a ‘my God’ or a twitch when I tell someone that an acquaintance of theirs has been murdered. You didn’t bat an eye.”

“And you find that dismaying?”

“No.”

“Curious?”

“Yes.”

“Am I an actual suspect in these killings?”

“No, you don’t fit my description of the killer.”

“Do you require alibis for me to further assert my innocence?”

Danny snapped that he was being sized up by an expert. “All right. New Year’s Eve and the night of January fourth. Where were you?”

Not a second’s hesitation. “I was here, hosting well-attended parties. If you require verification, please have Lieutenant Matthews do it for you—we’re old friends.”

Danny saw flashes of
his
party: black-on-black tangos framed in velvet. He flinched and stuffed his hands in his pockets; Gordean’s eyes flicked at the show of nerves. Danny said, “Tell me about George Wiltsie.”

Gordean walked to a liquor cabinet, filled two glasses and returned with them. Danny smelled the good stuff and jammed his hands down deeper so he wouldn’t grab. “Tell me about George Wilt—”

“George Wiltsie was a masculine image that a number of men found enticing. I paid him to attend my parties, dress well and act civilized. He made liaisons here, and I received fees from those men. I imagine that Duane Lindenaur was his lover. That’s all I know about George Wiltsie.”

Danny took the glass Gordean was offering—something to do with his hands. “Who did you fix Wiltsie up with?”

“I don’t recall.”

“You
what
?”

“I host parties, guests come and meet the young men I provide, money is discreetly sent to me. Many of my clients are married men with families, and keeping a blank memory is an extra service I provide them.”

The glass was shaking in Danny’s hand. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

Gordean sipped brandy. “No, but I expect you to accept that answer as all you are going to get.”

“I want to see the books for your service, and I want to see a client list.”

“No. I write nothing down. It might be considered pandering, you see.”

“Then name names.”

“No, and don’t ask again.”

Danny forced himself to barely touch his lips to the glass; barely taste the brandy. He swirled the liquid and sniffed it, two fingers circling the stem—and stopped when he saw he was imitating Gordean. “Mr. Gor—”

“Mr. Upshaw, we’ve reached an impasse. So let me suggest a compromise. You said that I don’t fit your killer’s description. Very well, describe your killer to me, and I will try to recall if George Wiltsie went with a man like that. If he did, I will forward the information to Lieutenant Matthews, and he can do with it what he likes. Will that satisfy you?”

Danny bolted his drink—thirty-dollar private stock guzzled. The brandy burned going down; the fire put a rasp on his voice. “I’ve got the LAPD with me on this case, and the DA’s Bureau. They might not like you hiding behind a crooked Vice cop.”

Gordean smiled—very slightly. “I won’t tell Lieutenant Matthews you said that, nor will I tell Al Dietrich the next time I send him and Sheriff Biscailuz passes to play golf at my club. And I have
good
friends with both the LAPD and the Bureau. Another drink, Mr. Upshaw?”

Danny counted to himself—one, two, three, four—the kibosh on a hothead play. Gordean took his glass, moved to the bar, poured a refill and came back wearing a new smile—older brother looking to put younger brother at ease. “You know the game, Deputy. For God’s sake quit coming on like an indignant boy scout.”

Danny ignored the brandy and sighted in on Gordean’s eyes for signs of fear. “White, forty-five to fifty, slender. Over six feet tall, with an impressive head of silver hair.”

No fear; a thoughtful scrunching up of the forehead. Gordean said, “I recall a tall, dark-haired man from the Mexican Consulate going with George, but he was fiftyish during the war. I remember several rather rotund men finding George attractive, and I know that he went regularly with a very tall man with red hair. Does that help you?”

“No. What about men in general of that description? Are there any who frequent your parties or regularly use your service?”

Another thoughtful look. Gordean said, “It’s the impressive head of hair that tears it. The only tall, middle-aged men I deal with are quite balding. I’m sorry.”

Danny thought, no you’re not—but you’re probably telling the truth. He said, “What did Wiltsie tell you about Lindenaur?”

“Just that they were living together.”

“Did you know that Lindenaur attempted to extort money from Charles Hartshorn?”

“No.”

“Have you heard of either Wiltsie or Lindenaur pulling other extortion deals?”

“No, I have not.”

“What about blackmail in general? Men like your clients are certainly susceptible to it.”

Felix Gordean laughed. “My clients come to my parties and use my service because I insulate them from things like that.”

Danny laughed. “You didn’t insulate Charles Hartshorn too well.”

“Charles was never lucky—in love or politics. He’s also not a killer. Question him if you don’t believe me, but be courteous, Charles has a low threshold for abuse and he has much legal power.”

Gordean was holding out the glass of brandy; Danny took it and knocked the full measure back. “What about enemies of Wiltsie and Lindenaur, known associates, guys they ran with?”

“I don’t know anything about that sort of thing.”

“Why not?”

“I try to keep things separate and circumscribed.”

“Why?”

“To avoid situations like this.”

