Golden Throat (Cable Denning Mystery Series Book 1)

by James P. Alsphert

  I reached in my pocket and dropped the dime down her ample cleavage. “Thanks, Miss Combes. I do remember kindness, believe it or not. Life kind of toughens you up a little around the edges, you know.”

  She seemed indignant. “Now, that was a cheap trick. You’re a cop, aren’t you? Only cops get away with that kind of crap in here.” I didn’t respond, but just kept dancing with her. Then she started singing with the band closer to my ear as she drew me in toward her. “Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed, follow my lead, oh, how I need…someone to watch over me…”

  Her voice was wonderful, warm, very musical and it gave me goose bumps. “Hey, you’re a hell of a singer, you know? Now, why aren’t you doing that in some classy club somewhere instead of this dime-a-dance crap?”

  “Because the money’s good and not everyone throws theirs between my breasts. And in case you haven’t noticed, times are tough, Mr. Denning.” I could tell she liked me. “But thanks all the same.”

  “I mean it—may I call you Honey?” She nodded that it was okay. “Voices like yours don’t come along every day, you know.”

  “Singers are a dime a dozen—may I call you Cable?”

  “Nope.” I shook my head, smirking at her and she laughed.

  “Landing a job in this climate is like selling ice cream at the north pole. At least this pays my room rent with Zelda.”

  “Zelda?”

  “Yeah, my roommate. She’s a prude, though. Study…study…study. That’s all she seems to do…to be a botanist, I think. You ought to see our joint—plants everywhere!” Then she grew serious and checked my eyes out again. “You didn’t answer me. Are you a cop?”

  As the music ended, I took her hand and we walked off the floor. I brought her back to where I’d found her, back to her panting young man waiting for his turn. But Honey Combes wouldn’t let go of my hand. Then she put the back of her hand up to her forehead and rolled her eyes back as if she was going to faint. I caught her and she felt warm and right in my arms. “Mr. Denning…will you take me back to the dressing rooms? I’m afraid I—I, uh, feel a bit weak.”

  I motioned to the seven or eight men waiting in line for Honey Combes to get lost and escorted her to the back of the joint. There she suddenly recovered and went to a cooler for a glass of water. “You okay?” I asked, feeling some concern for the babe.

  “Yeah, fine. It’s just that—that same manhandling night after night gets to you after a while. You’re a man, I don’t expect you to understand that.”

  “Oh, but I do. Did I, uh, ‘manhandle’ you tonight?”

  “No. You were a perfect gentleman and even complemented my singing. I told you, I even like the patter of your voice, Cable.”

  “Well, thanks, kid. I’ll tell you what. First things first. I think you’re weak from hunger, so let me treat you at your favorite diner. Second, let’s talk about a singing job somewhere—I might be able to fix you up.”

  Honey Combes said no more. She excused herself, went into a dressing room and came out looking like the girl next door—except she was still a knockout. She was wearing an off-white silk blouse with nothing underneath and her nipples stuck out like mini-thimbles from a sewing kit. “Now, don’t get the idea I just traipse off with any guy who wears pants and treats me decently, okay? There’s just…just something I trust about you. I hope I’m not wrong.”

  “Well, if I told you I was a cop, or even a rapist or killer—would it help alleviate your mind?”

  She giggled. “Now I know you’re on the level.”

  “Yeah, Mario Angelo, my pal out there—oh, crap, I gotta tell him we’re leaving—says I’m a truth guy and in the 1927 Los Angeles police department, that ain’t the best recommendation.”

  “So you are a cop!” Honey blurted out. “You see, I knew it! I suppose your buddy out there is, too?”

  “Yep. Sinful young men on the lamb. So why would you wanna dump me over for a guy still wet behind the ears, a gangster who’ll use and abuse you—like a lot of the guys who come in here? Wouldn’t you prefer a tough guy cop raised in the hell hole of East L.A. where I spent my nights chasing down hoodlums with baseball bats?”

