The Big Nowhere (29 page)

They cruised west, out of the Strip and into Beverly Hills. At Linden the middle car hung a right turn and headed north; Danny closed the gap on Gordean, touching the Rolls’ bumper with his headlights, then idling back. Beverly Hills became Holmby Hills and Westwood; traffic thinned out to almost nothing. Brentwood, Pacific Palisades, looming greenery dotted with Spanish houses and vacant lots—Sunset Boulevard winding through blackish green darkness. Danny caught the reflection of highbeams in back of him.

He let the throttle up; the beams came on that much stronger, then disappeared. He looked in the rear-view, saw low headlights three car lengths back and no one else on the road; he hit the gas and jammed forward until Gordean’s Rolls was less than a short stone’s throw from the snout of his Chevy. Another check of the rear-view; the back car right on his ass.

Tail.

Moving surveillance on
him
.

Three-car rolling stakeout.

Danny swallowed and glimpsed a string of vacant lots, dirt shouldered, off the right side of the street. He downshifted, swung a hard right turn, hit the shoulder and fishtailed across rock-strewn dirt, wracking the Chevy’s undercarriage. He saw the tail car on Sunset, lights off and zooming; he cut hard left, went down to first gear, back off dirt onto good hard blacktop. High beams on; second and third, the gas pedal floored. A brown postwar sedan losing ground as he gained on it; him right on the car’s ass, mud smeared across its rear plate, the driver probably near blinded by his lights.

Just then the sedan turned hard right and hauled up a barely lit side street. Danny downshifted, hit the brakes and skidded into a full turnaround brody, stalling the car facing the flow of traffic. Headlights were coming straight at him; he sparked the ignition, popped the clutch and gas, banged over the curb and up the street, horns blasting down on Sunset.

Bungalows lined both sides of the street; a sign designated it “La Paloma Dr, 1900 N.” Danny speeded up, the blacktop getting steeper, no other moving cars in sight. Bungalow lights gave him some illumination; La Paloma Drive became a summit and leveled off—and there was his brown sedan on the roadside, the driver’s door open.

Danny pulled up behind it, hit his brights, unholstered his piece. He got out and walked over, gun arm first. He looked in the front seat and saw nothing but neat velveteen upholstery; he stepped back and saw a ’48 Pontiac Super Chief, abandoned on a half-developed street surrounded by totally dark hills.

His heart was booming; his throat was dry; his legs were butter and his gun hand twitched. He listened and heard nothing but himself; he scanned for escape routes and saw a dozen driveways leading into back yards and the entire rear of the Santa Monica Mountains.

Danny thought:
think procedure, go slow, you’re interagency Homicide brass
. The “brass” calmed him; he tucked his .45 into his waistband, knelt and checked out the front seat.

Nothing on the seat covers; the registration strapped to the steering column—right where it should be. Danny undid the plastic strip without touching flat surfaces, held it up to the light of his highbeams and read:

Wardell John Hascomb, 9816 1/4 South Iola, Los Angeles. Registration number Cal 416893-H; license number Cal JQ 1338.

LA South Central, darktown, the area where the killer stole the Marty Goines transport car.

HIM.

Danny got fresh shakes, drove back to Sunset and headed west until he spotted a filling station with a pay phone. With shaky hands, he slipped a nickel in the slot and dialed DMV Police Information.

“Yeah? Who’s requesting?”

“D-Deputy Upshaw, West Hollywood Squad.”

“The guy from half an hour or so ago?”

“Goddamn—yes, and check the Hot Sheet for this: 1948 Pontiac Super Chief Sedan, Cal JQ 1338. If it’s hot, I want the address it was stolen from.”

“Gotcha,” silence. Danny stood in the phone booth, warm one second, chilled the next. He took out his pad and pen, ready to write down what the operator gave him; he saw “Augie Luis Duarte” and snapped why it seemed familiar: there was a Juan Duarte in the UAES info he studied—meaning nothing—Duarte was as common a Mex name as Garcia or Hernandez.

The operator came back. “She’s hot, clouted outside 9945 South Normandie this afternoon. The owner is one Wardell J. Hascomb, male Negro, 9816 South—”

“I’ve got that.”

“You know, Deputy, your partner was a whole lot nicer.”

“
What?
”

The operator sounded exasperated, like he was talking to a cretin. “Deputy Jones from your squad. He called in for a repeat on those four names I gave you, said you lost your notes.”

