Buzz did it, parking, walking through the lounge. The elevator was in use; he took stairs up to the second floor, saw the connecting door open, heard, “Okie baboon” and stopped just short of the last step.
Terry Lux’s voice: “…but I have to talk to him, he’s a pipeline to Howard Hughes. Listen, there should be something in the papers today I’m interested in–a guy I used to do business with was murdered. I just heard about it on the radio, so go get me all the LA dailies while I talk to this clown.”
Odds on Lux-Gordean business: six to one in favor of. Buzz retraced his steps to the car, grabbed his billy club, stuck it down the back of his pants and took his time walking inside. The elevator was empty; he pushed the button for 2 and glided up thinking how much Terry loved money, how little he cared where it came from. The door opened; the dope doc himself was there to greet him. “Buzzy, long time no see.”
The administrative corridor looked nice and deserted–no nurses or orderlies around. Buzz said, “Terry, how are you?”
“Is this business, Buzz?”
“Sure is, boss. And on the extra QT. You got a place where we can talk?”
Lux led Buzz down the hall, to a little room with filing cabinets and facial reconstruction charts. He closed the door; Buzz locked it and leaned on it. Lux said, “What the hell are you doing?”
Buzz felt the billy club tickling his spine. “Spring of ‘43 you did a plastic job on Reynolds Loftis’ son. Tell me about it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Check my ‘43 files if you like.”
“This ain’t negotiable, Terry. This is you spill all, Gordean included.”
“There’s nothing to negotiate, because I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Buzz pulled out his baton and hit Lux behind the knees. The blow sent Lux pitching into the wall; Buzz grabbed a fistful of his hair and banged his face against the door jamb. Lux slid to the floor, trailing blood on polished mahogany, sputtering, “Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me.”
Buzz backed up a step. “Stay there, the floor looks good on you. Why’d you cut the boy to look like his old man? Who told you to do that?”
Lux tilted his head back, gurgled and shook himself like a dog shedding water. “You scarred me. You… you scarred me.”
“Give yourself a plastic. And answer me.”
“Loftis had me do it. He paid me a lot, and he paid me never to tell anybody about it. Loftis and the psycho had essentially the same bone structure, and I did it.”
“Why’d Loftis want it done?”
Lux moved into a sitting position and massaged his knees. His eyes darted to an intercom phone atop a filing cabinet just out of reach; Buzz smashed the contraption with his stick. “Why? And don t tell me Loftis wanted the boy to look like him so he could be a movie star.”
“He did tell me that!”
Buzz tapped the baton against his leg. “Why’d you call Coleman a psycho?”
“He did his post-op here, and I caught him raiding the hatchery! He was cutting up the chickens with one of those zoot sticks my men use! He was drinking their goddamn blood!”
Buzz said, “That’s a psycho, all right”; he thought Terry had to be clean on snuff knowledge: the fool thought chickens were as bad as it got. “Boss, what kind of business did you do with Felix Gordean?”
“I didn’t kill him!”
“I know you didn’t, and I’m pretty damn sure you don’t know who did. But I’ll bet you hipped him to something about Reynolds Loftis back around ‘43, ‘44 or so, and Gordean started collectin’ hush money on it. That sound about right?”
Lux said nothing; Buzz said, “Answer me, or I’ll go to work on your kidneys.”
“When I tell Howard about this, you’ll be in trouble.”
“I’m finished with Howard.”
Lux made an overdue move. “Money, Buzz. That’s what this is about, right? You’ve got an angle you want to buy in on and you need help. Am I right?”