It took long moments for him to calm down, to get it right. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday; he’d postponed his bourbon ration in order to tread the Strip clear-headed. Hitting late-night clubs and restaurants with questions on a tall, gray-haired man New Year’s would be straightforward police work to keep him chilled.
He did it.
And got more nothing.
Side 41
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The Two hours’ worth.
The same accounts at Cyrano’s, Dave’s Blue Room, Ciro’s, the Mocambo, La Rue, Coffee Bob’s, Sherry’s, Bruno’s Hideaway and the Movieland Diner: every single place was packed until dawn New Year’s. No one remembered a solitary, tall, gray-haired man.
At midnight, Danny retrieved his car and drove to the Moonglow Lounge for his four shots. Janice Modine, his favorite snitch, was hawking cigarettes to a thin weeknight crowd: lovebirds necking in wraparound booths, dancers necking while they slowgrinded to jukebox ballads. Danny took a booth that faced away from the bandstand; Janice showed up a minute later, holding a tray with four shot glasses and an ice water backup.
Danny knocked the drinks back–bam, bam, bam, bam, eyes away from Janice so she’d take the hint and leave him alone–no gratitude for the prostie beefs he’d saved her from, no overheard skinny on Mickey C.–useless because West Hollywood Division’s most auspicious criminal was greasing most of West Hollywood’s finest. The ploy didn’t work; the girl squirmed in front of him, one spaghetti strap sliding off her shoulder, then the other. Danny waited for the first blast of heat, got it and saw all the colors in the lounge go from slightly wrong to right. He said, “Sit down and tell me what you want before your dress falls off.”
Janice hunched into her straps and sat across the table from him. “It’s about John, Mr. Upshaw. He was arrested again.”
John Lembeck was Janice’s lover/pimp, a car thief specializing in custom orders: stolen chassis for the basic vehicle, parts stolen to exact specifications. He was a San Berdoo native like Danny, knew from the grapevine that a County plainclothes comer used to clout cars all over Kern and Visalia and kept his mouth shut about it when he got rousted on suspicion of grand theft auto. Danny said, “Parts or a whole goddamn car?”
Janice pulled a Kleenex out of her neckline and fretted it.
“Upholstery.”
“City or County?”
“I–I think County. San Dimas Substation?”
Danny winced. San Dimas had the most rowdy detective squad in the Department; in ’46 the daywatch boss, jacked on turpen hydrate, beat a wetback fruit picker to death. “That’s the County. What’s his bail?”
“No bail, because of John’s last GTA. See, it’s a parole violation, Mr.
Upshaw. John’s scared because he says the policemen there are really mean, and they made him sign a confession on all these cars he didn’t really steal. John said I should tell you a San Berdoo homeboy who loves cars should go to bat for another San Berdoo homey who loves cars. He didn’t say what it meant, but he said I should tell you.”
Pull strings to save his career from its first hint of dirt: call the San Dimas bulls, tell them John Lembeck was his trusted snitch and that a nigger hot car gang had a jail bid out on him, shiv time if the stupid shit ever made it to a County lockup. If Lembeck was docile at the holding tank, they’d let him off with a beating. “Tell John I’ll get on it in the morning.”
Janice had pinched her Kleenex into little wispy shreds. “Thanks, Mr.
Upshaw. John also said I should be nice to you.”
Danny stood up, feeling warm and loose, wondering if he should muscle Lembeck for going cuntish on him. “You’re always nice to me, sweetheart. That’s why I have my nightcap here.”
Janice vamped him with wide baby blues. “He said I should be _really_
nice to you.”
“I don’t want it.”
“I mean, like really _extra_ nice.”
Danny said, “It’s wrong,” and placed his usual dollar tip on the table.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mal was in his office, on his twelfth full reading of Dr. Saul Lesnick’s psychiatric files.