Now the booth went freezing. No such deputy existed; some-one—probably HIM—had been watching him stake Gordean’s office, close enough to overhear his conversation with the clerk and glom the gist—that he was requesting vehicle registrations. Danny shivered and said, “Describe his voice.”

“Your partner’s? Too cultured for a County plainclothes dick, I’ll—”

Danny slammed the receiver down, gave the phone his last coin and dialed the direct squadroom line at Hollywood Station. A voice answered, “Hollywood Detectives”; Danny said, “Sergeant Shortell. Tell him it’s urgent.”

“Okay,” a soft click, the old-timer cop yawning, “Yes? Who’s this?”

“Upshaw. Jack, the killer was tailing me in a hot roller.”

“What the—”

“Just listen. I spotted him, and he rabbited and abandoned the car. Write this down: ’48 Pontiac Super, brown, La Paloma Drive off Sunset in the Palisades, where it flattens out at the hill. Print man to dust it, you to canvass. He took off on foot and it’s all hills there, so I’m pretty sure he’s gone, but do it anyway. And fast—I won’t be there to watchdog.”

“Holy fuck.”

“In spades, and get me this—records checks on these four men—Donald Wachtel, 1638 Franklin, Santa Monica. Timothy Costigan, 11692 Saticoy, Van Nuys. Alan Marks, 209 4th Avenue, Venice, and Augie Duarte, 1890 Vendome, LA. Got it?”

Shortell said, “You’ve got it”; Danny hung up and trawled for HIM. He cruised back to La Paloma and found the car exactly the way he left it; he hung his flashlight out the window and shone it at bungalows, alleyways, back yards and foothills. Squarejohn husbands and wives taking out the trash; dogs, cats and a spooked coyote transfixed by the glare in its eyes. No tall, middle-aged man with lovely silver hair calmly making his getaway from a count of Grand Theft Auto. Danny drove back to Sunset and took it slowly out to the beach, scanning both sides of the street; at Pacific Coast Highway, he dug in his memory for Felix Gordean’s address, came up with 16822 PCH and rolled there.

It was on the beach side of the road, a white wood Colonial built on pilings sunk into the sand, “Felix Gordean, Esq,” in deco by the mailbox. Danny parked directly in front and rang the bell; chimes like the ones at the Marmont sounded; a pretty boy in a kimono answered. Danny badged him. “Sheriff’s. I’m here to see Felix Gordean.”

The boy lounged in the doorway. “Felix is indisposed right now.”

Danny looked him over, his stomach queasing at blond hair straight from a peroxide bottle. The living room backdropping the boy was ultramodern, with one whole wall mirrored—tinted glass like the one-ways in police interrogation stalls. Vandrich on Gordean: he perved watching men with men. Danny said, “Tell him it’s Deputy Upshaw.”

“It’s all right, Christopher. I’ll talk to this officer.”

The pretty boy jumped at Gordean’s voice; Danny walked in and saw the man, elegant in a silk robe, staring at the one-way. He kept staring; Danny said, “Are you going to look at me?”

Gordean pivoted slowly. “Hello, Deputy. Did you forget something the other night?”

Christopher went over and stood by Gordean, giving the mirror a look-see and a giggle. Danny said, “Four names that I need rundowns on. Donald Wachtel, Alan Marks, Augie Duarte and Timothy Costigan.”

Gordean said, “Those men are clients and friends of mine, and they were all at my office this afternoon. Have you been spying on me?”

Danny stepped toward the two, angling himself away from the mirror. “Get specific. Who are they?”

Gordean shrugged and put his hands on his hips. “As I said, clients and friends.”

“Like I said, get specific.”

“Very well. Don Wachtel and Al Marks are radio actors, Tim Costigan used to be a crooner with the big bands and Augie Duarte is a budding actor who I’ve found commercial work for. In fact, maybe you’ve seen him on television. I found him a job playing a fruit picker in a spot for the California Citrus Growers’ Association.”

Pretty Boy was hugging himself, entranced by the mirror; Danny smelled fear on Gordean. “Remember how I described my suspect the other night? Tall, gray-haired and forty-fivish?”

“Yes. So?”

“So have you seen anyone like that hanging out around your office?”

