Yours,
Mal.
Danny began sobbing, racking sobs that wouldn’t go into tears. He kept sobbing, forgetting all about the liquor.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chief DA’s Investigator.
Two Silver Bars, an extra 3.5 grand a year, prestige for the custody battle. The command of twenty-four detectives culled from other police agencies on the basis of their brains and ability to collect evidence that would stand up in court. Substantial say-so in the decision process: when or when not to seek major felony indictments. The inside track for LAPD Chief of Detectives and Big Chief. Power: including rank over Dudley Smith and the noblesse oblige to make an afternoon of shitwork with Buzz Meeks tolerable.
Mal walked into the Los Angeles office of the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service. Ellis Loew had called early; he and Meeks were to meet at INS, “Try to bury whatever hatchet exists between you,” and check the service’s files on UAES sympathizers born outside the United States for deportation levers. Loew had phrased it like an order; captain or not, he had no choice. The DA had also requested a detailed memo on his non-UAES questionings and an update on the overall investigation—which he was late on—eyeballing Danny Upshaw’s performance had cost him an afternoon—he’d been playing operator boss while Dudley was out shaking down the Pinkos Lenny Rolff ratted on.
Mal settled into the file room the records supervisor had arranged for them to use. He checked his watch and saw that he was early: Meeks wasn’t due until 9:00; he had forty minutes to work before the fat man slimed in. Stacks of files had been arranged on a long metal table; Mal shoved them to the far corner, sat down and started writing.
Memo—1/10/50
To:Ellis Loew
From: Mal Considine
Ellis—
My first memo as Chief DA’s Investigator—if it wasn’t confidential you could frame it.
First off, Upshaw made a successful approach yesterday. I didn’t get a chance to tell you on the phone, but he was terrific. I observed, and saw the UAES member screener approach him. I left Upshaw a note instructing him to meet me late tonight at the Dining Car for a report, and I’m betting he’ll have made contact with Claire De Haven by then. I’ll call you tomorrow morning with a verbal report on what he has to say.
Two days ago, Dudley and I approached Nathan Eisler and Leonard Rolff, screenwriters not subpoenaed by HUAC. Both men corroborated UAES members Minear and Loftis as planning to subvert motion picture content with Communist doctrine and both have agreed to testify as friendly witnesses. Eisler yielded a diary which further confirms Claire De Haven as promiscuous—good news for Upshaw. Eisler stated that De Haven recruited initial UAES members by sexual means—good to have for open court should she have the audacity to seek to testify. Rolff informed on a total of 4 non-UAES leftists. Dudley questioned 2 of them yesterday and phoned me last night with the results: they agreed to appear as friendly witnesses, time-, date- and place-corroborated Ziffkin, De Haven, Loftis, Minear and the 3 Mexicans as making inflammatory statements supporting the over-throw of the U.S.A. by the U.S. Party and informed on a total of 19 other fellow travelers. I’m working on a detailed questionnaire to be submitted to all friendly witnesses, facts for you to use in your opening presentation, and I want low-key City Marshals to oversee the delivery and pickup of the paperwork. The reason for this is that Dudley is too frightening a presence—sooner or later his intimidation tactics will have to backfire. The chance for a successful grand jury depends on the UAES being kept in the dark. We’ve lulled them to sleep, so let’s keep Dudley on a tight leash. If one of our friendlies balks and squeals on us to the brain trust, we’re screwed.
Here’s some random thoughts:
1. - This thing is becoming an avalanche and soon it’s going to be an avalanche of paper. Get those clerks out to your house: I’ll be submitting reports, questionnaires, and interview abstracts constructed from details in Eisler’s diary. Dudley, Meeks and Upshaw will be filing reports. I want all this info cross-filed for clarity’s sake.
2. - You were worried on the Upshaw secrecy angle. Don’t be. We checked and rechecked. “Ted Krugman” was not directly known to any UAES members, he’s secondhand known at best, but known of. Upshaw is a very smart officer, he knows how to run with the ball and I suspect he’s enjoying his role-playing.
