The Big Nowhere Page 6

  The doorman backed off from his badge and let him in to four walls of smoke and dissonant screeching—the combo at the front of the room heading toward a crescendo. The bar was off to the left, shaped like a coffin and embossed with the club’s sleep-walker emblem. Danny beelined there, grabbing a stool, hooking a finger at a white man polishing glasses.

  The barkeep placed a napkin in front of him. Danny yelled, “Double bonded!” above the din. A glass appeared; Danny knocked the bourbon back; the barman refilled. Danny drank again and felt his nerves go from sandpapered to warm. The music ended with a thud-boom-scree; the house lights went on amid big applause. When it trailed off, Danny reached in his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill and the Goines mugshot strip.

  The bartender said, “Two spot for the drinks.”

  Danny stuffed the five in his shirt pocket and held up the strip. “Look familiar?”

  Squinting, the man said, “Is this guy older now? Maybe a different haircut?”

  “These are six years old. Seen him?”

  The barman took glasses from his pocket, put them on and held the mugshots out at arm’s length. “Does he blow around here?”

  Danny missed the question—and wondered if it was sex slang he didn’t know. “Explain what you mean.”

  “I mean does he gig, jam, play music around here?”

  “Trombone at Bido Lito’s.”

  The barman snapped his fingers. “Okay, I know him then. Marty something. He juices between sets at Bido’s, been doing it since around Christmas, ’cause the bar at Bido’s ain’t supposed to serve the help. Hungry juicer, sort of like—”

  Like you. Danny smiled, the booze notching down his temper. “Did you see him last night?”

  “Yeah, on the street. Him and another guy heading over to a car down by the corner on 67th. Looked like he had a load on. Maybe…”

  Danny leaned forward. “Maybe what? Spell it out.”

  “Maybe a junk load. You work jazz clubs awhile, you get to know the ropes. This Marty guy was walking all rubbery, like he was on a junk nod. The other guy had his arm round him, helping him over to the car.”

  Danny said, “Slow and easy now. The time, a description of the car and the other man. Real slow.”

  Customers were starting to swarm the bar—Negro men in modified zoot suits, their women a half step behind, all made up and done up to look like Lena Horne. The barkeep looked at his business, then back at Danny. “Had to be 12:15 to 12:45, around in there. Marty what’s his face and the other guy were cutting across the sidewalk. I know the car was a Buick, ’cause it had them portholes on the side. All I remember about the other guy was that he was tall and had gray hair. I only saw them sort of sideways, and I thought, ‘I should have such a nice head of hair.’ Now can I serve these people?”

  Danny was about to say no; the barkeep turned to a bearded young man with an alto sax slung around his neck. “Coleman, you know that white trombone from Bido’s? Marty what the fuck?”

  Coleman reached over the bar, grabbed two handfuls of ice and pressed them to his face. Danny checked him out: tall, blond, late twenties and off-kilter handsome—like the boy lead in the musical Karen Hiltscher dragged him to. His voice was reedy, exhausted. “Sure. A from-hunger horn, I heard. Why?”

  “Talk to this police gentleman here, he’ll tell you.”

  Danny pointed to his glass, going two shots over his nightly limit. The barman filled it, then slid off. The alto said, “You’re with the Double Seven?”

  Danny killed his drink, and on impulse stuck out his hand. “My name’s Upshaw. West Hollywood Sheriff’s.”

  The men shook. “Coleman Healy, late of Cleveland, Chicago and the planet Mars. Marty in trouble?”

  The bourbon made Danny too warm; he loosened his tie and moved closer to Healy. “He was murdered last night.”

  Healy’s face contorted. Danny saw every handsome plane jerk, twitch and spasm; he looked away to let him quash his shock and get hepcat again. When he turned back, Healy was bracing himself into the bar. Danny’s knee brushed the alto’s thigh—it was taut with tension. “How well did you know him, Coleman?”

  Healy’s face was now gaunt, slack under his beard. “Chewed the fat with him a couple of times around Christmas, right here at this bar. Just repop—Bird’s new record, the weather. You got an idea who did it?”

  “A lead on a suspect—a tall, gray-haired man. The bartender saw him with Goines last night, walking toward a car parked on Central.”

