The Big Nowhere (38 page)

Danny’s brain stoked on overdrive:

Breuning’s curiosity on the zoot stick queries, his making light of them. His strange reaction to the four surveillance names—Augie Duarte singled out—because he was Mex, a KA of a Sleepy Lagoon Committee member? Mal telling him that Dudley Smith asked to join the grand jury team, even though, as an LAPD Homicide lieutenant, there was no logical reason for him to work the job. Mal’s story:
Dudley brutally interrogating Duarte/Sammy Benavides/Mondo Lopez, stressing the Sleepy Lagoon case and the guilt of the seventeen youths originally charged with the crime—even though the questioning tack was not germane to UAES
.

Hartshorn mentioning “zoot stick” on the phone to Breuning.

Jack Shortell’s oral report: Dudley Smith and Breuning were seen hobnobbing at Wilshire Station the night before last—the night Hartshorn killed himself. Did they make a quick run to Hartshorn’s house—a scant mile from the station—kill him and return to the Wilshire squadroom, hoping that no one saw them leave and return—a perfect cop alibi?

And why?

Juan Duarte was looking at him like he was from outer space; Danny got his brain simmered down to where he could talk. “Think fast on this. Jazz musicians, burglary, wolverines, heroin, queer escort services.”

Duarte slid a few feet away. “I think they all stink. Why?”

“A kid who worships wolverines.”

Duarte put a finger to his head and twirled it. “Loco mierda. A wolverine’s a fucking rat, right?”

Danny saw Juno’s claws lashing out. “Try this, Duarte. Sleepy Lagoon, the Defense Committee, ’42 to ’44 and Reynolds Loftis. Think slow, go slow.”

Duarte said, “Easy. Reynolds and his kid brother.”

Danny started to say, “What?”, stopped and thought. He’d read the entire grand jury package twice on arrival and twice last night; he’d read the psychiatric files twice before Considine took them back. In all the paperwork there was no mention of Loftis having a brother. But there was a gap—’42 to ’44—in Loftis’ shrink file. “Tell me about the kid brother, Duarte. Nice and slow.”

Duarte spoke rapidamente. “He was a punk, a lame-o. Reynolds started bringing him around the time the SLDC was hot. I forget the kid’s name, but he was a kid, eighteen, nineteen, in there. He had his face bandaged up. He was in a fire and he got burned bad. When he got his burns all healed up and the bandages and gauze and shit came off, all the girls in the Committee thought he was real cute. He looked just like Reynolds, but even handsomer.”

The new facts coming together went tap, tap, tap, knocks on a door that was still a long way from opening. A Loftis burn-faced brother put the actor back in contention for HIM, but contradicted his instinct that the killer drew sex inspiration from the youth’s disfigurement; it played into Wolverine Prowler and Burn Face as one man and tapped the possibility that he was a killing accomplice—one way to explain the new welter of age contradictions. Danny said, “Tell me about the kid. Why did you call him a punk?”

Duarte said, “He was always sucking up to the Mexican guys. He told this fish story about how a big white man killed José Diaz, like we were supposed to like him because he said the killer wasn’t Mexican. Everybody knew the killer was Mexican—the cops just railroaded the wrong Mexicans. He told this crazy story about seeing the killing, but he didn’t have no real details, and when guys pressed him, he clammed up. The SLDC got some anonymous letters saying a white guy did it, and you could tell the kid brother sent them—it was crazy-man stuff. The kid said he was running from the killer, and once I said, ‘Pendejo, if the killer’s looking for you, what the fuck you doing coming to these rallies where he could grab your crazy ass?’ The kid said he had special protection, but wouldn’t tell me no more. Like I said, he was a lame-o. If he wasn’t Reynolds’ brother, nobody woulda tolerated him at all.”

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Danny said, “What happened to him?”

Duarte shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t see him since the SLDC, and I don’t think nobody else has either. Reynolds don’t talk about him. It’s strange. I don’t think I’ve heard Chaz or Claire or Reynolds talk about him in years.”

“What about Benavides and Lopez? Where are they now?”

“On location with some other puto cowboy turkey. You think this stuff about Reynolds’ brother has got something to do with Augie?”

Danny brainstormed off the question. Reynolds Loftis’ brother was the burned-face burglar boy, Marty Goines’ burglar accomplice, very possibly the Bunker Hill prowler/wolverine lover. The Bunker Hill B&Es stopped August 1, 1942; the next night, José Diaz was killed at the Sleepy Lagoon, three miles or so southeast of the Hill. The kid brother alleged that he witnessed a “big white man” killing José Diaz.

