Danny stopped thinking, replaced the ledger, jammed his jumpy hands into his warm leather pockets. It was too much nothing to hide, because there was nothing to hide, because none of the brain trusters knew he was a Homicide cop, Loftis could have forged his name, a five-time corroborated alibi would stand up in court ironclad, even if the alibiers were Commie traitors, none of it meant anything, get your cases straight and identities straight and be a policeman.
The house was getting hot. Danny shucked his jacket, hung it on a coatrack, went into the living room and pretended to admire the poster for Storm Over Leningrad. It reminded him of the stupid turkeys Karen Hiltscher coerced him to; he was making a note to lube her on 2307 when he heard, “Ted, how the hell are you?”
HIM.
Danny turned around. Reynolds Loftis and Claire were doffing their coats in the foyer. She looked coiled; he looked handsome, like a cultured blood sport connoisseur. Danny said, “Hi. Good to see you, but I’ve got some bad news.”
Claire said, “Oh”; Loftis rubbed his hands together and blew on them, “Hark, what bad news?”
Danny walked up to frame their reactions. “It was in the papers. A lawyer named Charles Hartshorn killed himself. It said he worked with the SLDC, and it implied he was being hounded by some fascist DA’s cops.”
Clean reactions: Claire giving her coat a brush, saying, “We’d heard. Charlie was a good friend to our cause”; Loftis tensing up just a tad–maybe because he and the lawyer had sex going. “That grand jury went down, but it took Charlie with them. He was a frail man and a kind one, and men like that are easy pickings for the fascists.”
Danny flashed: he’s talking about himself, he’s weak, Claire’s his strength. He moved into close-up range and hit bold. “I read a tabloid sheet that said Hartshorn was questioned about a string of killings. Some crazy queer killing people he knew.”
Loftis turned his back, moving into a shamefully fake coughing attack; Claire played supporting actress, bending to him with her face averted, mumbling, “Bad for your bronchitis.” Danny held his close-up and brain-screened what his eyes couldn’t see: Claire giving her fiancé guts; Loftis the actor, knowing faces don’t lie, keeping his hidden.
Danny walked into the kitchen and filled a glass with sink water, a break to give the players time to recover. He walked back slowly and found them acting nonchalant, Claire smoking, Loftis leaning against the staircase, sheepish, a Southern gentleman who thought coughing déclassé. “Poor Charlie. He liked Greek revelry once in a while, and I’m sure the powers that be would have loved to crucify him for that, too.”
Danny handed him the water. “They’ll crucify you for anything they can. It’s a shame about Hartshorn, but personally, I like women.
Loftis drank, grabbed his coat and winked. He said, “So do I,” kissed Claire on the cheek and went out the door.
Danny said, “We’ve got bad luck so far. Last night, your friend Charlie.”
Claire tossed her purse on the table holding the meeting ledger–too casual. Her tad too-studied glance said she’d arranged the still life for him–Loftis’ alibi–even though they couldn’t know who he was. The threads of who was who, knew who, knew what got tangled again; Danny quashed them with a lewd wink. “Let’s stay in, huh?”
Claire said, “My idea, too. Care to see a movie?”
“You’ve got a television set?”
“No, silly. I’ve got a screening room.”
Danny smiled shyly, proletarian Ted wowed by Hollywood customs. Claire took his hand and led him through the kitchen to a room lined with bookcases, the front wall covered by a projection screen. A long leather couch faced the screen; a projector was mounted on a tripod a few feet behind it, a reel of film already fed in. Danny sat down; Claire hit switches, doused the lights and snuggled into him, legs curled under a swell of skirt. Light took over the screen, the movie started.
A test pattern; a black-and-white fade-in; a zoftig blonde and a Mexican with a duck’s ass haircut stripping. A motel room backdrop: bed, chipped stucco walls, sombrero lamps and a bullfight poster on the closet door. Tijuana, pure and simple.