Danny felt the brandy coming on, kicking in with the shots he’d had at home. “Mr. Gordean, are you a homosexual?”

“No, Deputy. Are you?”

Danny flushed, raised his glass and found it empty. He resurrected a crack from his briefing with Considine. “That old scarlet letter routine doesn’t wash with me.”

Gordean said, “I don’t quite understand the reference, Deputy.”

“It means that I’m a professional, and I can’t be shocked.”

“Then you shouldn’t blush so easily—your color betrays you as a naif.”

The empty glass felt like a missile to heave; Danny hit back on “naif” instead. “We’re talking about three people dead. Cut up with a fucking zoot stick, eyes poked out, intestines chewed on. We’re talking about blackmail and burglary and jazz and guys with burned-up faces, and you think you can hurt me by calling
me
naif? You think you—”

Danny stopped when he saw Gordean’s jaw tensing. The man stared down at the floor; Danny wondered if he’d stabbed a nerve or just hit him on simple revulsion. “What is it? Tell me.”

Gordean looked up. “I’m sorry. I have a low threshold for brash young policemen and descriptions of violence, and I shouldn’t have called—”

“Then help me. Show me your client list.”

“No. I told you I don’t keep a list.”

“Then tell me what bothered you so much.”

“I did tell you.”

“And I don’t feature you as that sensitive. So tell me.”

Gordean said, “When you mentioned jazz, it made me think of a client, a horn player that I used to broker introductions to rough trade to. He impressed me as volatile then, but he’s not tall or middle-aged.”

“And that’s
all
?”

“Cy Vandrich, Deputy. Your tactics have gotten you more than I would normally have been willing to part with, so be grateful.”

“And that’s
all
?”

Gordean’s eyes were blank, giving nothing up. “No. Direct all your future inquiries through Lieutenant Matthews and learn to sip fine brandy—you’ll enjoy it more.”

Danny tossed his crystal snifter on a Louis XIV chair and walked out.

An hour and a half to kill before his meeting with Considine; more liquor out of the question. Danny drove to Coffee Bob’s and forced down a hamburger and pie, wondering how much of the Gordean questioning slipped between the cracks: his own nerves, the pimp’s police connections and savoir faire. The food calmed him down, but didn’t answer his questions; he hit a pay phone and got dope on Cy Vandrich.

There was only one listed with DMV/R&I: Cyril “Cy” Vandrich, WM, DOB 7/24/18, six arrests for petty theft, employment listed as “transient” and “musician.” Currently on his sixth ninety-day observation jolt at the Camarillo loony bin. A follow-up call to the bin revealed that Vandrich kept pulling crazy man stunts when he got rousted for shoplifting; that the Misdemeanor Court judge kept recommending Camarillo. The desk woman told Danny that Vandrich was in custody there on the two killing nights; that he made himself useful teaching music to the nuts. Danny said that he might come up to question the man; the woman said that Vandrich might or might not be in control of his faculties—no one at the bin had ever been able to figure him out—whether he was malingering or seriously crazy. Danny hung up and drove to West Hollywood Station to meet Mal Considine.

The man was waiting for him in his cubicle, eyeing the Buddy Jastrow mug blowup. Danny cleared his throat; Considine wheeled around and gave him a close once-over. “I like the suit. It doesn’t quite fit, but it looks like something a young lefty might affect. Did you buy it for your assignment?”

“No, Lieutenant.”

“Call me Mal. I want you to get out of the habit of using rank.
Ted
.”

Danny sat down behind his desk and pointed Considine to the spare chair. “Ted?”

Considine took the seat and stretched his legs. “As of today, you’re Ted Krugman. Dudley went by your apartment house and talked to the manager, and when you get home tonight you’ll find T. Krugman on your mailbox. Your phone number is now listed under Theodore Krugman, so we’re damn lucky you kept it unlisted before. There’s a paper bag waiting for you with the manager—your new wardrobe, some fake ID and New York plates for your car. You like it?”

Danny thought of Dudley Smith inside his apartment, maybe discovering his private file. “Sure, Lieut—Mal.”

Considine laughed. “No, you don’t—it’s all happening too fast. You’re Homicide brass, you’re a Commie decoy, you’re a big-time comer. You’re
made
, kid. I hope you know that.”

Danny caught glee wafting off the DA’s man; he decided to hide his file boxes and blood spray pics behind the rolled-up carpet in his hall closet. “I do, but I don’t want to get fat on it. When do I make my approach?”

“Day after tomorrow. I think we’ve got the UAES lulled with our newspaper and radio plants, and Dudley and I are going to concentrate on lefties outside the union—KAs of the brain trusters—vulnerable types that we should be able to get to snitch. We’re going over INS records for deportation levers on them, and Ed Satterlee is trying to get us some hot SLDC pictures from a rival clearance group. Call it a two-front war. Dudley and I on outside evidence, you inside.”

Danny saw Considine as all frayed nerves; he saw that
his
suit fit him like a tent, the jacket sleeves riding up over soiled shirtcuffs and long, skinny arms. “How do I get inside?”