The Big Nowhere Read Free Page A

and—”
    “Put my son on, goddamn you.”
    Celeste laughed softly. Mal knew she was acknowledging match point—him using his cop voice. The line went silent; in the background he could hear Celeste cooing Stefan out of sleep, singsong words in Czech. Then the boy was there—smack in the middle of them. “Dad—Malcolm?”
    “Yeah. Happy New Year.”
    “We saw the fireworks. We went on the roof and held umb-umb—”
    “You held umbrellas?”
    “Yes. We saw the City Hall light up, then the fireworks went, then they…fissured?”
    Mal said, “They fizzled, Stefan. F-i-z-z-l-e-d. A fissure is a kind of hole in the ground.”
    Stefan tried the new word. “F-i-s-u-r-e?”
    “Two s’s. We’ll have a lesson when I get home, maybe take a drive by Westlake Park and feed the ducks.”
    “Did you see the fireworks? Did you look out the window to see?”
    He had been parrying Penny Diskant’s offer of a cloakroom quickie then, breasts and legs grinding him, wishing he could do it. “Yeah, it was pretty. Son, I have to go now. Work. You go back to sleep so you’ll be sharp for our lesson.”
    “Yes. Do you want to speak to Mutti?”
    “No. Goodbye, Stefan.”
    “Goodbye, D-D-Dad.”
    Mal put down the phone. His hands were shaking and his eyes held a film of tears.
    *  *  *
    Downtown LA was shut down tight, like it was sleeping off a drunk. The only citizens in view were winos lining up for doughnuts and coffee outside the Union Rescue Mission; cars were erratically parked—snouts to smashed fenders—in front of the hot-sheet hotels on South Main. Sodden confetti hung out of windows and littered the sidewalk, and the sun that was looming above the eastern basin had the feel of heat, steam and bad hangovers. Mal drove to the Pacific Dining Car wishing the first day of the new decade an early death.
    The restaurant was packed with camera-toting tourists wolfing the “Rose Bowl Special”—hangtown fry, flapjacks, Bloody Marys and coffee. The headwaiter told Mal that Mr. Loew and another gentleman were waiting for him in the Gold Rush Room—a private nook favored by the downtown legal crowd. Mal walked back and rapped on the door; it was opened a split second later, and the “other gentleman” stood there beaming. “Knock, knock, who’s there? Dudley Smith, so Reds beware. Please come in, Lieutenant. This is an auspicious assemblage of police brain power, and we should mark the occasion with proper amenities.”
    Mal shook the man’s hand, recognizing his name, his style, his often imitated tenor brogue. Lieutenant Dudley Smith, LAPD Homicide. Tall, beefside broad and red-faced; Dublin born, LA raised, Jesuit college trained. Priority case hatchet man for every LA chief of police dating back to Strongarm Dick Steckel. Killed seven men in the line of duty, wore custom-made club-figured ties: 7’s, handcuff ratchets and LAPD shields stitched in concentric circles. Rumored to carry an Army .45 loaded with garlic-coated dumdums and a spring-loaded toad stabber.
    “Lieutenant, a pleasure.”
    “Call me Dudley. We’re of equal rank. I’m older, but you’re far better looking. I can tell we’re going to be grand partners. Wouldn’t you say so, Ellis?”
    Mal looked past Dudley Smith to Ellis Loew. The head of the DA’s Criminal Division was seated in a thronelike leather chair, picking the oysters and bacon out of his hangtown fry. “I would indeed. Sit down, Mal. Are you interested in breakfast?”
    Mal took a seat across from Loew; Dudley Smith sat down between them. The two were dressed in vested tweed suits—Loew’s gray, Smith’s brown. Both men sported regalia: Phi Beta Kappa key for the lawyer, lodge pins dotting the cop’s lapels. Mal adjusted the crease in his rumpled flannels and thought that Smith and Loew looked like two mean pups out of the same litter. “No thanks, counselor.”
    Loew pointed to a silver coffeepot. “Java?”
    “No thanks.”
    Smith laughed and slapped his knees.