3. - Where’s Dr. Lesnick? I need to talk to him, to run psych overview questions by him and to get his opinion on certain parts of Eisler’s diary. Also, all his files end in Summer ’49. Why? There’s a gap (’42–’44) in the Loftis file, key to the time he was rabidly mouthing Commie sentiment and portraying cops as evil on screen to “undermine the American system of jurisprudence.” I hope he didn’t die on us—he looked almost dead ten days ago. Have Sgt. Bowman locate him and make sure he calls me, will you?
4. - When we’ve got our evidence together and collated, we’ll need to spend a goodly amount of time deciding which of our friendlies to call to the stand. Some will be shaky and angry, thanks to Dudley and his browbeatings. As I said before, his methods have to backfire. Once we’re satisfied with the number of witnesses we’ve turned, I want to take over the questionings and go solo on them, kid gloves—more for the sake of the investigation’s security than anything else.
5. - Dudley has a bee in his bonnet over the Sleepy Lagoon case, and he keeps bringing it up in our questionings. By all accounts, the defendants were innocent, and I think we should gag testimony pertaining to the SLDC in court—unless it tangents us to viable testimony. The case made the LA left look good, and we can’t afford to make the UAES members (many) who also belonged to SLDC out as martyrs. I outrank Dudley now, and I’m going to dress him down on this and generally have him play it softer with witnesses. In light of the above and in keeping with my new rank and promotion, I’m asking you to promote me to commanding officer of this investigation.
Yours,
Captain M.E. Considine,
Chief DA’s Investigator
Writing out his new title gave Mal the chills; he thought of buying a fancy pen to commemorate the occasion. He moved down to the file stacks, heard “Think fast” and saw a little blue object lobbing toward him, Buzz Meeks the lobber. He caught it on reflex—a velvet jeweler’s box. Meeks said, “A peace offering, skipper. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna spend the day with a guy who mighta had me shot without kissin’ some ass.”
Mal opened the box and saw a pair of shiny silver captain’s bars. He looked at Meeks; the fat man said, “I’m not askin’ for a handshake or a ‘Gee, thanks, old buddy,’ but I sure would like to know if it was you sent those torpedoes after me.”
Something about Meeks was off: his usual slimy charm was subdued and he had to know that whatever happened in ’46 had no bearing on now. Mal snapped the box shut and tossed it back. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Meeks palmed the gift. “My last shot at civility, skipper. When I moved on Laura, I didn’t know she was a cop’s wife.”
Mal smoothed his vest front; Meeks always made him feel like he needed steam cleaning. “Take the files on the end. You know what Ellis wants.”
Meeks shrugged and complied, a pro. Mal dug into his first file, read through a long INS background check report, sensed a solid citizen type with bum politics spawned by the big European inflation and put the folder aside. Files two and three were more of the same; he kept stealing glances at Meeks grinding notes, wondering what the cracker wanted. Four, five, six, seven, eight, all Hitler refugee stuff, poison that made drifts to the far left seem justified. Meeks caught his eye and winked; Mal saw that he was happy or amused about something. Nine and ten dawdled over, then a rap on the file room door. “Knock, knock, who’s there? Dudley Smith, so Reds beware!”
Mal stood up; Dudley came over and gave him a barrage of hard back slaps. “Six years my junior, and a captain you are. How grand! Lad, you have my most heartfelt congratulations.”
Mal saw himself trashing the Irishman, making h
im eat orders and kowtow. “Congratulations accepted, Lieutenant.”
“And you’ve a wicked wit to match your new rank. Wouldn’t you say so, Turner?”
Meeks rocked in his chair. “Dudley, I can’t get this boy to say much of anything.”
Dudley laughed. “I suspect there’s old fury between you two. What it derives from I don’t know, although cherchez la femme might be a good bet. Malcolm, while I’m here let me ask you something about our friend Upshaw. Is he sticking his snout into our investigation past his decoy work? The other men on the homo job resent him and seem to think he’s a meddler.”
“While I’m here” echoed; “cherchez la femme” thundered—Mal knew Dudley had the story on him and Meeks. “You’re as subtle as a freight train, Lieutenant. And what is it about you and Upshaw?”
