The girl swallowed her gum and walked in front of them. Dudley smiled; Mal thought: he’s a spellbinder–don’t let him run the show.
The sound stage was cavernous: wire-strewn walls, lights and cameras on dollies, anemic-looking horses tethered to equipment poles and people standing around doing nothing. Right in the middle was an olive drab teepee, obviously fashioned from army surplus material, Indian symbols painted on the sides–candy apple red lacquer–like it was some brave’s customized hot rod. Cameras and tripod lights were fixed on the teepee and the four actors squatting in front of it–an old pseudo-Indian white man and three pseudo-Indian Mexicans in their late twenties.
The saloon girl stopped them a few feet behind the cameras, whispering.
“There. The Latin lover types.” The old chief intoned words of peace; the three young braves delivered lines about the white eyes speaking with forked tongue, their voices pure Mex. Someone yelled, “Cut!” and the scene became a blur of moving bodies.
Mal elbowed into it, catching the three pulling cigarettes and lighters out of their buckskins. He made them make him as a cop; Dudley Smith walked over; the braves gave each other spooked looks.
Dudley flashed his shield. “Police. Am I talking to Mondo Lopez, Juan Duarte and Samuel Benavides?”
The tallest brave slipped a rubber band off his pony tail and shaped his hair into a pachuco do-duck’s ass back, pompadour front. He said, “I’m Lopez.”
Mal opened up his end strong. “Care to introduce your friends, Mr.
Lopez? We don’t have all day.”
The other two squared their shoulders and stepped forward, the move half bravado, half kowtow to authority. Mal tagged the short, muscular one as Duarte, former Sinarquista squad leader, zoot suits and swastika armbands until the CP
brought him around; his lanky pal as Benavides–Mr. Tight Lips to Doc Lesnick, his file a complete bore except for one session devoted to an account of how twelve-year-old Sammy molested his nine-year-old sister, a razor blade to her throat. Both men did a sullen foot dance; Muscles said, “I’m Benavides.”
Mal pointed to a side door, then touched his tie clip–LAPD semaphore for _Let Me Run It_. “My name’s Considine, and this is Lieutenant Smith. We’re with the DA’s Office, and we’d like to ask you a few questions. It’s just routine, and we’ll have you back at work in a few minutes.”
Juan Duarte said, “We got a choice?”
Dudley chuckled; Mal put a hand on his arm. “Yes. Here or the Hall of Justice jail.”
Lopez cocked his head toward the exit; Benavides and Duarte fell in next to him, lit cigarettes and walked outside. Actors and technicians gawked at the Side 52
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The Indian-paleface migration. Mal schemed a razzle-dazzle, himself abrasive at first, then making nice, Dudley asking the hard questions, him playing savior at the end–the big push to glom them as friendly witnesses.
The three halted their march just out the door, leaning against the wall, nonchalant. Dudley stationed himself to the left of Mal, about a half step back. Mal let the men smoke in silence, then said, “Boy, have you guys got it made.”
Three sets of eyes on the ground, three phony Indians in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Mal rattled the leader’s cage. “Can I ask you a question, Mr.
Lopez?”
Mondo Lopez looked up. “Sure, Officer.”
“Mr. Lopez, you must be taking home close to a C-note a week. Is that true?”
Mondo Lopez said, “Eighty-one and change. Why?”
Mal smiled. “Well, you’re making almost half as much as I am, and I’m a college graduate and a ranking police officer with sixteen years’ experience.
All of you quit high school, isn’t that true?”
A quick look passed among the three. Lopez smirked, Benavides shrugged and Duarte took a long drag on his cigarette. Mal saw them sighting in on his ploy way too soon and tried for sugar. “Look, I’ll tell you why I brought it up.
You guys have beat the odds. You ran with the First Street Flats and the Sinarquistas, did some Juvie time and stayed clean. That’s impressive, and we’re not here to roust you for anything you yourselves did.”