  She snickered. “Damn, I like the way you talk, Mister. I think you’re real, Cable Denning. I even like your name. Mrs. Cable Denning…how does that sound?”

  She could’ve bowled me over. “I—I—uh, I’m probably not the marrying kind, Honey. I don’t think I’m cut out for cutesy smiles after five p.m., or sitting in an easy chair listening to the phonograph until the needle gets stuck ad naseum, or reading the evening newspaper while the dearly beloved looks on across from you with her knitting needles.”

  “Damn, Mister, what a smooth talker you turned out to be.” I went over to Mario and told him I was cutting out with the doll. He winked at me and I went back over to Honey. She squeezed my arm as we exited Gregorio’s and headed for a little diner near 5th and Grand. It was one of those converted 1910 streetcars and we found a comfy little table at the far end. We sat and the fat owner came over and tossed us a menu. Honey Combes didn’t even look at it. “Now…isn’t this about the time when the man gets all excited, anticipating that the lady may go to bed with him after he feeds her?”

  I looked at her and smiled. “You know, you’re quite a dame. Yeah, you’re right, that’s the plan, normally. But I work a little differently. I don’t push it because it’s a lot more fun being wanted…finding a place in some babe’s head that eventually goes to her—her other places. And maybe sometimes, if both people are lucky, that feeling goes to her heart and triggers your own. Then…things…take on a different color now, don’t they?”

  She gazed at me as if my talking to her had smitten some place deep down inside. “I told you, Cable—the way you talk, you hypnotize a girl. How can I not fall in love when a handsome young policeman with an honest badge punches me in the heart without even trying?”

  I took a deep breath, took out a Lucky Strike and lit it up. I had to look at myself honestly. There was something about the doll that didn’t deserve my usual patter. “I’m sorry, Honey Combes, you had it right—said it yourself—smooth talker, yeah, that’s me. Promise me...after we eat and I pay the bill…just let me take you home, shake my hand and say good-night.”

  She looked surprised. “Why would I do that, Cable?”

  “Because it’s all a game, kid. It’s my Class-A set up line—put the lady off guard and hope to hell it gets you into her panties before the night wears too thin. It’s like life, Honey, it’s all a set-up. Any guy who tells you he doesn’t want to fuck you until he can’t anymore is a liar. And I’m no exception. Except now that I’ve blown my cover, it wouldn’t be that much fun anymore, would it? Because…sometimes…people really do feel real feelings for each other. When I saw you walk out of that bathroom tonight, it was like you already fit into my body and I could feel your stomach and your breasts press into my chest like they’d always been there.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. I had definitely hit a sore spot. “God, Cable, you make me naked just sitting here with you.” She sniffed in her tears. “I—I felt something the minute you came up to me, too—but I’ve become so jaded with—with men, you know, touching me and wanting me, paying for me to dance with them, and like you said, like hungry animals just wanting to screw me until they can’t anymore—and then go home in the cold of just another morning.” She looked at me and reached across the table for my hands. “I don’t want just another morning, Cable. I want someone I love and trust and know will be there tomorrow…”

  I took a big drag on my cigarette and put it out as the waiter brought our order. I pulled my hands back to salt and pepper my burger. “That’s a pretty big order, Honey Combes. My mother always used to say that…she once had a dream. When she met my father, she felt that dream had come true. But life itself, the reality of hard times and struggle, take their toll and she ended up asking herself, how much of the dream really comes true?”

  “Was sh
e happy?”

  “Maybe in the early years before I came along. My Dad died when I was six. We both missed the big galoot a lot. Love is a funny thing, babe. Most of the time you don’t see it comin’, and the same holds true for when it goes away…sometimes it goes out like a flair of temper and bad luck, or sometimes it erodes slowly like a lonely tombstone, the wind…the rain…the years…wearing away the names written on the epitaph.”

  “God, Cable, how grim,” she said. “I don’t see it that way. I say live for everything you have right now, don’t try to promise tomorrow, but work today to help the love be the best it can be. Then, as I said, there’ll never be ‘just another morning’ and maybe we’ll—uh, people will treasure every single one of those mornings…”

  “You…uh…you said “we”. Was that a slip of the tongue? Or a proposal?”

