THE BIG NOWHERE by James Ellroy

Danny called Sheriff’s Personnel and learned that Skakel was still working Firestone swingwatch. He buzzed him there, got the switchboard and was put through to the squadroom.

“Skakel. Speak.”

“Sergeant, this is Deputy Upshaw, West Hollywood.”

“Yeah, Deputy.”

“I’m working a homicide tied in to two City 187’s, and you arrested one of the victims back in ‘41. Duane Lindenaur. Do you remember him?”

Skakel said, “Yeah. He was working a queer squeeze on a rich lawyer named Hartshorn. I always remember the money jobs. Lindenaur got bumped, huh?”

“Yes. Do you remember the case?”

“Pretty well. The complainant’s name was Charles Hartshorn. He liked boys, but he was married and he had a daughter he doted on. Lindenaur met Hartshorn through some fruit introduction service, perved with him and threatened to snitch Hartshorn’s queerness to the daughter. Hartshorn called us in, we rousted Lindenaur, then Hartshorn got cold feet about testifying in court and dropped the charges.”

“Sergeant, was Hartshorn tall and gray-haired?”

Skakel laughed. “No. Short and bald as a beagle. What’s with the job? You got leads?”

“Lindenaur’s on the City end, and there’s no real leads yet. What was your take on Hartshorn?”

“He’s no killer, Upshaw. He’s rich, he’s got influence and he won’t give you the time of day. Besides, pansy jobs ain’t worth it, and Lindenaur was a punk. I say c’est la vie, let sleeping queers lie.”

o o o

Back to the City, kid gloves this time, nothing to spawn more lies and trouble. Danny drove to Variety International Pictures, hoping Gene Niles would spend a decent amount of time at the Leafy Glade Motel. With the Goines end stalemated, victims two and three were the hot stuff, and Lindenaur as a studio scribe/extortionist felt hotter than Wiltsie as a male whore.

Rival union factions were picketing by the front gate; Danny parked across the street, put an “Official Police Vehicle” board on the windshield, ducked his head and weaved through a maze of bodies waving banners. The gate guard was reading a scandal tabloid featuring a lurid column on his three killings–gory details leaked by a “reliable source” at the LA morgue. Danny scanned half a page while he got out his badge, the guard engrossed, chewing a cigar. The two cases were now connected in print–if only by the LA Tattler–and that meant the possibility of more ink, radio and television news, phony confessions, phony leads and scads of bullshit.

Danny rapped on the wall; the cigar chewer put down his paper and looked at the badge held up. “Yeah? Who you here for?”

“I want to talk to the people who worked with Duane Lindenaur.”

The guard didn’t flinch at the name; Lindenaur’s monicker hadn’t yet made the tabloid. He checked a sheet on a clipboard, said, “Set 23, the office next to the Tomahawk Massacre interior,” hit a button and pointed. The gate opened; Danny threaded his way down a long stretch of blacktop filled with costumed players. The door to Set 23 was wide open; just inside it, three Mexican men were wiping war paint off their faces. They gave Danny bored looks; he saw a door marked REWRITE, went over and knocked on it.

A voice called, “It’s open”; Danny walked in. A lanky young man in tweeds and horn rims was stuffing pages in a briefcase. He said, “Are you the guy replacing Duane? He hasn’t showed up in three days and the director needs additional dialogue quicksville.”

Danny went in fast. “Duane’s dead, his friend George Wiltsie too. Murdered.”

The young man dropped his briefcase; his hands twitched up and adjusted his glasses. “Mm-mm-murdered?”

“That’s right.”

“And y-y-you’re a policeman?”

“Deputy Sheriff. Did you know Lindenaur well?”

The youth picked up his briefcase and slumped into a chair. “N-no, not well. Just here at work, just superficially.”

“Did you see him outside the studio?”

“No.”

“Did you know George Wiltsie?”

“No. I knew he and Duane lived together, because Duane told me.”

Danny swallowed. “Were they lovers?”

“I wouldn’t dream of speculating on their relationship. All I know is that Duane was quiet, that he was a good rewrite man and that he worked cheap, which is a big plus at this slave labor camp.”

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