Buzz winked. “Like Mickey Cohen?”
“I can’t shit a shitter.”
Buzz put his feet on Gerstein’s desk, wishing he had a cigar to light up. “So you want the UAES smeared, before the grand jury convenes or sometime during the proceedings. That way you can boot them on the malfeasance clause and put in Mickey’s boys without them Commies suin’ you–for fear of gettin’ in more shit.”
Hughes nudged Buzz’s feet off the desk with his own immaculate wing tips. “‘Smeared’ is a misnomer. In this case we’re talking about patriotism as the handmaid to good business. Because the UAES are a bunch of card-carrying Pinko subversives.”
“And you’ll give me a cash money bonus to–”
“And I’ll give you a leave of absence from your duties at the plant and a cash bonus to help the grand jury investigating team out. They’ve already got two cops as political interrogators, and the Deputy DA who’s running the show wants a third man to rattle for criminal skeletons and make money pickups. Buzz, there’s two things you know exceedingly well: Hollywood and our fair city’s criminal elements. You can be very valuable to this operation. Can I count you in?”
Dollar signs danced in Buzz’s head. “Who’s the DA?”
“A man named Ellis Loew. He ran for his boss’s job in ‘48 and lost.”
Jewboy Loew, he of the colossal hard-on for the State of California. “Ellis is a sweetheart. The two cops?”
“An LAPD detective named Smith and a DA’s Bureau man named Considine. Buzz, are you in?”
The old odds: 50-50, either Jack Dragna or Mal Considine set up the shooting that got him two in the shoulder, one in the arm and one through the left cheek of his ass. “I don’t know, boss. There’s bad blood between me and that guy Considine. Cherchez la femme, if you follow my drift. I might have to need money really bad before I say yes.”
“Then I’m not worried. You’ll get yourself into a bind–you always do.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Captain Al Dietrich said, “I got four phone calls about your little escapades in City territory night before last. At home yesterday. On my day off.”
Danny Upshaw stood at parade rest in front of the station commander’s desk, ready to deliver an oral rundown on the Goines homicide–a memorized pitch, to end in a plea for more Sheriff’s manpower and an LAPD liaison. While Dietrich fumed, he scotched the ending and concentrated on making his evidence compelling enough so that the old man would let him work the snuff exclusively for at least two more weeks.
“…and if you wanted information on heroin pushers, you should have had our Narco guys contact theirs. You don’t beat up the pushers, colored or otherwise. And the manager of Bido Lito’s runs another club inside the County, and he’s very simpatico with the watch sergeant at Firestone. And you were seen drinking on duty, which I do myself, but under more discreet circumstances. Follow my drift?”
Danny tried to look sheepish–a little trick he’d taught himself–eyes lowered, face scrunched up. “Yes, sir.”
Dietrich lit a cigarette. “Whenever you call me sir, I know you’re jerking my chain. You’re very lucky I like you, Deputy. You’re very lucky I think your gifts exceed your arrogance. Report on your homicide. Omit Dr. Layman’s findings, I read your summary and I don’t like gore this early in the morning.”
Danny drew himself ramrod stiff in reflex–he’d wanted to play up the horror aspects to impress Dietrich. “Captain, so far I’ve got two half-assed eyewitness descriptions of the killer–tall, gray-haired, middle-aged. O + blood typed from his semen–very common among white people. I don’t think either witness could ID the man from mugs–those jazz clubs are dark and have distorted lighting. The print man who dusted the transport car got no latents except those belonging to the owner and his girlfriend. He did eliminations based on Civil Defense records– both Albanese and the girlfriend had CD jobs during the war. I checked taxi logs around the time the body was dumped and the car abandoned, and nothing but couples leaving the after-hours clubs on the Strip were picked up. Albanese’s story of going back to darktown to look for his car has been verified by cab records, which eliminates him as a suspect. I spent all day yesterday and most of the evening recanvassing Central Avenue, and I couldn’t find any other eyewitnesses who saw Goines with the tall, grayhaired man. I looked for the two eyewitnesses I talked to before, thinking I’d try to get some kind of composite drawing out of them, but they were gone–apparently these jazz types are mostly fly-by-nights.”