Dudley badged him. “Mr. Leonard Rolff?”
The man put on glasses and examined the shield. “Yes. You’re policemen?”
Mal said, “We’re with the District Attorney’s Office.”
“But you’re policemen?”
“We’re DA’s Bureau Investigators.”
“Yes, you are policemen as opposed to lawyers. And your names and ranks?”
Mal thought of their newspaper ink–and knew he had no recourse. “I’m Lieutenant Considine, this is Lieutenant Smith.”
Side 103
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The Rolff grinned. “Recently portrayed as regretting the demise of the would-be City grand jury, which I now take it is a going concern once again. The answer is no, gentlemen.”
Mal played dumb. “No what, Mr. Rolff?”
Rolff looked at Dudley, like he knew he was the one he had to impress.
“_No_, I will not inform on members of the UAES. _No_, I will not answer questions pertaining to my political past or the pasts of friends and acquaintances. If subpoenaed, I will be a hostile witness and stand on the Fifth Amendment, and I am prepared to go to prison for contempt of court. You cannot make me name names.”
Dudley smiled at Rolff. “I respect men of principle, however deluded.
Gentlemen, would you excuse me a moment? I left something in the car.”
The smile was a chiller. Dudley walked out; Mal ran interference. “You may not believe this, but we’re actually on the side of the legitimate, non-Communist American left.”
Rolff pointed to the sheet of paper in his typewriter. “Should you fail as a policeman you have a second career as a comedian. Just like me. The fascists took away my career as a screenwriter; now I write historical romance novels under the nom de plume Erica St. Jane. And my publisher knows my politics and doesn’t care. So does the employer of my wife, who has full tenure at Cal State. You cannot hurt either of us.”
Out of the mouths of babes.
Mal watched Lenny Rolff resume work on page 399 of _Wake of the Lost Doubloons_. Typewriter clack filled the air; he looked at the writer’s modest stone house and mused that at least he saved more of his money than Eisler and had the brains not to marry a Jap. More clack-clack-clack; Page 399 became pages 400 and 401–Rolff really churned it out. Then Dudley’s brogue, the most theatrical he had ever heard it. “Bless me father, for I have sinned. My last confession was never, because I am Jewish. I will currently rectify that situation, Monsignors Smith and Considine my confessors.”
Mal turned and saw Dudley holding a stack of photographs; Rolff finished typing a paragraph and looked up. Dudley pushed a snapshot in his face; Rolff said, “No,” calmly. Mal walked around the table and scoped the picture close up.
It was fuzzy black and white, a teenage girl naked with her legs spread.
Dudley read from the flip side. “To Lenny. You were the best. Love from Maggie at Minnie Robert’s Casbah, January 19, 1946.”
Mal held his breath; Rolff stood, gave Dudley an eye-to-eye deadpan and a steady voice. “_No_. My wife and I have forgiven each other our minor indiscretions. Do you think I would leave the pictures in my desk, otherwise?
_No. Thief. Fascist parasite. Irish pig_.”
Dudley tossed the photos on the grass; Mal shot him the no hitting sign; Rolff cleared his throat and spat in Dudley’s face. Mal gasped; Dudley smiled, grabbed a manuscript sheet and wiped the spittle off. “_Yes_, because fair Judith does not know about fair Sarah and the clap you gave her, and I just played a hunch on where you took your cure. Terry Lux keeps meticulous records, and he has promised to cooperate with me should you decide not to.”
Rolff, still voice steady. “Who told you?”
Dudley, making motions: _verbatim transcription_. “Reynolds Loftis, under much less duress than you were just subjected to.”
Mal thought through the gamble: if Rolff approached Loftis, all their covert questionings were compromised; the UAES might put the kibosh on new members–terrified of infiltration, blowing Danny Upshaw’s approach. He got out pen and pad, grabbed a chair and sat down; Dudley called his own bluff. “Yes or no, Mr. Rolff. Give me your answer.”