A cheap Commie joke making it easy for him.
Buzz walked to a U-Drive and rented an old Ford sedan, thinking it looked pretty long in the tooth for a getaway car. He paid a week’s fee in advance, gave the clerk a look at his driver’s license and asked him for a pen and paper. The clerk complied; Buzz wrote:
Dr. Lesnick–
I was in with the grand jury for a while. I was there when Coleman and Reynolds Loftis were killed and I know what happened with them ‘42–’44. I didn’t let any of that information out. Check the newspapers if you don’t believe me. I have to leave Los Angeles because of some trouble I’ve gotten into and I would like to talk to you about Coleman. I won’t tell what you tell me to the grand jury–I would get hurt if I did.
T. Meeks.
Buzz drove to the Seaspray Motel, hoping Mal’s death kiboshed the Bureau men looking for Lesnick. It was an auto court at the tail of a dead-end street facing the beach; the office was shaped like a rocket ship pointed at the stars. Buzz walked in and punched the bell.
A youth with godawful pimples came in from the back. “You want a room?”
Buzz said, “Mr. Trotsky still alive?”
“Barely. Why?”
Buzz handed him the note and a five-spot. “Is he in?”
“He’s always in. Here or the beach. Where’s he gonna go? Jitterbugging?”
“Give him the paper, sonny. Keep the five. If he says he’ll talk to me, Abe Lincoln’s got a brother.”
The pimple boy motioned Buzz outside; Buzz stood by his car and watched him walk to the middle of the court and knock on a door. The door opened, the boy went in; a minute later he came out lugging two beach chairs, a stooped old man holding his arm. The hunch played–Lesnick wanted some friendly ears on his way out.
Buzz let them come to him. The old man had a hand extended from ten yards away; his eyes were bright with sickness, his face was muddy beige and everything about him looked caved-in. His voice was strong–and the smile that went with it said he was proud of the fact. “Mr. Meeks?”
Buzz gave the hand a little tug, afraid of breaking bones. “Yessir, Doctor.”
“And what is your rank?”
“I’m not a policeman.”
“Oh? And what were you doing with the grand jury?”
Buzz handed the clerk a fiver and grabbed the beach chairs. The boy walked off smiling; Lesnick held Buzz’s arm. “Why, then? I had thought Ellis Loew’s minions were all policemen.”
Lesnick’s weight on his was almost nothing–a stiff breeze would blow the fucker to Catalina. Buzz said, “I did it for money. You wanta talk on the beach?”
Lesnick pointed to a spot near some rocks–it was free of glass and candy bar wrappers. Buzz shepherded him over, the chairs more of a strain than the man. He set the seats down facing each other, close, so he could hear if the Doc’s voice went bum; he settled him in and watched him hunch into folds of terrycloth. Lesnick said, “Do you know how I was convinced to become an informant?”
True snitch behavior–he had to justify himself. Buzz sat down and said, “I’m not sure.”
Lesnick smiled, like he was glad he could tell it. “In 1939 representatives of the Federal government offered me a chance to secure my daughter’s release from Tehachapi Prison, where she was incarcerated for vehicular manslaughter. I was the official CP analyst in Los Angeles then, as I have remained. They told me that if I gave them access to my psychiatric files for evaluation by the 1940 State Attorney General’s probe and other probes that might come up, they would release Andrea immediately. Since Andrea had a minimum of four more years to serve and had told me terrible stories of the abuse the matrons and her fellow inmates inflicted, I did not hesitate one second in agreeing.”
Buzz let Lesnick catch some breath–and cut to Coleman. “And the reason you didn’t kick loose with Loftis’ file from ‘42 to ‘44 was because Coleman was smeared all over it. That right?”