Tap, tap, tap. Jump, jump, jump.

Dudley Smith was a big white man with a bone-deep cruel streak. He joined the grand jury team out of a desire to keep incriminating Sleepy Lagoon testimony kiboshed, thinking that with access to witnesses and case paperwork, he could get the jump on damaging evidence about to come out. Hartshorn’s zoot stick call to Mike Breuning scared him; he and Breuning or one of them alone drove over from Wilshire Station to talk to the man; Hartshorn got suspicious. Either premeditatedly or on the spur of the moment, Smith and/or Breuning killed him, faking a suicide. Tap, tap, tap—thunder loud—with the door still closed on the most important question:
How did Smith killing José Diaz, his attempts to keep possible evidence quashed and his killing charles Hartshorn connect to the Goines/Wiltsie/Lindenaur/Duarte murders? And why did Smith kill Diaz?

Danny looked around at set doors spilling glimpses: the wild west, jungle swampland, trees in a forest. He said, “Vaya con Dios,” left Duarte sitting there and drove home to hit the grand jury file, thinking he’d finally made detective in the eyes of Maslick and Vollmer. He walked in his building, light as air; he pushed the elevator button and heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw two big men with guns drawn. He reached for his own gun, but a big fist holding a set of big brass knucks hit him first.

He came awake handcuffed to a chair. His head was woozy, his wrists were numb and his tongue felt huge. His eyes homed in on an interrogation cubicle, three fuzzy men seated around a table, a big black revolver lying square in the middle. A voice said, “.38’s are standard issue for your Department, Upshaw. Why do you carry a .45?”

Danny blinked and coughed up a bloody lunger; he blinked again and recognized the voice man: Thad Green, LAPD Chief of Detectives. The two men flanking Green fell into focus; they were the biggest plainclothes cops he’d ever seen.

“I asked you a question, Deputy.”

Danny tried to remember the last time he had a drink, came up with Chinatown and knew he couldn’t have gone crazy while fried on bonded. He coughed dry and said, “I sold it when I made detective.”

Green lit a cigarette. “That’s an interdepartmental offense. Do you consider yourself above the law?”

“No!”

“Your friend Karen Hiltscher says otherwise. She says you’ve manipulated her for special favors ever since you made detective. She told Sergeant Eugene Niles you broke into 2307 Tamarind and knew that two murder victims had recently been killed there. She told Sergeant Niles that your story about a girlfriend near the doughnut stand on Franklin and Western is a lie, that she phoned you the information off the City air. Niles was going to inform on you, Deputy. Did you know that?”

Danny’s head woozed. He swallowed blood; he recognized the man to Green’s left as the knuck wielder. “Yeah. Yes, I knew.”

Green said, “Who’d you sell your .38 to?”

“A guy in a bar.”

“That’s a misdemeanor, Deputy. A criminal charge. You really don’t care much for the law, do you?”

“Yes, yes, I care! I’m a policeman! Goddamn it, what is this!”

The knuck man said, “You were seen arguing with a known homo procurer named Felix Gordean. Are you on his payroll?”

“No!”

“Mickey Cohen’s payroll?”

“No!”

Green took over. “You were given command of a Homicide team, a carrot for your grand jury work. Sergeant Niles and Sergeant Mike Breuning found it very strange that a smart young officer would be so concerned about a string of queer slashes. Would you like to tell us why?”

“No! What the fuck is this! I B&E’d Tamarind! What do you fucking want from me!”

The third cop, a huge bodybuilder type, said, “Why did you and Niles trade blows?”

“He was ditzing me with Tamarind Street, threatening to rat me.”

“So that made you mad?”

“Yes.”

“Fighting mad?”

“Yes!”

Green said, “We heard a different version, Deputy. We heard Niles called you a queer.”

Danny froze, reached for a comeback and kept freezing. He thought of ratting Dudley and kiboshed it—they’d never believe him—
yet
. “If Niles said that, I didn’t hear it.”

The knuck cop laughed. “Strike a nerve, Sonny?”

“Fuck you!”

The weightlifter cop backhanded him; Danny spat in his face. Green yelled, “No!”

The knuck man put his arms around weightlifter and held him back; Green chained another cigarette, butt to tip. Danny gasped, “
Tell me what this is all about
.”

Green waved the strongarms to the back of the cubicle, dragged on his smoke and stubbed it out. “Where were you night before last between 2:00 and 7:00 A.M.?”

“I was at home in bed. Asleep.”

“Alone, Deputy?”

“Yes.”

