They were sitting in Stompanato’s car, 8:00 A.M., a cop-crook stakeout.
Mal knew his scenario; Buzz had filled Johnny in on his and had greased the doorman of Minear’s building. The man told him Chaz left for breakfast every morning at 8:10 or so, walked over Mariposa to the Wilshire Derby and returned with the newspaper around 9:30. Buzz gave him a C-note to be gone from 9:30 to 10:00; during that half hour they’d have a wide-open shot.
Mal watched the door; Stompanato gave himself a pocketknife manicure and hummed opera. At 8:09 a small man in tennis sweater and slacks walked out the entrance of the Conquistador Apartments; the doorman gave them the high sign.
Stompanato sliced a cuticle and smiled; Mal jacked his plug-ugly quotient way up.
They waited.
At 9:30, the doorman tipped his cap, got into a car and drove off; at 9:33 Chaz Minear walked into the building holding a newspaper. Stompanato put his knife away; Mal said, “Now.”
They quick-marched into the lobby. Minear was checking his mail slot; Johnny Stomp strode ahead to the elevator and opened the door. Mal dawdled by a wall mirror, straightening his necktie, getting a reverse view of Minear grabbing letters, Stompanato keeping the elevator door open with his foot, smiling like a good neighbor. Little Chaz walked over and into the trap; Mal came up behind him, nudged Johnny’s foot away and let the door close.
Minear pushed the button for three. Mal saw his door key already in his hand, grabbed it and rabbit-punched him. Minear dropped his newspaper and mail and doubled over; Johnny pinned him to the wall, a hand on his neck. Minear went purply blue; it looked like his eyes were about to pop out. Mal talked to him, a mimic of Dudley Smith. “We know you killed Felix Gordean. We were his partners on the Loftis job, and you’re going to tell us allll about Reynolds and his son.
Allll about it. Lad.”
The door slid open; Mal saw “311” on the key and an empty hallway. He walked out, located the apartment four doorways over, unlocked the door and stood back. Stompanato forced Minear inside and released his neck; Chaz fell down rasping for breath. Mal said, “You know what to ask him. Do it while I toss for the files.”
Minear coughed words; Johnny stepped on his neck. Mal took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and tossed.
The apartment had five rooms: living room, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, study. Mal hit the study first–it was the furthest from Stompanato and the nance. A radio went on, the dial skimming across jazz, commercial jingles and the news, stopping at an opera, a baritone and a soprano going at each other over a thunderous orchestra. Mal thought he heard Minear scream; the music was turned up.
Mal worked.
The study–desk, filing cabinets and a chest of drawers–yielded stacks of movie scripts, carbons of Minear’s political letters, correspondence to him, miscellaneous memoranda and a .32 revolver, the cylinder empty, a cordited barrel. The bedroom was pastel-appointed and filled with piles of books; there was a wardrobe closet crammed with expensive clothes and rows of shoes arrayed in trees. An antique cabinet featured drawers spilling propaganda tracts; there was nothing but more shoes under the bed.
The opera kept wailing; Mal checked his watch, saw 10:25, an hour down and two rooms clean. He gave the bathroom a cursory toss; the music stopped; Stompanato popped his head in the doorway. He said, “The pansy spilled. Tell Meeks he better stay alive to get me my money.”
Side 176
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The The hard boy looked green at the gills. Mal said, “I’ll do the kitchen and talk to him.”
“Forget it. Loftis and Claire what’s her face got the files. Come on, you’ve gotta hear this.”
Mal followed Johnny into the living room. Chaz Minear was sitting prim and proper in a rattan chair; there were welts on his cheeks and blood had congealed below his nostrils. His tennis whites were still spotless, his eyes were unfocused, he was wearing an exhausted, almost slaphappy grin. Mal looked at Stompanato; Johnny said, “I poured half a pint of Beefeater’s into him.” He tapped the sap hooked into his belt. “In vino veritas, capiche?”