“Holy fuck.”
“In spades, and get me this–records checks on these four men–Donald Wachtel, 1638 Franklin, Santa Monica. Timothy Costigan, 11692 Saticoy, Van Nuys.
Alan Marks, 209 4th Avenue, Venice, and Augie Duarte, 1890 Vendome, LA. Got it?”
Shortell said, “You’ve got it”; Danny hung up and trawled for HIM. He cruised back to La Paloma and found the car exactly the way he left it; he hung his flashlight out the window and shone it at bungalows, alleyways, back yards and foothills. Squarejohn husbands and wives taking out the trash; dogs, cats and a spooked coyote transfixed by the glare in its eyes. No tall, middleaged man with lovely silver hair calmly making his getaway from a count of Grand Theft Auto. Danny drove back to Sunset and took it slowly out to the beach, scanning both sides of the street; at Pacific Coast Highway, he dug in his memory for Felix Gordean’s address, came up with 16822 PCH and rolled there.
It was on the beach side of the road, a white wood Colonial built on pilings sunk into the sand, “Felix Gordean, Esq,” in deco by the mailbox. Danny parked directly in front and rang the bell; chimes like the ones at the Marmont sounded; a pretty boy in a kimono answered. Danny badged him. “Sheriff’s. I’m here to see Felix Gordean.”
Side 120
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The The boy lounged in the doorway. “Felix is indisposed right now.”
Danny looked him over, his stomach queasing at blond hair straight from a peroxide bottle. The living room backdropping the boy was ultramodern, with one whole wall mirrored–tinted glass like the one-ways in police interrogation stalls. Vandrich on Gordean: he perved watching men with men. Danny said, “Tell him it’s Deputy Upshaw.”
“It’s all right, Christopher. I’ll talk to this officer.”
The pretty boy jumped at Gordean’s voice; Danny walked in and saw the man, elegant in a silk robe, staring at the one-way. He kept staring; Danny said, “Are you going to look at me?”
Gordean pivoted slowly. “Hello, Deputy. Did you forget something the other night?”
Christopher went over and stood by Gordean, giving the mirror a look-see and a giggle. Danny said, “Four names that I need rundowns on. Donald Wachtel, Alan Marks, Augie Duarte and Timothy Costigan.”
Gordean said, “Those men are clients and friends of mine, and they were all at my office this afternoon. Have you been spying on me?”
Danny stepped toward the two, angling himself away from the mirror. “Get specific. Who are they?”
Gordean shrugged and put his hands on his hips. “As I said, clients and friends.”
“Like I said, get specific.”
“Very well. Don Wachtel and Al Marks are radio actors, Tim Costigan used to be a crooner with the big bands and Augie Duarte is a budding actor who I’ve found commercial work for. In fact, maybe you’ve seen him on television. I found him a job playing a fruit picker in a spot for the California Citrus Growers’
Association.”
Pretty Boy was hugging himself, entranced by the mirror; Danny smelled fear on Gordean. “Remember how I described my suspect the other night? Tall, gray-haired and forty-fivish?”
“Yes. So?”
“So have you seen anyone like that hanging out around your office?”
A deadpan from Gordean; Christopher turning from the mirror, his mouth opening. A brief hand squeeze, pimp to Pretty Boy; the kid’s deadpan. Danny smiled, “That’s it. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
Two men walked into the living room. They were wearing red silk briefs; one man was removing a sequined mask. Both were young and overly muscular, with shaved legs and torsos slicked down with some kind of oil. They eyed the three standing there; the taller of them threw Danny a kissy face. His partner scowled, hooked his fingers inside his briefs, pulled him back to the hallway and out of sight. They trailed giggles; Danny felt like vomiting and went for the door.
Gordean spoke to his back. “No questions about that, Deputy?”
Danny turned around. “No.”
“Wouldn’t you say it runs contrary to your life? I’m sure you’ve got a nice family. A wife or a girlfriend, a nice family who would find that shocking.