“Deputy, during that time Sergeant Gene Niles was shot and killed, then buried in the Hollywood Hills. Did you do it?”

“No!”

“Tell us who did.”

“Jack! Mickey! Niles was fucking rogue!”

The knuck cop stepped forward; the weightlifter cop grabbed him, mumbling, “Spit on my Hathaway shirt you queer-loving hump. Gene Niles was my pal, my good buddy from the army, you queer lover.”

Danny dug his feet in and pushed his chair against the wall. “Gene Niles was an incompetent bagman son of a bitch.”

Weightlifter charged, straight for Danny’s throat. The cubicle door opened and Mal Considine rushed in; Thad Green shouted commands impossible to hear. Danny brought his knees up, toppling the chair; the monster cop’s hands closed on air. Mal crashed into him, winging rabbit punches; the knuck cop pulled him off and wrestled him out to the corridor. Shouts of “Danny!” echoed; Green stationed himself between the chair and the monster, going, “No, Harry, no,” like he was reprimanding an unruly monster dog. Danny ate linoleum and cigarette butts, heard, “Get Considine to a holding tank”, was lifted, chair and all, to an upright position. The knuck man went behind him and unlocked his cuffs; Thad Green reached for his .45 on the table.

Danny stood up, swaying; Green handed him his gun. “I don’t know if you did it or not, but there’s one way to find out. Report back here to City Hall, room 1003, tomorrow at noon. You’ll be given a polygraph test and sodium pentothal, and you’ll be asked extensive questions about these homicides you’re working and your relationships with Felix Gordean and Gene Niles. Good night, Deputy.”

Danny weaved to the elevator, rode to the ground floor and walked outside, his legs slowly coming back. He cut across the lawn toward the Temple Street cabstand, stopping for a soft voice.

“Lad.”

Danny froze; Dudley Smith stepped out of a shadow. He said, “It’s a grand night, is it not?”

Small talk with a murderer. Danny said, “You killed José Diaz. You and Breuning killed Charles Hartshorn. And I’m going to prove it.”

Dudley Smith smiled. “I never doubted your intelligence, lad. Your courage, yes. Your intelligence, never. And I’ll admit I underestimated your persistence. I’m only human, you know.”

“Oh, no you’re not.”

“I’m skin and bone, lad. Eros and dust like all us frail mortals. Like you, lad. Crawling in sewers for answers you’d be better off without.”

“You’re finished.”

“No, lad. You are. I’ve been talking to my old friend Felix Gordean, and he painted me a vivid picture of your emergence. Lad, next to myself Felix has the finest eye for weakness I’ve ever encountered. He knows, and when you take that lie detector test tomorrow, the whole world will know.”

Danny said, “No.”

Dudley Smith said, “Yes,” kissed him full on the lips and walked away whistling a love song.

Machines that know.

Drugs that don’t let you lie.

Danny took a cab home. He unlocked the door and went straight for his files: facts you could put together for the truth, Dudley and Breuning and HIM nailed by 11:59, a last-minute reprieve like in the movies. He hit the hall light, opened the closet door. No file boxes, the rugs that covered them neatly folded on the floor.

Danny tore up the hall carpet and looked under it, dumped the bedroom cabinet and emptied the drawers, stripped the bed and yanked the medicine chest off the bathroom wall. He upended the living room furniture, looked under the cushions and tossed the kitchen drawers until the floor was all cutlery and broken dishes. He saw a half-full bottle by the radio, opened it, found his throat muscles too constricted and hurled it, knocking down the venetian blinds. He walked to the window, looked out and saw Dudley Smith haloed by a streetlight.

And he knew he knew. And tomorrow they would all know.

Blackmail bait.

His name in sex files.

His name bandied in queer chitchat at the Chateau Marmont.

Machines that know.

Drugs that don’t let you lie.

Polygraph needles fluttering off the paper every time they asked him why he cared so much about a string of queer fag homo fruit snuffs.

No reprieve.

Danny unholstered his gun and stuck the barrel in his mouth. The taste of oil made him gag and he saw how it would look, the cops who found him making jokes about why he did it that way. He put the .45 down and walked to the kitchen.

Weapons galore.

Danny picked up a serrated-edged carving knife. He tested the heft, found it substantial and said goodbye to Mal and Jack and Doc. He apologized for the cars he stole and the guys he beat up who didn’t deserve it, who were just there when he wanted to hit something. He thought of his killer, thought that he murdered because someone made him what he himself was. He held the knife up and forgave him; he put the blade to his throat and slashed himself ear to ear, down to the windpipe in one clean stroke.