Dudley ha’ ha’d; Meeks said, “Mike Breuning’s ditzed on the kid, too. He called me last night and ran a list of names by me, four guys Upshaw wanted tails put on. He asked me if they were from the queer job or the grand jury. I told him I didn’t know, that I never met the kid, all I got on him was third-hand.”
Mal cleared his throat, ticked at being talked around. “What third hand, Meeks?”
The fat man smiled. “I was workin’ an angle on Reynolds Loftis, and I came up with a lead from Samo PD Vice. Loftis was rousted at a queer bar back in ’44, pallin’ with a lawyer named Charles Hartshorn, a big wheel downtown. I braced Hartshorn, and he thought at first I was a Homicide dick, ’cause he was acquainted with one of the dead homos from Upshaw’s job. I knew the guy was no killer. I leaned on him hard, then bought myself off on him rattin’ me by tellin’ him I’d keep the County heat away.”
Mal remembered Meeks’ memo to Ellis Loew: their first outside corroboration of Loftis’ homosexuality. “You’re sure Hartshorn wasn’t essential to Upshaw’s case?”
“Boss, that guy’s only crime is bein’ a homo with money and a family.”
Dudley laughed. “Which is preferable to being a homo with no money and no family. You’re a family man, Malcolm. Wouldn’t you say that’s true?”
Mal’s chain snapped. “Dudley, what the fuck do you want? I’m running this job and Upshaw is working for me, so you just tell me why you’re so interested in him.”
Dudley Smith did a master vaudeville take: a rebuked youth shuffling his feet, going hangdog with hunched shoulders and a pouting lower lip. “Lad, you hurt my feelings. I just wanted to celebrate your good fortune and make it known that Upshaw has incurred the wrath of his fellow officers, men not used to taking orders from twenty-seven-year-old dilettantes.”
“The wrath of a Dragna bagman with a grudge on the Sheriff’s and your protégé, you mean.”
“That’s one interpretation, yes.”
“Lad, Upshaw is my protégé. And I’m a captain and you’re a lieutenant. Don’t forget what that means. Now please leave and let us work.”
Dudley saluted crisply and walked out; Mal saw that his hands were steady and his voice hadn’t quivered; Meeks started applauding. Mal smiled, remembered who he was smiling at and stopped. “Meeks, what do you want?”
Meeks rocked his chair. “Steak lunch at the Dining Car, maybe a vacation up at Arrowhead.”
“And?”
“And I’m not hog-wild about this job and I don’t like the idea of you makin’ voodoo eyes at me till it’s over and I liked you standin’ up to Dudley Smith.”
Mal half smiled. “Keep going.”
“You were scared of him and you dressed him anyway. I liked that.”
“I’ve got rank on him now. A week ago I’d have let it go.”
Meeks yawned, like it was all starting to bore him. “Pal, bein’ afraid of Dudley Smith means two things: that you’re smart and you’re sane. And I outranked him once and let him slide, because that is one smart fucker that never forgets. So, accolades, Captain Considine, and I still want that steak lunch.”
Mal thought of the two silver bars. “Meeks, you’re not the type to offer amends.”
Buzz stood up. “Like I said, I’m not hog-wild about this job, but I need the money. So let’s just say it’s got me thinkin’ about the amenities of life.”
“I’m not hog-wild about it either, but I need it.”
Meeks said, “I’m sorry about Laura.”
Mal tried to remember his ex-wife naked, and couldn’t. “It wasn’t me that had you shot. I heard it was Dragna triggers.”
Meeks tossed Mal the velvet box. “Take it while I’m feelin’ generous. I just bought my girl two C-notes’ worth of sweaters.”
Mal pocketed the insignia and stuck out his hand; Meeks gave him a bonecrusher. “Lunch, Skipper?”
“Sure, Sarge.”
They took the elevator down to ground level and walked out to the street. Two patrolmen were standing in front of a black-and-white sipping coffee; Mal picked a string of words out of their conversation: “Mickey Cohen, bomb, bad.”
