The Big Nowhere

Loew raised his voice—just as Mal heard his own voice start to quiver. “Gentlemen, please.”

The interruption allowed Mal to swallow, dredge up a cold look and shoot it at Dudley Smith. The big man shot back a bland smile, said, “Enough contentiousness over a worthless dead spic,” and extended his hand. Mal shook it; Smith winked.

Ellis Loew said, “That’s better, because guilty or not guilty isn’t germane to the issue here. The fact is that the Sleepy Lagoon case attracted a lot of subversives and they exploited it to their ends. That’s our focus. Now I know you both want to go home to your families, so I’ll wind this up for today.

“Essentially, you two will be bringing in what the Feds call ‘friendly witnesses’—UAESers and other lefties willing to come clean on their Commie associations and name names. You’ve got to get admissions that the pro-Red movies UAES worked on were part of a conscious plot—propaganda to advance the Communist cause. You’ve got to get proof of venue—subversive activities within LA City proper. It also wouldn’t hurt to get some big names. It’s common knowledge that a lot of big Hollywood stars are fellow travelers. That would give us some…”

Loew paused. Mal said, “Marquee value?”

“Yes. Well put, if a bit cynical. I can tell that patriotic sentiment doesn’t come easy to you, Malcolm. You might try to dredge up some fervor for this assignment, though.”

Mal thought of a rumor he’d heard: that Mickey Cohen bought a piece of the LA Teamsters off of their East Coast front man—an ex-syndicate trigger looking for money to invest in Havana casinos. “Mickey C. might be a good one to tap for a few bucks if the City funding runs low. I’ll bet he wouldn’t mind seeing the UAES out and his boys in. Lots of money to be made in Hollywood, you know.”

Loew flushed. Dudley Smith tapped the table with a huge knuckle. “No dummy, our friend Malcolm. Yes, lad. Mickey would like the Teamsters in and the studios would like the UAES out. Which doesn’t negate the fact that the UAES is crawling with Pinks. Did you know, lad, that we were almost colleagues once before?”

Mal knew: Thad Green offering him a transfer to the Hat Squad when his sergeantcy came through back in ‘41. He turned it down, having no balls for armed robbery stakeouts, going in doors gun first, gunboat diplomacy police work: meeting the Quentin bus at the depot, pistol-whipping hard boys into a docile parole. Dudley Smith had killed four men working the job. “I wanted to work Ad Vice.”

“I don’t blame you, lad. Less risk, more chance for advancement.”

The old rumors: Patrolman/Sergeant/Lieutenant Mal Considine, LAPD/DA’s Bureau comer, didn’t like to get his hands dirty. Ran scared as a rookie working 77th Street Division—the heart of the Congo. Mal wondered if Dudley Smith knew about the gas man at Buchenwald. “That’s right. I never saw any percentage there.”

“The squad was wicked fun, lad. You’d have fit right in. The others didn’t think so, but you’d have convinced them.”

He’s got the old talk nailed. Mal looked at Ellis Loew and said, “Let’s wrap this up, okay? What’s the heavy ammo you mentioned?”

Loew’s eyes moved back and forth between Mal and Dudley. “We’ve got two men assisting us. The first is an ex-Fed named Edmund J. Satterlee. He’s the head of a group called Red Crosscurrents. It’s on retainer to various corporations and what you might want to call ‘astute’ people in the entertainment industry. It screens prospective employees for Communist ties and helps weed out subversive elements that may have wormed their way in already. Ed’s an expert on Communism, and he’s going to give you a rundown on how to most effectively collate your evidence. The second man is a psychiatrist, Dr. Saul Lesnick. He’s been the ‘approved’ headshrinker for the LA Communist Party since the ‘40s, and he’s been an FBI informer for years. We’ve got access to his complete file of psychiatric records—all the UAES bigwigs—their personal dirt going back to before the war. Heavy artillery.”

Smith slapped the table and stood up. “A howitzer, a barrage weapon, maybe even an atom bomb. We’re meeting them at your house tomorrow, Ellis? Ten o’clock?”

Loew cocked a finger at him. “Ten sharp.”

Dudley aped the gesture to Mal. “Until then, partner. It’s not the Hats, but we’ll have fun nonetheless.”

Mal nodded and watched the big man exit the room. Seconds passed; Loew said, “A rough piece of work. If I didn’t think the two of you would be great together, I wouldn’t have let him sign on.’

“He volunteered?”

“He’s got a pipeline to McPherson, and he knew about the job before I got the go-ahead. Do you think you can keep him on a tight leash?”

The question was like a road map to all the old rumors. Ellis Loew had him down straight as a Nazi killer and probably believed that he was behind the botched snuff attempt on Buzz Meeks. They had to blow the Ad Vice and 77th Street stories out of the water. Dudley Smith knew better. “I don’t see any problem, counselor.

“Good. How’s things with Celeste and Stefan?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Loew smiled. “Cheer up, then. Good things are coming our way.”

Chapter Three

Turner “Buzz” Meeks watched rental cops patrol the grounds of Hughes Aircraft, laying four to one that Howard hired the ineffectual bastards because he liked their uniforms, two to one he designed the threads himself. Which meant that the Mighty Man Agency was an RKO Pictures/Hughes Aircraft/Tool Company “Stray Dog”—the big guy’s tag for tax-write-off operations that he bought and meddled in out of whim. Hughes owned a brassiere factory in San Ysidro—100 percent wetback-run; he owned a plant that manufactured electroplate trophies; he owned four strategically located snack stands—essential to the maintenance of his all-cheeseburger/chili dog diet. Buzz stood in his office doorway, noticed pleated flaps on the pockets of the Mighty Man standing by the hangar across from him, made the style as identical to a blouse Howard designed to spotlight Jane Russell’s tits, and called the odds off. And for the three trillionth time in his life, he wondered why he always cut bets when he was bored.

He was now very bored.

It was shortly after 10:00 New Year’s morning. Buzz, in his capacity as Head of Security at Hughes Aircraft, had been up all night directing Mighty Men in what Howard Hughes called “Perimeter Patrol.” The plant’s regular guards were given the night off; boozehound specters had been crisscrossing the grounds since yesterday evening. The high point of their tour was Big Howard’s New Year’s bonus—a flatbed truck loaded with hot dogs and Cokes arriving just as 1949 became 1950—compliments of the burger write-off in Culver City. Buzz had put down his sheet of bookie calculations to watch the Mighty Men eat; he laid six to one that Howard would hit the roof if he saw their custom-embroidered uniforms dotted with mustard and sauerkraut.

Buzz checked his watch—10:14—he could go home and sleep at noon. He slumped into a chair, sca

There was himself—short, broad, ru