Джеймс Эллрой - The Big Nowhere

Lesnick smiled. “Yes, Chaz told Felix Gordean many things about Coleman’s clinic stay that could be construed as clues when put together with newspaper facts. I read that Gordean was murdered. Was it Chaz?”

“Yeah. Does that please you?”

“It’s a small happy ending, yes.”

“Any thoughts on Claire?”

“Yes. She’ll survive your grand jury pogrom like a Tigress. She’ll find another weak man to protect and other causes to champion. She’ll do good for people who deserve good done for them, and I will not comment on her character.”

Buzz said, “Before things got out of control, it looked like the UAES had some kind of extortion scheme brewin’ against the studios. Were you playin’ both ends? Holdin’ back stuff you heard as a psychiatrist to help the union?”

Lesnick coughed and said, “Who wants to know?”

“Two dead men and me.”

“And who else will hear?”

“Just me.”

“I believe you. Why, I don’t know.”

“Dead men got no reason to lie. Come on, Doc. Spill.”

Lesnick fondled his pawnshop piece. “I have verified information on Mr. Howard Hughes and his penchant for underaged girls, and much information on various RKO and Variety International actors and the narcotics cures they periodically undergo. I have information on the underworld associations of many studio executives, including one RKO gentleman who ran down a family of four in his car and killed them. The arrest was fixed, and it never went to trial, but that allegation by itself would be most embarrassing. So the UAES is not without weapons, you see.”

Buzz said, “Boss, I pimped them girls to Howard and fixed up most of them dope cures. I got that RKO guy off the hook and ran the payoff to the judge that woulda arraigned him. Doc, the papers would never print what you got and the radio would never put it on the air. Howard Hughes and Herman Gerstein would laugh your extortion right back in your face. I’m the best fixer this town ever saw, and believe me the UAES is crucified.”

Saul Lesnick got to his feet, wobbled, but stayed standing. He said, “And how will you fix that?”

Buzz walked on the question.

When he got back to his motel, there was a note from the manager on the door: “Call Johnny S.” Buzz went to the pay phone and dialed Stompanato’s number.

“Talk to me.”

“It’s Meeks. What’s up?”

“Your number, but hopefully not my money. I just got a lead, through a friend of Mickey’s. LAPD did a routine ballistics run-through on that jazz club shootout you were in. That hotshot coroner Layman examined the report on the pills they took out of that rat guy you told me about. It looked familiar, so he checked back. Bullets from your gun matched the pills they took out of Gene Niles. LAPD makes you for the Niles snuff, and they’re out to get you in force. Shoot to kill. And I hate to mention it, but you owe me a lot of money.”

Buzz sighed. “Johnny, you’re a rich man.”

“What?”

Buzz said, “Meet me here tomorrow at noon,” and hung up. He dialed an East LA number and got, “Quien? Quien es?”

“Speak English, Chico, it’s Meeks.”

“Buzz! My Padrone!”

“I’m changin’ my order, Chico. No thirty-thirty, make it a sawed-off.”

“.12 gauge, Padrone?”

“Bigger, Chico. The biggest you got.”

The shotgun was a .10 gauge pump with a foot-long barrel. The slugs held triple-aught buckshot. The five rounds in the breech were enough to turn Mickey Cohen’s haberdashery and the dope summit personnel into dog food. Buzz was carrying the weapon in a venetian blind container covered with Christmas wrapping paper.

His U-Drive clunker was at the curb a half block south of Sunset. The haberdashery lot was packed with Jew canoes and guinea gunboats; one sentry was stationed by the front door shooing away customers; the man by the back door looked half asleep, sitting in a chair catching a full blast of late-morning sun. Two neutral triggers accounted for — Dudley and the fourth man had to be inside with the action.

Buzz waved at the guy up on the corner — his prepaid accomplice recruited from a wine bar. The guy walked into the lot looking furtive, trying Caddy and Lincoln door handles, skirting the last row of cars by the fence. Buzz eased up slowly, waiting for the sentry to take note and pounce.

It took the sunbird almost half a minute to stir, get wise and tread over, a hand inside his jacket pocket. Buzz ran full speed, fat lightning on sneakered feet.

The sentry turned around at the last second; Buzz swung the Christmas box in his face and knocked him against the hood of a ’49 Continental. The man pulled his gun; Buzz kneed him in the nards, popped his nose with a flat palm and watched the .45 auto hit the blacktop. Another knee spear put him down and keening; Buzz kicked the gun away, whipped off the box and used the butt of his sawed-off to beat him quiet.

The accomplice was gone; the sentry was bleeding at the mouth and nose, deep off in dreamland — maybe for keeps. Buzz pocketed the loose cannon, walked over to the back door and let himself in.

Laughter and hail-fellow dialogue booming; a short corridor lined with dressing rooms. Buzz inched up to a curtain, pulled a corner back and looked.

The summit was in full swing. Mickey Cohen and Jack Dragna were glad-handing each other, standing by a table laid out with cold cuts, bottles of beer and liquor. Davey Goldman, Mo Jahelka and Dudley Smith were knocking back highballs; a line of Dragna humps was standing by the front window curtains. Johnny Stompanato was nowhere to be seen because Johnny Stompanato was probably halfway to Pedro by now, hoping a certain fat man survived the morning. Over by the left wall, the real business was happening: two Mex National types counting a suitcase full of money while one Mickey guy and one Jack guy taste-tested the white-brown powder stuffed into reinforced paper bags in another suitcase. Their smiles said the stuff tasted good.

Buzz pulled the curtain aside and joined the party, sliding a round into the chamber to get some attention. The noise caused heads to turn, drinks and plates of food to drop; Dudley Smith smiled; Jack Dragna eyed the barrel. Buzz saw a cop type by the Mexes. Twenty to one he and Dudley were the only ones heeled; Dud was much too smart to try something. Mickey Cohen looked hurt. He said, “As God is my witness I will do you worse than I did the guy who did Hooky Rothman.”

Buzz felt his whole body floating away from him. The Mexes were starting to look scared; a rap on the window would bring the outside man. He stepped over to where he could see every face in the room and trained his muzzle for a blast spread: Jack and Mickey vaporized the second he pulled the trigger. “The money and the dope in one of your garment bags, Mick. Now and slow.”

Mickey said, “Davey, he’ll shoot. Do it .”

Buzz saw Davey Goldman cross his vision and start talking low Spanish to the Mexes. He caught a slant view of paper sacks and greenbacks being ladled into a zippered hanger bag, tan canvas with red piping and Mickey Cohen’s face embossed on the front. Mickey said, “If you send Audrey back to me I will not harm a hair on her head and I will not do you slow. If I find her with you, mercy I cannot promise. Send her back to me.”

A million-dollar deal blown — and all Mickey Cohen could think of was a woman. “No.”

The bag was zipped up; Goldman walked it over extra slow. Buzz held his left arm out straight; Mickey was shaking like a hophead dying for a fix. Buzz wondered what he’d say next; the little big man said, “ Please .”

The garment bag settled; Buzz felt his arm buckling. Dudley Smith winked. Buzz said, “I’ll be back for you, lad. Diaz and Hartshorn.”