The Big Nowhere

Mal stood up and looked at the door. Claire said, “Reynolds will never name names, I’ll never name names. Don’t ruin the good life he’s starting to have again. Don’t ruin me.”

She even begged with elegance. Mal made a gesture that took in leather upholstery, brocade curtains and a small fortune in embroidered silk. “How can you preach the Commie line and justify all this?”

The Red Queen smiled, beggar to muse. “The good work I do allows me a dispensation for nice things.”

A stellar exit line.

Mal walked back to his car and found a note stuck under the wiper blades: “Captain—greetings! Herman Gerstein called Ellis with a complaint: a Sheriff’s dick is making waves at Variety International (pansy homicide). Ellis spoke to his CO (Capt. Al Dietrich) about it—and we’re supposed to tell the lad to desist. West Hollywood Substation when you finish with C.D.H., please—D.S.”

Mal drove to the station, pissed at a stupid errand when he should be orchestrating the team’s next move: radio and newspaper spots to convince UAES the grand jury was kaput. He saw Dudley Smith’s Ford in the lot, left his car next to it and walked in the front door. Dudley was standing by the dispatching alcove, talking to a Sheriff’s captain in uniform. A girl behind the switchboard was flagrantly eavesdropping, toying with the headset on her neck.

Dudley saw him and hooked a finger; Mal went over and offered the brass his hand. “Mal Considine, Captain.”

The man gave him a bonecrusher shake. “Al Dietrich. Good to meet a couple of City boys who come off as human beings, and I was just telling Lieutenant Smith here not to judge Deputy Upshaw too harshly. He’s got a lot of newfangled ideas about procedure and the like, and he’s a bit of a hothead, but basically he’s a damn good cop. Twenty-seven years old and already a detective must tell you something, right?”

Dudley boomed tenor laughter. “Smarts and naivete are a potent combination in young men. Malcolm, our friend is working on a County homo snuff tied to two City jobs. He seems to be obsessed as only a young idealist cop can be. Shall we give the lad a gentle lesson in police etiquette and priorities?”

Mal said, “A brief one,” and turned to Dietrich. “Captain, where’s Upshaw now?”

“In an interrogation room down the hall. Two of my men captured a robbery suspect this morning, and Da

Dietrich led them through the muster room to a short corridor inset with cubicles fronted by one-way glass. Static was crackling out of a wall speaker above the last window on the left. The captain said, “Take a listen, the kid is good. And try to let him down easy, he’s got a bad temper and I like him.”

Mal strode ahead of Dudley to the one-way. Looking in, he saw a hood he’d rousted before the war. Vincent Scoppettone, a Jack Dragna trigger, was sitting at a table bolted to the floor, his hands cuffed to a welded-down chair. Deputy Upshaw had his back to the window and was drawing water from a wall cooler. Scoppettone squirmed in his chair, his County denims sweat-soaked at the legs and armpits.

Dudley caught up. “Ah, grand. Vi

Mal ignored him. Scoppettone’s voice came over the speaker, synched a fraction of a second behind his lips. “Eyeball witnesses don’t mean shit. They got to be alive to testify. Understand?”

Deputy Upshaw turned around, holding a cup of water. Mal saw a medium-sized young man, even-featured with hard brown eyes, a dark brown crew cut and razor nicks on heavily shadowed pale skin. He looked lithe and muscular—and there was something about him reminiscent of Claire De Haven’s picture-pretty boys. His voice was an even baritone. “Down the hatch, Vincent. Communion. Confession. Requiescat en pace.”

Scoppettone gulped water, sputtered and licked his lips. “You a Catholic?”

Upshaw sat down in the opposite chair. “I’m nothing. My mother’s a Jehovah’s Witness and my father’s dead, which is what you’re go

Scoppettone coughed; water dribbled off his chin. “Without them witnesses, you got no case.”

Upshaw leaned over the table; Mal wondered how much the speaker was distorting his voice. “You’re ixnay with Jack, Vi

Dudley nudged Mal. “That lad is very, very good.”

Mal said, “In spades.” He pushed Dudley’s elbow aside and concentrated on Upshaw and his verbal style—wondering if he could run Commie argot as well as he did gangsterese. Vincent Scoppettone coughed again; static hit the speaker, then died out into words. “There ain’t go

Upshaw said, “You feel like talking about that?”

“You think I’m stupid?”

Upshaw laughed. Mal caught the phoniness, that Scoppettone didn’t interest him—that it was just a job. But it was a Class A phony laugh—and the kid knew how to squeeze his own tension into it.

“Vi

Scoppettone was sweating heavy now—it was rolling off his face. Upshaw said, “You know what else I think? One heist wouldn’t have done it. I think there’s other jobs we can make you for. I think I’m go

Scoppettone tried laughter—a long string of squeaky ha ha ha’s. Upshaw joined in and mimicked them until his prisoner shut up. Mal snapped: he’s wound tight as a steel spring on something else and shooting it to Vi

Squirming his arms, Scoppettone said, “Let’s talk dealsky. I got something sweet.”

“Tell me.”

“Heroin. Heroin very large. That truce I told you about, Jack and Mickey partners. Quality Mex brown, twenty-five pounds. All for niggertown, cut-rate to lowball the independents down there. The God’s truth. If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

Upshaw aped Vi

“That wasn’t Jack, that was LAPD. Shooters out of Hollywood Station, a snuff kitty half the fuckin’ division kicked in for ‘cause of fuckin’ Brenda. Mickey Kike knows Jack didn’t do it.”