From there, Mal talked Coleman. Coleman’s intro lead on Marty Goines as a fruit, Coleman stressing the tall, gray man, Coleman wearing a gray wig and probably makeup when he glommed his victims, shucking the beard Upshaw saw on him. Loftis and Claire had Mondo Lopez steal Danny’s files when they found out he was working the homo killings—Juan Duarte had snitched him as a cop. Mal recounted the Minear interrogation, Coleman the third point of the ’42–’44 love triangle, Chaz shooting blackmailer Gordean to redeem himself in Claire and Loftis’ eyes, Claire and Loftis searching for Coleman. And they both agreed: Marty Goines, a longtime Coleman pal, was probably a victim of opportunity—he was there when the rat man had to kill. Victims two, three and four were to tie in to Daddy Reynolds—a hellish smear tactic.
They hit the Central Avenue Strip, daytime quiet, a block of spangly facades: the Taj Mahal, palm trees hung with Christmas lights, sequined music clefs, zebra stripes and a big plaster jigaboo with shiny red eyes. None of the clubs appeared to be open: bouncer-doormen and parking lot attendants sweeping up butts and broken glass were the only citizens out on the street. Mal parked and took the west side; Buzz took the east.
He talked to bouncers; he talked to auto park flunkies; he handed out all the cash he didn’t stuff down Terry Lux’s throat. Three of the darkies gave him “Huh?”; two hadn’t seen Coleman the alto guy in a couple of weeks; a clown in a purple admiral’s tunic said he’d heard Healy was gigging at a private sepia club in Watts that let whiteys perform if they were hep and kept their lily-white meathooks off the colored trim. Buzz crossed the street and started canvassing toward his partner; three more “Huh?’s” and Mal came trotting over to him.
He said, “I talked to a guy who saw Coleman last week at Bido Lito’s. He said he was talking to a sickly old Jewish man about half dead. The guy said he looked like one of the old jazz fiends from the rest home on 78th and Normandie.”
Buzz said, “You think Lesnick?”
“We’re on the same track, lad.”
“Quit callin’ me lad, it gives me the willies. Boss, I read a Bureau memo at Ellis’ house. Lesnick’s daughter said Pops was thinkin’ about checkin’ in to a rest bin to kick. There was a list of them, but I couldn’t grab it.”
“Let’s hit that Normandie place first. You get anything?”
“Coleman might be playin’ his horn at some private jig club in Watts.”
Mal said, “Shit. I worked 77th Street Division years ago, and there were tons of places like that. No more details?”
“Nix.”
“Come on, let’s move.”
They made it to the Star of David Rest Home fast, Mal running yellow lights, busting the speed limit by twenty miles an hour. The structure was a low tan stucco; it looked like a minimum security prison for people waiting to die. Mal parked and walked straight to the reception desk; Buzz found a pay phone outside and looked up “Sanitariums” in the Yellow Pages.
There were thirty-four of them on the Southside. Buzz tore the page of listings out; he saw Mal standing by the car and walked over shaking his head. “Thirty-four bins around here. A long fuckin’ day.”
Mal said, “Nothing inside. No Lesnick registered, nobody dying of lung cancer on the ward. No Coleman.”
Buzz said, “Let’s try the hotels and pushers. If that’s no go, we’ll get some nickels and start callin’ the sanitariums. You know, I think Lesnick’s a lamster. If that was him with Coleman, he’s in this somehow, and he wouldn’t be registered under his own name.”
Mal tapped the hood of the car. “Buzz, Claire wrote that hotel list out. Minear said she and Loftis have been trying to find Coleman. If they’ve already tried—”
“That don’t mean spit. Coleman’s been seen around here inside a week. He could be movin’ around, but always stayin’ close to the music. Somethin’s goin’ on with him and music, ’cause nobody made him for playin’ an instrument, now these boogies down here say he’s a hot alto sax. I say we hit hotels and H men while it’s still light out, then come dark we hit those jig joints.”
“Let’s go.”
The Tevere Hotel on 84th and Beach—no Caucasians in residence. The Galleon Hotel on 91st and Bekin—the one white man staying there a three-hundred-pound rummy squeezed into a single room with his negress wife and their four kids. Walking back to the car, Buzz checked the two lists and grabbed Mal’s arm. “Whoa.”
Mal said, “What?”
