“By the way, what’s your first name?”
“Zeke. My friends call me Zee.”
“I’m Millie.”
“Millie Harrington?”
My eyebrows asked the question.
“I was married once, right out of college. It was mostly rebellion, I guess. My father hated him. His mother hated me. And it turned out we weren’t all that crazy about each other. So after six months we decided to go our separate ways. It was very amicable. We decided not to trade money. We used to call each other occasionally, but that eventually died of attrition. I haven’t seen him in a couple of years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. How about you?”
“Haven’t even gotten close.”
“Glad to meet you, Zee.”
“Glad to meet you, Millie.”
We returned to her office.
“I’m sorry that was such a flop,” she said.
“It wasn’t a flop,” I said. “Almost all the cashier’s checks were sent from banks in the San Pietro area. San Pietro, San Luis Obispo, Yucca Springs, one from Mendosa.” I ran my finger down the list, quickly counting up banks in that general area. There were one hundred ninety-six deposits, including the money from the sale of Wilensky’s shop and the original $4,000 deposit. Quickly figuring as I ran down the list, at least two-thirds of them had come from up there. I decided to make an accurate tally that night.
“Would it help if I got you a list of all those banks and who the managers are?”
“That would be a big help.”
“I could even call some of them and suggest they cooperate with you.”
I thought about that briefly but decided to finesse that idea for the moment. “I think maybe surprise might be more valuable to me at this point.”
She picked up the phone and got Jane again and told her to get up the list from the state bank registry.
“Anything else?” She asked.
“Something that’s been gnawing at me since last night. How often does someone come in off the street with four thou in cash?”
“Not very often.”
“Can you imagine a woman coming all the way from Texas, which is where she told everybody she was from, carrying four large in her suitcase?”
“Four large what?”
“A large is a thousand dollars.”
“Oh. Well, yes, it is unusual.”
“So maybe she wasn’t in Texas. I mean, that’s a large chunk of cash even if she just carried it around the block.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Especially in 1924 when women were a little less, uh . . .”
“Independent?”
“Yeah, independent.”
“So what does that lead you to believe?”
“That maybe she never was in Texas. That maybe before she showed up here and bought a house, she may have lived someplace else nearby.”
“That’s very interesting. And how would you go about finding out?”
“I have no idea.”
She laughed again.
“Think about it,” I said. “That was almost twenty years ago and there’s been a Depression during that time. Banks went out of business, apartment houses closed down, a lot of people have died. And by the way, there were no photos in the house. Not a single picture except a clipping from the newspaper several weeks ago. So to be practical, I think I have to consider this: that Verna Hicks Wilensky was born that day in 1924. Whoever she was before that is just so much history and very possibly a waste of my time.”
“You mean you may just forget the whole thing?”
“Not exactly, but if I draw a deuce then I’ll have to let the state take it all.”
“How about Rosebud?”
“Well, one thing’s for sure. It’s one part of her estate the boys will definitely not be interested in.”
“Will you keep him?”
“It’s against my lease.”
“Somehow I don’t think that worries you too much.”
“Thanks,” I said and smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As it was meant.”
“There’s one other thing,” I said, taking out one of my business cards. “If the state boys should show up, give me a call, will you? I’m racing the clock on this and I’d like to know when the dogs are at my heels.”
“I think what you’re doing is quite noble,” she said.
I let that pass by.
“One other thing. If it’s just one of them that shows up, be sure to check his ID. Try to remember the name and buzzer number, it’ll be in the upper-right-hand corner. They’re supposed to travel in pairs, it’s a rule. A house, a car, and a hundred grand adds up to a lot. In my business, people get killed for a lot less. One of them just might let greed outrun his brain.”
I wrote my home number across the top of my card. I don’t know why. Well, yes, I do. I was dreaming.
She looked at the card and snapped it with a fingernail. Then she abruptly changed the subject.
“Just out of curiosity, what does a cop do for fun? Besides adopt stray dogs.”
“Go to the movies. Grab a good meal somewhere. Take a dip in the ocean occasionally. How about you, besides tennis?”
“I like to dance,” she said.
“No kidding. Jitterbug?” It was a joke. I couldn’t imagine her swinging around and kicking up a storm on a dance floor.
“Of course. Do you dance?”
I leaned across the desk toward her and said, “Promise you’ll never tell anyone what I’m about to say?”
She crossed her heart with a finger.
“I once won a loving cup at the Saturday-night jitterbug contest at the Palladium. To Benny Goodman’s ‘Don’t Be That Way.’ Me and Julie Cluett. We also got twenty bucks.”
“Were you in high school?”
I shook my head. “Four years ago. I was scared to death one of the boys on the force would find out. Now when I go, I tell the guys I’m doing security.”
“How often do you go?”
“Whenever there’s a big band. I don’t dance much, I just stand up around the bandstand with everybody else and listen. He’s going to be there next week, you know.”
“Who?”
“Tommy Dorsey.”
“At the Palladium?”
“Yep, with Buddy Rich, Sinatra, the Pied Pipers, the whole gang.”
“I’ve never been to the Palladium,” she said.
It sounded like a pick-up line but I knew better.
