by Daniel Fox
Maybe the files didn’t say – but maybe George could get someone else to talk. Wally had this whole web of Confidential Informants through the city – something George had never managed to build. Snitches didn’t trust George – they feared him. And once they were out of George’s eyesight they usually skittered on out of the city never to be heard from again.
George rolled. He knew some of Wally’s informants from tagging along with Wally when he went to speak to them. The only thing he could think of was to track them down, work them one by one, hope one of them had been contacted by Wally in the past month or so.
Two hours resulted in three C.I.s found, they gave him nothing. No they hadn’t talked to Wally all year. No they had no idea what he might have been working on in the past couple of months.
Last stop – Toby something. Mid-thirties, did four years for petty thefts, now a busboy at a carhop burger joint in West Covina.
Hearty Burgers, whole building built in the shape of a hamburger, a big fat plaster kid seated on top of the building chowing down on something with three patties. Pretty long-legged carhops in short skirts and roller-skates lounged against the front, waiting for the dinner crowd to start pulling in.
George entered, eyes following him. His size always drew glances, some outright stares. He went to the counter, saw the snitch, jerked his thumb – meet me out back.
“You remember me?”
Toby lit up a cigarette, peered up at George through the smoke. “Brother, ain’t nobody ever gonna forget you.”
“You remember my partner?”
“Clemp. Sure.”
“You seen him lately?”
“Ain’t been a while, now you mention it. He usually came by every couple weeks, shot the shit, had some fries. Checked in to see how I’m doing, y’know?”
“Last time you saw him?”
“Maybe...” Toby blew out smoke, sucked it back in through his nose. “Maybe a month, five weeks ago? Longest he’s ever been away.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Nothin’, you know? How’re things going, how’s the pretty wife?”
“He mention money?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Is it yes or no?”
Toby dropped his cigarette on the ground, ignoring or missing George’s intensity, George’s frustration, crushed it with his foot. “Maybe. We talked about all sorts of-”
George shoved him against the brick wall. “I’m going to ask you again. Did you or did you not talk about money?”
“No! I don’t know! The fuck, boss?”
“What did you talk about the last time he was here? Get specific. Did you give him information on a case? Did you give him information that could lead to money?”
“Ow! No man! I tell him when I spot kids with reefer, he passes it to your Narco guys. That’s it! What do you want from me?”
“I want to know what he was working.”
“How should I know? What you do, lose him?”
George shoved him again, harder. The back of his head hit the wall.
“Jesus! It’s not my fault if nobody likes talking to you! You blame them?”
George’s free hand bunched into a fist. Toby saw it, cringed, a hundred pounds of him dangling at the end of George's hand.
George let him go. “I don’t want to hear that you held out on me.” He walked off.
Toby from behind him: “Find him, huh? We need more cops like him around here.”
George wheeled around, jabbed a finger out. “Hey! You’re just the job. You’re no friend of his.”
He turned, continued on.
From behind: “Yeah?” A parting shot that hit hard. “And you’re no Detective Clemp.”
CHAPTER 6
They called it Zen, back in Japan.
He felt like he never really understood the concept fully. Then again, he felt like he never really understood anything Japanese, not all the way. Seemed like every single aspect of their lives had depths that remained completely hidden to him.
Still, the goal was to find tranquility, and that had sounded pretty good to him, especially once the nightmares and the jitters had started rolling in, exhausting him. Pay attention to your breathing, your heartbeat, the way your muscles settled as you sat, turn as many thoughts as possible inwards, don’t let the outside world have an impact.
It wasn’t easy in the newsroom. The phone calls, the calls for copy boys and girls, the constant hammering at the typewriters.
He sat back in his chair, pulled his hat down over his eyes. Start with the breathing. Pace it. Pay attention to it. Feel the air as a physical thing entering his lungs.
“Bobby!”
Bob jerked forward, his chair planted, his jaw snapped. He pushed his hat brim up and looked across – Cliffy was leaning out the door of his office, making come here motions.
So much for Zen.
Bob got up, made his way across the newsroom. He tried to figure if Cliff was happy-excited or angry-excited, maybe the latter because Bob hadn’t turned in a single word of copy yet.
“Got something for you.” Cliffy held out a note.
Bob took it, read it. “Wally Clemp? Who’s that?”
“He’s a detective that’s been missing the better part of a month. Might be something there, might not be, but we’ve got the jump on this if there is something there.”
“How’d you get this?”
“Contact in the P.D. He says Clemp’s partner had been assigned to treat him like a missing person. Sounds like Clemp’s a whiz detective, high clearance rate, so they want him back.”
Bob pocketed the note. “Sounds easy enough. Profile piece, chat him up, talk to his partner, wife, whatever?”
“Yep. Except it might not be quite so easy.”
“Why not?”
“They’re keeping it on the down-low. It might turn out nobody wants to talk to you. Or maybe that they’ve been ordered not to talk to anyone.”
Bob’s gut tightened. “Why?”