“A matcher. Purple Eagle Hotel, 96th and Central on Claire’s list. Roland Navarette, Room 402 at the Purple Eagle on Lux’s.”
“It took you a while.”
“Ink’s all smudged.”
Mal handed him the keys. “You drive, I’ll see what else you missed.”
They drove southeast. Buzz ground gears and kept popping the clutch; Mal studied the two lists and said, “The only matchup. You know what I was thinking?”
“What?”
“Lux knows Loftis and De Haven, and Loftis used to cop Claire’s stuff. They could have access to Lux’s suppliers, too.”
Buzz saw the Purple Eagle—a six-story cinderblock dump with a collection of chrome hood ornaments affixed above a tattered purple awning. He said, “Could be,” and double-parked; Mal got out first and practically ran inside.
Buzz caught up at the desk. Mal was badging the clerk, a scrawny Negro with his shirt cuffs buttoned full in a sweltering lobby. He was muttering, “Yessir, yessir, yessir,” one eye on Mal, one hand reaching under the desk.
Mal said, “Roland Navarette. Is he still in 402?”
The hophead said, “Nossir, nossir,” his hand still reaching; Buzz swooped around and pinned his wrist just as he was closing in on a junk bindle. He bent the fingers back; the hophead went, “Yessir, yessir, yessir”; Buzz said, “A white man, late twenties, maybe a beard. A jazz guy. He glom horse from Navarette?”
“Nossir, nossir, nossir.”
“Boy, you tell true or I break the hand you geez up with and throw you in the cracker tank at the Seven-Seven.”
“Yessir, yessir, yessir.”
Buzz let go and laid the bindle out on the desk. The clerk rubbed his fingers. “White man, white woman here askin’ same thing twenty minutes ’go. I tol’ them, I tell you, Roland straighten up, fly right, don’t sell no sweet horsey nohow.”
The punk’s eyes strayed to a house phone; Buzz ripped it out and chucked it on the floor. Mal ran for the stairs.
Buzz huffed and puffed after him, catching up on the fourth-floor landing. Mal was in the middle of a putrid-smelling hallway, gun out, pointing to a doorway. Buzz got his breath, pulled his piece and walked over.
Mal ticked numbers; at three they kicked in the door. A Negro in soiled underwear was sitting on the floor sticking a needle in his arm, pushing the plunger down, oblivious to the noise and two white men pointing guns at him. Mal kicked his legs and pulled the spike out of his arm; Buzz saw a C-note resting under a fresh syringe on the dresser and knew Claire and Loftis had bought themselves a hot lead.
Mal was slapping the H man, trying to bring him back from cloud nine; Buzz knew that was futile. He hauled him away from Mal, dragged him to the bathroom, stuck his head in the toilet and flushed. Roland Navarette came back to earth with shakes, shivers and sputters; the first thing he saw out of the bowl was a .38 in his face. Buzz said, “Where’d you send them white people after Coleman?”
Roland Navarette said, “Man, this a humbug.”
Buzz cocked the gun. “Don’t make me.”
Roland Navarette said, “Coleman gigging at this after-hours on One-O-Six an’ Avalon.”
* * *
Watts, code three without a siren. Buzz fingered his billy club; Mal leadfooted through twilight traffic. One hundred an sixth and Avalon was the heart of the heart of Watts: every tarpaper shack on the block had goats and chickens behind barbed-wire fences. Buzz thought of crazed darkies sacrificing them for voodoo rituals, maybe inviting Coleman over for some wolverine stew and a night of jazz hot.
He saw a string of blue lights flickering around the doorway of a corner stucco; he said, “Pull over, I see it.”
Mal swung hard right and killed his engine at the curb. Buzz pointed across the street. “That white car was in De Haven’s driveway.” Mal nodded, opened the glove compartment and took out a pair of handcuffs. “I was going to let the papers in on this, but I guess there’s no time.”
Buzz said, “He might not be here. Loftis and Claire might be waitin’ him out, or there’d of been grief already. You ready?”
Mal nodded. Buzz saw a group of Negroes line up by the blue-lit door and start filing in. He motioned Mal out of the car; they hurried across the sidewalk and rode the last jazzbo’s coattails.
The doorman was a gigantic shine in a blue bongo shirt. He started to block the way in, then stepped back and bowed—an obvious police courtesy.
