by Max Grant
“Lenny!” the sow shouted after him.
He evidently ignored her as the door slammed shut and stayed that way. I studied the soles of my shoes for a short while longer.
Presently, poker-faced Ollie backed out of the executive office, gently closing the door, and ambled over to commune with the beast. He dropped my card on the desk and gave a minute shake of his head before moving over my way.
He crowded over me and tried to stare me out of his seat, whereupon the lard-assed secretary squeaked up, “I regret, Mr. James, that Mr. Shafter cannot be disturbed at this time. Would you care to schedule an appointment?”
I regarded her silently for a few moments.
“Out of my chair, dick!” Ollie bellowed.
I paused long enough to get him jumpy, then hefted myself up, stepped around the thug without looking at him, and sauntered over in the general direction of the heifer. Pausing until Ollie had settled his fanny down, I broke for the office door, turning the knob and blasting it open with a swift kick of my Size 10. Bertha squealed, Ollie bolted up, but I was through the door and had slammed it behind me before either could do a thing about it.
Ollie burst in a half second later, but I had already reached the head man’s desk and barked, “I regret, Sir, that this matter cannot be put off another moment. It must be resolved today, here and now.”
The chief’s face moved from a look of displeasure to one of mild astonishment. He held up a hand to slow the oncoming goon.
“You are President Shafter of this union, is that not correct?” I continued.
He regarded me mildly and said “That’s right. Gus Shafter, President of the Dockworker’s Brotherhood.”
“Master of all cargoes!” he shouted, getting red in the face, “and ruler of the ocean waves!! Just who the hell are you?!!” he screamed. He was standing now.
A quick glance told me Ollie was brought up short in awe at the boss’s tantrum, and it sounded like Fats was trying to struggle free of her desk for a better look. This guy had all the hallmarks of a real self-important son-of-a-bitch all right, the kind that could self-destruct mighty nicely.
I spat right back at him, “As you had ample time to learn, I’m Raymond James. I represent the agent and lawyer of one Vivian Lane, actress of the silver screen.”
That shut him up and put a quizzical look on his contorted mug. Before he could gather his wits, I reached into my coat pocket and slapped down a short pile of unopened mail on his blotter.
He rifled through them quickly and said, “So why the hell are you here badgering me with this?” He sat back down and scowled.
“So you know what these are!” I chuckled. “You haven’t even given them a proper examination!”
He quite obviously didn’t like the way this was going. I thought I’d better end it quickly.
“This has to stop, and stop now. Miss Vivian Lane is not of any political persuasion and she has no interest in pursuing an affiliation with the parties you represent. Her attorney has instructed me to inform you that your organization must cease and desist immediately any further contacts with Miss Lane.
“You may have her confused with another party of the same name. Whatever, we want this fixed today. Do you understand?”
Old Gus shot me a look of pure hatred and barked, “I understand this. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” He knew all right. He was too excitable to hold a poker face like good old Ollie.
He popped up again and screamed, “Get the hell out of my office, or your knee caps are mine! Now!”
I held my ground a short second, then spun on my heels and strode past Ollie to the open door. I stopped, turned, raised my arm and pointed at him.
“You’re the boss here. You get this stopped and you won’t be hearing from us again.”
“I’m gonna kill you!!” he screamed.
Ollie stayed rooted to the floor, but I hot-footed it on out of there right past the awestruck pig and down the hall.
Now it would be a waiting game to see if this artless charade had actually worked, the heat came off of Miss Lane, and I got paid.
* * *
Too early for lunch, I hopped over to Manny’s shop and caught him in the corral typing up a report. He looked relieved for an excuse to get out of there and sprung for a vending box meal in the PD cantina. I spent the afternoon there shooting the breeze with him about the events of the morning and what had led up to it. He regaled me with some gory accounts of his more recent cases.
A little later he suggested knocking off early and going over to the house. He was busy nights and weekends souping up another flathead V8, this time for an old jalopy he had stowed in the back yard.
