The Big Nowhere

Buzz swallowed. “Slaves, ma’am? And you certainly do have a lot of names.”

The woman laughed. “I tried to remember my maiden name the other day, and I couldn’t. You see, young man, I have had many lovers in my role as child breeder to Sister Aimee. God made me beautiful and fertile so that I might provide Sister Aimee Semple McPherson with acolytes, and the County of Los Angeles has given me many a Relief dollar so that I might feed my young. Certain cynics consider me a fanatic and a welfare chiseler, but they are the devil speaking. Don’t you think that spawning good white progeny for Sister Aimee is a noble vocation?”

Buzz said, “I certainly do, and I was sorta thinkin’ about doin’ it myself. Ma’am, where’s Coleman now? I got some money for him, and I figure he’ll kick some of it back to you.”

Delores scratched the grass with her rake. “Coleman was always generous. I had a total of nine children—six boys, three girls. Two of the girls became Sister Aimee followers, one, I’m ashamed to say, became a prostitute. The boys ran away when they turned fourteen or fifteen—eight hours a day of prayer and Bible reading was too strenuous for them. Coleman remained the longest—until he was nineteen. I gave him a dispensation: no prayer and Bible reading because he did chores around the neighborhood and gave me half the money. How much money do you owe Coleman, young man?”

Buzz said, “Lots of it. Where is Coleman, ma’am?”

“In hell, I’m afraid. Those who rebuke Sister Aimee are doomed to boil forever in a scalding cauldron of pus and Negro semen.”

“Ma’am, when did you last see Coleman?”

“I believe I last saw him in the late fall of 1942.”

A half-sane answer—one that played into Upshaw’s timetable. “What was old Coleman doin’ then, ma’am?”

Delores pulled the leaf from her rake and crumbled it to dust. “Coleman was developing worldly ways. He listened to jazz records on a Victrola, prowled around in the evenings and quit high school prematurely, which angered me, because Sister Aimee prefers her slaves to have a high school diploma. He got a dreadful job at a dental laboratory, and quite frankly he became a thief. I used to find strange trinkets in his room, but I let him be when he confessed his transgressions against private property and pledged ten percent of his proceeds to Sister Aimee.”

The dental lab, Coleman as a burglar—Upshaw’s theory coming through. “Ma’am, was this ‘42 when Coleman was doin’ his thievery?”

“Yes. The summer before he left home.”

“And did Coleman have a burned face? Was he disfigured somehow?”

The old loon was aghast. “Coleman was male slave beauty personified! He was as handsome as a matinee idol!”

Buzz said, “Sorry for impugnin’ the boy’s looks. Ma’am, who was Masskie? He the boy’s daddy?”

“I don’t really recall. I was spreading myself quite thin with men back in the early nineteen twenties, and I only took the surnames of men with large endowments—the better for when I chanted my breeding incantations. Exactly how much money do you owe Coleman? He’s in hell, you know. Giving me the money might win a reprieve on his soul.”

Buzz forked over his last ten-spot. “Ma’am, you said Coleman hightailed in the fall of ‘42?”

“Yes, that’s true, and Sister Aimee thanks you.”

“Why did he take off? Where did he go?”

Delores looked scared—her skin sank over her cheekbones and her eyes bugged out another couple of inches. “Coleman went looking for his father, whoever he was. A nasty man with a nasty brogue came around asking for him, and Coleman became terrified and ran away. The brogue man kept returning with questions on Coleman’s whereabouts, but I kept invoking the power of Sister Aimee and he desisted.”

Sleepy Lagoon killing time; Dudley Smith asking to join the grand jury team; Dudley’s off-the-track hard-on for the José Diaz murder and the SLDC. “Ma’am, are you talkin’ about an Irish brogue? A big man, late thirties then, red-faced, brown hair and eyes?”

Delores made signs, hands to her chest and up to her face, like she was warding off vampires in an old horror movie. “Get behind me, Satan! Feel the power of Foursquare Church, Angelus Temple and Sister Aimee Semple McPherson, and I will not answer another single question until you provide adequate cash tribute. Get behind me or risk hell!”

Buzz turned out his pockets for bubkis; he knew a brick wall when he saw one. “Ma’am, you tell Sister Aimee to hold her horses—I’ll be back.”

Buzz drove home, ripped a photo of then-Patrolman Dudley Smith out of his LAPD Academy yearbook and rolled to the Chateau Marmont. Dusk and light rain were falling as he parked on Sunset by the front entrance; he was settling into a fret on the lioness when Mal tapped the windshield and got in the car.

Buzz said, “Gravy. You?”

“Double gravy.”

“Boss, it plays like a ricochet, and it contradicts ‘middle-aged’ again.”

Mal stretched his legs. “So does my stuff. Nort Layman called Jack Shortell, he called me. Doc’s been grid-searching the LA River near where Augie Duarte’s body was found—he wants a complete forensic for some book he’s writing. Get this: he found silver-gray wig strands with O+ blood—obviously from a head scratch—at the exact spot where the killer would have had to scale a fence to get away. That’s why your ricochet plays.”

Buzz said, “And why Loftis doesn’t. Boss, you think somebody’s tryin’ to frame that old pansy?”

“It occurred to me, yes.”

“What’d you get off Juan Duarte?”

“Scary stuff, worse than goddamn wolverine teeth. Da

“No.”

“It was right before LAPD grabbed him. Duarte told Da

Buzz thought: I know it does; he wondered who’d say “Dudley Smith” first. “Keep going. My stuff fits right in.”

Mal said, “Duarte went to see Charles Hartshorn right before his alleged suicide, to see if he could get the cops to put some juice into investigating Augie’s murder. Hartshorn said he’d been ditzed on Duane Lindenaur’s killing—you, partner—and he read about the zoot stick mutilations on the other victims in a scandal sheet and thought the snuffs might be SLDC co

Buzz said it first. “Dudley Smith. He was the big white man and he joined the team so he could keep the SLDC testimony watchdogged. That’s why he was interested in Upshaw. Da

Mal hit the dashboard. “I can’t fucking believe it.”

“I can. Now here’s a good question. You been around Dudley lots more than I have lately. Is he tied to the queer snuffs?”

Mal shook his head. “No. I’ve been racking my brain on it, and I can’t put the two together. Dudley wanted Upshaw to join the team, and he couldn’t have cared less about dead homos. It was when Da