Buzz was just past the edge of the commotion, smothering a showstopper blonde with kisses. Mal recognized her from gossip column pics: Audrey Anders, the Va Va Voom Girl, Mickey Cohen’s on-the-side woman. Buzz and Audrey kissed; Mal gawked from a distance, then turned around and checked the lovebirds’ flank, scoping for witnesses, Cohen goons who’d squeal to their master. The whole crowd was contained behind the crime scene ropes, occupied with Mickey’s tirade; Mal kept scanning anyway. He felt a hard tap on his shoulder; Buzz Meeks was there wiping lipstick off his face. “Boss, I am in your power. Now we gonna go get that steak?”

“…And Norm says you can fight. He’s a prizefighting fan, so it must be true. Now the question is, are you willing to fight in other ways—and for us.”

Danny looked across the table at Claire De Haven and Norman Kostenz. Five minutes into his audition; the woman all business so far, keeping friendly Norm businesslike with little taps that chilled his gushing about the picket line fracas. A handsome woman who had to keep touching things: her cigarettes and lighter, Kostenz when he gabbed too heavy or said something that pleased her. Five minutes in and he knew this about acting: a big part of the trick was sneaking what was really going on with you into your performance. He’d been up all night canvassing darktown straight off a weird jag of sobbing, coming up with nothing on the stolen Pontiac, but sensing HIM watching; the La Paloma Drive canvassing was a zero, ditto the bus line and cab company checks, and Mike Breuning had called to tell him he was trying to wangle four officers to tail the men on his surveillance list. He felt tired and edgy and knew it showed; he was running with his case, not this Commie shit, and if De Haven pressed for background verification he was going to play pissed and bring the conversation down to brass tacks: his resurgence of political faith and what UAES had for him to prove it with. “Miss De Haven—”

“Claire.”

“Claire, I want to help. I want to get moving again. I’m rusty with everything but my fists, and I have to find a job pretty soon, but I want to help.”

Claire De Haven lit a cigarette and sent a hovering waitress packing with a wave of her lighter. “I think for now you should embrace a philosophy of nonviolence. I need someone to come with me when I go out courting contributors. You’d be good at helping me secure contributions from HUAC widows, I can tell.”

Danny took “HUAC widows” as a cue and frowned, wounded by sudden memories of Donna Cantrell—hot love drowned in the Hudson River. Claire said, “Is something wrong, Ted?”; Norm Kostenz touched her hand as if to say, “Man stuff.” Danny winced, his muscle aches kicking in for real. “No, you just reminded me of someone I used to know.”

Claire smiled. “I reminded you or what I said did?”

Danny exaggerated a grimace. “Both, Claire.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Not quite yet.”

Claire called the waitress over and said, “A pitcher of martinis”; the girl curtsied away, writing the order down. Danny said, “No more action on the picket line, then?”

Kostenz said, “The time isn’t right, but pretty soon we’ll lower the boom”; Claire shushed him—a mere flicker of her zealot’s eyes. Danny horned in, Red Ted the pushy guy who’d step on anybody’s toes. “What ‘boom’? What are you talking about?”

Claire played with her lighter. “Norm has a precipitate streak, and for a boxing fan he’s read a lot of Gandhi. Ted, he’s impatient and I’m impatient. There was a grand jury investigation forming up, sort of a baby HUAC, but now it looks like it went bust. That’s still scary. And I listened to the radio on the ride over. There was another attempt on Mickey Cohen’s life. Sooner or later, he’ll go crazy and sic his goons on the picket line at us. We’ll have to have cameras there to catch it.”

She hadn’t really answered his question, and the passive resistance spiel sounded like subterfuge. Danny got ready to deliver a flirt line; the waitress returning stopped him. Claire said, “Just two glasses, please”; Norm Kostenz said, “I’m on the wagon,” and left with a wave. Claire poured two tall ones; Danny hoisted his glass and toasted, “To the cause.” Claire said, “To all things good.”

Danny drank, making an ugh face, a nonboozer notching points with a juicehead woman; Claire sipped and said, “Car thief, revolutionary, ladies’ man. I am suitably impressed.”

Cut her slack, let her move, reel her in. “Don’t be, because it’s all phony.”

“Oh? Meaning?”

“Meaning I was a punk kid revolutionary and a scared car thief.”

“And the ladies’ man?”

The hook baited. “Let’s just say I was trying to recapture an image.”

“Did you ever succeed?”

“No.”

“Because she’s that special?”

Danny took a long drink, booze on top of no sleep making him misty. “She was.”

“Was?”

Danny knew she’d gotten the story from Kostenz, but played along. “Yeah, was. I’m a HUAC widower, Claire. The other women were just not…”

Claire said, “Not her.”

“Right, not her. Not strong, not committed, not…”

“Not her.”

Danny laughed. “Yeah, not her. Shit, I feel like a broken record.”

Claire laughed. “I’d give you a snappy rejoinder about broken hearts, but you’d hit me.”

“I only beat up fascists.”

“No rough stuff with women?”

“Not my style.”

“It’s mine occasionally.”

“I’m shocked.”

“I doubt that.”

Danny killed the drink. “Claire, I want to work for the union, more than just lubing old biddies for money.”

“You’ll get your chance. And they’re not old biddies—unless you think women my age are old.”

A prime opening. “How old are you? Thirty-one, thirty-two?” Claire laughed the compliment out. “Diplomat. How old are you?”

Danny reached for Ted Krugman’s age, coming up with it maybe a beat too slow. “I’m twenty-six.”

“Well, I’m too old for boys and too young for gigolos. How’s that for an answer?”

“Evasive.”

Claire laughed and fondled her ashtray. “I’ll be forty in May. So thanks for the subtraction.”

“It was sincere.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Hook her now, get to the station early. “Claire, do I have political credibility with you?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Then let’s try this on the other. I’d like to see you outside our work for the union.”

Claire’s whole face softened; Danny got an urge to slap the bitch silly so she’d get mad and be a fit enemy. He said, “I mean it,” Joe Clean Cut Sincere, Commie version.

Claire said, “Ted, I’m engaged”; Danny said, “I don’t care.” Claire reached into her purse, pulled out a scented calling card and placed it on the table. “We should at least get better acquainted. Some of us in the union are meeting at my house tonight. Why don’t you come for the end of the meeting and say hello to everybody. Then, if you feel like it, we can take a drive and talk.”

Danny palmed the card and stood up. “What time?”

“8:30.”

He’d be there early; pure cop, pure work. “I look forward to it.”

Claire De Haven had gotten herself back together, her face set and dignified. “So do I.”

Krugman back to Upshaw.

Danny drove to Hollywood Station, parked three blocks away and walked over. Mike Breuning met him in the muster room doorway, grinning. “You owe me one, Deputy.”

“What for?”

“Those guys on your list are now being tailed. Dudley authorized it, so you owe him one, too.”

Danny smiled. “Fucking A. Who are they? Did you give them my number?”

“No. They’re what you might wanta call Dudley’s boys. You know, Homicide Bureau guys Dudley’s brought up from rookies. They’re smart guys, but they’ll only report to Dud.”