The Big Nowhere

Buzz said, “His threads were slashed with a zoot stick, I think I remember that. You got a motive for Dudley killin’ Diaz?”

“Maybe. I went with Dudley to visit his niece. Apparently she’s got a bent for Mexes and Dudley can’t stand it.”

“Pretty slim, boss.”

“Dudley’s insane! What the fuck more do you want!”

Buzz squeezed his partner’s arm. “Whoa, boy, and just listen to my stuff. Coleman Masskie’s crazy mama and I had a little chat. She had lots of different kids by different daddies, she don’t know who’s whose. Coleman left home in the late fall of ‘42. He was a burglar, he loved jazz, he worked at that dental lab. All that fits Upshaw’s scenario. Now, dig this: fall of ‘42, a big man with a brogue comes around askin’ for Coleman. I describe Dudley, the ginch gets terrified and clams. I say Coleman’s the one ru

Mal said, “I’m taking Dudley down.”

Buzz shook his head. “You take another think on that. No proof, no evidence on Hartshorn, an eight-year-old spic homicide. A cop with Dudley’s juice. You’re as nuts as he is if you think that plays.”

Mal put on a lilting tenor brogue. “Then I’ll kill him, lad.”

“The fuck you will.”

“I’ve killed a man before, Meeks. I can do it again.”

Buzz saw that he was out to do it—enjoying the view off the cliff. “Partner, a Nazi in the war ain’t the same thing.”

“You knew about that?”

“Why’d you think I was always afraid it was you ‘stead of Dragna set me up? A mild-ma

Mal laughed. “You ever kill anyone?”

“I stand on the Fifth Amendment, boss. Now you wanta go roust that queer pimp?”

Mal nodded. “7941’s the address—I think it’s back in the bungalow part.”

“You be the bad guy tonight. You’re good at it.”

“After you, lad.”

Buzz took the lead. They walked through the lobby and out a side door to the courtyard; it was dark, and high hedges hid the individual bungalows. Buzz tracked the numbers marked on wrought-iron poles, saw 7939 and said, “It’s gotta be the next one.”

Gunshots.

One, two, three, four—close, the odd-numbered side of the walkway. Buzz pulled his .38; Mal pulled and cocked his. They ran to 7941, pi

Two shots splintered the wood above his head; a muzzle flickered from a dark back room. Buzz hit the floor; Mal piled on top of him and fired twice blindly; Buzz saw a man spread-eagled on the carpet, his yellow silk robe soaked red from sash to collar. Cash wrapped in bank tabs surrounded the body.

Mal stumbled and charged. Buzz let him go, heard thumping, crashing, glass breaking and no more shots. He got up and checked the stiff—a fancy man with a neat beard, a neat manicure and not much of a torso left. The bank tabs were marked Beverly Hills Federal, and there was at least three thousand in half-grand packets within grabbing distance. Buzz resisted; Mal came back, panting. He wheezed, “Car waiting. Late model white sedan.”

Buzz kicked a pack of greenbacks; they hit an embroidered on the dead man’s sleeve. “Beverly Hills Fed. That where Loftis withdrew his money?”

“That’s the place.”

Sirens in the distance.

Buzz waved goodbye to the cash. “Loftis, Claire, the killer, what do you think?”

“Let’s hit their place now. Before the Sheriffs ask us what we’re—”

Buzz said, “Separate cars,” and took off ru

Mal got there first.

Buzz saw him standing across the street from the De Haven house, U-turned and killed his engine. Mal leaned in the window. “What took you?”

“I run slow.”

“Anybody see you?”

“No. You?”

“I don’t think so. Buzz, we weren’t there.”

“You’re learnin’ this game better every day, boss. What’d you get here?”

“Two cold cars. I looked in a window and saw De Haven and Loftis playing cards. They’re clean. You make the killer for it?”

Buzz said, “Nix. It’s wrong. He’s a psycho fuckin’ rat worshiper, and it’s my considered opinion that psycho rat worshipers don’t carry guns. I’m thinkin’ Minear. He fits with Loftis, and there was a line on him from the files, said he liked to buy boys.”

“You could be right. The Masskie woman next?”

“236 South Beaudry, boss.”

“Let’s do it.”

Buzz got there first; he rang the bell and went eyeball to eyeball with Delores in a long white robe. She said, “Did you bring monetary tribute for Sister?”

Buzz said, “My bagman’s comin’ in a minute.” He took out the picture of Dudley Smith. “Ma’am, is this the fella who was inquirin’ after Coleman?”

Delores blinked at the photograph and crossed herself. “Get behind me, Satan. Yes, that’s him.”

Seven come eleven, one more for Da

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Anybody named Loftis?”

“No.”

“Any chance you messed with a man named Loftis around the time Coleman was born?”

The old girl harumphed. “If by ‘messed’ you mean engaged in breeding activities for Sister Aimee, the answer is no.”

Buzz said, “Ma’am, you told me Coleman went lookin’ for his daddy when he took off in ‘42. If you didn’t know who his daddy was, how’d the boy know where to look?”

Delores said, “Twenty dollars for Sister Aimee and I’ll show you.”

Buzz slid off his high school ring. “Yours to keep, sweetie. Just show me.”

Delores examined the ring, pocketed it and walked away; Buzz stood on the porch wondering where Mal was. Minutes dragged; the woman returned with an old leather scrapbook. She said, “The genealogy of my slave breeding. I took pictures of all the men who gave me their seed, with appropriate comments on the back. When Coleman decided he had to find his father, he looked at this book for pictures of the men he most resembled. I hid the book when the brogue man came by, and I still want twenty dollars for this information.”

Buzz opened the scrapbook, saw that the pages contained stapled-on photographs of dozens of men, held it up to the porch light and started looking. Four pages down, a picture caught his eye: a spellbinder youthful, spellbinder handsome Reynolds Loftis in a tweed knicker suit. He pulled the photo out and read the writing on the back.

“Randolph Lawrence (a nom de guerre?), summer stock actor, the Ramona Pageant, August 30, 1922. A real Southern gentleman. Good white stock. I hope his seed springs fertile.”

1942: burglar, tooth technician, rat lover Coleman witnesses Dudley Smith killing José Diaz, sees this picture or others and locates Daddy Reynolds Loftis. 1943: Coleman, his face burned in a fire???, hangs out at SLDC rallies with his father/phony brother, talks up the big white man, nobody believes him. 1942 to 1944: Loftis’ psych file missing. 1950: killer Coleman. Was the psycho trying to frame Daddy/Reynolds for the queer murders, dressed up like Loftis himself—Doc Layman’s wig fragments the final kicker?

Buzz held out the picture. “That Coleman, ma’am?”

Delores smiled. “Rather close. What a nice-looking man. A shame I can’t remember spawning with him.”

A car door slammed; Mal got out and trotted up the steps. Buzz took him aside and showed him the photo. “Loftis, 1922. AKA Randolph Lawrence, summer. stock actor. He’s Coleman’s father, not his brother.”

Mal tapped the picture. “Now I’m wondering how the boy got burned and why the brother charade. And you were right on Minear.”