Dudley lit a cigarette and steered with one pinky. “Yes, a crusading captain might convince the judge that water is thicker than blood. You know, lad, that I’ve a wife and five daughters. They serve well to keep the reins on certain unruly aspects of my nature. If he can keep them in perspective, a family is an essential thing for a man to have.”
Mal rolled down his window. “I have no perspective where my son is concerned. But if I can keep you in perspective until the grand jury convenes, then I’ll be in _grand_ shape.”
Dudley Smith exhaled laughter and smoke. “I’m fond of you, Malcolm–even though you don’t reciprocate. And speaking of family, I’ve a little errand to run–my niece needs a talking-to. Would you mind a small detour to Westwood?”
“A brief detour, Lieutenant?”
“Very, Lieutenant.”
Mal nodded; Dudley turned north on Glendon and headed up toward the UCLA Side 98
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The campus, parking in a meter space on Sorority Row. Setting the brake, he said,
“Mary Margaret, my sister Brigid’s girl. Twenty-nine years old and on her third masters degree because she’s afraid to go out and meet the world. Sad, isn’t it?”
Mal sighed. “Tragic.”
“The very thing I was thinking, but without your emphasis on sarcasm.
And speaking of youths, what’s your opinion of our young colleague Upshaw?”
“I think he’s smart and going places. Why?”
“Well, lad, friends of mine say that he has no sense of his own place, and he impresses me as weak and ambitious, which I view as a dangerous combination in a policeman.”
Mal’s first thought of rising: He shouldn’t have confided in the kid, because half his juice was front just waiting to crack. “Dudley, what do you want?”
“Communism vanquished. And why don’t you enjoy the sight of comely young coeds while I speak to my niece?”
Mal followed Dudley up the steps of a Spanish manse fronted by a lawn display: Greek symbols sunk into the grass on wood stakes. The door was open; the lounge area buzzed: girls smoking, talking and gesturing at textbooks.
Dudley pointed upstairs and said, “Toot sweet”; Mal saw a stack of magazines on an end table and sat down to read, fielding curious looks from the coeds. He thumbed through a _Collier’s_, a _Newsweek_ and two _Life’s_–stopping when he heard Dudley’s brogue, enraged, echoing down the second-floor hallway.
It got louder and scarier, punctuated by pleas in a whimpering soprano.
The girls looked at Mal; he grabbed another magazine and tried to read. Dudley’s laughter took over–spookier than the bellows. The coeds were staring now; Mal dropped his _Weekly Sportsman_ and walked upstairs to listen.
The hallway was long and lined with narrow wooden doors; Mal followed Ha! Ha! Ha! to a door with “Conroy” nameplated on the front. It was ajar a few inches; he looked in on a back wall lined with photos of Latino prizefighters.
Dudley and the soprano were out of sight; Mal eavesdropped.
“. . . bull banks and pinatas and spic bantamweights. It’s a fixation, lassie. Your mother may lack the stomach to set you straight, but I don’t.”
The soprano, groveling, “But Ricardo is a lovely boy, Uncle Dud. And I–”
A huge hand flashed across Mal’s strip of vision, a slap turned to a caress, a head of curly red hair jerking into, then out of sight. “You’re not to say you love him, lassie. Not in my presence. Your parents are weak, and they expect me to have a say regarding the men in your life. I will always exercise that say, lassie. Just remember the trouble I spared you before and you’ll be grateful.”
A plump girl/woman backed into view, hands on her face, sobbing. Dudley Smith’s arms went around her; her hands turned to fists to keep him from completing the embrace. Dudley murmured sweet nothings; Mal walked back to the car and waited. His partner showed up five minutes later. “Knock, knock, who’s there? Dudley Smith, so Reds beware! Lad, shall we go impress Mr. Nathan Eisler with the righteousness of our cause?”
o
o
o
Eisler’s last known address was 11681 Presidio, a short run from the UCLA campus. Dudley hummed show tunes as he drove; Mal kept seeing his hand about to hit, the niece cowering from her genial uncle’s touch. 11681 was a small pink prefab at the end of a long prefab block; Dudley double-parked, Mal jammed facts from Satterlee’s report: