Elmer said, “I’m staking out a suspect.”
Buzz wagged his eyebrows. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“You feel like reporting? I ain’t seen you in two days, either.”
Buzz torched a cold cigar. “I braced that papist hump, Joe Hayes. He impressed me as a froufrou, but he didn’t reveal no racy drift on Tommy. He said he was Tommy’s confessor, and that was it.”
Elmer made the jack-off sign. Buzz said, “I went back to Lyman’s then. Breuning and Carlisle had posted a note. It said Dud’s coming back in. He’s all set to brace Chung, Welles, and Jamie.”
Elmer yocked. Buzz blew smoke in his face.
“Then I remembered that Huey Cressmeyer’s mama works at Columbia, right by Huey’s flop. So I drove over there, and the first thing I see is Dud’s car, parked outside on Gower — with a Mex Statie sedan parked right behind it. I got the plate number, called the Ensenada barracks, and learned that that particular sled was checked out to some lieutenant named Juan Pimentel. This led me to believe that Dud and mama were baby-sitting Huey until Pimentel could get him down to Baja and hide his homo ass out.”
Elmer whooped. “Because Huey’s in Tommy’s address book, and he’s Dud’s snitch, and he’s jungled up with Dud in three thousand questionable ways — and we’re set to pull him in for questioning.”
Buzz rewagged his eyebrows. “So, I played a hunch on Pimentel. I called the Sheriff’s Office here, plus Orange County and San Diego County. Get this. San Diego R & I has a green sheet on old Juan. He got popped in a fruit-bar raid in ’37, but it got hushed up, because Juan’s got juice with the Staties. Then, I go back to my stakeout at Columbia. I see Dudley, Huey, and some uniformed beaner who’s got to be Pimentel walk out. Him and Huey wave bye-bye to Dud and take off in that Statie sedan. I tail them to the coast road southbound, and that’s all the news that’s unfit to print.”
Elmer slurped his malt. He eyeballed Jean Staley. He mulled the Huey dish. Jean did this nifty tray dip.
Buzz said, “Are you going to brace her, or peep her for the rest of your life?”
Brace her, boss. You gots her under yo skin.
He swooped that night. He hit at 8:00 p.m. He bopped to her Beachwood Canyon hut. He wore his best chalk-stripe suit and new brogans. He primped and rang the bell.
She cracked the door. He saw one eyeball and badged her. She pulled the door wide.
She wore dungarees and a white tennis shirt. She’d pinned up her hair. She wore schoolmarm glasses. Her joy de viver undermined the dowdy effect.
“You’re not the Sheriff’s, because they’ve got that six-pointed thing. You’re not the state AG, because they don’t come around anymore. You’re not the FBI, because Mr. Hoover goes for beefcake types, and that’s not you.”
Elmer smiled. She talked East Texas. She downplayed it. It still poked out some.
“If you’re trying to tell me you’ve been around, you’ve succeeded.”
“I’m not trying to tell you anything. I’m just wondering why you’re letting me give you so much guff from jump street.”
“Well, I did have some questions.”
“All spiffed up, at this time of night?”
“Let me in, will you? It won’t take that long.”
Jean squinted. Her cheaters magnified her eyes. Jean the Defiant. Screw you — I still look good.
“You’re stalling me. There’s a whole lot of things I want to talk to you about, but I can’t do it standing at your door.”
She had buck teeth and sleek hair. Note the gray strands in with the brown.
“You’ve been frequenting Simon’s. All the girls knew you were up to something.”
Elmer said, “I popped that blond girl for pros vag a while back. She must have spread the word.”
Jean went Well, all right. Elmer walked in. The front room featured Navajo rugs and green leather chairs. Stand-up ashtrays clinched it. Some men’s club tossed a yard sale.
Elmer took a seat. Jean took a seat. Wind blew the door shut.
Jean said, “What’s on your mind?”
“My name’s Elmer Jackson, in case you were wondering.”
“Is it Lieutenant?”
“It’s Sergeant, and I’m lucky to have that.”
“I’m not going to ask you what it’s all about. Cops always get to it soon enough.”
Elmer peeled a cigar. “Why was the state AG coming around?”
Jean crossed her legs and lit a cigarette. She hunkered in some.
“I was a Communist, back when lots of folks were. A dumb hillbilly girl — that was me. And the CP was something I sure as you know what came to regret.”
Elmer said, “You must have had a lot of visitors. Red Squad men, Feds, Racket Squad guys up the ying-yang.”
Jean blew smoke rings. Elmer glimpsed her starlet side. She crouched inside herself and played to men.
“I was in a cell. All we did was rattle our own cages and listen to ourselves talk. We went to labor marches and carried banners. The Feds carried cameras and got pictures of us. We were real-live CP. We shot our mouths off, and you boys started coming around asking questions. That was enough for this little Red duck.”
Elmer blew smoke rings. They came out all dispersed.
“Did you fink? You got disillusioned, it was the Depression, you realized the Party was all full of crap. I’m just thinking aloud now. Finking was a way out for most of you Commo types.”
Jean crushed her cigarette. “There were five of us in the cell. I finked the guy I liked the least, and the one I figured would do the most harm in the long run.”
“Who was the guy? Come on. His name’s on six dozen lists somewhere.”
Jean said, “Saul Lesnick. I finked him because he talked too much, and got people to convert to the Party just by wearing them down with the yak-yak. He was a Beverly Hills psychiatrist, if you can figure that.”
Blackout sirens whooped. Elmer and Jean froze. The all-clear signal blew. They unfroze quick.
“Who else was in the cell?”
“A man named Meyer Gelb. He was the leader, and another big fatmouth. We had a brief wingding, which shows you how susceptible I was in those days. There was Dr. Saul’s nutty daughter, Andrea, and a Mexican named Jorge Villareal-Caiz. He went back to Mexico and hooked up with his brother, Victor. They got embroiled in the plot to clip Leon Trotsky, then I heard they went fasco. If you want my opinion, the Party was no longer au courant, so in the end everybody just picked up their toys and went home.”
Jungle Jean rats Old Saul. That was prime drift. Beyond that — c’est la guerre.
Jean said, “You look parched.”
“Does it show that bad?”
“I’ll whip us up mai tais. I used to barmaid at the Wan-Q.”
“A mai tai and some peanuts. It sounds like supper to me.”
Jean smiled. “Atlanta, Georgia?”
“Wisharts, North Carolina. Like Beaumont for you. It’s this place you leave from.”
“Leave for where?”
“The Marine Corps and Nicaragua. Then L.A., on a bet.”
“That’s your lifetime itinerary?”
“That’s right. And it’s all been prelude up to you.”
Jean rolled her eyes and cut to the kitchen. Elmer heard drawers scrape and slam. He scoped the front room. The crib played bohemian. The weird blankets induced eyestrain.
The Jeanstress returned. She dipped and posed, carhop-style. Elmer snatched a drink off her tray.
“Everybody’s got an itinerary. I’d sure like to hear yours.”
Jean sipped her drink and plopped her feet on a hassock. She said, “My name’s in six dozen files you’ve read. You’ve got it down pat.”