by Daniel Fox
Host-lady-what’s-her-name hustled around Ida, flapped a doughy hand. “Mrs Bowron? Hello hello hello, Mrs Bowron? So terribly sorry to interrupt. This is-”
The Mayor’s wife’s smile drooped. “Ida Bly.”
Ida’s smile sprang up, like alstromeria being freed from a barn or some-such. “You’ve heard of me.”
“Indeed. What can I do for you Miss Bly? It is Miss, isn’t it?”
Ida’s smile tightened. So there they were, two ladies surrounded by a bajillion tulips or whatever, clenching grins at each other. “That’s right.”
“Such a shame.”
“Oh I don’t mind. I’ve been busy building up a career. Can you believe some girls still try to marry themselves into relevance, in this day and age?”
“Shocking. Of course, some girls still do it because they’re able to find a good man out of all their many suitors. Pity the poor girl who has to settle.”
The ladies around them shifted, sensing a storm.
“Do you read the papers, Mrs Bowron? I imagine it might be difficult finding time to keep up on important news when you’re so busy with...” Ida flapped a hand at the flowers surrounding them, “...you know. Stuff.”
“I am busy, it’s true. For example I am going to be helping sort out which students from underprivileged families receive the scholarship funding provided by today’s event. Still, I do manage to cram in a little bit of the real world each day.”
“Aw, that’s super. So you probably know then that I’ve been going full-tilt boogie on a series of stories highlighting Skid Row. Recently I’ve been caught up with the notion that the police blockade raid is not going to have nearly the long-lasting effect the police and your husband claim. Would you care to comment?” Ida’s smile widened. “You know, if you have the time to cram a big fat statement into your tight schedule.”
***
“He has been been whoring around again, yes?”
George found Clemp’s wife, Magdalena, outside the Clemps’ bungalow, weeding their thirsty-looking vegetable patch. Mags had been pure Mex when Wally had first met her, she had maybe ten English words and ten American dollars to her name, made the jump over the border with a coyote, maybe granted that coyote some favours, she was a pretty girl. Mags never spoke about it.
She was tough. Her question was more resigned than tired, she knew about Wally’s slips with redheads, his dives into bourbon bottles.
George hunkered down next to her on the browned grass. He wished he could come up with something to comfort her, to give her an alternative, but came up with bupkis. If he tried to lie he was one-hundred and ten percent sure Mags would see right through him.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I don’t think so. Not for this long. Neither does the boss. He’s tasked me to try to find Wally.”
“You mean like a case? A police case?”
“Kinda, yeah. I guess you could say that.”
Mags peered over at him. Wiped sweat off of her brow. She caught the implication – if the police were taking this seriously, this was maybe more than one of Wally’s benders.
She pushed at the dirt with her little shovel. “You garden?”
“Not in years. Grew up on a farm.”
“A farm? Yes? I did not know that. You help, okay? You push seeds in, I dig.”
“Sure.”
George took off his suit jacket and tie and tossed them over to the side. He took the packet of carrot seeds from Magdalena, waited for her to dig holes, stuck the seeds in.
“Carrots grow pretty good around here?”
“They better, or else.”
George grinned. “You already know the things I’m gonna ask, right?”
“Sure. I am a police wife. Was he acting different before he disappear, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“Yes. Different.”
“Different how?”
“Happy.”
George looked over at her. “Happy was different?”
“Here, yes. Different at work?”
“I thought he was doing alright, sure.”
Magdalena nodded. “Okay. Not always happy here. Not bad. Not angry. He never hit me once, you know? Much better than some of the girls I grew up with, even better than the gringo hunny-bunnies up and down this street who think a white and Mexican mix can’t be any good.”
“I’m happy to hear it.”
“You ever hit a woman?”
“Hell no.”
“Good. Because if you do...” Playful stabs with the shovel.
“So...”
“Yes, happy. Different. Excited for the first time since maybe we get married.”
“Do you know why?”
