The Big Nowhere

Writing out his new title gave Mal the chills; he thought of buying a fancy pen to commemorate the occasion. He moved down to the file stacks, heard “Think fast” and saw a little blue object lobbing toward him, Buzz Meeks the lobber. He caught it on reflex—a velvet jeweler’s box. Meeks said, “A peace offering, skipper. I’ll be damned if I’m go

Mal opened the box and saw a pair of shiny silver captain’s bars. He looked at Meeks; the fat man said, “I’m not askin’ for a handshake or a ‘Gee, thanks, old buddy,’ but I sure would like to know if it was you sent those torpedoes after me.”

Something about Meeks was off: his usual slimy charm was subdued and he had to know that whatever happened in ‘46 had no bearing on now. Mal snapped the box shut and tossed it back. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Meeks palmed the gift. “My last shot at civility, skipper. When I moved on Laura, I didn’t know she was a cop’s wife.”

Mal smoothed his vest front; Meeks always made him feel like he needed steam cleaning. “Take the files on the end. You know what Ellis wants.”

Meeks shrugged and complied, a pro. Mal dug into his first file, read through a long INS background check report, sensed a solid citizen type with bum politics spawned by the big European inflation and put the folder aside. Files two and three were more of the same; he kept stealing glances at Meeks grinding notes, wondering what the cracker wanted. Four, five, six, seven, eight, all Hitler refugee stuff, poison that made drifts to the far left seem justified. Meeks caught his eye and winked; Mal saw that he was happy or amused about something. Nine and ten dawdled over, then a rap on the file room door. “Knock, knock, who’s there? Dudley Smith, so Reds beware!”

Mal stood up; Dudley came over and gave him a barrage of hard back slaps. “Six years my junior, and a captain you are. How grand! Lad, you have my most heartfelt congratulations.”

Mal saw himself trashing the Irishman, making him eat orders and kowtow. “Congratulations accepted, Lieutenant.”

“And you’ve a wicked wit to match your new rank. Wouldn’t you say so, Turner?”

Meeks rocked in his chair. “Dudley, I can’t get this boy to say much of anything.”

Dudley laughed. “I suspect there’s old fury between you two. What it derives from I don’t know, although cherchez la femme might be a good bet. Malcolm, while I’m here let me ask you something about our friend Upshaw. Is he sticking his snout into our investigation past his decoy work? The other men on the homo job resent him and seem to think he’s a meddler.”

“While I’m here” echoed; “cherchez la femme” thundered— Mal knew Dudley had the story on him and Meeks. “You’re as subtle as a freight train, Lieutenant. And what is it about you and Upshaw?”

Dudley ha’ ha’d; Meeks said, “Mike Breuning’s ditzed on the kid, too. He called me last night and ran a list of names by me, four guys Upshaw wanted tails put on. He asked me if they were from the queer job or the grand jury. I told him I didn’t know, that I never met the kid, all I got on him was third-hand.”

Mal cleared his throat, ticked at being talked around. “What third hand, Meeks?”

The fat man smiled. “I was workin’ an angle on Reynolds Loftis, and I came up with a lead from Samo PD Vice. Loftis was rousted at a queer bar back in ‘44, pallin’ with a lawyer named Charles Hartshorn, a big wheel downtown. I braced Hartshorn, and he thought at first I was a Homicide dick, ‘cause he was acquainted with one of the dead homos from Upshaw’s job. I knew the guy was no killer. I leaned on him hard, then bought myself off on him rattin’ me by tellin’ him I’d keep the County heat away.”

Mal remembered Meeks’ memo to Ellis Loew: their first outside corroboration of Loftis’ homosexuality. “You’re sure Hartshorn wasn’t essential to Upshaw’s case?”

“Boss, that guy’s only crime is bein’ a homo with money and a family.”

Dudley laughed. “Which is preferable to being a homo with no money and no family. You’re a family man, Malcolm. Wouldn’t you say that’s true?”

Mal’s chain snapped. “Dudley, what the fuck do you want? I’m ru

Dudley Smith did a master vaudeville take: a rebuked youth shuffling his feet, going hangdog with hunched shoulders and a pouting lower lip. “Lad, you hurt my feelings. I just wanted to celebrate your good fortune and make it known that Upshaw has incurred the wrath of his fellow officers, men not used to taking orders from twenty-seven-year-old dilettantes.”

“The wrath of a Dragna bagman with a grudge on the Sheriff’s and your protégé, you mean.”

“That’s one interpretation, yes.”

“Lad, Upshaw is my protégé. And I’m a captain and you’re a lieutenant. Don’t forget what that means. Now please leave and let us work.”

Dudley saluted crisply and walked out; Mal saw that his hands were steady and his voice hadn’t quivered; Meeks started applauding. Mal smiled, remembered who he was smiling at and stopped. “Meeks, what do you want?”

Meeks rocked his chair. “Steak lunch at the Dining Car, maybe a vacation up at Arrowhead.”

“And?”

“And I’m not hog-wild about this job and I don’t like the idea of you makin’ voodoo eyes at me till it’s over and I liked you standin’ up to Dudley Smith.”

Mal half smiled. “Keep going.”

“You were scared of him and you dressed him anyway. I liked that.”

“I’ve got rank on him now. A week ago I’d have let it go.”

Meeks yawned, like it was all starting to bore him. “Pal, bein’ afraid of Dudley Smith means two things: that you’re smart and you’re sane. And I outranked him once and let him slide, because that is one smart fucker that never forgets. So, accolades, Captain Considine, and I still want that steak lunch.”

Mal thought of the two silver bars. “Meeks, you’re not the type to offer amends.”

Buzz stood up. “Like I said, I’m not hog-wild about this job, but I need the money. So let’s just say it’s got me thinkin’ about the amenities of life.”

“I’m not hog-wild about it either, but I need it.”

Meeks said, “I’m sorry about Laura.”

Mal tried to remember his ex-wife naked, and couldn’t. “It wasn’t me that had you shot. I heard it was Dragna triggers.”

Meeks tossed Mal the velvet box. “Take it while I’m feelin’ generous. I just bought my girl two C-notes’ worth of sweaters.”

Mal pocketed the insignia and stuck out his hand; Meeks gave him a bonecrusher. “Lunch, Skipper?”

“Sure, Sarge.”

They took the elevator down to ground level and walked out to the street. Two patrolmen were standing in front of a black-and-white sipping coffee; Mal picked a string of words out of their conversation: “Mickey Cohen, bomb, bad.”

Meeks badged the two, hard. “DA’s Bureau. What’d you just say about Cohen?”

The younger cop, a peach-fuzz rookie type, said, “Sir, we just heard on the radio. Mickey Cohen’s house just got bombed. It looks bad.”

Meeks took off ru