It turned out to be a ’33 Chevy three-window coupe. It was a real looker, or would have been if it hadn’t been raised next to the sea. According to Manny, the body work was next. The coupe was getting a mild chop and some lead around the custom tail lamps. I was wondering how he was going to get that Ford plant to work in it, but he seemed to have confidence in his plan.
He’d certainly done wonders goosing an extra few dozen horses out of my old bucket. I was driving the first-year model Mercury, a ’39 convertible, burgundy in color with a sand colored cloth top; the flathead V-8 with overdrive under the hood. I’d spent most of my separation pay on it last year at a Navy lot down near Long Beach harbor.
With Manny’s help, it really scooted now, having triple carbs, custom manifolds, and outsized pipes with cut-outs. It rumbled like a cave full of demons at idle, and screamed like the Devil himself going flat-out on the straight-aways. Still it managed to look like some Pasadena matron’s Sunday ride.
The day was cooling off right nicely when Veda drove up in the couple’s new Buick roadster. Veda was a green-eyed, ivory-skinned, Irish lass that Manny had lassoed a couple of months after getting back to town.
She gave us a honk, and bustled some groceries into the house. Before long, the sweet smells of chile verde and refried beans wafted into the garage and we washed up and joined her for dinner.
* * *
Just past dusk I made my farewell and headed north out of the harbor town. I was thinking about the rather unsatisfactory conversation I’d had with the boss of the longshoremen, hoping it would suffice to justify my collecting the badly needed fee from Magnum.
I’d made it halfway up Figueroa into the big city when I noticed the headlights holding steady in the rear view mirror. I gave it a few minutes, then slowed and took a leisurely right and drove a couple blocks east before turning left up Broadway.
The lights stayed with me, but seemed to close the gap as we traveled north on the brightly lit boulevard. I took another slow turn at the light and headed east on Slauson toward the Florence District.
I crossed Main Street on a yellow and speeded up. The car behind ran the red but was falling behind as I accelerated for another block and skidded right onto the next residential street. I picked the second driveway and swung in, killed the lights, and drew to a quick stop near the front of the house.
A long, dark sedan careened around the corner and sped on down the street. I had slammed out of the driveway and was pointing north again when its red brake lights reflected brightly from my mirrors. I made the corner in a couple of seconds and was back on Slauson before I turned on the headlamps again.
I beat it the two blocks to San Pedro and took a quick left, crossing east along 54th to Central. With no further evidence of a tail, I resumed my pace north into downtown.
Amateurs, I thought, or at least not particularly dedicated, as there had not appeared to be a second car involved in the shadow. To be on the safe side, I made a few loops in the area near City Hall before taking Temple northwest into Hollywood.
Monday was two-for-a-dollar night at the Orbit Room, so I stopped in and tipped a few before heading back to the Arms. I circled my roost once and, reasonably content it was not under observation, parked right out front and retired to my rooms for a quiet evening.
* * *
The call came through early the next morning as I was filling Yuki in on the harbor meet. She took the call at my desk and listened for an unseemly interval before chirping, “With whom am I speaking please?”
She frowned. Covering the mouthpiece she whispered, “He won’t give me his name and I can’t make out what he wants, but I don’t think he likes you none too much.”
I grabbed the phone and grunted my name.
“This is Zev Ulinovsky. I represent the dock workers. It’s come to my attention that you …” I listened politely while he said his piece.
He took a quick breath, and to forestall another threatening monologue, I barked “Quick, guess how many fingers I’m holding up! I’ll give you a hint. It’s more than none and less than two. Bye.”
Wide-eyed, Yuki said, “Uh, I know it wasn’t a bill collector…”
“No it was that jackass shyster that represents the union mugs. Manny gave me some advice about dealing with them. Don’t speak to ‘em and, if you can help it, don’t listen to ‘em. Use sign language. I assumed he needed some visual assistance over the phone.”
