Clandestine

"Inspector," Dudley said calmly, "I don't buy it. We know for a fact that he's tight with this homo, Lawrence Brubaker. We know—"

"Larry Brubaker was an old navy buddy! We were stationed together at the Long Beach yard during the war!" Engels was sweating, his face and torso were popping sweat from every pore. I handed him a glass of water. He gulped it down in one second flat, then looked to me for support.

"I believe you," I said. "You used to live near his bar in Venice, right?"

"Right! With a woman. I was shacked with her. I tell you I dig women. Ask Janet, she'll tell you!"

"Janet?" I asked innocently.

"Janet Valupeyk. She's the dame I do the real estate gig with. She'll tell you. We shacked together for two years, she'll tell you."

"All right, Mr. Engels."

"Not all right, Inspector," Dudley said, his voice rising in pitch and timbre, "not all right at all. We have witnesses who place this degenerate at known queer bars like the Hub, the Black Cat, Sergio's Hideaway, the Silver Star, the Knight in Armor, and half the homo hangouts in the Valley."

"No, no, no!" Engels was shaking his head frantically in denial.

I raised my voice and glared sternly at Dudley. "This time you've gone too far, Lieutenant. You've been badly misinformed. The Silver Star isn't a homosexual hangout—I've been there myself, many times. It's just a congenial neighborhood cocktail lounge."

Engels grabbed at what he thought was a life raft. "That's right! I been there myself, lotsa times."

"To place bets?" I interjected.

"Hell no, to chase tail. I picked up lots of good stuff there." Unaware that he was hanging himself, Engels rambled on, squirming on the now sweat-drenched mattress. "I scored in half the juke joints in Hollywood. Queer, shit! Somebody's been feeding you guys the wrong dope! I'm a veteran. Larry Brubaker's queer, but I just used him, borrowed money from him. He didn't try no queer stuff with me! You ask Janet. You ask her!" Engels was addressing all his remarks to me now. It was obvious he considered me his savior. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dudley draw his finger across his throat.

"Mr. Engels," I said, "let's take a break for a while, shall we? Why don't you take a rest?"

Engels nodded. I went into the bathroom and wet a paper napkin in the sink. I tossed it to him and he swabbed his face and upper body with it.

"Rest, Eddie," I said, smiling down at the handsome killer.

He nodded again and hid his face in his hands.

"I'm going for a walk," I announced to Dudley and Mike Breuning. I grabbed a container of cold coffee and a cold hamburger and walked outside.

A Santa Ana wind had come up, and the shabby front lawn was littered with a fresh array of debris. Palm fronds had blown out onto the sidewalk. The wind had cleared all traces of smog from the air, and the twilight sky was a pure light blue tinged with the remnants of a pink sun.

I tried to eat my burger, but it was too greasy and cold, and my nervous stomach balked. I threw the sandwich to the ground and sipped my coffee, pondering the rituals of justice.

Dudley came out a minute later. "Our friend is asleep, lad," he said. "Mike slipped him a Mickey Finn. He'll wake up in about four hours or so with a devilish headache. Then I'll go to work on him."

"Where's Carlisle?"

"He's going through handsome Eddie's apartment. He should be back soon. How do you feel, lad?"

"Expectant. Anxious for it to be over."

"Soon, lad, soon. I'm going to have at that monster for a good long time. You stay out until I take off my necktie. Then you intervene. Meet force with force, lad, be it verbal or physical. Do you follow?"

"Yes."

"Ahhh, grand. You are a brilliant young policeman, Freddy. Do you know that?"

"Yes, I do."

"I've wanted a protégé like you for a long time, lad. Mike and Dick are good cops, but they've got no brains, no imagination. You have a spark, a brilliant one."

"I know."

"Then why do you look so glum?"

"I'm wondering how I'll like the detective bureau."

"You'll like it fine. It's the cream of the department. Now get some rest."

I went into the room adjoining the interrogation room and lay down on a saggy army cot that was a good half foot too short for me. I got up and walked to the bathroom. It was relatively clean; almost clean enough to use. I looked at myself in the cracked mirror above the sink. I needed a shave and hadn't thought to bring a razor.

I lay back down on my cot. Exhaustion grabbed me before I could remove my shoes or shoulder holster. I fought sleep for brief moments, managing to mutter, "Lorna, Lorna, Lorna" until sleep triumphed.

I awoke to someone jostling me. I bolted upright and went for my gun. Dick Carlisle materialized and pinned my arms. The light from the overhead bulb was glinting off his steel-rimmed spectacles.

I swung my legs over the edge of the cot and suddenly realized that I didn't like Carlisle. There was something sullen and animalistic about him. And he was plainly keyed up.