Buzz whistled. “From old Reynolds’ missing-file time. It’s gotta be blackmail, there’s blackmail all over this mess. You wanna play him white hat-black hat?”
Mal got out of the car. “You be the bad guy. I’ll get De Haven out of the way, and we’ll work him.”
They walked up to the door and rang the bell. Claire De Haven answered; Mal said, “You go somewhere for a couple of hours.”
Claire looked at Buzz, lingering on his ratty sharkskin and heater. “You mustn’t touch him.”
Mal hooked a thumb over his back. “Go somewhere.”
“No thank yous for what I did?”
Mal caught Buzz catching it. “Go somewhere, Claire.”
The Red Queen brushed past them out the door; she gave Buzz a wide berth. Mal whispered, “Hand signals. Three fingers on my tie means hit him.”
“You got the stomach for this?”
“Yes. You?”
“One for the kid, boss.”
Mal said, “I still don’t make you for the sentimental gesture type.”
“I guess old dogs can learn. What just happened with you and the princess?”
“Nothing.”
“Sure, boss.”
Mal heard coughing in the living room; Buzz said, “I’ll kickstart him.”
A voice called, “Gentlemen, can we get this over with?”
Buzz walked in first, whistling at the furnishings; Mal followed, taking a long look at Loftis. The man was tall and gray per Upshaw’s suspect description; he was dashingly handsome at fifty or so and his whole manner was would-be slick–a costume of tweed slacks and cardigan sweater, a sprawl on the divan, one leg hooked over the other at the knee.
Mal sat next to him; Buzz thunked a chair down a hard breath away. “You and that honey Claire are gettin’ married, huh?”
Side 166
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The Loftis said, “Yes, we are.”
Buzz smiled, soft and homespun. “That’s sweet. She gonna let you pork boys on the side?”
Loftis sighed. “I don’t have to answer that question.”
“The fuck you don’t. You answer it, you answer it now.”
Mal came in. “Mr. Loftis is right, Sergeant. That question is not germane. Mr. Loftis, where were you on the nights of January first, fourth and the fourteenth of this year?”
“I was here, at meetings of the UAES Executive Committee.”
“And what was discussed at those meetings?”
“Claire said I didn’t have to discuss that with you.”
Buzz snickered. “You take orders from a woman?”
“Claire is no ordinary woman.”
“She sure ain’t. A rich bitch Commie that shacks with a fruitfly sure ain’t everyday stuff to me.”
Loftis sighed again. “Claire told me this would be ugly, and she was correct. She also told me your sole purpose was to convince yourselves that I didn’t kill anyone, and that I did not have to discuss the UAES business that was transacted on those three nights.”
Mal knew Meeks would figure out the Claire deal before too long; he joined his partner on the black hat side. “Loftis, I don’t think you did kill anybody. But I think you’re in deep on some other things, and I’m not talking politics. We want the killer, and you’re going to help us get him.”
Loftis licked his lips and knotted his fingers together; Mal touched his tie bar: _go in full_. Buzz said, “What’s your blood type?”
Loftis said, “O positive.”
“That’s the killer’s blood type, boss. You know that?”
“It’s the most common blood type among white people, and your friend just said I’m no longer a suspect.”
“My friend’s a soft touch. You know a trombone man named Marty Goines?”
“No.”
“Duane Lindenaur?”
“No.”
“George Wiltsie?”
Tilt: Loftis crossing and recrossing his legs, licking his lips. “No.”
Buzz said, “Horse fucking pucky, you don’t. _Give_.”
“I said I never knew him!”
“Then why’d you describe him in the past tense?”
“Oh God–”
Mal flashed two fingers, then his left hand over his right fist: _He’s mine, no hitting_. “Augie Duarte, Loftis. What about him?”
“I don’t know him”–a dry tongue over dry lips.
Buzz cracked his knuckles–loud. Loftis flinched; Mal said, “George Wiltsie was a male prostitute. Did you ever traffic with him? Tell the truth or my partner will get angry.”
Loftis looked down at his lap. “Yes.”