Chapter Thirty-Five
Headlights bounced over the street, caught his windshield and went off. Mal heard a car door slamming and tapped his highbeams; Buzz walked over and said, “You do your homework?”
“Yeah. Like you said, circumstantial. But it’s there.”
“How’d you fix this up, Cap?”
Mal held back on the De Haven deal. “Danny wasn’t too subtle hitting up Claire for Loftis’ whereabouts on the killing dates, so she faked a meeting diary—Loftis alibied for the three nights. She says there were meetings, and he was there, but they were planning seditious stuff—that’s why she sugar-coated the damn thing. She says Loftis is clean.”
“You believe it?”
“Maybe, but my gut tells me they’re connected to the whole deal. This afternoon I checked Loftis’ bank records going back to ‘40. Three times in the spring and summer of ‘44 he made cash withdrawals of ten grand. Last week he made another one. Interesting?”
Buzz whistled. “From old Reynolds’ missing-file time. It’s gotta be blackmail, there’s blackmail all over this mess. You wanna play him white hat-black hat?”
Mal got out of the car. “You be the bad guy. I’ll get De Haven out of the way, and we’ll work him.”
They walked up to the door and rang the bell. Claire De Haven answered; Mal said, “You go somewhere for a couple of hours.”
Claire looked at Buzz, lingering on his ratty sharkskin and heater. “You mustn’t touch him.”
Mal hooked a thumb over his back. “Go somewhere.”
“No thank yous for what I did?”
Mal caught Buzz catching it. “Go somewhere, Claire.”
The Red Queen brushed past them out the door; she gave Buzz a wide berth. Mal whispered, “Hand signals. Three fingers on my tie means hit him.”
“You got the stomach for this?”
“Yes. You?”
“One for the kid, boss.”
Mal said, “I still don’t make you for the sentimental gesture type.”
“I guess old dogs can learn. What just happened with you and the princess?”
“Nothing.”
“Sure, boss.”
Mal heard coughing in the living room; Buzz said, “I’ll kickstart him.” A voice called, “Gentlemen, can we get this over with?”
Buzz walked in first, whistling at the furnishings; Mal followed, taking a long look at Loftis. The man was tall and gray per Upshaw’s suspect description; he was dashingly handsome at fifty or so and his whole manner was would-be slick—a costume of tweed slacks and cardigan sweater, a sprawl on the divan, one leg hooked over the other at the knee.
Mal sat next to him; Buzz thunked a chair down a hard breath away. “You and that honey Claire are gettin’ married, huh?”
Loftis said, “Yes, we are.”
Buzz smiled, soft and homespun. “That’s sweet. She gonna let you pork boys on the side?”
Loftis sighed. “I don’t have to answer that question.”
“The fuck you don’t. You answer it, you answer it now.”
Mal came in. “Mr. Loftis is right, Sergeant. That question is not germane. Mr. Loftis, where were you on the nights of January first, fourth and the fourteenth of this year?”
“I was here, at meetings of the UAES Executive Committee.”
“And what was discussed at those meetings?”
“Claire said I didn’t have to discuss that with you.”
Buzz snickered. “You take orders from a woman?”
“Claire is no ordinary woman.”
“She sure ain’t. A rich bitch Commie that shacks with a fruitfly sure ain’t everyday stuff to me.”
Loftis sighed again. “Claire told me this would be ugly, and she was correct. She also told me your sole purpose was to convince yourselves that I didn’t kill anyone, and that I did not have to discuss the UAES business that was transacted on those three nights.”
Mal knew Meeks would figure out the Claire deal before too long; he joined his partner on the black hat side. “Loftis, I don’t think you did kill anybody. But I think you’re in deep on some other things, and I’m not talking politics. We want the killer, and you’re going to help us get him.”
Loftis licked his lips and knotted his fingers together; Mal touched his tie bar: go in full. Buzz said, “What’s your blood type?”
Loftis said, “O positive.”
“That’s the killer’s blood type, boss. You know that?”
“It’s the most common blood type among white people, and your friend just said I’m no longer a suspect.”
“My friend’s a soft touch. You know a trombone man named Marty Goines?”
“No.”
“Duane Lindenaur?”
“No.”
“George Wiltsie?”
Tilt: Loftis crossing and recrossing his legs, licking his lips. “No.”
Buzz said, “Horse fucking pucky, you don’t. Give.”
“I said I never knew him!”
“Then why’d you describe him in the past tense?”
“Oh God—”
Mal flashed two fingers, then his left hand over his right fist: He’s mine, no hitting. “Augie Duarte, Loftis. What about him?”