Cliffy went around his desk, sat back in his chair. “Couldn’t say. But I mean if this was purely a case of a missing detective wouldn’t they have already been on the horn to us? Used the press to get his picture out? Set up a tip line?”
It made sense. It made Bob tense – here he was, off to butt heads again. He’d been a fool. He’d thought coming back to the paper would just be all fluff stuff, hanging out with the Mayor, shaking hands with movie stars, making bank off of his famous face. Stupid. Of course newspaper work was going to involve rubbing people the wrong way.
“Thing is, I was thinking about taking another run at the Mayor about Skid Row. Maybe he’s cooled off enough about the dust-up between Bly and his wife-”
Cliffy flapped a hand. “Nah. Dead issue. Bly’s got the Row on the brain. Try this out, see if there’s anything.” He looked up. Saw Bob’s face. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Gut’s just flaring up a bit.”
“You are healed, right? You didn’t come back too soon?”
“I’m fine. I’ll check up on Clemp, let you know if there’s anything there.”
***
Ida parked outside of the Row, not trusting her car to the Row’s residents. She walked in, feeling the daylight tick away.
She stopped at the street where she had pulled her ambulance stunt. She’d picked this spot because there were still houses standing in this part of the Row – bigger houses that had been divided and sub-divided into smaller and smaller residences. The majority of the rest of the Row was empty lots, hour-rate motels, a couple of liquor dives... the rusting remains of an attempt at civilization.
She’d picked this spot in front of the houses so somebody inside would call for help; the ambulance boys wouldn’t have had the chance to cry foul saying she picked a remote spot where nobody could have seen her. Now she was hoping the same lookie-loos inside the houses would have seen the skinny fella that had
chased her out of the Row.
She went up the stairs of the nearest house. No door bell, she knocked on the door with her knuckles. Shuffling inside, slippered feet probably, but nobody answered the door. She rapped again, quiet inside this time.
She moved to the next door down, tried again. No answer.
The fifth house down, an ancient stooped man pulled open the door, dressed in a suit had to be from the twenties. He smiled up at her.
“Good afternoon sir. I’m looking for a man.”
“Well!” The man slicked a hand back over his bald head. “Sounds like it’s my lucky day.”
Ida laughed. “Sorry bud, I need information from him, not a date.”
“Your loss.”
“I’ll draw love-doodles of you in my notebook later. Right now, I’m looking for a skinny guy, about my height, he was here earlier.”
The gent snapped his fingers. “That’s where I know you from! The ambulance.”
“Got it in one. Did you see the guy?”
The geezer wiggled his eyebrows. “If you’re ever feeling sick again I’m more than willing to help you play doctor.”
“He was going on about being a vet.”
“Oh, yes. I think I know the one you mean. He goes on a toot every now and then and ends up stomping up and down the street yelling about how he deserves respect. I’m a veteran too, you know. I was over in Aisne, helping out the Frenchies. What a shitshow- Pardon my French.”
“That’s fine. Listen-”
“Didn’t have a proper Navy back then. Shipped us over on freighters, fishing boats, tin cans-”
“Sir? The vet? Does he live close to here or-”
The gentleman snapped back from the past. “Hm? Oh, I think he’s homeless. I can’t say for sure, but since I see him so much my guess would be that he lives in the tent city. Head three blocks that way, then take a right. Ask for maybe a Donny or a Davey, has an Indian friend he sometimes pals with.”
“Thanks. You’re a peach.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t want to stay for a visit? I’ve got rum and some skills I picked up overseas from grateful French girls.” He waggled his eyebrows again.
Ida turned and went down the steps. “Wouldn’t want to get worn out while I still have work today.”
The old man called out after her: “This used to be a nice neighborhood! We’re not all like him!”
***
In the tent city, like the old man said. Drunk, like the old man said.
“You Donny? David? Something like that?”
The guy that had chased her to her car was on his back, under a piece of canvas stretched over two old chairs to make a tent of sorts. He sat up, shaded his eyes with his arm against the setting sun. A half-empty bottle of rot-gut sloshed in his other hand. She could smell it, and him, from where she was standing.
“You came back.”
“I did. These shots, where’d you hear them?”
“Denny.”
“What?”
“My name is Denny.”
“Great. The shots, where did they occur?” Ida pulled out her notepad, licked the tip of her pencil.
“Denny Thorson.”
Ida didn’t write the name down. She looked at him. “Is the location close? Gimme the address.”
“Gimme five bucks.”
“I thought you wanted someone to help out the neighborhood.”
“Now I want someone to help me. I’m a vet-”
“I know. I’ll give you a buck. Where and when?”
“I told you, during the big police raid.”
“Right at the exact same time?”
“That’s right.” Denny tried standing, flopped back down. Try number two was more successful and he got up to his feet. “Come on.”
“That’s alright champ. Just give me an address.”
“You don’t want me to come?”
“I want you to relax. I’ll handle it.”
“It’s not safe around here.”
