Ed’s an expert on Communism, and he’s going to give you a rundown on how to most effectively collate your evidence. The second man is a psychiatrist, Dr. Saul Lesnick. He’s been the ‘approved’ headshrinker for the LA Communist Party since the ’40s, and he’s been an FBI informer for years. We’ve got access to his complete file of psychiatric records–all the UAES bigwigs–their personal dirt going back to before the war. _Heavy artillery_.”
Smith slapped the table and stood up. “A howitzer, a barrage weapon, maybe even an atom bomb. We’re meeting them at your house tomorrow, Ellis? Ten o’clock?”
Loew cocked a finger at him. “Ten sharp.”
Dudley aped the gesture to Mal. “Until then, partner. It’s not the Hats, but we’ll have fun nonetheless.”
Mal nodded and watched the big man exit the room. Seconds passed; Loew said, “A rough piece of work. If I didn’t think the two of you would be great together, I wouldn’t have let him sign on.’
“He volunteered?”
“He’s got a pipeline to McPherson, and he knew about the job before I got the go-ahead. Do you think you can keep him on a tight leash?”
The question was like a road map to all the old rumors. Ellis Loew had Side 9
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The him down straight as a Nazi killer and probably believed that he was behind the botched snuff attempt on Buzz Meeks. They had to blow the Ad Vice and 77th Street stories out of the water. Dudley Smith knew better. “I don’t see any problem, counselor.
“Good. How’s things with Celeste and Stefan?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Loew smiled. “Cheer up, then. Good things are coming our way.”
CHAPTER THREE
Turner “Buzz” Meeks watched rental cops patrol the grounds of Hughes Aircraft, laying four to one that Howard hired the ineffectual bastards because he liked their uniforms, two to one he designed the threads himself. Which meant that the Mighty Man Agency was an RKO Pictures/Hughes Aircraft/Tool Company
“Stray Dog”–the big guy’s tag for tax-write-off operations that he bought and meddled in out of whim. Hughes owned a brassiere factory in San Ysidro–100
percent wetback-run; he owned a plant that manufactured electroplate trophies; he owned four strategically located snack stands–essential to the maintenance of his all-cheeseburger/chili dog diet. Buzz stood in his office doorway, noticed pleated flaps on the pockets of the Mighty Man standing by the hangar across from him, made the style as identical to a blouse Howard designed to spotlight Jane Russell’s tits, and called the odds off. And for the three trillionth time in his life, he wondered why he always cut bets when he was bored.
He was now very bored.
It was shortly after 10:00 New Year’s morning. Buzz, in his capacity as Head of Security at Hughes Aircraft, had been up all night directing Mighty Men in what Howard Hughes called “Perimeter Patrol.” The plant’s regular guards were given the night off; boozehound specters had been crisscrossing the grounds since yesterday evening. The high point of their tour was Big Howard’s New Year’s bonus–a flatbed truck loaded with hot dogs and Cokes arriving just as 1949 became 1950–compliments of the burger write-off in Culver City. Buzz had put down his sheet of bookie calculations to watch the Mighty Men eat; he laid six to one that Howard would hit the roof if he saw their custom-embroidered uniforms dotted with mustard and sauerkraut.
Buzz checked his watch–10:14–he could go home and sleep at noon. He slumped into a chair, scanned the walls and studied the framed photos that lined them. Each one made him figure odds for and against himself, made him think of how perfect his figurehead job and what he _really_ did were.
There was himself–short, broad, running to fat, standing next to Howard Hughes, tall and handsome in a chalk stripe suit–an Oklahoma shitkicker and a millionaire eccentric giving each other the cuckold’s horns. Buzz saw the photo as the two sides of a scratchy hillbilly record: one side about a sheriff corrupted by women and money, the flip a lament for the boss man who bought him out. Next was a collection of police shots–Buzz trim and fit as an LAPD rookie in ’34; getting fatter and better dressed as the pictures jumped forward in time: tours with Bunco, Robbery and Narcotics divisions; cashmere and camel’s hair blazers, the slightly nervous look in his eyes indigenous to bagmen everywhere. Then Detective Sergeant Turner Meeks in a bed at Queen of Angels, high brass hovering around him, pointing to the wounds he survived–while _he_