Buzz got the numbers down. “Boss, this Masskie guy ain’t even twenty-seven years old, which sorta contradicts the middle-aged killer theory.”
Mal said, “I know, that bothers me too. But Shortell thinks Danny was close to cracking the case–and he thought this burglary angle was a scorcher.”
“Boss, we gotta take down Felix Gordean. We were gettin’ close last night, when you . . .”
Silence, then Mal sounding disgusted. “Yeah, I know. Look, you take the Masskie lead, I’ll shake Juan Duarte. I put four Bureau men out to find Doc Lesnick, and if he’s alive and findable, he’s ours. Let’s meet tonight in front of the Chateau Marmont, 5:30. We’ll stretch Gordean.”
Buzz said, “Let’s do it.”
Mal said, “Did you figure out De Haven and me?”
Side 170
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The
“Took about two seconds. You don’t think she’ll cross you?”
“No, I’ve got the ace high hand. You and Mickey Cohen’s woman. Jesus.”
“You’re invited to the wedding, boss.”
“Stay alive for it, lad.”
o
o
o
Buzz took Pacific Coast Highway down to LA, Wilshire east to Bunker Hill. Dark clouds were brewing, threatening a deluge to soak the Southland, maybe unearth a few more stiffs, send a few more hardnoses out for payback. Two thirty-six South Beaudry was a low-rent Victorian, every single shingle weatherstripped and splintered; Buzz pulled up and saw an old woman raking leaves on a front lawn as jaundiced as the pad.
He got out and approached her. Closer up, she showed a real faded beauty: pale, almost transparent skin over haute couture cheekbones, full lips and the comeliest head of gray-brown hair he’d ever seen. Only her eyes were off–they were too bright, too protruding.
Buzz said, “Ma’am?”
The old girl leaned on her rake; there was all of one leaf caught on the tines–and it was the only leaf on the whole lawn. “Yes, young man? Are you here to make a contribution to Sister Aimee’s crusade?”
“Sister Aimee’s been out of business awhile, ma’am.”
The woman held out her hand–withered and arthritic looking–a beggar’s paw. Buzz dropped some odd dimes in it. “I’m lookin’ for a man named Coleman Masskie. Do you know him? He used to live here seven, eight years ago.”
Now the old girl smiled. “I remember Coleman well. I’m Delores Masskie Tucker Kafesjian Luderman Jensen Tyson Jones. I’m Coleman’s mother. Coleman was one of the staunchest slaves I bore to proselytize for Sister Aimee.”
Buzz swallowed. “Slaves, ma’am? And you certainly do have a lot of names.”
The woman laughed. “I tried to remember my maiden name the other day, and I couldn’t. You see, young man, I have had many lovers in my role as child breeder to Sister Aimee. God made me beautiful and fertile so that I might provide Sister Aimee Semple McPherson with acolytes, and the County of Los Angeles has given me many a Relief dollar so that I might feed my young. Certain cynics consider me a fanatic and a welfare chiseler, but they are the devil speaking. Don’t you think that spawning good white progeny for Sister Aimee is a noble vocation?”
Buzz said, “I certainly do, and I was sorta thinkin’ about doin’ it myself. Ma’am, where’s Coleman now? I got some money for him, and I figure he’ll kick some of it back to you.”
Delores scratched the grass with her rake. “Coleman was always generous.
I had a total of nine children–six boys, three girls. Two of the girls became Sister Aimee followers, one, I’m ashamed to say, became a prostitute. The boys ran away when they turned fourteen or fifteen–eight hours a day of prayer and Bible reading was too strenuous for them. Coleman remained the longest–until he was nineteen. I gave him a dispensation: no prayer and Bible reading because he did chores around the neighborhood and gave me half the money. How much money do you owe Coleman, young man?”
Buzz said, “Lots of it. Where is Coleman, ma’am?”
“In hell, I’m afraid. Those who rebuke Sister Aimee are doomed to boil forever in a scalding cauldron of pus and Negro semen.”
“Ma’am, when did you last see Coleman?”