Buzz went in first. Except for blue Christmas bulbs taped to the walls and a baby spot illuminating the bar, the joint was dark. People sat at card tables facing the stage and a combo back-lit by more blue lights: blinkers covered with cellophane. The music was ear-splitting shit, one step down from noise. The trumpet, bass, drums, piano and trombone were Negro guys in blue bongo shirts. The alto sax was Coleman, no beard, a cracked blue bulb blinking across the set of Daddy Reynolds’ eyes.
Mal nudged Buzz and spoke loud in his ear. “Claire and Loftis at the bar. Over in the corner, tucked away.”
Buzz pivoted, saw the two, half shouted to make himself heard: “Coleman can’t see ’em. We’ll take him when this goddaman noise shuts off.”
Mal moved to the left side wall, ducking his head, moving up toward the bandstand; Buzz followed a few feet behind, doing a little shuffle: I’m not conspicuous, I’m not a cop. When they were almost to the edge of the stage, he looked back at the bar. Claire was still there; Loftis wasn’t; a door on the right side of the room was just closing, showing a slice of light.
Buzz tapped Mal; Mal pointed over like he already knew. Buzz switched his gun from his holster to his right pants pocket; Mal had his piece pressed to his leg. The jigs quit playing and Coleman flew solo: squeals, rasps, honks, barks, growls, squeaks—Buzz thought of giant rats ripping flesh to the beat. There was a keening noise that seemed to go on forever, Coleman pitching his sax to the stars. The blue lights died; the keen went low note shuba-shuba-shuba in darkness and died. Real lights went on and the audience stampeded the bandstand, applauding.
Buzz pushed into the crush of bodies, Mal beside him, extra tall on his tiptoes. Everyone surrounding them was black; Buzz blinked for white and saw Coleman, sax held above his head, going through the right side door.
Mal looked at him; Buzz looked back. They pushed, punched, shoved, elbowed and kneed their way over, getting elbows, shoves and tossed drinks in their faces. Buzz came up on the door wiping bourbon sting out of his eyes; he heard a scream and a shot on the other side—and Mal went through the door gun first.
Another shot; Buzz ran after Mal’s shadow. A smelly linoleum corridor. Two shapes struggling on the floor twenty feet down; Mal aiming, gun hand braced. A black guy turned a side corner and tried to block his aim; Mal shot him twice. The man careened off the walls and went down face first; Buzz got a look at the two on the floor. It was Loftis being strangled by Coleman Healy, big ugly pink dentures with fangs attached in his mouth. Coleman’s chest was bloodied; Loftis was soaked dark red at the legs and groin. A revolver lay beside them.
Mal yelled, “Coleman, get back!” Buzz slid down the wall, .38 out, looking for a clean shot at the rat man. Coleman made a denture-muffled bleat and bit off his father’s nose; Mal fired three times, hitting Loftis in the side and chest, pitching him away from the thing attacking him. Coleman wrapped his arms around Daddy like an animal starved for food and went for his throat. Buzz aimed at his gorging head; Mal blocked his arm and fired again, a ricochet that tore the walls with zigzags. Buzz got free and squeezed a shot; Coleman grabbed his shoulder; Mal fumbled out his handcuffs and ran over.
Buzz threw himself prone and tried to find a shot; Mal’s legs and flapping suitcoat made it impossible. He stumbled up and ran himself; he saw Coleman grab the gun on the floor and aim. One, two, three shots—Mal lifted clean off his feet and spun around with his face blown away. The body collapsed in front of him; Buzz walked to Coleman; Coleman leered behind bloody fangs and raised his gun. Buzz shot first, emptying his piece at the wolverine toothwork, screaming when he finally got an empty chamber. He kept screaming, and he was still screaming when a shitload of cops stormed in and tried to take Mal Considine away from him.
Part Four
The Red Chaser Blues
Chapter Forty-One
Ten days went by; Buzz hid out at a motel in San Pedro. Johnny Stompanato brought him information and bothered him for his fee on the Minear squeeze; the chink restaurant down the street delivered three greasy squares a day; the newspapers and radio supplied more info. He called Audrey in Ventura every night, spinning her tall tales about Rio and Buenos Aires, where the U.S. government couldn’t extradite and Mickey was too cheap to send men. He fretted on the last and craziest money-making scheme of his LA career, wondering if he’d survive to spend the proceeds. He listened to hillbilly music, and Hank Williams and Spade Cooley did terrible things to him. He missed Mal Considine wicked bad.
