Buzz said, “Nix, I want more. That file of yours list any details? Any good dirt?”
Lux held up the folder. “It’s mostly medical charts and financial accountings. You can read them if you like.”
“No thanks. You remember her good, Terry. I can tell. So feed me.”
Lux put the file back and slid the cabinet shut. “She seduced a few of her fellow patients while she was here the first time. It caused an upheaval, so in ‘43 I kept her isolated. She was on remorseful both times, and on her second go-round I gave her a little psychiatric counseling.”
“You a headshrinker?”
Lux laughed. “No, but I enjoy getting people to tell me things. In ‘43 De Haven told me she wanted to reform because some Mexican boyfriend of hers got beat up in the zoot suit riots and she wanted to work more efficaciously for the People’s Revolt. In ‘47 the Red hearings back east sent her around the twist–some pal of hers got his you-know-what in the wringer. HUAC was good for business, Buzz. Lots of remorse, ODs, suicide attempts. Commies with money are the best Commies, don’t you agree?”
Buzz ran the rest of the target list through his head. “Who got his dick in the wringer, some bimbo of Claire’s?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Morton Ziffkin?”
“No.”
“One of her spics? Benavides, Lopez, Duarte?”
“No, it wasn’t a Mex.”
“Chaz Minear, Reynolds Loftis?”
Bingo on “Loftis”–Lux’s face muscles tensing, coming together around a phony smile. “No, not them.”
Buzz said, “Horseshit. You give on that. Now.”
Lux shrugged–phony. “I had a case on Claire, and so did Loftis. I was jealous. When you mentioned him, that brought it all back.”
Buzz laughed–his patented shitkicker job. “Horse pucky. You’ve only got a case on money, so you fuckin’ give me better than that.”
The doctor got out his scalpel and tapped it against his leg. “Okay, let’s try this. Loftis used to buy heroin for Claire, and I didn’t like it–I wanted her beholden to me. Satisfied?”
A good morning’s work: the woman as a hophead/Mex fucker, Benavides a maybe kiddie raper, Loftis copping H for a fellow Red. “Who’d he glom from?”
“I don’t know. Really.”
“You got anything else good?”
“No. You have any fine young Howard rejects to spice up the ward?”
“See you in church, Doc.”
o o o
A stack of messages was waiting back at the office, partial results from his secretary’s phone queries. Buzz leafed through them.
Traffic ticket rebop predominated, along with some stale bread on the spics: unlawful assembly, nonfelony assault and battery resulting in Mickey Mouse juvie time. No sex shit on Samuel Tomás Ignacio Benavides, the “devil incarnate”; no political dirt on any of the three ex–White Fencers. Buzz turned to the last message slip–his secretary’s call back from the Santa Monica PD.
Mr. Meeks–
3/44–R. Loftis & another man–Charles (Eddington) Hartshorn, D.O.B. 9/6/1897, routinely questioned during Vice Squad raid of S.M. deviant bar (Knight in Armor 1684 S. Lincoln, S.M.) This from F.I. card check. DMV/R&I on Hartshorn: no crim. rec., traffic rec. clean, attorney. Address – 419 S. Rimpau, L.A. – hope this helps
— Lois.
419 South Rimpau was Hancock Park, pheasant under glass acres, old LA money; Reynolds Loftis had a case on Claire De Haven–and now it looked like he addressed the ball from both sides of the plate. Buzz ran an electric shaver over his face, squirted cologne at his armpits and brushed a chunk of pie crust off his necktie. Filthy rich always made him nervous; filthy rich and fruit was a combo he’d never worked before.
Audrey Anders stuck with him on the ride over; he pretended his Old Spice was her Chanel #5 in just the right places. 419 South Rimpau was a Spanish mansion fronted by a huge expanse of grass dotted with rose gardens; Buzz parked and rang the bell, hoping for a single-o play: no witnesses if it got ugly.
A peephole opened, then the door. A peaches-and-cream blonde about twenty-five had her hand on the knob, wholesome pulchritude in a tartan skirt and pink button-down shirt. “Hello. Are you the insurance man here to see Daddy?”