“And I don’t feature you as that sensitive. So tell me.”
Gordean said, “When you mentioned jazz, it made me think of a client, a horn player that I used to broker introductions to rough trade to. He impressed me as volatile then, but he’s not tall or middle-aged.”
“And that’s all?”
“Cy Vandrich, Deputy. Your tactics have gotten you more than I would normally have been willing to part with, so be grateful.”
“And that’s all?”
Gordean’s eyes were blank, giving nothing up. “No. Direct all your future inquiries through Lieutenant Matthews and learn to sip fine brandy–you’ll enjoy it more.”
Danny tossed his crystal snifter on a Louis XIV chair and walked out.
o o o
An hour and a half to kill before his meeting with Considine; more liquor out of the question. Danny drove to Coffee Bob’s and forced down a hamburger and pie, wondering how much of the Gordean questioning slipped between the cracks: his own nerves, the pimp’s police connections and savoir faire. The food calmed him down, but didn’t answer his questions; he hit a pay phone and got dope on Cy Vandrich.
There was only one listed with DMV/R&I: Cyril “Cy” Vandrich, WM, DOB 7/24/18, six arrests for petty theft, employment listed as “transient” and “musician.” Currently on his sixth ninety-day observation jolt at the Camarillo loony bin. A follow-up call to the bin revealed that Vandrich kept pulling crazy man stunts when he got rousted for shoplifting; that the Misdemeanor Court judge kept recommending Camarillo. The desk woman told Danny that Vandrich was in custody there on the two killing nights; that he made himself useful teaching music to the nuts. Danny said that he might come up to question the man; the woman said that Vandrich might or might not be in control of his faculties–no one at the bin had ever been able to figure him out–whether he was malingering or seriously crazy. Danny hung up and drove to West Hollywood Station to meet Mal Considine.
The man was waiting for him in his cubicle, eyeing the Buddy Jastrow mug blowup. Danny cleared his throat; Considine wheeled around and gave him a close once-over. “I like the suit. It doesn’t quite fit, but it looks like something a young lefty might affect. Did you buy it for your assignment?”
“No, Lieutenant.”
“Call me Mal. I want you to get out of the habit of using rank. Ted.”
Danny sat down behind his desk and pointed Considine to the spare chair. “Ted?”
Considine took the seat and stretched his legs. “As of today, you’re Ted Krugman. Dudley went by your apartment house and talked to the manager, and when you get home tonight you’ll find T. Krugman on your mailbox. Your phone number is now listed under Theodore Krugman, so we’re damn lucky you kept it unlisted before. There’s a paper bag waiting for you with the manager–your new wardrobe, some fake ID and New York plates for your car. You like it?”
Danny thought of Dudley Smith inside his apartment, maybe discovering his private file. “Sure, Lieut–Mal.”
Considine laughed. “No, you don’t–it’s all happening too fast. You’re Homicide brass, you’re a Commie decoy, you’re a big-time comer. You’re made, kid. I hope you know that.”
Danny caught glee wafting off the DA’s man; he decided to hide his file boxes and blood spray pics behind the rolled-up carpet in his hall closet. “I do, but I don’t want to get fat on it. When do I make my approach?”
“Day after tomorrow. I think we’ve got the UAES lulled with our newspaper and radio plants, and Dudley and I are going to concentrate on lefties outside the union–KAs of the brain trusters–vulnerable types that we should be able to get to snitch. We’re going over INS records for deportation levers on them, and Ed Satterlee is trying to get us some hot SLDC pictures from a rival clearance group. Call it a two-front war. Dudley and I on outside evidence, you inside.”
Danny saw Considine as all frayed nerves; he saw that his suit fit him like a tent, the jacket sleeves riding up over soiled shirtcuffs and long, skinny arms. “How do I get inside?”