After the shootout, and LAPD army got the citizens quelled and the bodies removed. Four dead: Coleman, Loftis, Mal and the back door bouncer he shot. Claire De Haven disappeared—she probably sent Reynolds on his lunatic mission, heard the shots, decided one redemption for the night was sufficient and calmly caught a cab home to plan more People’s Revolts, Beverly Hills style. He followed Mal to the morgue and gave a statement at the Seven-Seven squadroom, tying in the Healy/Loftis deaths to the homo snuffs and insisting the late Deputy Danny Upshaw get credit for cracking the case. His statement glossed the illegalities he and Mal pulled; he didn’t mention Felix Gordean, Chaz Minear, Dudley Smith or Mike Breuning at all. Let fruitfly Chaz live to enjoy his redemption; crazy Dud was too large to tap for the José Diaz kill or Charles Hartshorn’s “suicide.”
Reading between newspaper lines, you could follow the upshot: the Gordean killing unsolved, no suspects; the shootout explained as Mal and himself “following up a lead on an old case”; the dead boogie attributed to Coleman. No Commie or queer homicide angle on it at all—Ellis Loew had beaucoup press connections and hated complications. Reynolds and his son-lover were dismissed as “old enemies settling a grudge”—the howler to top all howlers.
Mal Considine got a hero’s funeral. Mayor Bowron attended, as did the entire LA City Council, Board of Supervisors and selected LAPD brass. Dudley Smith gave a moving eulogy, citing Mal’s “grand crusade” against Communism. The Herald ran a picture of Dudley chucking Mal’s kid Stefan under the chin, exhorting him to “be a trouper.”
Johnny Stomp was his conduit for dope on the grand jury, Ellis Loew to Mickey to him—and it looked like 24-karat stuff on all fronts:
Loew would begin his presentation of evidence next week—perfect timing—the UAES was still bearing the brunt of radio and newspaper editorials blaming them for the Gower Gulch bloodshed. Herman Gerstein, Howard Hughes and two other studio heads had told Loew they would oust UAES the day the grand jury convened—violating the union’s contract on the basis of fine-print clauses pertaining to expulsion for subversive activities.
Johnny’s other glad tidings: Terry Lux had suffered a stroke—the result of “prolonged oxygen deprivation” caused by a mouthful of money and a popped artery in his right hand. He was recuperating well, but ruined tendons in that hand would prevent him from performing plastic surgery again. Mickey Cohen had upped the ante on the Meeks contract to $20,000; Buzz jacked his payoff on the Minear job to $25,000 so Stompanato wouldn’t put a bullet in his head. The Mick was pulling his hair out over Audrey; he’d erected a shrine out of Audrey memorabilia: her stripper publicity pics, the costumes she wore when she he
adlined the Burbank in ’38. Mickey locked the stuff up in his bedroom at the hideaway and spent hours mooning over it. Sometimes you could hear him crying like a baby.
And Turner Meeks himself, holder of the Va Va Voom Girl’s real true love, was getting fat, fat, fatter on moo shu duck, sweet and sour pork, shrimp chop suey and beef kowloon—a shitload of condemned man’s last meals. And with his money shot a day away, he knew there were two things he wanted to know before he stuck his head in the noose: the whole story on Coleman and why the UAES hadn’t played its extortion scheme against the studios—whatever it was—yet. And he had a hunch he knew where to get the answers.
Buzz went to the motel office, changed a five into nickels and walked to the phone booth in the parking lot. He got out the list of rest homes he’d torn from the Yellow Pages the day of the shootout and started calling, impersonating a police officer. He figured Lesnick would be hiding under an alias, but he hit the flunkies he talked to with his real name anyway, along with “old,” “Jewish,” “dying of lung cancer.” He was $3.10 poorer when a girl said, “That sounds like Mr. Leon Trotsky.” She went on to say that the oldster had checked out against medical advice and left a forwarding address: the Seaspray Motel, 10671 Hibiscus Lane, Redondo Beach.
A cheap Commie joke making it easy for him.
Buzz walked to a U-Drive and rented an old Ford sedan, thinking it looked pretty long in the tooth for a getaway car. He paid a week’s fee in advance, gave the clerk a look at his driver’s license and asked him for a pen and paper. The clerk complied; Buzz wrote: