Buzz thought semantics, thought “just like” might be an uneducated greaseball’s synonym for “identical twin”; Delores Masskie called the resemblance “rather close.” He grabbed a magnifying glass off a typist’s desk; he followed the pictures, looking for more Coleman. Three over he got a close shot of the boy with a man and a woman; he put the lens up to it and squinted for all he was worth.
No burn scars of any kind; no pocked and shiny skin; no uneven patches where flesh was grafted.
Two photos over, one row down. November 10, 1943. The boy standing sideways facing Claire De Haven, shirtless. Deep, perfectly straight scars on his right arm, a row of them, scars identical to scars he saw on the arm of an RKO actor who’d had his face reconstructed after an auto wreck, scars that actor had pointed to with pride, telling him that only Doctor Terry Lux did arm grafts, the skin there was the best, so good that it was worth upper body tissue removal. The actor said that Terry made him look _exactly_ like he did before the accident–when he looked at himself even he couldn’t tell the difference.
Terry Lux dried Claire De Haven out at his clinic three times. Terry Lux had workers who slaughtered chickens with zoot sticks.
Terry Lux told him Loftis used to cop H for Claire; Marty Goines was snuffed by a heroin overjolt. Terry Lux diluted the morphine for his dope cures on the premises at his clinic.
Buzz kept the magnifying glass to the wall, kept scanning. He got a back view of Coleman shirtless, saw a patchwork of perfectly straight scars that made him think of zoot stick wounds; he found another set of group shots that looked like Coleman fawning all over Claire De Haven. Hard evidence: Coleman Masskie Loftis was plastic surgery altered to look more like his father. He resembled his father enough to ID him from Delores’ pictures before; now he was him. His
“special protection” from Dudley Smith was being disguised as Loftis.
Buzz ripped the best Coleman pic off the wall, pocketed it and found a table stacked with reports from the Bureau men. He quick-skimmed the latest update; all the officers had accomplished was a shakedown of Lesnick’s parolee daughter–she said the old man was just about gone from his lung cancer and was thinking about checking into a rest home to check out. He was about to pocket a list of local sanitariums when he heard “Traitor,” and saw Mickey and Herman Gerstein standing a few feet away.
Cohen with a clean shot, but a half dozen witnesses spoiling his chance.
Buzz said, “I suppose this means my guard gig’s kaput. Huh, Mick?”
The man looked hurt as much as he looked mad. “Goyishe shitheel traitor.
Cocksucker. Communist. How much money did I give you? How much money did I set up for you that you should do me like you did?”
Buzz said, “Too much, Mick.”
“That is no smart answer, you fuck. You should beg. You should beg that I don’t do you slow.”
“Would it help?”
“No.”
“There you go, boss.”
Mickey said, “Herman, leave this room”; Gerstein exited. The typers kept typing and the clerks kept clerking. Buzz gave the little hump’s cage a rattle.
“No hard feelin’s, huh?”
Mickey said, “I will make you a deal, because when I say “deal,” it is always to trust. Right?”
“Trust” and “deal” were the man’s bond–it was why he went with him instead of Siegel or Dragna. “Sure, Mick.”
“Send Audrey back to me and I will not hurt a hair on her head and I will not do you slow. Do you trust my word?”
“Yes.”
“Do you trust I’ll get you?”
“You’re the odds-on favorite, boss.”
“Then be smart and do it.”
“No deal. Take care, Jewboy. I’ll miss you. I really will.”
Side 180
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The o
o
o
Pacific Sanitarium–fast.
Buzz turned off PCH and beeped his horn at the gate; the squawk box barked, “Yes?”
“Turner Meeks to see Dr. Lux.”
Static sounds for a good ten seconds, then: “Park off to your left by the door marked ‘Visiting,’ go through the lounge and take the elevator up to the second floor. Doctor will meet you in his office.”