Джеймс Эллрой - The Big Nowhere

Claire and Loftis were there on the porch; they looked at the broken glass, then at Mal and his armful of paper. Claire said, “You broke our deal.”

“Fuck our deal.”

“I was going to kill him. I finally figured out there was no other way.”

Mal saw a bag of groceries in Loftis’ arms; he realized they didn’t have time to see Minear. “For justice? People’s justice?”

“We just talked to our lawyer. He said there’s no way you can prove any kind of homicide charges against us.”

Mal looked at Loftis. “It’s all coming out. You and Coleman, all of it. The grand jury and Coleman’s trial.”

Loftis stepped behind Claire, his head bowed. Mal glanced streetside and saw Buzz getting out of his car. Claire embraced her fiancé; Mal said, “Go look after Chaz. He killed a man for you.”

Down to darktown in Mal’s car, Lux’s list of heroin pushers and the Danny/Claire list taped to the dashboard. Mal drove; Buzz wondered if he’d killed the Plastic Surgeon to the Stars; they both talked.

Buzz filled in first: Mary Margaret’s swooning confirmation and Lux minus the crucifixion. He talked up the plastic surgery on Coleman, a ploy to keep him safe from Dudley and fulfill his father’s perv; Lux shooting Gordean the incest dope for blackmail purposes, the story of the burned face a device to hide the perv from Loftis’ fellow lefties, the bandages simply the surgery scars healing. Buzz saved Lux rebreaking Coleman’s face for last; Mal whooped and used the point to segue to sax man Healy, questioned by Danny Upshaw on New Year’s Day — that was why the kid never snapped to a perfect Loftis/Coleman resemblance — it didn’t exist anymore.

From there, Mal talked Coleman. Coleman’s intro lead on Marty Goines as a fruit, Coleman stressing the tall, gray man, Coleman wearing a gray wig and probably makeup when he glommed his victims, shucking the beard Upshaw saw on him. Loftis and Claire had Mondo Lopez steal Danny’s files when they found out he was working the homo killings — Juan Duarte had snitched him as a cop. Mal recounted the Minear interrogation, Coleman the third point of the ’42–’44 love triangle, Chaz shooting blackmailer Gordean to redeem himself in Claire and Loftis’ eyes, Claire and Loftis searching for Coleman. And they both agreed: Marty Goines, a longtime Coleman pal, was probably a victim of opportunity — he was there when the rat man had to kill. Victims two, three and four were to tie in to Daddy Reynolds — a hellish smear tactic.

They hit the Central Avenue Strip, daytime quiet, a block of spangly facades: the Taj Mahal, palm trees hung with Christmas lights, sequined music clefs, zebra stripes and a big plaster jigaboo with shiny red eyes. None of the clubs appeared to be open: bouncer-doormen and parking lot attendants sweeping up butts and broken glass were the only citizens out on the street. Mal parked and took the west side; Buzz took the east.

He talked to bouncers; he talked to auto park flunkies; he handed out all the cash he didn’t stuff down Terry Lux’s throat. Three of the darkies gave him “Huh?”; two hadn’t seen Coleman the alto guy in a couple of weeks; a clown in a purple admiral’s tunic said he’d heard Healy was gigging at a private sepia club in Watts that let whiteys perform if they were hep and kept their lily-white meathooks off the colored trim. Buzz crossed the street and started canvassing toward his partner; three more “Huh?’s” and Mal came trotting over to him.

He said, “I talked to a guy who saw Coleman last week at Bido Lito’s. He said he was talking to a sickly old Jewish man about half dead. The guy said he looked like one of the old jazz fiends from the rest home on 78th and Normandie.”

Buzz said, “You think Lesnick?”

“We’re on the same track, lad.”

“Quit callin’ me lad, it gives me the willies. Boss, I read a Bureau memo at Ellis’ house. Lesnick’s daughter said Pops was thinkin’ about checkin’ in to a rest bin to kick. There was a list of them, but I couldn’t grab it.”

“Let’s hit that Normandie place first. You get anything?”

“Coleman might be playin’ his horn at some private jig club in Watts.”

Mal said, “Shit. I worked 77th Street Division years ago, and there were tons of places like that. No more details?”

“Nix.”

“Come on, let’s move.”

They made it to the Star of David Rest Home fast, Mal running yellow lights, busting the speed limit by twenty miles an hour. The structure was a low tan stucco; it looked like a minimum security prison for people waiting to die. Mal parked and walked straight to the reception desk; Buzz found a pay phone outside and looked up “Sanitariums” in the Yellow Pages.

There were thirty-four of them on the Southside. Buzz tore the page of listings out; he saw Mal standing by the car and walked over shaking his head. “Thirty-four bins around here. A long fuckin’ day.”

Mal said, “Nothing inside. No Lesnick registered, nobody dying of lung cancer on the ward. No Coleman.”

Buzz said, “Let’s try the hotels and pushers. If that’s no go, we’ll get some nickels and start callin’ the sanitariums. You know, I think Lesnick’s a lamster. If that was him with Coleman, he’s in this somehow, and he wouldn’t be registered under his own name.”

Mal tapped the hood of the car. “Buzz, Claire wrote that hotel list out. Minear said she and Loftis have been trying to find Coleman. If they’ve already tried—”

“That don’t mean spit. Coleman’s been seen around here inside a week. He could be movin’ around, but always stayin’ close to the music. Somethin’s goin’ on with him and music, ’cause nobody made him for playin’ an instrument, now these boogies down here say he’s a hot alto sax. I say we hit hotels and H men while it’s still light out, then come dark we hit those jig joints.”

“Let’s go.”

The Tevere Hotel on 84th and Beach — no Caucasians in residence. The Galleon Hotel on 91st and Bekin — the one white man staying there a three-hundred-pound rummy squeezed into a single room with his negress wife and their four kids. Walking back to the car, Buzz checked the two lists and grabbed Mal’s arm. “Whoa.”

Mal said, “What?”

“A matcher. Purple Eagle Hotel, 96th and Central on Claire’s list. Roland Navarette, Room 402 at the Purple Eagle on Lux’s.”

“It took you a while.”

“Ink’s all smudged.”

Mal handed him the keys. “You drive, I’ll see what else you missed.”

They drove southeast. Buzz ground gears and kept popping the clutch; Mal studied the two lists and said, “The only matchup. You know what I was thinking?”

“What?”

“Lux knows Loftis and De Haven, and Loftis used to cop Claire’s stuff. They could have access to Lux’s suppliers, too.”

Buzz saw the Purple Eagle — a six-story cinderblock dump with a collection of chrome hood ornaments affixed above a tattered purple awning. He said, “Could be,” and double-parked; Mal got out first and practically ran inside.

Buzz caught up at the desk. Mal was badging the clerk, a scrawny Negro with his shirt cuffs buttoned full in a sweltering lobby. He was muttering, “Yessir, yessir, yessir,” one eye on Mal, one hand reaching under the desk.

Mal said, “Roland Navarette. Is he still in 402?”

The hophead said, “Nossir, nossir,” his hand still reaching; Buzz swooped around and pinned his wrist just as he was closing in on a junk bindle. He bent the fingers back; the hophead went, “Yessir, yessir, yessir”; Buzz said, “A white man, late twenties, maybe a beard. A jazz guy. He glom horse from Navarette?”

“Nossir, nossir, nossir.”