The Big Nowhere

“Hello.”

“Meeks?”

Not Mal, not Shortell—but a familiar voice. “It’s me. Who’s this?”

“Joh

“Stompanato?”

“How soon they forget.”

“Joh

“How soon they forget their good deeds. I owe you one, remember?”

Buzz remembered the Lucy Whitehall gig—it seemed like a million years ago. “Go, Joh

“I’m paying you back, you cracker shitbird. Mickey knows Audrey’s the skimmer. I didn’t tell him, and I even kept hush on what you pulled with Petey S. It was the bank. Audrey put her skim in the Hollywood bank where Mick puts his race wire dough. The manager got suspicious and called him. Mickey’s sending Fritzie over to get her. You’re closer, so we’re even.”

Buzz saw Icepick Fritzie carving. “You knew about us?”

“I thought Audrey looked nervous lately, so I tailed her up to Hollywood, and she met you. Mickey doesn’t know about you and her, so stay icy.”

Buzz blew a wet kiss into the phone, hung up and called Audrey’s number; he got a busy signal, hauled down to the back lot and his car. He ran red lights and yellow lights and took every shortcut he knew speeding over; he saw Audrey’s Packard in the driveway, jumped the curb and skidded up on the lawn. He left the motor ru

Audrey was sitting on her bargain basement lounge chair, hair in curlers, cold cream on her face. She saw Buzz and tried to cover herself; Buzz beelined for her and started kissing, getting all gooey. He said, “Mickey knows you skimmed him,” between kisses; Audrey squealed. “This isn’t fair!” and “You’re not supposed to see me this way!” Buzz thought of Fritzie K. gaining ground, grabbed the lioness and slung her out to her car. He gasped, “Ventura by Pacific Coast Highway, and I’m right behind you. It ain’t the Beverly Wilshire, but it’s safe.”

Audrey said, “Five minutes to pack?”

Buzz said, “No.”

Audrey said, “Oh shit. I really liked LA.”

Buzz said, “Say goodbye to it.”

Audrey popped off a handful of curlers and wiped her face. “Bye-bye, LA.”

The two-car caravan made it to Ventura in an hour ten. Buzz ensconced Audrey in the shack at the edge of his farmland, hid her Packard in a pine grove, left her all his money except a tensky and a single and told her to call a friend of his on the Ventura Sheriff’s for a place to stay—the man owed him almost as much as he owed Joh

Buzz drove straight into Oxnard, the next town south. He found a pay phone, called Dave Kleckner at the Ventura Courthouse, made arrangements for him to pick up Audrey and dialed his own line at Hughes Aircraft. His secretary said Jack Shortell had called; she’d forwarded him to Herman Gerstein’s office and Mal Considine’s extension at the Bureau. Buzz changed his dollar into dimes and had the operator ring Madison-4609; Mal answered, “Yes?”

“It’s me.”

“Where are you? I’ve been trying to get you all morning.”

“Ventura. A little errand.”

“Well, you missed the goodies. Mickey went nuts. He gave his boys on Gower Gulch carte blanche, and they’re busting heads as we speak. I just got a call from a Riot Squad lieutenant, and he said it’s the worst he’s ever seen. Want to place bets?”

Odds on him getting the lioness out of the country: even money. “Boss, Mickey’s nuts on Audrey, that’s what probably ripped his cork. He found out she was skimmin’ at his shark mill.”

“Jesus. Does he know about—”

“Ixnay, and I wanta keep it that way. She’s stashed up here for now, but it can’t last forever.”

Mal said, “We’ll fix something. Are you still hot on payback?”

“More than ever. You talk to Shortell?”

“Ten minutes ago. Do you have something to write on?”

“No, but I got a memory. Shoot me.”

Mal said, “The last thing Da

Buzz whistled. “Christ on a crutch.”

“Yeah, and it gets stranger. One, Dudley Smith never put tails on those men Da

Buzz got the numbers down. “Boss, this Masskie guy ain’t even twenty-seven years old, which sorta contradicts the middle-aged killer theory.”

Mal said, “I know, that bothers me too. But Shortell thinks Da

“Boss, we gotta take down Felix Gordean. We were gettin’ close last night, when you…”

Silence, then Mal sounding disgusted. “Yeah, I know. Look, you take the Masskie lead, I’ll shake Juan Duarte. I put four Bureau men out to find Doc Lesnick, and if he’s alive and findable, he’s ours. Let’s meet tonight in front of the Chateau Marmont, 5:30. We’ll stretch Gordean.”

Buzz said, “Let’s do it.”

Mal said, “Did you figure out De Haven and me?”

“Took about two seconds. You don’t think she’ll cross you?”

“No, I’ve got the ace high hand. You and Mickey Cohen’s woman. Jesus.”

“You’re invited to the wedding, boss.”

“Stay alive for it, lad.”

Buzz took Pacific Coast Highway down to LA, Wilshire east to Bunker Hill. Dark clouds were brewing, threatening a deluge to soak the Southland, maybe unearth a few more stiffs, send a few more hardnoses out for payback. Two thirty-six South Beaudry was a low-rent Victorian, every single shingle weatherstripped and splintered; Buzz pulled up and saw an old woman raking leaves on a front lawn as jaundiced as the pad.

He got out and approached her. Closer up, she showed a real faded beauty: pale, almost transparent skin over haute couture cheekbones, full lips and the comeliest head of gray-brown hair he’d ever seen. Only her eyes were off—they were too bright, too protruding.

Buzz said, “Ma’am?”

The old girl leaned on her rake; there was all of one leaf caught on the tines—and it was the only leaf on the whole lawn. “Yes, young man? Are you here to make a contribution to Sister Aimee’s crusade?”

“Sister Aimee’s been out of business awhile, ma’am.”

The woman held out her hand—withered and arthritic looking—a beggar’s paw. Buzz dropped some odd dimes in it. “I’m lookin’ for a man named Coleman Masskie. Do you know him? He used to live here seven, eight years ago.”

Now the old girl smiled. “I remember Coleman well. I’m Delores Masskie Tucker Kafesjian Luderman Jensen Tyson Jones. I’m Coleman’s mother. Coleman was one of the staunchest slaves I bore to proselytize for Sister Aimee.”