Ida held up a buck. “Going...”
“Jesus lady, I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need help. I need a location. Going...”
“You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
Ida moved to put the dollar back in her bag.
Denny grabbed it. “Around Fourth and Wall. There are some old row houses, empty now. I was around there when I heard the shots.”
“You can’t give me something more specific?”
“I was dodging getting my head knocked in by the cops.” Denny slumped back down under his canvas.
Ida turned and started on her way.
Denny called out after her: “You get yourself murdered, it ain’t my fault.”
CHAPTER 7
Nothing from Wally’s files at work. Nothing from Wally’s C.I.s. Think like Wally – did he get everything from Magdalena?
George drove back to Wally’s house. He was halfway up the walk to the front door before he realized what he should be looking for.
He knocked, Mags answered, wearing an apron. Smells of Mexican spices wafted out from the kitchen at the back.
“Hello flatfoot. Did you find something already?”
George looked down at his shoes. He felt ridiculous – he towered over this woman but felt completely sheepish in front of her. “Naw. I forgot something when I was here before. Did Wally have files he kept here?”
“Sure. Come on in.”
She led the way down the hall, George squinting as his eyes adjusted from the outdoor light. She pointed him into Wally’s study. “You know the way. Are you hungry?”
“I didn’t mean to-”
She flapped a hand at him. “I’m still cooking for two. I’m used to it. Of course, with you here...” She poked him in his gut. “It might not be enough.”
“Well, if you don’t mind-”
“Of course I don’t mind. Go be a detective. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
George entered Wally’s study. It was small, supposed to be the house’s second bedroom. All business – maps of L.A. and the surrounding counties on the walls, filing cabinets, a fastidiously tidy desk with a mug of pencils and a magnifying glass.
He’d been in here plenty of times, knew the filing cabinets were unlocked. Full of cold cases, files with past crimes that Wally thought might relate to more recent stuff, info on some very bad men and women Wally wanted to keep up to date on. Three tall cabinets stuffed full of sin and misery. There was nothing to indicate which of these files, if any, Wally had been picking at.
When in doubt – he started with the first cabinet. The files were arranged alphabetically by suspects’ names. The A’s – nothing spoke to him. Three B files – nada.
He was about to dive into the C’s when Mags called him out for dinner. He went to put the files back into the drawer – he didn’t want to leave the crime scene photos out for Mags to stumble upon them – when he glanced in the closet.
There was a large brown paper bag on the floor of the closet. The corner of a manila file folder was sticking out of the top.
He grabbed the bag. Thunked it down on the desk. Looked inside, pulled out five unmarked file folders thick with paperwork. Inside: duplicates of Robbery Division unsolved cases. It looked like Wally had copied over everything Robbery had on the individual heists – crime scene photos, likely suspects, interviews, tracking loot that showed up in the timelines after the robberies went down.
Maybe all the info a smart man/bad cop might need to pull off a heist of his own.
***
The gutters were pure garbage – glass from broken bottles, disintegrating paper bags, apple cores, a man’s work-boot that looked like it had been slashed open. It was endless. It stunk.
The sidewalks weren’t much better. One long street after another of people living out of makeshift tents. More garbage, the human kind, washed down into the Row.
These people, they sat there. They stood there. Nothing else. They had nothing to
do, nowhere to go. This was the end of the line. A lot of them followed her with their eyes. A couple of the men cat-called. Some of the women and girls, girls, teen-aged girls living here, they looked worried for her. How bad did a teenage girl’s life have to be at home for her to run to this place?
They all had stories, but none of them would be enough to get her some real estate on the front page.
Ida found East Fourth Street and Wall Street. There were warehouses on the north side of East Fourth – boarded up and sagging down. There were row houses on the south side – front doors gone, dark inside.
This looked pretty hopeless – if there had been somebody shot, the body would be gone by now. If there were bullet-holes, would she be able to tell them apart from the wood-rot that was eating its way through the houses? Needle-in-a-haystack stuff.
She went up the walk of the closest house. The front door was gone. The insides were dark – she couldn’t make out any details. There had to be people sacking out in these places – there were too many homeless for any four walls and a roof to go unclaimed. This didn’t look like the kind of place a lady had any business entering.
She went up and in.
Mustiness. Water-rotted wood on the floors, the remains of wallpaper peeling off the walls. Stairs ahead on the left side of the hallway, a living room area off to the right. An old mattress in the corner of the living room – stained dark on one end.
She looked down the hall through the kitchen – a back door. Remember the exits. Do this fast.
Aside from the mattress the living room had nothing. The kitchen, nothing. Dining room ditto.
Going upstairs meant it would be way more difficult to make a break for it if someone came at her. She went up anyway.
An old bookcase at the top of the stairs holding nothing but dust now. A bathroom to the left, cracked floor tiles, the mirror smashed, sharp pieces of glass in the yellowed sink.
One bedroom, a wooden bed frame, an empty closet. The second bedroom – not even a bed.