“I don’t know him”—a dry tongue over dry lips.
Buzz cracked his knuckles—loud. Loftis flinched; Mal said, “George Wiltsie was a male prostitute. Did you ever traffic with him? Tell the truth or my partner will get angry.”
Loftis looked down at his lap. “Yes.”
Mal said, “Who set it up?”
“Nobody set it up! It was just… a date.”
Buzz said, “A date you paid for, boss?”
“No.”
Mal said, “Felix Gordean set you up with him, right?”
“No!”
“I don’t believe you.”
“No!”
Mal knew a straight admission was out; he jabbed Loftis hard on the shoulder. “Augie Duarte. Was he just a date?”
“No!”
“Tell the truth, or I’ll leave you alone with the sergeant.”
Loftis pinched his knees together and hunched his shoulders down. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes. We dated once.”
Buzz said, “You sound like a one-night stand man. A date with Wiltsie, a date with Duarte. Where’d you meet those guys?”
“Nowhere… at a bar.”
“What bar?”
“The Oak Room at the Biltmore, the Macombo, I don’t know.”
“You’re rattlin’ my cage, boy. Duarte was Mex and those joints don’t serve spics. So try again. Two goddamn queer slash murder victims you got between the sheets with. Where’d you meet them?”
Reynolds Loftis stayed crimped up and silent; Buzz said, “You paid for them, right? It ain’t no sin. I’ve paid for pussy, so why shouldn’t somebody of your persuasion pay for boys?”
“No. No. No, that’s not true.”
Mal, very soft. “Felix Gordean.”
Loftis, trembling. “No no no no no.”
Buzz twirled a finger and smoothed his necktie—the switcheroo sign. “Charles Hartshorn. Why’d he kill himself?”
“He was tortured by people like you!”
Mal’s switcheroo. “You copped horse for Claire. Who’d you get it from?”
“Who told you that?”—Loftis actually sounding indignant. Buzz leaned over and whispered, “Felix Gordean”; Loftis jerked back and banged his head on the wall. Mal said, “Duane Lindenaur worked at Variety International, where your friends Lopez, Duarte and Benavides are working. Juan Duarte is Augie Duarte’s cousin. You used to appear in Variety International movies. Duane Lindenaur was blackmailing Charles Hartshorn. Why don’t you put all that together for me.”
Loftis was sweating; Mal caught a twitch at blackmail. “Three times in ‘44 and once last week you withdrew ten grand from your bank account. Who’s blackmailing you?”
The man was oozing sweat. Buzz flashed a fist on the QT; Mal shook his head and gave him the switch sign. Buzz said, “Tell us about the Sleepy Lagoon Defense Committee. Some strange stuff happened, right?”
Loftis wiped sweat off his brow; he said, “What strange stuff?”, his voice cracking.
“Like the letters the Committee got that said a big white man snuffed Jos'e Diaz. A deputy pal of ours seemed to think these here killings went back to Sleepy Lagoon—zoot stick time. All the victims were cut with zoot sticks.”
Loftis wrung his hands, popping more sweat; his eyes were glazed. Mal could tell Meeks went for a soft shot—innocuous stuff from his interrogation notes—but came up with a bludgeon. Buzz looked bewildered; Mal tamped down his black hat. “Loftis, who’s blackmailing you?”
Loftis squeaked, “No”; Mal saw that he’d sweated his clothes through. “What happened with the SLDC?”
“No!”
“Is Gordean blackmailing you?”
“I refuse to answer on the grounds that my answ—”
“You’re a slimy piece of Commie shit. What kind of treason are you planning at your meetings? Cop on that!”
“Claire said I didn’t have to!”
“Who’s that piece of tail you and Chaz Minear were fighting over during the war? Who’s that piece of fluff?”
Loftis sobbed and keened and managed a squeaky singsong. “I refuse to answer on the grounds that my answers might tend to incriminate me, but I never hurt anybody and neither did my friends so please don’t hurt us.”
Mal made a fist, Stanford ring stone out to do maximum damage. Buzz put a hand on his own fist and squeezed it, a new semaphore: don’t hit him or I’ll hit you. Mal got scared and went for big verbal ammo: Loftis didn’t know Chaz Minear ratted him to HUAC. “Are you protecting Minear? You shouldn’t, because he was the one who snitched you to the Feds. He was the one who got you blacklisted.”
Loftis curled into a ball; he murmured his Fifth Amendment spiel, like their interrogation was legal and defense counsel would swoop to the rescue. Buzz said, “You dumb shit, we coulda had him.” Mal turned and saw Claire De Haven standing there. She was saying, “Chaz,” over and over.