Mal remembered Meeks’ memo to Ellis Loew: their first outside corroboration of Loftis’ homosexuality. “You’re sure Hartshorn wasn’t essential to Upshaw’s case?”
“Boss, that guy’s only crime is bein’ a homo with money and a family.”
Dudley laughed. “Which is preferable to being a homo with no money and no family. You’re a family man, Malcolm. Wouldn’t you say that’s true?”
Mal’s chain snapped. “Dudley, what the fuck do you want? I’m running this job and Upshaw is working for me, so you just tell me why you’re so interested in him.”
Dudley Smith did a master vaudeville take: a rebuked youth shuffling his feet, going hangdog with hunched shoulders and a pouting lower lip. “Lad, you hurt my feelings. I just wanted to celebrate your good fortune and make it known that Upshaw has incurred the wrath of his fellow officers, men not used to taking orders from twenty-seven-year-old dilettantes.”
“The wrath of a Dragna bagman with a grudge on the Sheriff’s and your protégé, you mean.”
“That’s one interpretation, yes.”
“Lad, Upshaw is _my_ protégé. And I’m a captain and you’re a lieutenant.
Don’t forget what that means. Now please leave and let us work.”
Dudley saluted crisply and walked out; Mal saw that his hands were steady and his voice hadn’t quivered; Meeks started applauding. Mal smiled, remembered who he was smiling at and stopped. “Meeks, what do _you_ want?”
Meeks rocked his chair. “Steak lunch at the Dining Car, maybe a vacation up at Arrowhead.”
“And?”
“And I’m not hog-wild about this job and I don’t like the idea of you makin’ voodoo eyes at me till it’s over and I liked you standin’ up to Dudley Smith.”
Mal half smiled. “Keep going.”
“You were scared of him and you dressed him anyway. I liked that.”
“I’ve got rank on him now. A week ago I’d have let it go.”
Meeks yawned, like it was all starting to bore him. “Pal, bein’ afraid Side 126
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The of Dudley Smith means two things: that you’re smart and you’re sane. And I outranked him once and let him slide, because that is one smart fucker that never forgets. So, accolades, Captain Considine, and I still want that steak lunch.”
Mal thought of the two silver bars. “Meeks, you’re not the type to offer amends.”
Buzz stood up. “Like I said, I’m not hog-wild about this job, but I need the money. So let’s just say it’s got me thinkin’ about the amenities of life.”
“I’m not hog-wild about it either, but I need it.”
Meeks said, “I’m sorry about Laura.”
Mal tried to remember his ex-wife naked, and couldn’t. “It wasn’t me that had you shot. I heard it was Dragna triggers.”
Meeks tossed Mal the velvet box. “Take it while I’m feelin’ generous. I just bought my girl two C-notes’ worth of sweaters.”
Mal pocketed the insignia and stuck out his hand; Meeks gave him a bonecrusher. “Lunch, Skipper?”
“Sure, Sarge.”
They took the elevator down to ground level and walked out to the street. Two patrolmen were standing in front of a black-and-white sipping coffee; Mal picked a string of words out of their conversation: “Mickey Cohen, bomb, bad.”
Meeks badged the two, hard. “DA’s Bureau. What’d you just say about Cohen?”
The younger cop, a peach-fuzz rookie type, said, “Sir, we just heard on the radio. Mickey Cohen’s house just got bombed. It looks bad.”
Meeks took off running; Mal followed him to a mint green Caddy and got in–one look at the fat man’s face telling him “why?” was a useless question.
Meeks hung a tire-screeching U-ey out into Westwood traffic and hauled west, through the Veterans Administration Compound, out onto San Vicente. Mal thought of Mickey Cohen’s house on Moreno; Meeks kept the pedal down, zigzagging around cars and pedestrians, muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” At Moreno, he turned right; Mal saw fire engines, prowl units and tall plumes of smoke up the block.
Meeks skidded up to a crime scene rope and got out; Mal stood on his tiptoes and saw a nice Spanish house smoldering, LA’s number-one hoodlum standing on the lawn, unsinged, ranting at a cadre of uniform brass. Rubberneckers were choking the street, the sidewalk and adjoining front lawns; Mal looked for Meeks and couldn’t see him anywhere. He turned and gave his backside a shot–and there was his grand jury cohort, the most corrupt cop in LA history, engaged in pure suicide.