“It gets very hot and crowded.”
“Are you going?”
I smiled. “I’m doing security that night.”
She laughed again. Then she paused and asked, “Do you ever need an assistant?”
And there it was. One thing she wasn’t, was shy. A lady whose cigarettes cost more than my car was pitching me. I wondered how long it would take for the novelty of that to wear thin.
“Look,” I said, “let’s put it on the table. I wouldn’t know a dish of caviar from a bowl of Wheaties.”
“So? I’ve never met anybody who was dancing for the piper. What’s that got to do with anything?”
I couldn’t think of an answer for that so I just stared into those gray eyes.
“Well, if you do decide you need an assistant, my number’s Vandike 2578. I’ll write it down for you, it’s not in the book.”
“Vandike 2578. I remember things like that.”
“How about that? A cop who loves dogs and dancing and remembers phone numbers.”
I took out the makings.
“Want to try one of mine before I leave?” I asked her.
“I . . . yes, why not?”
I rolled two, fanned them dry, and gave her one. She lit hers with her gold Dunhill, I lit mine with my Zippo.
Obviously a match made in heaven.
CHAPTER 6
I met Ski at a restaurant on La Cienega called the French Kettle, which was a high-sounding
name for a lunchtime hangout for reporters, politicians, and cops. The prices went up for the dinner trade. The place was owned by an ex-prizefighter named Andre DeCourt, who was once a very promising middleweight. He was one of those good-looking Frenchmen with dark shiny hair, a straight nose, and green eyes. The story goes that Andre worked his way up the rankings to a match with a muscle-bound hammer named Ray Rowles, who was next in line for a title shot. Andre was the favorite and the odds were up to about fifteen to one. Andre decided it was time to quit before he started looking like Slapsie Maxie Rosenbloom, who in turn looked like a bus had run into him, so he took all his savings, laid it off on Rowles, beat him to a pulp for seven rounds, and then lay down and took a nap. He used the winnings to open the restaurant, then took a rematch with Rowles, played with him for two rounds, and knocked him all the way to Madagascar in the third. Then he retired for good.
It was one of those high-ceilinged, wood-and-brass eateries that looked more like a cattle baron from Denver owned it than an Americanized Frenchman. There were booths around the perimeter and cubicles filled in the middle of the room. They all had high, etched-glass partitions, which looked fancy and expensive but were there mainly for privacy. When newsmen and politicians talk, they want privacy. Cops don’t really care, they don’t have anything to say. The place opened at 7:00 a.m. and closed at 11:00 p.m. In the morning they served eggs Benedict to die for, and the sandwich menu at lunch was two pages long. I couldn’t afford to eat there at dinner. If I wanted to spend that much money for a meal I’d go to Chasen’s. I had never been there either.
Andre was always there, seated in a small booth for two in the front of the place near the cash register. He always wore a tuxedo. At seven in the morning he was in a tuxedo. He changed the shirt three times a day and he wore a very subtle cologne that made you forget he once earned his living with sweat and a right uppercut. He also carried a tab for the breakfast and lunch trade, which was a nervy thing to do—newsmen, politicians, and cops not being known for their credit ratings. The newsies and dicks because they didn’t make much money, and the politicians because they were on the take from the start and who’s going to sue the mayor or a city councilman for stiffing a check or two?
He got up when I came in and gave me a fifty-dollar smile.
“Zee,” he said, “Bonjour. Ski is here already. Over by the window in the corner.” He led me over there, handed me a leather-covered menu the size of the Rand McNally World Atlas, and retreated to his post.
Ski was devouring a large piece of Boston cream pie, which was his idea of an hors d’oeuvre.
“Why do you always eat your lunch backward?” I said.
“I don’t like to start with a bowl of weeds with a tomato sitting in the middle of it.”
The waiter came by and I ordered a corned beef on rye and a Coke.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “I met a new friend.”
“Oh yeah? Male or female?”
“Female.”
“She a looker?”
“Your jaw would hit the floor if you laid eyes on her.”
He gave me a nod of approval.
“Rich?”
“Her old man owns the bank—and she has an office that would make Marie Antoinette jealous.”
He beamed lasciviously. “Do I hear wedding bells?”
“Yeah, sure, Agassi. I met her three hours ago and rolled her a cigarette. That was my big trick for the day. One of her cigarettes cost more than my car.”
“Which would be what, thirty or forty cents?”
“Very funny. So, what kind of a day have you had?”
He finished the pie and pushed the dish aside like a kid finishing a vegetable plate.
“Well,” he said, “I didn’t find a lot about who she was. But I found a lot about who she wasn’t. I talked to everybody at the tax office. Talked to them privately. She told just about everybody there she was from Texas. One of them she told she was from Waco, another one from San Antone, then there was Dallas, and Wichita Falls, which I thought was in Kansas. She arrived on the scene as Verna Hicks in early 1924. Was very discreet about her private life. Nobody knew she was dating Wilensky until she got married. Nobody’s ever been to her house, in fact few of them even know where it is. She was an excellent worker, always punctual, never missed a day. An ideal employee according to her boss. She turned down promotions several times.”
