Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The THE BIG NOWHERE

Bedspreads wet from fucking.

A naked blond man catching his breath, veins pumping in his legs.

Zoom-in shots of awful insertions.

“It’s for the investigation.”

Danny broke the string of images–making the pretty ones all gray, all forty-fivish, all his killer. Knowing the killer only had sex to hurt helped put the brakes on his fantasies; Danny got his legs back and saw that he’d twisted a lank of his new hairdo clean off his scalp. He slammed the cabinet shut; he recalled queer vernacular and interposed it into the questions he’d ask Felix Gordean–himself as a smart young detective who came prepared, who’d talk on the level of anyone–even if it was wrong sex to a queer pimp.

Cop to voyeur and back again.

Danny drove home, showered and checked his closet for the best suit to go with his new hair, settling on a black worsted Karen Hiltscher had bought him–too stylish, too tapered and skinny in the lapels. When he put it on, he saw that it made him look dangerous–and the narrow shoulders outlined his .45

revolver. After two shots and a mouthwash chaser, he drove to the Chateau Marmont.

The night was damp and chilly, hinting of rain; music echoed through the Marmont’s inner courtyard–string swells, boogie jumps and odd ballad tremolos.

Danny took the footpath to 7941, chafing from the fit of Karen’s suit. 7941 was brightly lit, the velvet curtains he’d peered through open wide; the dance floor Side 92

Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The of three nights before gleamed behind a large picture window. Danny fidgeted with his jacket and rang the bell.

Chimes sounded; the door opened. A small man with a short dark beard and perfectly layered thin hair stood there. He was wearing a tuxedo with a tartan cummerbund, dangling a brandy snifter against his leg. Danny smelled the same fifty-year-old Napoleon he bought himself once a year as his reward for spending Christmas with his mother. The man said, “Yes? Are you with the Sheriff’s?”

Danny saw that he’d unbuttoned his coat, leaving his gun exposed. “Yes.

Are you Felix Gordean?”

“Yes, and I don’t appreciate bureaucratic faux pas. Come in.”

Gordean stood aside; Danny walked in and ran eye circuits of the room where he’d glimpsed men dancing and kissing. Gordean moved to a bookcase, reached behind the top shelf and returned with an envelope. Danny caught an address: 1611 South Bonnie Brae, the Sheriff’s Central Vice operations front, where recalcitrant bookies got strong-armed, recalcitrant hookers got serviced, protections kickbacks got tallied. Gordean said, “I always mail it in. Tell Lieutenant Matthews I don’t appreciate in-person calls with their implied threat of additional charges.”

Danny let Gordean’s hand hover in front of him–buffed nails, an emerald ring and probably close to a grand in cash. “I’m not a bagman, I’m a detective working a triple homicide.”

Gordean smiled and held the envelope down at his side. “Then let me initiate you regarding my relationship with your Department, Mr.–”

“It’s Deputy Upshaw.”

“Mr. Upshaw, I cooperate fully with the Sheriff’s Department, in exchange for certain courtesies, chief among them your contacting me by telephone when you require information. Do you understand?”

Danny got a strange sensation: Gordean’s frost was making him frosty.

“Yes, but as long as I’m here . . .”

“As long as you’re here, tell me how I can assist you. I’ve never been questioned on a triple homicide before, and frankly I’m curious.”

Danny speedballed his three victims’ names. “Martin Goines, George Wiltsie and Duane Lindenaur. Dead. Raped and hacked to death.”

Gordean’s reaction was more frost. “I’ve never heard of a Martin Goines.

I brokered introductions for George Wiltsie throughout the years, and I think George mentioned Duane Lindenaur to me.”

Danny felt like he was treading on an iceberg; he knew going in for shock value wouldn’t play. “Duane Lindenaur was an extortionist, Mr. Gordean. He met and attempted to extort money from a man named Charles Hartshorn–who he allegedly met at a party you threw.”

Gordean smoothed his tuxedo lapels. “I know Hartshorn, but I don’t recall actually meeting Lindenaur. And I throw a lot of parties. When was this alleged one?”

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