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 Side 125
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The 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 him 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.”