“Money.”
“What money?”
“I don’t know. The thing we argue about the most is money. But a few weeks ago, the arguments are done. He always complaining ‘Mags we can’t afford food this fancy,’ ‘Mags we can’t go to the pictures every second night.’ But then he bring me a Christian Dior, took me to dinner at the Chateau Marmont.”
George whistled. “The Marmont huh? I think I’m jealous.”
“We saw Vincent Price.”
“Get outta town. And what was the other thing?”
“The Christian Dior?”
George nodded. “Yeah.”
“It’s a dress.”
“Expensive?”
“Very.”
“It sounds it.”
Magdalena stopped digging. “I know your next detective question.”
“Shoot.”
“Where did he get the money?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t know. But it’s what is causing this trouble now, yes?”
George stood, brushed off his knees. “I don’t know. But it would follow, right?” He grabbed his tie and jacket.
Magdelena nodded. “I was hoping he was whoring around.”
***
The Battle of Tarawa back in ‘43. Bob had made his bones on the island of Betio.
Betio was a tiny island/islet, you wouldn’t think it was important. The sixty-four hundred or so Japanese camped there disagreed and gave the Marines a shellacking.
Up stepped Bob Tree. The rest of his squad was gunned down by a bunker dug into a hillside, hidden by shrubs. Some of them got cut in half before they even knew they were under attack.
Bob ate his fair share of pain too, getting three good-sized chunks of bullet shrapnel in the gut. Despite that he snaked his way forward and tossed a grenade or two into the bunker, turned the Japs into red mist, and then lay there bleeding in the grass until other Marines found him a couple hours later.
Stuffed full of bravery, was Bob. It should have been an easy task for him to go in and get a quote or two from the Mayor.
Bob made it to City Hall on time, pressed the flesh, took pictures with his fawning hordes. He was escorted to the outer office of the Mayor where the Mayor’s Personal Aide met him, a hangar-thin bespectacled political animal by the name of Evan Lemn who was very glad to shake the war hero’s hand and offer him a seat.
“I’ve never been shot. A dumb question, I know, but what’s it like?”
Bob had this answer down pat by now. He’d already been asked a hundred different ways since he got back. “Imagine a very large and strong man taking his first two fingers and pounding them into your belly. Like that. It hurts, it bruises, it shoves you back. Except the pain just keeps building and getting sharper.”
“Still,” Lemn leaned forward. “The ladies though, right? Must be worth it.”
Bob managed a smile. “Sure. They don’t mind it.”
“They keep asking to see the scars?”
“Some do.”
“I bet you don’t mind showing ‘em. As long as they show you a little something in return, am I right?” Lemn wagged his eyebrows.
“So does the Mayor have a busy day? I only need a couple minutes of his time and then I’ll be out of his hair.”
&
nbsp; “Yes, right. About that. The Mayor does in fact have a jammed day and I’m afraid he won’t be meeting with you. But he’s authorized me to release any information that you might need.”
“Information?”
“About the blockade raid.”
Bob leaned back. “We already have all that from the police. We were hoping to get the Mayor’s thoughts on-”
“Like I say, he’s terribly busy and sends his apologies. He really wanted to meet you in person, but...” Lemn spread his hands – what’re ya gonna do?
“Is something going on? The Mayor isn’t dodging me, is he?”
Lemn stood. “I assure you Mayor Bowron isn’t the dodging type. So, if I can be of no further use...” He held a hand out towards the exit.
Bob stood. His gut twisted. “He really can’t spare just a minute?”
“No.”
Five, six years ago Bob would have pushed. He would have laid it out, how the paper was going to play this like the Mayor was being a coward, ducking out on the public that elected him. New Bob, war hero Bob, he walked out the door instead and down the hall, listening to the sound of his footsteps click against the wall.
“Hey!” Lemn was leaning out the door. He waved Bob back. Checked back over his shoulder to make sure the Right Honorable Mayor was still tucked away in his office, out of earshot. “Between you and me, it’s not about you. He really does want to meet you.”
“Then what is it about?”
“The thing with his wife.”
“Thing? What thing?”
“You got a woman reporter at the Clarion, right? What’s her name?”
CHAPTER 5
“Bly!”
A meeting in the editor’s office. Clifford, Ida on the carpet, and Bob Tree seated in the corner for some reason that Ida couldn’t fathom.
“What did I send you for?” Clifford was pissed off, his face working on red. He waved the copy of Ida’s write-up. “Pretty pictures of roses and... I don’t know what else.”
Ida pointed at the copy of her story. “Yeah, I mentioned alstromeria in there. They’re delicate and they burst forth and...” She jerked a thumb at Bob. “What’s he doing here?”
“I had a meeting at the Mayor’s office.”
“Never mind that.” Clifford slapped the copy down on his desk. “How is it I send you to cover a flower show and I end up getting angry calls from the Mayor’s office?”
“Did you not vote for him? I understand they can take it pretty personally.” Ida turned to Bob. “What did he say?”
Bob: “Who?”
Clifford jabbed a finger out at Ida. “Shut your mouth. Simplest job there is and you screw it up.”
“I didn’t screw it up. You wanted a fluff piece on flowers, I gave you a fluff piece on flowers. Lambs should be so fluffy. Poodles will be jealous. Those goat-camel things-”
Bob grinned. “Alpacas?”
“Yes. And I wasn’t talking to you. But since I am, what do you mean ‘who’? You went to the Mayor’s office for a quote, so I’m obviously asking you what the janitor had to say about the Skid Row clean-up.”
“Shut up number two.” Clifford came around his desk. “You wanna try for a third? What’s the Mayor’s wife going to know about Skid Row, huh? What policy has she enacted? What plans do you think she might be making for its future?” Silence, Ida just giving him her up-from-under innocent look. “Well?”
“Oh sorry,” said Ida, “I was busy shutting up.”
Clifford threw his hands in the air.
Bob laughed from the corner.
Ida whirled back to him. “For God’s sake man, what was the quote?”
Bob’s grin dropped. “Well, thing is...”
“Hey!” Clifford clapped his hands, grabbing at Ida’s shifting attention. “How am I not getting through to you? Understand the words coming out of my mouth – the war is over. There isn’t a manpower shortage anymore. I don’t need to choose any old body that can bang away at a typewriter, I got my pick. I got men hungry for work.”
Ida took her own step forward. “I’m the best you’ve got. I’m the best this paper ever had.”
Back to Bob: “How did you not get a quote? My story set you up with an easy one right over the fence.”
Back to Clifford. It was a struggle, not shouting these words at these blind men. “Are you seriously not getting this? Bowron gets elected as L.A.’s clean-up king. Corruption, cronyism, doing what he can to help clean out the P.D., the Skid Row raid. But everybody and their sainted mother knows the blockade raid was a sham, the Row will be back to its old tricks in what? A month? A week? It’s garbage! It’s theater! And if this is a dog-and-pony show, what else has Bowron been up to that is also going to get absolutely nothing done but will keep the angry mobs quiet for another news cycle? This could be a huge story!”
To Bob: “And you let him mosey on away. What did the Mayor do, run away from you? Stick some crony in your face and...” Bob looked down. “Holy shit. Holy shit!”
She turned to Clifford, pointed at Bob. “Are you seeing this? He let himself get fobbed off. Big tough-guy war hero backed down from some slick-haired office jockey.”
“Enough!” Clifford went back around his desk, sat down. “You’re not the best the paper had. I’m the best the paper ever had, that’s why I get the extreme privilege and honor of sitting in this particular chair every day.” He pointed at Bob. “And that fella there is the guy that broke the Frank Shaw thing open when he was still wet behind the ears. And now he’s back. They’re all coming back. World’s spinning the right way again.”