“Probably because the money wasn’t worth the responsibility, considering she had that five C’s floating in over the transom every month.”
“My thoughts exactly. Anyway, I went back to the station house after I left there and called the Bureau of Records in Waco, San Antone, Dallas, and Wichita Falls, and then checked the state bureau in Texas. Guess what?”
“They never heard of her.”
“You got it. The DMV here says she originally gave an address on Highland. I checked it. The street number doesn’t exist and never did. She changed it to the Meadows address when she renewed the license. They don’t check those things unless you get stopped for something serious.”
“In other words, Verna Hicks doesn’t exist prior to 1924.”
“Exactly.”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“But why did she suddenly surface then?”
“Because she had to be somebody, Ski. Apparently when she moved here she decided to stay awhile. The net is, she could be anybody from anywhere, even her age could be a phony.”
Our meals arrived and he dug in.
“Your turn,” he said. “Did you come up with anything—besides Miss Vanderbilt?”
“I want to put it all together on the board. The checks came from a lot of different banks. Once or twice from here in town. But most of them seem to have come from up around San Pietro.”
He looked up sharply when I mentioned San Pietro.
“Hell, that’s Culhane territory,” he said.
“Culhane? He’s running for governor.”
“Not officially. He’s about to announce. He’s running against Claude Osterfelt and Dominic Bellini.”
“I read something about it in the paper but I didn’t take it seriously. Whoever heard of him?”
“The Times had a big spread on him last week. World War I hero. Racket-buster. Cleaned up his town, ran the gangsters out. It used to be called Eureka, which was like Frontier City, USA. Open gambling, prostitution. During Prohibition they served drinks over the bar. The sheriff was an old gunfighter named Buck Tallman. You have heard of him, right?”
“That was a long time ago. That’s history. Wasn’t he shot in a whorehouse or something?”
“Something like that. I’m thinking of running up to San Pietro. It’s only about a hundred miles up there.”
“The banks aren’t gonna tell you anything, Zee. All that stuff’s confidential.”
“I did pretty well this morning.”
“Ahhh, that’s because you rolled Little Miss Rich Britches a cigarette and showed her your heater.” He thought for a moment and added, “Are you hunching on this?”
“Can’t say.”
“I’m your partner. You think there’s more to this than just an accident, don’t you?”
“I don’t think Mrs. Wilensky was knocking down five hundred bucks a month for years and then slipped in the bathtub and got fried. That much coincidence makes me nervous. I’m not sure, but I think the check trail leads to San Pietro.”
“Moriarity’s gonna laugh you outta the office.”
“Hell, it’s worth a shot.”
“Moriarity’s gonna have a seizure.”
“I can con him into it.”
“Culhane’s a tough character, Zee.”
I shrugged. “We’re both lawmen. Maybe he’ll work with me.”
“Uh-huh. Maybe I’ll lose fifty pounds in my sleep tonight, too.”
CHAPTER 7
We split up again; Ski was going to check out the crime reporters at the downtown newsroom, some of the old-ti
mers who might know more about San Pietro than what had been reported through the years. The newsies always had something in their back pocket. Stuff that was all rumor with maybe ten cents’ worth of truth in it. Stuff they couldn’t back up properly. Maybe they had a city editor who’d been sued once and was gun-shy of everything if they didn’t have pictures, sworn statements, three sources, and a sworn statement from God that it was on the level. Ski was good at tapping them. He’d been around seven years longer than me. He’d go in with a pint of Seagram’s Seven in his pocket, tell some jokes, give them a little piece of gossip they couldn’t use, then sneak around to the subject and take out the bottle.
“What are we looking for?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “Maybe just a word here and there.”
“It’s what, seventeen years ago?” he said. “And for all we know, she was on Mr. Somebody’s sleeve long before she showed up in Pacific Meadows.”
“I know it, I know it,” I said. “It’s worth an hour or two. Maybe something happened up there in the early twenties, some two-bit scandal not worth an inch of ink down here. Something that’ll give me more to go on than a bunch of bank names.”
Ski went his way and I went down to the main newsroom of the Times to look up Jimmy Pennington, who was one of the best reporters in town. We had started out at the same time, about two years after Verna Hicks Wilensky wandered into town with four grand in her girdle, a new name, a new house, and a new life except for somebody from the past who was underwriting her five C’s a month. I could feel the nudge in my gut. Maybe it was because I’ve known a lot of people who disappeared. Just vanished, click, like that. I was in Missing Persons for two years. But this was the first time somebody had appeared out of nowhere. No previous history. No birth certificate. No high school prom pictures. Zip. But she had to appear from someplace before she appeared in West L.A.
Pennington and I were both rookies at our respective jobs in those days and I helped Pennington out when I could, giving him a tip that put him an hour ahead of everybody else. In those days there were seven newspapers, including the gossip sheets. An hour is as good as a week in the life of a breaking story. In exchange, he mentioned my name whenever he could. One hand washing the other. Now he was the top-slot reporter. The only homicide he would be interested in was if the mayor knocked off his mistress in the presidential suite of the Bel Air Hotel. But he had a memory like an encyclopedia, so he was worth a trip across town.
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