The Big Nowhere

Da

It was Norton Layman. He said, “I just talked to the man at the Museum, and he identified my specimen. The killer wears wolverine teeth.”

Da

Then he saw plain blood.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A stakeout for his own son.

Mal sat on the steps outside Division 32, Los Angeles Civil Court. He was flanked by lawyers smoking; keeping his back to them kept light conversation away while he sca

Ten of the hour; no Stefan, Celeste and lawyer. Mal heard an animated burst of talk behind him.

“You know Charlie Hartshorn?”

“Sure. A nice guy, if a bit of a bleeding heart. He worked the Sleepy Lagoon defense for free.”

“Well, he’s dead. Suicide. Hung himself at his house last night. Beautiful house, right off Wilshire and Rimpau. It was on the radio. I went to a party at that house once.”

“Poor Charlie. What a goddamn shame.”

Mal turned around; the two men were gone. He remembered Meeks telling him Reynolds Loftis was co

The Hartshorn coincidence simmered; Mal wondered how Meeks would take his suicide—he said he’d gut-shot the man with his queerness. Looking streetside, he saw Celeste, Stefan and a young guy with a briefcase get out of a cab; his boy glanced up, lit up and took off ru

Mal met him halfway down the steps, scooped him up laughing and pinwheeled him upside down and over. Stefan squealed; Celeste and briefcase double-timed; Mal whipped his son over his shoulder, quick-marched inside and turned hard into the men’s room. Out of breath, he put Stefan down and said, “Your dad’s a captain,” dug in his pockets and pulled out one of the insignia Buzz gave him. “You’re a captain, too. Remember that. Remember that if your mother’s lawyer starts talking me down.”

Stefan squeezed the silver bars; Mal saw that he had that bewildered fat-kid look he got when Celeste stuffed him with starchy Czech food. “How have you been? How’s your mother been treating you?”

Stefan spoke hesitantly, like he’d been force-fed old country talk since the breakup. “Mutti… wants that we should move out. She said we… we must move away before she decides to marry Rich-Richard.”

Richard.

“I—I don’t like Richard. He’s nice to Mutti, but he’s n-nasty to his d-d-dog.”

Mal put his arms around the boy. “I won’t let it happen. She’s a crazy woman, and I won’t let her take you away.”

“Malcolm—”

“Dad, Stefan.”

“Dad, please not to don’t hit Mutti again. Please.”

Mal held Stefan tighter, trying to squeeze the bad words out and make him say, “I love you.” The boy felt wrong, flabby, like he was too ski

The door opened behind them; Mal heard the voice of an old City bailiff who’d been working Division 32 forever. “Lieutenant Considine, court’s convening and I’m supposed to bring the boy into chambers.”

Mal gave Stefan a last hug. “I’m a captain now. Stefan, you go with this man and I’ll see you inside.”

Stefan hugged back—hard.

Court convened ten minutes later. Mal sat with Jake Kellerman at a table facing the judge’s bench; Celeste, her attorney and Stefan were seated in chairs stationed diagonally across from the witness stand. The old bailiff intoned, “Hear ye, hear ye, court is now in session, the Honorable Arthur F. Hardesty presiding.”

Mal stood up. Jake Kellerman whispered, “In a second the old fart’ll say, ‘Counsel will approach the bench.’ I’ll hit him for a first continuance for a month from now, citing your grand jury duties. Then, we’ll get another stay until the jury convenes and you’re gold. Then we’ll get you Greenberg.”

Mal gripped Kellerman’s arm. “Jake, make this happen.”

Kellerman whispered extra low, “It will. Just pray a rumor I heard isn’t true.”

Judge Arthur F. Hardesty banged his gavel. “Counsel will approach the bench.”

Jake Kellerman and Celeste’s lawyer approached, huddling around Hardesty; Mal strained to hear and picked up nothing but garbles—Jake sounding agitated. The huddle ended with a gavel slam; Kellerman walked back, fuming.

Hardesty said, “Mr. Considine, your counsel’s request for a one-month continuance has been denied. Despite your police duties, I’m sure you can find enough time to consult with Mr. Kellerman. All parties will meet here in my chambers ten days hence, Monday, January 22. Both contestants should be ready to testify. Mr. Kellerman, Mr. Castleberry, make sure your witnesses are informed of the date and bring whatever documents you wish to be considered as evidence. This preliminary is dismissed.”

The judge banged his gavel; Castleberry led Celeste and Stefan outside. The boy turned around and waved; Mal flashed him the V for victory sign, tried to smile and couldn’t. His son was gone in a breath; Kellerman said, “I heard Castleberry heard about your promotion and went batshit. I heard he leaked the hospital pictures to one of Hardesty’s clerks, who told the judge. Mal, I’m sorry and I’m angry. I’m going to tell Ellis what Castleberry did and make sure that punk gets reamed for it.”

Mal stared at the spot where his son waved goodbye. “Ream her. Pull out all the stops. If Stefan has to hear, he has to hear. Just fucking take her down.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Looking around Ellis Loew’s living room, Buzz set odds:

Twenty to one the grand jury handed down beaucoup UAES indictments; twenty to one the studios booted them on the treason clause prior to the official word, with the Teamsters signing to take their place inside twenty-four hours. If he convinced Mickey to make book on the proceedings, he could lay a bundle down and get well on top of Howard’s bonus. Because the action in Loew’s little command post said the Pinkos were buying one-way tickets for the Big Fungoo.

Except for tables and chairs set aside for clerks, all the furniture had been removed and dumped in the back yard. Filing cabinets filled with friendly witness depositions covered the fireplace; a corkboard was nailed to the front window, space for reports from the team’s four investigators: M. Considine, D. Smith, T. Meeks and D. Upshaw. Captain Mal’s stack of interrogation forms—questions tailored to individual lefties, delivered and notarized by City Marshals—was thick; Dudley’s field summaries stacked out at five times their width—he had now turned fourteen hostiles into groveling snitch friendlies, picking up dirt on over a hundred snitchees in the process. His own reports comprised six pages: Sammy Benavides porking his sister, Claire De Haven skin-popping H and Reynolds Loftis as a homo bar hopper, the rest padding, all of it snoozeville compared to Mal’s and Dudley’s contributions. Da