Words came at him, filtered through coughs and garbled interruptions. He picked out a man’s shout: “Cohen and his farshtunkener lackeys have to go nutso first”; Claire’s “It’s all in knowing when to squeeze.” A soft, mid-Atlantic drawl: “We have to give the studios an out to save face with, that’s why knowing when is so important. It has to hit the fan just right.”

Danny kept checking his blind side for witnesses; he heard a long digression on the ‘52 presidential election—who’d run, who wouldn’t—that degenerated into a childish shouting match, Claire finally dominating with her opinion of Stevenson and Taft, fascist minions of varying stripes. There was something about a movie director named Paul Doinelle and his “Cocteau-like” classics; then an almost complete duet: the soft-voiced man chuckling over “old flames,” a man with a stentorian Southern accent punch-lining, “But I got Claire.” Danny recalled the psychiatric files: Reynolds Loftis and Chaz Minear were lovers years ago; Considine told him that now Claire and Loftis were engaged to be married. He got stomach flip-flops and looked at his watch: 8:27, time to meet the enemy.

He walked around and rang the bell. Claire opened the door and said, “Right on time”; Danny saw that her makeup and slacks suit tamped down her wrinkles and showed off her curves better than the powder job and dress at the restaurant. He said, “You look lovely, Claire.”

Claire whispered, “Save it for later,” took his arm and led him into the living room, subtle swank offset by framed movie posters: Pinko titles from the grand jury package. Three men were standing around holding drinks: a Semitic-looking guy in tweeds, a small, trim number wearing a tennis sweater and white ducks, and a dead ringer composite for HIM—a silver-maned man pushing fifty, topping six feet by at least two inches, as lanky as Mal Considine but ten times as handsome. Danny stared at his face, thinking something about the set of his eyes was familiar, then looked away—queer or ex-queer or whatever, he was just an image—a Commie, not a killer.

Claire made the introductions. “Gentlemen, Ted Krugman. Ted, left to right we have Mort Ziffkin, Chaz Minear and Reynolds Loftis.”

Danny shook their hands, getting, “Hey there, slugger,” from Ziffkin, “A pleasure,” from Minear and a wry smile out of Loftis, an implicit aside: I allow my fiancée to dally with younger guys. He gave the tall man his strongest grip, snapping hard into Ted K. “The pleasure’s all mine, and I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Minear smiled; Ziffkin said, “Attaboy”; Loftis said, “You and Claire have a good strategy talk, but get her home early, you hear?”—a Southern accent, but no syrup and another aside: he was sleeping with De Haven tonight.

Danny laughed, knowing he’d just memorized Loftis’ features; Claire sighed, “Let’s go, Ted. Strategy awaits.”

They walked outside. Danny thought of rolling tails and steered Claire to his car. She said, “Where do you want to strategize”; her aside, her parody on Loftis playing cute. Danny opened the passenger door, getting an idea: prowl darktown with the protective coloration of a woman in tow. It was nearly two weeks since he’d gone strongarming down there, he probably wouldn’t be recognized in his non-cop outfit and HE was near the Southside strip just yesterday. “I like jazz. Do you?”

“I love it, and I know a great spot in Hollywood.”

“I know some places on South Central that really bop. What do you say?”

Claire hesitated, then said, “Sure, sounds like fun.”

East on Wilshire, south on Normandie. Danny drove fast, thinking of his midnight meeting and ways to chill Considine on the Niles ruckus; he kept checking the rear-view mock casual, gifting Claire with a smile each time so she’d think he was thinking of her. Nothing strange appeared in the mirror; Reynolds Loftis’ face stayed in his mind, a non-face to make the face jump out and bite him. Claire chain-smoked and drummed her nails on the dashboard.

The silence played right, two idealists deep in thought. East on Slauson, south on Central, more mirror checks now that they were on HIS stomping ground. Danny pulled up in front of the Club Zombie; Claire said, “Ted, what are you afraid of?”

The question caught him checking his waistband for the sap he always packed on niggertown assignments; he stopped and grabbed the wheel, Red Ted the persecuted Negro’s buddy. “The Teamsters, I guess. I’m rusty.”

Claire put a hand on his cheek. “You’re tired and lonely and driven. You want to please and do the right thing so badly that it just about breaks my heart.”

Danny leaned into the caress, a catch in his throat like when he saw Considine’s bottle. Claire took her hand away and kissed the spot she’d touched. “I am such a sucker for strays. Come on, strong silent type. We’re going to listen to music and hold hands, and we’re not going to talk about politics.”

The catch stuck; the kiss was still warm. Danny walked ahead of Claire to the door; the bouncer from New Year’s Day was there and eyed him like he was just another white hepcat. Claire caught up just as the cold air got him back to normal: Krugman the Commie on a hot date, Upshaw the Homicide cop on overtime. He took her arm and led her inside.

The Zombie interior was just like two weeks before, with an even louder, more dissonant combo wailing on the bandstand. This time the clientele was all Negro: a sea of black faces offset by colored lighting, a flickering canvas where a white/gray face would stand out and scream, “Me!” Danny slipped the maitre d’ a five-spot and requested a wall table with a floor view; the man led them to seats near the back exit, took their order for a double bonded and a dry martini, bowed and motioned for a waitress. Danny settled Claire into the chair closest to the bandstand; he grabbed the one facing the bar and the audience.

Claire laced her fingers through Danny’s and beat time on the table with their hands, a gentle beat, counterpoint to the screechy bebop that filled the room. The drinks arrived; Claire paid, a fiver to the high-yellow waitress, her free hand up to refuse the change. The girl sashayed off; Danny sipped bourbon— cheap house stuff that burned. Claire squeezed his hand; he squeezed back, grateful for loud music that made talk impossible. Looking out at the crowd, he sensed that HIM here was just as impossible—he’d know the police now had him pegged as a darktown car thief—he’d avoid South Central like the plague.

But the place felt right, safe and dark. Danny closed his eyes and listened to the music, Claire’s hand on his still making a beat. The combo’s rhythm was complex: drums shooting a melody to the sax, the sax winging it off on digressions, returning to simpler and simpler chords, then the main theme, then the trumpet and bass taking flight, going crazy with more and more complicated riffs. Listening for the handoffs was hypnotic; half the sounds were ugly and strange, making him wish for the simple, pretty themes to come back. Danny listened, ignoring his drink, trying to figure the music out and predict where it was going. He felt like he was getting the synchronization when a crescendo came out of nowhere, the players quit playing, applause hit like thunder and bright lights came on.

Claire dropped his hand and started clapping; a mulatto lounge lizard sidled by the table, saying, “Hello, sweet. I ain’t seen you in a dog’s age.” Claire averted her eyes; Danny stood up; the mulatto said, “Forget old friends, see if I care,” and kept sidling.

Claire lit a cigarette, her lighter shaking. Danny said, “Who was that?”

“Oh, a friend of a friend. I used to have a thing for jazz musicians.”

The mulatto had made his way up to the bandstand; Danny saw him slip something into the bass player’s hand, a flash of green picked up at the same time. Considine on De Haven: she was a skin-popper and devotee of pharmacy hop.