The Big Nowhere

Mal pointed to a side door, then touched his tie clip—LAPD semaphore for Let Me Run It. “My name’s Considine, and this is Lieutenant Smith. We’re with the DA’s Office, and we’d like to ask you a few questions. It’s just routine, and we’ll have you back at work in a few minutes.”

Juan Duarte said, “We got a choice?”

Dudley chuckled; Mal put a hand on his arm. “Yes. Here or the Hall of Justice jail.”

Lopez cocked his head toward the exit; Benavides and Duarte fell in next to him, lit cigarettes and walked outside. Actors and technicians gawked at the Indian-paleface migration. Mal schemed a razzle-dazzle, himself abrasive at first, then making nice, Dudley asking the hard questions, him playing savior at the end—the big push to glom them as friendly witnesses.

The three halted their march just out the door, leaning against the wall, nonchalant. Dudley stationed himself to the left of Mal, about a half step back. Mal let the men smoke in silence, then said, “Boy, have you guys got it made.”

Three sets of eyes on the ground, three phony Indians in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Mal rattled the leader’s cage. “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Lopez?”

Mondo Lopez looked up. “Sure, Officer.”

“Mr. Lopez, you must be taking home close to a C-note a week. Is that true?”

Mondo Lopez said, “Eighty-one and change. Why?”

Mal smiled. “Well, you’re making almost half as much as I am, and I’m a college graduate and a ranking police officer with sixteen years’ experience. All of you quit high school, isn’t that true?”

A quick look passed among the three. Lopez smirked, Benavides shrugged and Duarte took a long drag on his cigarette. Mal saw them sighting in on his ploy way too soon and tried for sugar. “Look, I’ll tell you why I brought it up. You guys have beat the odds. You ran with the First Street Flats and the Sinarquistas, did some Juvie time and stayed clean. That’s impressive, and we’re not here to roust you for anything you yourselves did.”

Juan Duarte ground out his cigarette. “You mean this is about our friends?”

Mal dredged the files for ammo, grabbing the fact that all three tried to join the service after Pearl Harbor. “Look, I’ve checked your Selective Service records. You quit the Sinarquistas and the Flats, you tried to fight the Japs, you were on the right side with Sleepy Lagoon. When you were wrong you copped to it. That’s the sign of a good man in my book.”

Sammy Benavides said, “Is a stool pigeon a good man in your book, Mr. Po—”

Duarte silenced him with a sharp elbow. “Who you trying to tell us is wrong now? Who you want to be wrong?”

Finally a good opening. “How about the Party, gentlemen? How about Uncle Joe Stalin getting under the sheets with Hitler? How about slave labor camps in Siberia and all the stuff the Party has pulled in America while they condoned the stuff going on over in Russia? Gentlemen, I’ve been a cop for sixteen years and I’ve never asked a man to snitch his friends. But I’ll ask any man to snitch his enemies, especially if they also happen to be mine.”

Mal caught his breath, thinking of Summations 115 at Stanford Law; Dudley Smith stood easy at his side. Mondo Lopez eyed the blacktop, then his Tomahawk Massacre co-stars. Then all three started clapping.

Dudley flushed; Mal could see his red face going toward purple. Lopez brought a flat palm slowly down, killing the applause. “How about you tell us what this is all about?”

Mal thrashed for file dirt and came up empty. “This is a preliminary investigation into Communist influence in Hollywood. And we’re not asking you to snitch your friends, just our enemies.”

Benavides pointed west, toward the front office and two picket lines. “And this has got nothing to do with Gerstein wanting our union out and the Teamsters in?”

“No, this is a preliminary investigation that has nothing to do with whatever current labor troubles your union is involved in. This is—”

Duarte interrupted. “Why us? Why me and Sammy and Mondo?”

“Because you’re reformed criminals and you’d make damn good witnesses.”

“Because you thought we’d be jail-wise and bleed easy?”

“No, because you’ve been zooters and Reds, and we figured that maybe you had the brains to know it was all shit.”

Benavides kicked in, a leery eye on Dudley. “You know the HUAC Committee pulled this snitch routine, and good people got hurt. Now it’s happening again, and you want us to fink?”

Mal thought of Benavides as a kiddie raper talking decency; he could feel Dudley thinking the same thing, going crazy with it. “Look, I know corruption. The HUAC chairman is in Danbury for bribery, HUAC itself was reckless. And I’ll admit the LAPD screwed up on the Sleepy Lagoon thing. But you can’t tell—”

Mondo Lopez shouted, “Screwed up! Pendejo, it was a fucking pogrom against my people by your people! You’re sweet-talking the wrong people on the wrong case to get the wrong fuck—”

Dudley stepped in front of the three, his suitcoat open, .45 automatic, sap and brass knuckles in plain view. His bulk cast the Mexicans in one big shadow and his brogue went up octaves, but didn’t crack. “Your seventeen filthy compatriots murdered José Diaz in cold blood and beat the gas chamber because traitors and perverts and deluded weaklings banded up to save them. And I will brook no disrespect for a brother officer in my presence. Do you understand?”

Complete silence, the UAES men still in Dudley’s shadow, stagehands eyeballing the action from the walkway. Mal stepped up to speak for himself, taller than Dudley but half his breadth. Scared. Pendejo. He got ready to give signals, then Mondo Lopez hit back. “Those seventeen got fucked by the puto LAPD and the puto City court system. And that ees la fucking verdad.”

Dudley moved forward so that all there was between him and Lopez was the arc of a short kidney punch. Benavides backed away, shaking; Duarte mumbled that the SLDC got anonymous letters making a white guy for José Diaz, but nobody believed it; Benavides pulled him out of harm’s way. Mal grabbed Dudley’s arm; the big man flung him back and lowered his brogue to baritone range. “Did you enjoy perverting justice with the SLDC, Mondo? Did you enjoy the favors of Claire De Haven—filthy rich capitalista, tight with the City Council, a real love for that undersized spic cock?”

Benavides and Duarte had their backs to the wall and were sliding away from the scene an inch at a time. Mal stood frozen; Lopez glared at Dudley; Dudley laughed. “Perhaps that was unfair of me, lad. We all know Claire spread her favors thin, but I doubt she would have stooped to your level. Your SLDC friend Chaz Minear, now that’s another story. Was he there for the prime Mex butthole?”

Benavides moved toward Dudley; Mal snapped out of his freeze, grabbed him and pushed him into the wall, seeing razor blades held to a little girl’s throat. Benavides shouted, “That puto bought boys at a puto escort service, he didn’t do us!” Mal pressed harder, sweat-saturated suit against soaked buckskins, hard muscles straining at the body of a thin man almost forty. Benavides suddenly went slack; Mal took his hands off him and got a file flash: Sammy railing against queers to Doc Lesnick, a weak point they could have played smart.

Sammy Benavides slid down the wall and watched the Smith-Lopez eyeball duel. Mal tried to make his hands give signals, but couldn’t. Juan Duarte was standing by the walkway, scoping the business long-distance. Dudley broke the standoff with a pivot and a lilting brogue aside. “I hope you learned a lesson today, Captain. You can’t play sob sister with scum. You should have joined me on the Hat Squad. You would have learned then in grand fashion.”