  Coleman Healy ran fingers down the keys of his sax. “I’ve seen Marty with a guy like that a couple of times. Tall, middle-aged, dignified looking.” He paused, then said, “Look, Upshaw, not to besmirch the dead, but can I give you an impression I got—on the QT?”

  Danny slid his stool back, just enough to get a full-face reaction—Healy wired up, eager to help. “Go ahead, impressions help sometimes.”

  “Well, I think Marty was fruit. The older guy looked like a nance to me, like a sugar daddy type. The two of them were playing footsie at a table, and when I noticed it, Marty pulled away from the guy—sort of like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.”

  Danny tingled, thinking of the tags he eschewed because they were too coarse and antithetical to Vollmer and Maslick: PANSY SLASH. QUEER BASH. FRUIT SNUFF. HOMO PASSION JOB. “Coleman, could you ID the older man?”

  Healy played with his sax. “I don’t think so. The light here is strange, and the queer stuff is just an impression I got.”

  “Have you seen the man before or since those times with Goines?”

  “No. Never solo. And I was here all night, in case you think I did it.”

  Danny shook his head. “Do you know if Goines was using narcotics?”

  “Nix. He was too interested in booze to be a junk fiend.”

  “What about other people who knew him? Other musicians around here?”

  “Ixnay. We just gabbed a couple of times.”

  Danny put out his hand; Healy turned it upside down, twisting it from a squarejohn to a jazzman shake. He said, “See you in church,” and headed for the stage.

  Queer slash.

  Fruit snuff.

  Homo passion job.

  Danny watched Coleman Healy mount the bandstand and exchange back slaps with the other musicians. Fat and cadaverous, pocked, oily and consumptive looking, they seemed wrong next to the sleek alto—like a crime scene photo with blurs that fucked up the symmetry and made you notice the wrong things. The music started: piano handing a jump melody to the trumpet, drums kicking in, Healy’s sax wailing, lilting, wailing, drifting off the base refrain into chord variations. The music digressed into noise; Danny spotted a bank of phone booths next to the powder room and rolled back to police work.

  His first nickel got him the watch boss at the 77th Street Station. Danny explained that he was a Sheriff’s detective working a homicide—a jazz musician and possible dope addict slashed and dumped off the Sunset Strip. The victim was probably not currently using drugs—but he wanted a list of local H pushers anyway—the snuff might be tied to dope intrigue. The watch boss said, “How’s Mickey these days?,” added, “Submit a request through official channels,” and hung up.

  Pissed, Danny dialed Doc Layman’s personal number at the City Morgue, one eye on the bandstand. The pathologist answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

  “Danny Upshaw, Doctor.”

  Layman laughed. “Danny Upstart is more like it—I just autopsied the John Doe you tried to usurp.”

  Danny drew in a breath, turning away from Coleman Healy gyrating with his sax. “Yes? And?”

  “And a question first. Did you stick a tongue depressor in the corpse’s mouth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Deputy, never, ever, introduce foreign elements into interior cavities until after you have thoroughly spotted the exterior. The cadaver had cuts with imbedded wood slivers all over his back—pine—and you stuck a piece of pine into his mouth, leaving similar slivers.
Do you see how you could have fouled up my assessment?”

  “Yes, but it was obvious the victim was strangled by a towel or a sash—the terrycloth fibers were a dead giveaway.”

  Layman sighed—long, exasperated. “The cause of death was a massive heroin overdose. The shot was administered into a vein by the spine, by the killer himself—the victim couldn’t have reached it. The towel was placed in the mouth to absorb blood when the heroin hit the victim’s heart and caused arteries to pop, which means the killer had at least elementary anatomical knowledge.”

  Danny said, “Jesus fuck.”

  Layman said, “An appropriate blasphemy, but it gets worse. Here’s some incidentals first:

  “One, no residual heroin in the bloodstream—Mr. Doe was not now addicted, although needle marks on his arms indicate he once was. Two, death occurred around 1:00 to 2:00 A.M., and the neck and genital bruises were both postmortem. The cuts on the back were postmortem, almost certainly made by razor blades attached to something like a pine slab or a 2 by 4. So far, brutal—but not past my ken. However…”

  Layman stopped—his old classroom orator’s pause. Danny, sweating out his jolts of bonded, said, “Come on, Doc.”

