CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The nut bin waiting room featured tables and plasticene couches in soothing colors: mint green, ice blue, pale yellow. Artwork by the nuts was tacked to the walls: finger paintings and draw-by-the-numbers jobs depicting Jesus Christ, Joe DiMaggio and Franklin D. Roosevelt. Danny sat waiting for Cyril “Cy” Vandrich, dressed in Ted Krugman garb: dungarees, skivvy shirt, steel-toed motorcycle boots and a bombardier’s leather jacket. He’d been up most of the night studying Mal Considine’s scenario; he’d spent yesterday doing his own background checks on Duane Lindenaur and George Wiltsie, prowling their Valley hangouts and getting nothing but a queasy sense of the two as homo slime. Slipping into the Ted role had been a relief, and when he drove up to the Camarillo gate the guard had double-taked his get-up and New York plates and openly challenged him as a cop, checking his ID and badge, calling West Hollywood Station to get the okay. So far, Upshaw into Krugman was a success–the acid test this afternoon at the picket line.
An orderly ushered a thirtyish man in khakis into the room–a shortish guy, skinny with broad hips, deep-set gray eyes and a hepcat haircut–one greasy brown lock perfectly covering his forehead. The orderly said, “Him,” and exited; Vandrich sighed, “This is a humbug. I’ve got connections on the switchboard, the girl said this is about murders, and I’m not a murderer. Jazz musicians are Joe Lunchmeat to you clowns. You’ve been trying to crucify Bird for years, now you want me.”
Danny let it go, sizing up Vandrich sizing him up. “Wrong. This is about Felix Gordean, Duane Lindenaur and George Wiltsie. I know you’re not a killer.”
Vandrich slumped into a chair. “Felix is a piece of work, Duane what’s his face I don’t know from Adam and George Wiltsie padded his stuff so he’d look big to impress all the rich queens at Felix’s parties. And why are you dressed up like rough trade? Think you’ll get me to talk that way? That image is from hunger, and I outgrew it a long time ago.”
Danny thought: smart, hep, probably wise to the game. The rough trade crack washed over him; he fondled his jacket sleeves, loving the feel of the leather. “You’ve got them all buffaloed, Cy. They don’t know if you’re crazy or not.”
Vandrich smiled; he shifted in his chair and cocked a hip toward Danny. “You think I’m a malingerer?”
“I know you are, and I know that Misdemeanor Court judges get tired of giving the same old faces ninety days here when they could file on them for Petty Theft Habitual and get them some felony time. Quentin time. Up there they don’t ask you for it, they take it.”
“And I’m sure you know a lot about that, with your tough leather goods and all.”
Danny laced his hands behind his head, the jacket’s soft fur collar brushing him. “I need to know what you know about George Wiltsie and Felix Gordean, and maybe what Gordean does or doesn’t know about some things. Cooperate, you’ll always pull ninetys. Dick me around, the judge gets a letter saying you withheld evidence in a triple homicide case.”
Vandrich giggled. “Felix got murdered?”
“No. Wiltsie, Lindenaur and a trombone man named Marty Goines, who used to call himself the ‘Horn of Plenty.’ Have you heard of him?”
“No, but I’m a trumpeter and I used to be known as the ‘Lips of Ecstasy.’ That’s a double entendre, in case you haven’t guessed.”
Danny laughed off the vamp. “Five seconds or I walk and nudge the judge.”
Vandrich smiled. “I’ll play, Mr. Policeman. And I’ll even give you a free introductory observation. But first I’ve got a question. Did Felix tell you about me?”
“Yes.”
Vandrich did a little number, crossing his legs, making mincy hand motions. Danny saw it as the fuck going nance in order to knuckle to authority; he felt himself start to sweat, his lefty threads too hot, too much. “Look, just tell me.”
Vandrich quieted down. “I knew Felix during the war, when I was putting on a crazy act to get out of the service. I played that act everywhere. I was living off an inheritance then, living it up. I went to Felix’s parties and I trucked with Georgie once, and Felix thought I was non compos mentis, so if he sent you to see me he was probably playing a game. There. That’s my free introductory observation.”