“I don’t know!”

Mal threw an outside curve. “Are you still hot for Claire, Eisler? Are you protecting her? You know she’s marrying Reynolds Loftis. How’s that make you feel?”

Eisler threw his head back and laughed. “Our affair was brief, and I suspect that handsome Reynolds will always prefer young boys.”

“Chaz Minear’s no young boy.”

“And he and Reynolds did not last.”

“Nice people you know, comrade.”

Eisler’s laughter turned low, guttural—and supremely Germanic. “I prefer them to you, obersturmbahnführer.”

Mal held his temper by looking at Dudley; Mr. Bad Guy returned him the cut-off sign. “We’ll overlook that comment out of deference to your cooperation, and you may call this your initial interview. My colleague and I will go over your answers, check them against our records and send back a long list of other questions, detailed specifics pertaining to your Communist front activities and the activities of the UAES members we discussed. A City Marshal will monitor that transaction, and a court reporter will take your deposition. After that interview, providing you answer a few more questions now and allow us to take your journal, you will be given friendly witness status and full immunity from prosecution.”

Eisler got up, walked on rubber legs to his desk and unlocked a lower drawer. He poked through it, pulled out a leather-bound diary, brought it back and laid it on the table. “Ask your few questions and leave.”

Dudley moved a flat palm slowly down: Go easy. Mal said, “We have a second interview this afternoon, and I think you can help us with it.”

Eisler stammered, “Wh-what, wh-who?”

Dudley, in a whisper. “Leonard Hyman Rolff.”

Their interrogee rasped the single word, “No.” Dudley looked at Mal; Mal placed his left hand over his right fist: no hitting. Dudley said, “Yes, and we will brook no argument, no discussion. I want you to think of something shameful and incriminating indigenous to your old friend Lenny, something that other people know, so that we can put the blame of informing on them. You will inform, so I advise you to think of something effective, something that will loosen Mr. Rolff’s tongue and spare you a return visit from myself—without my colleague who serves so well to restrain me.”

Nathan Eisler had gone slab white. He sat stock-still, looking way past tears or shock or indignation. Mal thought that he seemed familiar; a few seconds of staring gave him his connection: the Buchenwald Jews who’d beat the gas chamber only to sink to an early grave via viral anemia. The memory made him get up and prowl the bookshelves; the dead silence kept going. He was scanning a shelf devoted to Marxist economics when Dudley’s whisper came back. “The repercussions, comrade. Refugee camps for your half-breed whelps. Mr. Rolff will receive his chance for friendly witness status, so if he’s an obstreperous sort, you’ll be doing him a favor by supplying us with information to convince him to inform. Think of Michiko forced to keep body and soul together back in Japan, all the tempting offers she’ll receive.”

Mal tried to look back, but couldn’t make himself; he fixed on Das Kapital—A Concordance, Marx’s Theories of Commerce and Repression and The Proletariat Speak Out. Quiet sank in behind him; heavy fingers tapped the table. Then Nathan Eisler’s monotone: “Young girls. Prostitutes. Lenny is afraid his wife will find out he frequents them.”

Dudley sighed. “Not good enough. Try harder.”

“He keeps pornographic pictures of the ones—”

“Too bland, comrade.”

“He cheats on his income tax.”

Dudley ha! ha! ha!’d. “So do I, so does my friend Malcolm and so would our grand savior Jesus Christ should he return and settle in America. You know more than you are telling us, so please rectify that situation before I lose my temper and revoke your friendly witness status.”

Mal heard the kids giggling outside, the little girl squealing in Japanese. He said, “Goddamn you, talk.”

Eisler coughed, took an audible breath, coughed again. “Lenny will not inform as easily as I. He has not so much to lose.”

Mal turned, saw a death’s head and turned away; Dudley cracked his knuckles. Eisler said, “I will always try to think I did this for Lenny and I will always know I am lying.” His next deep breath wheezed; he let it out fast, straight into his snitch. “I was traveling with Lenny and his wife Judith in Europe in ‘48. Paul Doinelle was making his masked series with Reynolds Loftis and hosted a party to seek financial backing for his next film. He wanted to solicit Lenny and brought a young prostitute for him to enjoy. Judith did not attend the party, and Lenny caught gonorrhea from the prostitute. Judith became ill and returned to America, and Lenny had an affair with her younger sister Sarah in Paris. He gave her the gonorrhea. Sarah told Judith she had the disease, but not that Lenny gave it to her. Lenny would not make love to Judith for many weeks after he returned to America and took a cure, employing various excuses. He has always been afraid Judith would logically connect the two events and realize what had occurred. Lenny confided in me and Reynolds and our friend David Yorkin, who I am sure you know from your wonderful list of front organizations. Since you are so concerned with Reynolds, perhaps you could make him the informant.”

Dudley said, “God bless you, comrade.”

Mal grabbed Eisler’s journal, hoping for enough treason to make two silver bars and his boy worth the price. “Let’s go nail Lenny.”

They found him alone, typing at a card table in his back yard, clack-clack-clack leading them around the side of the house to a fat man in a Hawaiian shirt and chinos pecking on an ancient Underwood. Mal saw him look up and knew from his eyes that this guy was no pushover.

Dudley badged him. “Mr. Leonard Rolff?”

The man put on glasses and examined the shield. “Yes. You’re policemen?”

Mal said, “We’re with the District Attorney’s Office.”

“But you’re policemen?”

“We’re DA’s Bureau Investigators.”

“Yes, you are policemen as opposed to lawyers. And your names and ranks?”

Mal thought of their newspaper ink—and knew he had no recourse. “I’m Lieutenant Considine, this is Lieutenant Smith.”

Rolff grinned. “Recently portrayed as regretting the demise of the would-be City grand jury, which I now take it is a going concern once again. The answer is no, gentlemen.”

Mal played dumb. “No what, Mr. Rolff?”

Rolff looked at Dudley, like he knew he was the one he had to impress. “No, I will not inform on members of the UAES. No, I will not answer questions pertaining to my political past or the pasts of friends and acquaintances. If subpoenaed, I will be a hostile witness and stand on the Fifth Amendment, and I am prepared to go to prison for contempt of court. You cannot make me name names.”

Dudley smiled at Rolff. “I respect men of principle, however deluded. Gentlemen, would you excuse me a moment? I left something in the car.”

The smile was a chiller. Dudley walked out; Mal ran interference. “You may not believe this, but we’re actually on the side of the legitimate, non-Communist American left.”

Rolff pointed to the sheet of paper in his typewriter. “Should you fail as a policeman you have a second career as a comedian. Just like me. The fascists took away my career as a screenwriter; now I write historical romance novels under the nom de plume Erica St. Jane. And my publisher knows my politics and doesn’t care. So does the employer of my wife, who has full tenure at Cal State. You cannot hurt either of us.”

Out of the mouths of babes.

Mal watched Lenny Rolff resume work on page 399 of Wake of the Lost Doubloons. Typewriter clack filled the air; he looked at the writer’s modest stone house and mused that at least he saved more of his money than Eisler and had the brains not to marry a Jap. More clack-clack-clack; Page 399 became pages 400 and 401—Rolff really churned it out. Then Dudley’s brogue, the most theatrical he had ever heard it. “Bless me father, for I have sinned. My last confession was never, because I am Jewish. I will currently rectify that situation, Monsignors Smith and Considine my confessors.”