That afternoon I got on the horn to Sally. She told me Moe was across town trying to pull a fast one on his biggest rival mogul, so we chuckled over that for a few moments. I gave her the short version, leaving out the vital details but conveying the general idea that success had been achieved and Vivian shouldn’t be experiencing any more unwelcome advances from the disloyal opposition. I hoped I was right. I suggested we give it a week to see how things worked out, and we left it at that.
And that was the last I heard from the bully boys and their mouthpiece all that summer. Moe’s check arrived, the rents got paid, and Yuki and I each drew a cut. I didn’t give the matter of Vivian Lane any further thought for quite some time.
August 1947
As the ensuing weeks had been generally uneventful, I’d started to worry whether I was going to be able to keep Yuki on. She had wiggled her way into my life in her own surprising little ways.
I’d become reacquainted with the cuisine of Japan through several lunches and a few dinners at some of her favorite LA and South Bay haunts. She’d even had the boss over to dinner once, with the folks, in their homey little hacienda in Brooklyn Heights.
I met her best friend Monica on several occasions when the two were getting together for a night at the theater and they’d invited me along to share the evening’s entertainment. I in turn had had them both out for a late-season Dodgers game. I’d grown fond of having her around and I was of no mind to let her go now.
So I spent a few days on the wire and drummed up an assortment of minor duties with Lemme over at RKO, hoping it would be enough to pay the ransom on the office and keep Yuki in movies and rice.
* * *
It had been a slow week thus far and I was using it to catch up on some sleep. A good bit of Lemme’s work involved after-hours surveillance, so I had taken to catching a brief siesta after lunch. I had my feet up and my head back, dreaming about something that had me smiling, when Yuki poked her head in.
“You sleeping again?”
“I was.”
“Look here, Boss.” She plopped a newspaper down on the desk.
“It looks like the USSR isn’t content with only Eastern Europe. It just took itself another satellite. It says here the US proposed the re-unification of Korea, but the idea was flatly rejected by the USSR. They intend on keeping North Korea.”
I picked it up and perused a paragraph or two. “Then that’s it for them, poor devils.”
“Anyway, Lupe was in a rare mood today. I spent all morning at the library. She opened up a few more of her special files for me, and we had a long lunch. She gave me some information on a couple more of the local players, people outside the Hollywood-union nexus. “
“Oh, yeah? Like who?”
“Well, one of the stranger of the bunch was some old biddy down in Laguna Beach. I forget her name. Maeve something or other. Her contribution apparently runs toward organizing the removal of certain unapproved literature from the libraries. Maybe she has an incinerator at home.
“The second was a little more interesting and closer to home. A Ruthena Ginzberg. She’s supposed to be a looker.”
“Is that so?”
“I thought that might get your full attention. Lupe seems to have a special bead on her for reasons she wouldn’t share.
“Ruthena’s a curriculum advisor in the local school system, specializing in textbook selection for kindergarten through senior grades. She’s also single and minorly connected with the arts. Lupe suspects she is connected with the Party in an official capacity.
“She’s to attend a gallery opening over at the County Museum of Art tomorrow night. Here’s her photograph from the society page.”
“Hmmm…” I ruminated as I studied the photo. “I guess we should really follow up on this.”
“Somehow I knew that was going to be the plan. I’m busy. You can do without me on this one?”
“Sure.”
I took off early and hustled my best suit over to the Clean’n’Fold on Vine.
* * *
The next afternoon I loafed around the house and made a late appearance at the gallery on Melrose. I got in on the tail end of the self-congratulatory blather, just in time for the hors-d’oeuvres and cocktails. The theme of the show was immediately evident. It consisted of a host of down-home American landmarks and icons rendered in the decades-old and extremely tiresome style of Soviet realism.