“Oh yeah. He’s back alright. And he’s shitting all over the story I set up.”
Clifford held up a hand. “Stop right there. I swear to God you shut your mouth. I can put you on fluff stories for the rest of your natural born days, if I so choose. How do two inches on page twenty for the rest of your career sound? What’s that? Nothing to say now, huh? Go home. Tomorrow you will write a letter of apology to the Mayor’s wife for interrupting her day.”
Ida stood ramrod stiff, fists at her side, shaking. “What if I don’t?”
“Then just stay home.”
Ida remained, shaking in anger.
“What do you need? My boot up your backside? Go. Home!”
Ida whirled. Glared at Bob in his chair in the corner. Then slammed the door on her way out.
Heard: “Jesus Christ, what a pistol.” From Bob, behind her back.
Felt like her career was fading so fast it had never really mattered.
***
Ida sat at home. Her home, she paid the rent on the first floor apartment in the old house herself, with her money, made from her job.
She was at her kitchen table, looking at a pad of paper. Dear Mrs Bowron written across the top; that was as far as she had gotten.
The thought of writing an apology for doing her job right was infuriating. Bourbon had tasted sour going down. The radio had nothing to keep her distracted.
Bob Tree Bob Tree Bob Tree.
The Golden Boy was taking everything. Worse still, he was replacing it with nothing. But he was still taking her job, her features, her spot on the front page. The spot she had eaten shit to earn.
She needed something with meat. Something powerful. A story Clifford couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried. Something the wonderful Mister Tree wasn’t into and couldn’t take away from her.
Skid Row.
The skinny vet that came after her, he had talked about gun shots. From guns that were out of place, even on the Row.
It was thin. It was also all that she had at the moment.
She checked the time. Going on four p.m. Still a couple of hours of daylight left. The Row was a place she wrote about. It was a place she was sure was going to bring her more stories. Front page stuff. None of that meant she liked going there. She sure as hell wasn’t going to get caught there at night.
She could wait until the morning.
But was Bob
Tree waiting around, or was he out grabbing front page stuff of his own? Right now?
She slid a finger up her scar, subconsciously, weighing one fear – irrelevance, against the other – getting caught out on Skid Row after dark.
She grabbed her bag and hat and went out the door at a run.
***
George went through the files again, the ones stacked on Wally Clemp’s desk. Wally usually worked some on his own, the ones that didn’t require much in the way of a big gorilla cracking its knuckles in the background. He’d tell George about how he cracked the cases and George would take notes, learning from his partner, becoming a better detective by osmosis and proximity.
He keyed in on the mystery money that bought Magdalena her fancy dress and her expensive night out eating with movie stars. Nothing, nada, zip – only one of the murders on Wally’s desk had anything to do with money. A mugging gone bad in the neighbourhood of Santa Monica’s pier. A truck driver jumped while out for a walk – according to his wife the killer might have nabbed a grand total of ten bucks from the vic’s wallet. Ten bucks was not going to get a body access to places like The Marmont.
Think think think.
George could come up with one of two ways a homicide detective might come up with mountains of cash, at least in ways that he wouldn’t want to mention to his partner and friend or his wife.
Method One – pull a job. But would Wally have known what to hit? Robbery Division’s guys, they’d know. Or they’d know how to find out. George could ask them how heist gangs got their info, but they’d want to know why George wanted to know, that would put eyes on the missing Detective Clemp, and A.C. Pointe had said to keep it on the down-low.
Method Two – Wally had come across the money. Wally was the job or Wally was a husband. Mags said she didn’t know where the money had come from – George believed her. That left Wally’s work life. Meaning if Wally did stumble across a pay-day it had happened on the job.
George eyed the pile of Wally’s solo-gig files. He’d been through them three times. If the answer was there he didn’t have the eyes to pick them out.
Maybe if one of them had extra notes, looked like it had received extra loving, maybe that would have given him some direction. But the files all looked more or less the same, like they had all been given the same effort.
