The Big Nowhere Read Online Free PDF Page A

Then Detective Sergeant Turner Meeks in a bed at Queen of Angels, high brass hovering around him, pointing to the wounds he survived—while he wondered if it was a fellow cop who’d set him up. A string of civilian pics on the wall above his desk: a fatter, grayer Buzz with Mayor Bowron, ex-DA Buron Fitts, Errol Flynn, Mickey Cohen, producers he’d pimped for, starlets he’d gotten out of litigation and into abortions, dope cure doctors grateful for his referrals. Fixer, errand boy, hatchet wielder.
    Stony broke.
    Buzz sat down at his desk and jotted credits and debits. He owned fourteen acres of Ventura County farmland; parched and worthless, he’d bought it for his parents to retire to—but they foiled him by kicking in a typhus epidemic in ’44. The real estate man he’d been talking to said thirty bucks an acre tops—better to hold on to it—it couldn’t go much lower. He owned a mint green ’48 Eldo coupé—identical to Mickey C.’s, but without the bullet-proof plating. He had a shitload of suits from Oviatt’s and the London Shop, the trousers all too tight in the gut—if Mickey bought secondhand threads he was home free—he and the flashy little hebe were exactly the same size. But the Mick threw away shirts he’d worn twice, and the debit list was running off the page and onto his blotter.
    The phone rang; Buzz grabbed it. “Security. Who’s this?”
    “It’s Sol Gelfman, Buzz. You remember me?”
    The old geez at MGM with the car thief grandson, a nice boy who clouted convertibles out of Restaurant Row parking lots, raced Mulholland with them and always left his calling card—a big pile of shit—in the back seat. He’d bought off the arresting officer, who altered his report to show two—not twenty-seven—counts of GTA, along with no mention of the turd drop MO. The judge had let the kid off with probation, citing his good family and youthful verve. “Sure. What can I do for you, Mr. Gelfman?”
    “Well, Howard said I should call you. I’ve got a little problem, and Howard said you could help.”
    “Your grandson back to his old tricks?”
    “No, God forbid. There’s a girl in my new picture who needs help. These goniffs have got some smut pictures of her, from before I bought her contract. I gave them some money to be nice, but they’re persisting.”
    Buzz groaned—it was shaping up as a muscle job. “What kind of pictures?”
    “Nasty. Animal stuff. Lucy and this Great Dane with a schlong like King Kong. I should have such a schlong.”
    Buzz grabbed a pen and turned over his debit list to the blank side. “Who’s the girl and what have you got on the blackmailers?”
    “On the pickup men I got bubkis—I sent my production assistant over with the money to meet them. The girl is Lucy Whitehall, and listen, I got a private detective to trace the calls. The boss of the setup is this Greek she’s shacking with—Tommy Sifakis. Is that chutzpah? He’s blackmailing his own girlfriend, calling in his demands from their cute little love nest. He’s got pals to do the pickups and Lucy don’t even know she’s being had. Can you feature that chutzpah?”
    Buzz thought of price tags; Gelfman continued his spiel. “Buzz, this is worth half a grand to me, and I’m doing you a favor, ’cause Lucy used to strip with Audrey Anders, Mickey Cohen’s squeeze. I coulda gone to Mickey, but you did me solid once, so I’m giving you the job. Howard said you’d know what to do.”
    Buzz saw his old billy club hanging by a thong from the bathroom doorknob and wondered if he still had the touch. “The price is a grand, Mr. Gelfman.”
    “What! That’s highway robbery!”
    “No, it’s felony extortion settled out of court. You got an address for Sifakis?”
    “Mickey would do it for free!”
    “Mickey would go batshit and get you a homicide conspiracy beef. What’s Sifakis’ address?”
    Gelfman breathed out slowly. “You goddamn okie lowlife. It’s 1187 Vista View Court in