  “All right. The substance in the eye sockets was KY Jelly. The killer inserted his penis into the sockets and ejaculated—at least twice. I found six cubic centimeters of semen seeping back toward the cranial vault. O+ secretor—the most common blood type among white people.”

  Danny opened the phone booth door; he heard wisps of bebop and saw Coleman Healy going down on one knee, sax raised to the rafters. “The bites on the torso?”

  Layman said, “Not human is what I’m thinking. The wounds were too shredded to make casts from—there’s no way I could have lifted any kind of viable teeth marks. Also, the ME’s assistant who took over after you pulled your little number swabbed the affected area with alcohol, so I couldn’t test for saliva or gastric juices. The victim’s blood—AB+—was all I found there. You discovered the body when?”

  “Shortly after 4:00 A.M.”

  “Then scavenging animals down from the hills are unlikely. The wounds are too localized for that theory, anyway.”

  “Doc, are you sure we’re dealing with teeth marks?”

  “Absolutely. The inflammation around the wounds is from a mouth sucking. It’s too wide to be human—”

  “Do you think—”

  “Don’t interrupt. I’m thinking that—maybe—the killer spread blood bait on the affected area and let some kind of well-trained vicious dog at the victim. How many men are working this job, Danny?”

  “Just me.”

  “ID on the victim? Leads?”

  “It’s going well, Doc.”

  “Get him.”

  “I will.”

  Danny hung up and walked outside. Cold air edged the heat off his booze intake and let him collate evidence. He now had three solid leads:

  The homosexual mutilations combined with Coleman Healy’s observation of Marty Goines being “fruit”; his “nance” “sugar daddy type”—who resembled the tall, gray-haired man the bartender saw with Goines, heading toward the stolen Buick last night—an hour or so before the estimated time of death; the heroin OD cause of death; the bartender’s description of Goines weaving in a junk nod—that jolt of dope a probable precursor to the shot that burst his heart; Goines’ previous addiction and recent dope cure. Putting the possible animal mutilations out of mind, he had one hard lead: the tall, gray-haired man—a sugar daddy capable of glomming heroin, hypodermic syringes and talking a reformed junkie into geezing up on the spot and ditching his New Year’s Eve gig.

  And no LAPD cooperation—yet—on local horse pushers; a junkie squeeze was the only logical play.

  Danny walked across the street to Tommy Tucker’s Playroom, found an empty booth and ordered coffee to kill the liquor in his system and keep him awake. The music/motif was ballads and zebra-striped upholstery, cheap jungle wallpaper offset by tiki torches licking flames up to the ceiling, another fire hazard, a blaze to burn the whole block to cinder city. The coffee was black and strong and made inroads on the bonded; the bop was soft—caresses for the couples in the booths: lovebirds holding hands and sipping rum drinks. The total package made him think of San Berdoo circa ’39, him and Tim in a hot Olds ragger joy-riding to a hicktown prom, changing clothes at his place while the old lady hawked Watchtowers outside Coulter’s Department Store. Down to their skivvies, horseplay, jokes about substitutes for girls; Timmy with Roxanne Beausoleil outside the gym that night—the two of them bouncing the Olds almost off its suspension. Him the prom wallflower, declining seconds on Roxy, drinking spiked punch, getting mawkish with the slow grind numbers and the hurt.

  Danny killed the memories with police work—eyeball prowls for Health and Safety Code violations, liquor infractions, wrongness. The doorman was admitting minors; high yellows in slit gowns were oozing around soliciting business, there was only one side exit in a huge room sixteen seconds away from fireballing. Time passed; the music went from soft to loud to soft again; coffee and constant eye circuits got his nerves fine-honed. Then he hit paydirt, spotting two Negroes by the exit curtains pulling a handoff: cash for something palmable, a quick segue into the parking lot.

  Danny counted to six and followed, easing the door open, peering out. The spook who took the money was striding toward the sidewalk; the other guy was two rows of cars down, opening the door of a rig topped by a long whip antenna. Danny gave him thirty seconds to geez up, light up or snort up, then pulled his .45, hunkered down and approached.