Actually, a number of the pieces resembled an advertisement I’d seen for last year’s Los Angeles County Fair. Strictly commie chic. Very cute. But dull as the finish on Manny’s backyard rust bucket. I knew there was a reason I’d managed to miss all such prior events.
The women here were for the most part a bunch of old gas bags with raspy voices, dropped breasts, and stentorian thighs. Most looked liked escapees from the reducing salon.
The old bat that was throwing this abomination was a middle-aged matron dressed up like a 17-year old on her second date. A real sight for sore eyes, she had the word ‘skag’ written all across her face. Long stringy black hair, blotchy olive skin, haggard cheeks, hooked beak, and eyes that looked like they hadn’t seen sleep in a week of Sundays.
More’s the pity; the rest of the package wasn’t all bad. She was slim with modest curves in just the right places, delicate little well-manicured feet, and long narrow fingers. She was the kind of woman that looked a whole lot better walking out than walking in.
They say you get the face you deserve at age 40. She’d evidently led a less-than-exemplary life.
Miss Ruthena Ginzberg, on the other hand, wasn’t hard to spot in this crowd. In fact, if I hadn’t already had some idea what she looked like, following the eyes of the men in attendance would have led me right to her. To put it mildly, she was a knockout. A tall well-shaped brunette with pale perfect skin and penetrating gray eyes, it surprised me she hadn’t followed an entertainment career. It was difficult to picture this stunning creature shut up in a school district administration office.
Fully fed, my moment approached and I moved up beside her.
“Miss Ginzberg?”
She turned abruptly and looked me directly in the eyes.
“Yes?”
I held her gaze and smiled. Her lovely mouth tightened gradually, showing a couple of lines that I hadn’t expected to see there.
“I’m Raymond James. I’ve heard tell you’re with the school system.”
She didn’t look overly impressed.
“That’s right. Ruthena Ginzberg.”
She offered a narrow, well-manicured paw and I folded it into mine.
“And what line of work are you in Mr. James?”
“I’m a free-lancer with some of the larger studios.”
Her look of mild disinterest did not change.
“And what would you do for them?”
“Personnel matters
mostly. I assist with the hiring and firing.” This got her attention. A new glint of interest appeared in her eyes. Her mouth softened and her lips formed what might pass for a smile. She truly was a lovely young woman, in a severe kind of way. Out of my league I decided, but worth a play.
“So what do you do for the school district?”
“As little as possible and still get paid,” she laughed. “And what may I ask brought you out here tonight?”
“Oh, I enjoy getting out some weeknights, and the smaller gallery showings are usually a good place to mingle and keep up with what’s new.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“Plus, I don’t like to cook much and I get tired of eating out alone. The snacks at these wing dings are usually worth the trip, even if the art isn’t. I guess I don’t have much of a life these days.”
“Oh. Has something changed?” she enquired.
“Well, I’m just a short time back from the war in the Pacific. The peace actually. I was with the Japanese occupation through last year.”
“Army?”
“No. Marines.”
“Well, did you find this showing to be interesting?”
Truthfully, between her and the surprisingly good hors-d’oeuvres, yes. But the Soviets could keep their lousy art.
“I find this stuff to be a little more akin to poster drawing than art.” She didn’t appear to like that, but turned her head and let it pass. A look of faint amusement passed over her face, and I figured she had me marked for a rube.
“Let’s get out of here,” I suggested.
“Sure, isn’t the Starlite Lounge right around the corner?”
Walking out with her was going to get me noticed, something I didn’t necessarily want with this crowd.
“I need to say goodbye to someone. Why don’t you grab your wrap and I’ll meet you out front in a second.”
She sauntered off to the cloakroom. I hustled over to the table and stuffed down a few more of the choicer morsels before making my way inconspicuously to the foyer. She was standing there waiting in a black sable wrap that perfectly offset her ivory face and neck. I retrieved my overcoat and snap-brimmed hat. She clasped my offered arm and we swung out of there.