Meeks badged the two, hard. “DA’s Bureau. What’d you just say about Cohen?”
The younger cop, a peach-fuzz rookie type, said, “Sir, we just heard on the radio. Mickey Cohen’s house just got bombed. It looks bad.”
Meeks took off running; Mal followed him to a mint green Caddy and got in—one look at the fat man’s face telling him “why?” was a useless question. Meeks hung a tire-screeching U-ey out into Westwood traffic and hauled west, through the Veterans Administration Compound, out onto San Vicente. Mal thought of Mickey Cohen’s house on Moreno; Meeks kept the pedal down, zigzagging around cars and pedestrians, muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” At Moreno, he turned right; Mal saw fire engines, prowl units and tall plumes of smoke up the block. Meeks skidded up to a crime scene rope and got out; Mal stood on his tiptoes and saw a nice Spanish house smoldering, LA’s number-one hoodlum standing on the lawn, unsinged, ranting at a cadre of uniform brass. Rubberneckers were choking the street, the sidewalk and adjoining front lawns; Mal looked for Meeks and couldn’t see him anywhere. He turned and gave his backside a shot—and there was his grand jury cohort, the most corrupt cop in LA history, engaged in pure suicide.
Buzz was just past the edge of the commotion, smothering a showstopper blonde with kisses. Mal recognized her from gossip column pics: Audrey Anders, the Va Va Voom Girl, Mickey Cohen’s on-the-side woman. Buzz and Audrey kissed; Mal gawked from a distance, then turned around and checked the lovebirds’ flank, scoping for witnesses, Cohen goons who’d squeal to their master. The whole crowd was contained behind the crime scene ropes, occupied with Mickey’s tirade; Mal kept scanning anyway. He felt a hard tap on his shoulder; Buzz Meeks was there wiping lipstick off his face. “Boss, I am in your power. Now we gonna go get that steak?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“…And Norm says you can fight. He’s a prizefighting fan, so it must be true. Now the question is, are you willing to fight in other ways—and for us.”
Danny looked across the table at Claire De Haven and Norman Kostenz. Five minutes into his audition; the woman all business so far, keeping friendly Norm businesslike with little taps that chilled his gushing about the picket line fracas. A handsome woman who had to keep touching things: her cigarettes and lighter, Kostenz when he gabbed too heavy or said something that pleased her. Five minutes in and he knew this about acting: a big part of the trick was sneaking what was really going on with you into your performance. He’d been up all night canvassing darktown straight off a weird jag of sobbing, coming up with nothing on the stolen Pontiac, but sensing HIM watching; the La Paloma Drive canvassing was a zero, ditto the bus line and cab company checks, and Mike Breuning had called to tell him he was trying to wangle four officers to tail the men on his surveillance list. He felt tired and edgy and knew it showed; he was running with his case, not this Commie shit, and if De Haven pressed for background verification he was going to play pissed and bring the conversation down to brass tacks: his resurgence of political faith and what UAES had for him to prove it with. “Miss De Hav
en—”
“Claire.”
“Claire, I want to help. I want to get moving again. I’m rusty with everything but my fists, and I have to find a job pretty soon, but I want to help.”
Claire De Haven lit a cigarette and sent a hovering waitress packing with a wave of her lighter. “I think for now you should embrace a philosophy of nonviolence. I need someone to come with me when I go out courting contributors. You’d be good at helping me secure contributions from HUAC widows, I can tell.”
Danny took “HUAC widows” as a cue and frowned, wounded by sudden memories of Donna Cantrell—hot love drowned in the Hudson River. Claire said, “Is something wrong, Ted?”; Norm Kostenz touched her hand as if to say, “Man stuff.” Danny winced, his muscle aches kicking in for real. “No, you just reminded me of someone I used to know.”
Claire smiled. “I reminded you or what I said did?”
Danny exaggerated a grimace. “Both, Claire.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Not quite yet.”
Claire called the waitress over and said, “A pitcher of martinis”; the girl curtsied away, writing the order down. Danny said, “No more action on the picket line, then?”