A deadpan from Gordean; Christopher turning from the mirror, his mouth opening. A brief hand squeeze, pimp to Pretty Boy; the kid’s deadpan. Danny smiled, “That’s it. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

Two men walked into the living room. They were wearing red silk briefs; one man was removing a sequined mask. Both were young and overly muscular, with shaved legs and torsos slicked down with some kind of oil. They eyed the three standing there; the taller of them threw Danny a kissy face. His partner scowled, hooked his fingers inside his briefs, pulled him back to the hallway and out of sight. They trailed giggles; Danny felt like vomiting and went for the door.

Gordean spoke to his back. “No questions about that, Deputy?”

Danny turned around. “No.”

“Wouldn’t you say it runs contrary to your life? I’m sure you’ve got a nice family. A wife or a girlfriend, a nice family who would find that shocking. Would you like to tell me about them over a glass of that nice Napoleon brandy you enjoy so much?”

For a split second Danny felt terrified; Gordean and Pretty Boy became paper silhouettes, villains to empty his gun into. He about-faced out the door, slamming it; he puked into the street, found a hose attached to the adjoining house, drank and doused his face with water. Steadied, he pulled his Chevy around to the opposite side of PCH and parked, lights off, to wait.

Pretty Boy left the house twenty minutes later, walking toward an overpass to the beach. Danny let him get to the steps, cut him five seconds’ more slack, then ran over. His motorcycle boots thunked on cement; the kid looked around and stopped. Danny slowed and walked up to him. Christopher said, “Hello. Want to enjoy the view with—”

Danny hooked him to the gut, grabbed a handful of bottle blond hair and lashed slaps across his face until he felt his knuckles wet with blood. The moon lit up that face: no tears, eyes wide open and accepting. Danny let the boy kneel to the cement and looked down at him huddling into his kimono. “You did see that man hanging around Gordean’s office. Why didn’t you talk?”

Christopher wiped blood from his nose. He said, “Felix didn’t want me to talk to you about it,” no whimper, no defiance, no nothing in his voice.

“Do you do everything Felix tells you to do?”

“Yes.”

“So you saw a man like that?”

Christopher got to his feet and leaned over the railing with his head bowed. “The man had really beautiful hair, like movie star hair. I do file work at the agency, and I’ve seen him out at the bus stop on Sunset a lot the last few days.”

Danny worked the kinks out of his knuckles, rubbing them on his jacket sleeve. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you seen him with a car?”

“No.”

“Have you seen anybody talking to him?”

“No.”

“But you told Felix about him?”

“Y-yes.”

“And how did he react?”

Christopher shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t react much at all.”

Danny leaned over the railing, fists cocked. “Yes, he fucking did, so you fucking tell me.”

“Felix wouldn’t like me to tell.”

“No, but you tell me, or I’ll hurt you.”

The boy pulled away, gulped and spoke fast, a fresh-turned snitch anxious to get it over with. “At first he seemed scared, then he seemed to be thinking, and he told me I should point the man out from the window the next time I saw him.”

“Did you see him again?”

“No. No, I really didn’t.”

Danny thought: and you never will, now that he knows I’m wise to his stakeout. He said, “Does Gordean keep records for his introduction service?”

“No. No, he’s afraid of it.”

Danny shot the boy an elbow. “You people like playing games, so here’s a good one. I tell you something, you put it together with Gordean, who I’m sure you know
real
well. And you look at me, so I can tell if you’re lying.”

The kid turned, profile to full face, pretty to beaten and slack-featured. Danny tried to evil-eye him; trembly lips made him look at the ocean instead. “Does Gordean know any jazz musicians, guys who hang at the jazz clubs down in darktown?”

“I don’t think so, that’s not Felix’s style.”

“Think fast. Zoot stick. That’s a stick with razor blades at the end, a weapon.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“A man who looks like the one you saw by the bus stop, a man who uses Gordean’s service.”

“No. I’d never seen that man by the bus stop before, and I don’t know any—”

“Dentists, dental workers, men who can make dentures.”

“No. Too chintzy for Felix. Oh God, this is so strange.”

“Heroin. Guys who push it, guys who like it, guys who can get it.”

“No, no,
no
. Felix hates needle fiends, he thinks they’re vulgar. Can we please hurry up? I never stay out on my walks this long, and Felix might get worried.”

Danny got the urge to hit again; he stared harder at the water, imagining shark fins cutting the waves. “
Shut up and just answer
. Now the service. Felix gets his kicks bringing guys out, right?”

“Oh Jesus—yes.”

“Were any of those four men I mentioned queers that he brought out?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Queers in general?”

“Donald and Augie, yes. Tim Costigan and Al Marks are just clients.”