A voice called, “It’s open”; Danny walked in. A lanky young man in tweeds and horn rims was stuffing pages in a briefcase. He said, “Are you the guy replacing Duane? He hasn’t showed up in three days and the director needs additional dialogue quicksville.”
Danny went in fast. “Duane’s dead, his friend George Wiltsie too.
Murdered.”
The young man dropped his briefcase; his hands twitched up and adjusted his glasses. “Mm-mm-murdered?”
“That’s right.”
“And y-y-you’re a policeman?”
“Deputy Sheriff. Did you know Lindenaur well?”
The youth picked up his briefcase and slumped into a chair. “N-no, not well. Just here at work, just superficially.”
“Did you see him outside the studio?”
“No.”
“Did you know George Wiltsie?”
“No. I knew he and Duane lived together, because Duane told me.”
Danny swallowed. “Were they lovers?”
“I wouldn’t dream of speculating on their relationship. All I know is that Duane was quiet, that he was a good rewrite man and that he worked cheap, which is a big plus at this slave labor camp.”
A footstep scraped outside the door. Danny turned and saw a shadow retreating. Looking out, he caught a back view of a man fast-walking over to a bank of cameras and lighting fixtures. He followed; the man stood there, hands in his pockets, the classic “I’ve got nothing to hide” routine.
Danny braced him, disappointed that he was young and midsized, no burn scars on his face, at best a conduit for second-hand dope. “What were you doing listening outside that door?”
The man was closer to a boy–skinny, acned, a high voice with a trace of Side 69
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The a lisp. “I work here. I’m a set dresser.”
“So that gives you the right to eavesdrop on official police business?”
The kid primped his hair. Danny said, “I asked you a question.”
“No, that doesn’t give me–”
“Then why did you?”
“I heard you say Duaney and George were dead, and I knew them. Do you know–”
“No, I don’t know who killed them, or I wouldn’t be here. How well did you know them?”
The boy played with his pompadour. “I shared lunch with Duaney–Duane–and I knew George to say hi to when he picked Duane up.”
“I guess the three of you had a lot in common, right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you associate with Lindenaur and Wiltsie outside of here?”
“No.”
“But you talked, because the three of you had so goddamn much in common.
Is that right?”
The boy eyed the floor, one foot drawing lazy figure eights. “Yes, sir.”
“Then you tell me about what they had going and who else they had going, because if anyone around here would know, you would. Isn’t that right?”
The boy braced himself against a spotlight, his back to Danny. “They’d been together for a long time, but they liked to party with other guys. Georgie was rough trade, and he mostly lived off Duane, but sometimes he turned tricks for this fancy escort service. I don’t know anything else, so can I please go now?”
Danny thought of his call to Firestone Station–Lindenaur meeting the man he blackmailed through a “fruit introduction service.” “No. What was the name of the escort service?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who else did Wiltsie and Lindenaur party with? Give me some names.”
“I don’t know and I don’t have any names!”
“Don’t whine. What about a tall, gray-haired man, middle-aged. Did either Lindenaur or Wiltsie mention a man like that?”
“No.”
“Is there a man working here who fits that description?”
“There’s a million men in LA who fit that description, so will you please–”
Danny clamped the boy’s wrist, saw what he was doing and let go. “Don’t raise your voice to me, just answer. Lindenaur, Wiltsie, a tall, gray-haired man.”
The kid turned and rubbed his wrist. “I don’t know of any men like that, but Duane liked older guys, and he told me he dug gray hair. Now are you satisfied?”
Danny couldn’t meet his stare. “Did Duane and George like jazz?”
“I don’t know, we never discussed music.”
“Did they ever talk about burglary or a man in his late twenties with burn scars on his face?”