  The car was a lavender Merc; marijuana smoke was drifting out the wind wings. Danny grabbed the driver’s door and swung it open; the Negro shrieked, dropped his reefer and recoiled from the gun in his face. Danny said, “Sheriff’s. Hands on the dashboard slow or I’ll kill you.”

  The youth complied, in slow motion. Danny jammed the .45’s muzzle under his chin and gave him a frisk: inside and outside jacket pockets, a waistband pat for weaponry. He found a lizardskin wallet, three marijuana cigarettes and no hardware; popped the glove compartment and flicked on the dashlight. The kid said, “Look, man”; Danny dug his gun in harder, until it cut off his air supply and forced him mute.

  The reefer stench was getting brutal; Danny found the butt on the seat cushion and snuffed it. With his free hand he opened the wallet, pulled out a driver’s license and over a hundred in tens and twenties. He slipped the cash in his pocket and read the license: Carlton W. Jeffries, M.N., 5’11”, 165, DOB 6/19/29, 439 1/4 E. 98 St., L.A. A quick toss of the glove compartment got him DMV registration under the same name and a slew of unpaid traffic citations in their mailing envelopes. Danny put the license, reefers, money and registration into an envelope and dropped it on the pavement; he pulled his .45 out from under the boy’s chin and used the muzzle to turn his head toward him. Up close, he saw a chocolate brown punk next to tears, lips flapping, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he struggled for breath.

  Danny said, “Information or five years State time minimum. You call it.”

  Carlton W. Jeffries found a voice: high, squeaky. “What you think?”

  “I think you’re smart. Give me what I want, and I’ll put that envelope in the mail to you tomorrow.”

  “You could give it back now. Please. I need that money.”

  “I want a hard snitch. If you play both ends and I get hurt, I’ve got you nailed. Evidence, and the confession you just made.”

  “Man, I didn’t make no confession to you!”

  “Sure you did. You’ve been selling a pound a week. You’re the A-number-one Southside grasshopper.”

  “Man!”

  Danny rested his gun barrel on Carlton W. Jeffries’ nose. “I want names. Heroin pushers around here. Give.”

  “Man—”

  Danny flipped the .45 up and grabbed the muzzle, reversing his grip so the gun could be used as a bludgeon. “Give, goddamn you.”

  Jeffries to
ok his hands off the dash and wrapped his arms around himself. “Only guy I know is a guy name of Otis Jackson. Lives above the laundromat on One-o-three and Beach and please don’t give me no rat jacket!”

  Danny holstered his piece and backed out the car door. His foot hit the DMV envelope just as he heard Carlton W. Jeffries start bawling. He picked the evidence up, tossed it on the seat and double-timed to his Chevy so he wouldn’t hear the sad little fuck blubber his gratitude.

  * * *

  103rd and Beach was a run-down intersection in the heart of Watts: hair-straightening parlors on two corners, a liquor store on the third, the Koin King Washeteria occupying number four. Lights were burning in the apartment above the laundromat; Danny parked across the street, doused his headbeams and scoped out the only possible access: side steps leading up to a flimsy-looking door.

  He walked over and up them, tiptoes, no hand on the railing for fear it would creak. At the top, he pulled his gun, put an ear to the door and listened, picking up a man’s voice counting: eight, nine, ten, eleven. Tapping the door, he faked a drawl straight from Amos ’n’ Andy: “Otis? You there, man? It’s me, man.”

  Danny heard “Shit!” inside; seconds later the door opened, held to the jamb by a chain. A hand holding a switchblade stuck out; Danny brought his gun barrel down on the shiv, then threw his weight inward.

  The switchblade hit the top step; a voice screeched; the door caved in, Danny riding it. Then it was a crash to the carpet and a topsy-turvy shot of Otis Jackson scooping junk bindles off the floor, stumbling to the bathroom, a toilet flushing. Danny got to his knees, sighted in and yelled, “Sheriff’s!” Otis Jackson flipped him his middle finger and weaved back to the living room wearing a shiteater grin.

  Danny stood up, his head pounding with jazz chords. Otis Jackson said, “The fuckin’ Sheriff’s ain’t fuckin’ shit around here.”

  Danny lashed the .45 across his face. Jackson hit the rug, moaned and spit out cracked bridgework. Danny squatted beside him. “You sell to a tall, gray-haired white man?”