Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The THE BIG NOWHERE

Danny let the litany simmer on his way down to darktown– Sunset east to Figueroa, Figueroa to Slauson, Slauson east to Central–a hypothetical route for the car thief/killer. Dusk started coming on, rain clouds eclipsing late sunshine trying to light up Negro slums: ramshackle houses encircled by chicken wire, pool halls, liquor stores and storefront churches on every street–until jazzland took over. Then loony swank amidst squalor, one long block of it.

Bido Lito’s was shaped like a miniature Taj Mahal, only purple; Malloy’s Nest was a bamboo hut fronted by phony Hawaiian palms strung with Christmas-tree lights. Zebra stripes comprised the paint job on Tommy Tucker’s Playroom–an obvious converted warehouse with plaster saxophones, trumpets and music clefs alternating across the edge of the roof. The Zamboanga, Royal Flush and Katydid Klub were bright pink, more purple and puke green, a hangar-like building subdivided, the respective doorways outlined in neon. And Club Zombie was a Moorish mosque featuring a three-story-tall sleepwalker growing out of the facade: a gigantic darky with glowing red eyes high-stepping into the night.

Jumbo parking lots linked the clubs; big Negro bouncers stood beside doorways and signs announcing “Early Bird” chicken dinners. A scant number of cars was stationed in the lots; Danny left his Chevy on a side street and started bracing the muscle.

The doormen at the Zamboanga and Katydid recalled seeing Martin Mitchell Goines “around”; a man setting up a menu board outside the Royal Flush took the ID a step further: Goines was a second-rate utility trombone, usually hired for fill-in duty. Since “Christmas or so” he’d been playing with the house band at Bido Lito’s. Danny read every suspicious black face he spoke to for signs of holding back; all he got was a sense that these guys thought Marty Goines was a lily-white fool.

Danny hit Bido Lito’s. A sign in front proclaimed DICKY McCOVER AND HIS

JAZZ SULTANS–SHOWS AT 7:30, 9:30 AND 11:30 NITELY–ENJOY OUR DELUXE CHICKEN

BASKET. Walking in, he thought he was entering a hallucination.

The walls were pastel satin bathed by colored baby spotlights that hued the fabric garish beyond garish; the bandstand backing was a re-creation of the Pyramids, done in sparkly cardboard. The tables had fluorescent borders, the high-yellow hostesses carrying drinks and food wore low-cut tiger costumes, the whole place smelled of deep-fried meat. Danny felt his stomach growl, realized he hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours and approached the bar. Even in the hallucinatory lighting, he saw the barman make him for a cop.

He held out the mugshot strip. “Do you know this man?”

The bartender took the strip, examined it under the cash register light and handed it back. “That’s Marty. Plays ‘bone with the Sultans. Comes in before the first set to eat, if you wants to talk to him.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Las’ night.”

“For the band’s last set?”

The barman’s mouth curled into a tight smile; Danny sensed that “band”

was square nomenclature. “I asked you a question.”

The man wiped the bartop with a rag. “I don’ think so. Midnight set I remember seem’ him. Sultans played two late ones las’ night, on account of New Year’s.”

Danny noticed a shelf of whiskey bottles without labels. “Go get the manager.”

The bartender pressed a button by the register; Danny took a stool and swiveled to face the bandstand. A group of Negro men was opening instrument cases, pulling out sax, trumpet and drum cymbals. A fat mulatto in a double-breasted suit walked over to the bar, wearing a suck-up-to-authority smile. He said, “Thought I knew all the boys on the Squad.”

Side 20

Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The Danny said, “I’m with the Sheriff’s.”

The mulatto’s smile evaporated. “I usually deal with the Seven-Seven, Mr. Sheriff.”

“This is County business.”

“This ain’t County territory.”

Danny hooked a thumb in back of him, then nodded toward the baby spots.

“You’ve got illegal booze, those lights are a fire hazard and the County runs Beverage Control and Health and Safety Code. I’ve got a summons book in the car.

Want me to get it?”

The smile returned. “I surely don’t. How can I be of service, sir?”

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