Buzz said, “You dumb shit, we coulda had him.” Mal turned and saw Claire De Haven standing there. She was saying, “Chaz,” over and over.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The picket line action was simmering.
Buzz watched from the Variety International walkway, three stories up.
Jack Shortell and Mal were supposed to call; Ellis Loew had called him at home, yanking him out of another Danny nightmare. The DA’s command: convince Herman Gerstein to kick an additonal five thou into the grand jury war chest. Herman was out–probably muff-diving Betty Grable–and there was nothing for him to do but stew on Considine’s foul-up and scope the prelim to slaughter down on the Street.
You could see it plain:
Side 168
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The A Teamster goon with a baseball bat was lounging near the UAES camera van; when the shit hit the fan and the film rolled, he’d be Johnny on the spot to neutralize the cinematographer and bust up his equipment. Teamster pickets were carrying double and triple banner sticks, taped grips, good shillelaghs.
Four muscle boys were skulking by the Pinkos’ lunch truck–just the right number to tip it over and coffee-scald the guy inside. A minute ago he saw a Cohen triggerman make an on-the-sly delivery: riot guns with rubber-bullet attachments, wrapped in swaddling cloth like Baby Jesus. Over on De Longpre, the Teamsters had their moviemaking crew at the ready: actor/picketers who’d wade in, provoke just the right way and make sure a few UAES pickets whomped them; three camera guys in the back of a tarp-covered pickup. When the dust cleared, Mickey’s boys would survive on celluloid as the good guys.
Buzz kept posing Mal against the action. The Cap had almost shot Doc Lesnick’s confidentiality on the psych files–blowing the whistle on Minear squealing Loftis–just when they were getting close on the blackmail angle and Felix Gordean. He’d hustled him out of the house quicksville, so he wouldn’t keep trashing the team’s cover–if they were lucky, De Haven and Loftis figured a HUAC source gave them the dope on Minear. For a smart cop, Captain Malcolm Considine kept making stupid moves: it was twenty to one he’d cut a deal with Red Claire for the custody case continuance; ten to one his attack on Loftis came close to deep sixing it. The old nance was no killer, but the ’42 to ’44
gap in his psych file–a time he was terrified remembering–talked volumes, and he and De Haven were looking like prime suspects on the snatch of the kid’s paperwork. And Doc Lesnick being noplace was starting to look as wrong as Mal fucking up his own wet dream.
The Teamster men were passing around bottles; UAES was marching and shouting its sad old refrain: “Fair Wages Now,” “End the Studio Tyranny.” Buzz thought of a cat about to pounce on a mouse nibbling cheese on the edge of a cliff; he gave the matinee a pass and walked into Herman Gerstein’s office.
Still no mogul; the switchboard girl at the plant knew to forward his calls to Herman’s private line. Buzz sat behind Gerstein’s desk, sniffed his humidor, admired his starlet pics on the wall. He was speculating on his grand jury bonus when the phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Meeks?”
Not Mal, not Shortell–but a familiar voice. “It’s me. Who’s this?”
“Johnny.”
“Stompanato?”
“How soon they forget.”
“Johnny, what’re you callin’ me for?”
“How soon they forget their good deeds. I owe you one, remember?”
Buzz remembered the Lucy Whitehall gig–it seemed like a million years ago. “Go, Johnny.”
“I’m paying you back, you cracker shitbird. Mickey knows Audrey’s the skimmer. I didn’t tell him, and I even kept hush on what you pulled with Petey S. It was the bank. Audrey put her skim in the Hollywood bank where Mick puts his race wire dough. The manager got suspicious and called him. Mickey’s sending Fritzie over to get her. You’re closer, so we’re even.”
Buzz saw Icepick Fritzie carving. “You knew about us?”
“I thought Audrey looked nervous lately, so I tailed her up to Hollywood, and she met you. Mickey doesn’t know about you and her, so stay icy.”
Buzz blew a wet kiss into the phone, hung up and called Audrey’s number; he got a busy signal, hauled down to the back lot and his car. He ran red lights and yellow lights and took every shortcut he knew speeding over; he saw Audrey’s Packard in the driveway, jumped the curb and skidded up on the lawn. He left the motor running, pulled his .38, ran to the door and shouldered it open.