  She laughed. “Oh, you…yes…and yes! I propose you take me home. But I’m not going to shake your hand and say goodnight. Unless you want it that way, Cable. Remember what you said just before we danced tonight—the thing about the dog that naturally gravitates to his master?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Well, by now you know I’m a woman, not a dog—but I am naturally attracted to you….not that you’re my master, mind you. Well, take it or leave it, Mr. Denning, this is a rare occasion for me.”

  I continued to play with her. “Sounds pretty good—but what’s in it for me?” I taunted her.

  She got up, came over to my bench and sat next to me. She grabbed my shoulder and brought my face around to hers. Then with those full, moist lips she kissed me ever so gently. I could feel mini-jolts of electricity go through me. “How’s that for openers in the first inning?” she quipped.

  I kissed her back, a little harder. “What… uh…what are my chances of hitting a homerun before the ninth?”

  “Lay the odds, Cable Denning, lay the odds…”

  In 1927 neither Honey nor I owned an automobile. So we took the A Line streetcar from mid-town to Echo Park. These little yellow electrical wonders, noisy and smelling of burnt electricity from the motors, wound their way along streets and boulevards, back allies and short tunnels. Honey told me she lived on Preston Avenue near Ewing Street at the rear of a once-noble estate, now run down, facing the hills in the Echo Park district. “My Daddy really was a beekeeper,” Honey was saying as we bounced along on our way to her place. “He thought I had naturally honey-colored hair, like my mother, so he named me accordingly. But I don’t look anything like my mother—she’s the salt of the earth type, calloused hands, wind-blown.”

  “I assume your parents are still alive, then?”

  “Thankfully, yes. They live in a little town called Willits in Northern California among the redwoods. Maybe you’d like to visit them with me some day? It’s really beautiful up there.”

  I was still ribbing this beautiful and rare dame, sitting next to me on the yellow car. “Hey, lady, I hardly know you and already you want me to meet your parents?

  “You should feel flattered. I’ve never asked a beau to come with me when I see them, every two or three years.”

  “How old are you, young woman?” I asked, taking her arm and checking out her skin, which was pale white and flawless.

  “Twenty-two. What about you?”

  “Hmmm….let me see…September 13, 1900…that makes me—“

  “—an older man. Lord, twenty-seven! I’m dating an older man.”

  “Funny, I don’t recall anything about dating. Are you sure you’ve got the right guy?”

  She tittered. “Maybe…maybe not.” Then she squeezed my hand. “But, oh, do I have this feeling about him…hmmmm…”

  We got off near Preston and it was quite a walk up to a two-story home that had seen better days. There was a flight of stairs going up the side and we went up toward the rear of the main house. I was feeling my Lucky Strikes right about then. There was a small but handsome chalet, covered with vines. We entered quietly. “I don’t know if Zelda’s still awake or not,” she whispered as we made our way down a little hallway. She led me to her bedroom, a quaint 12’ x 12’ ft. affair with a single bed and simple décor. She closed the door, lit a candle and turned to face me. “Well, here we are, Mr. Denning. Welcome to my humble abode.”

  I looked around in the candlelight. The room smelled of night blooming jasmine from a huge plant of the stuff just outside her bedroom window. “Who would have thought that tonight I would be taking a beautiful young woman home to her bedroom. Is it time to shake hands and say ‘good night’ yet?”

  She came up to me and reached her arms around my neck. “It better not be.” She upped and kissed me strongly on the mouth. “Will this do instead?”

  I cupped her wonderful breasts in the palms of my hands, lifting them, feeling the warmth and weight of them as those marvelous nipples distended through her silk blouse. Every virile male who ever dwelled on this planet lived for this moment. This was the moment when he stood at the threshold of a whole new adventure with the mystery of the female of the species. His body sprang to life from his toes to his forehead, his spine tingled and his manhood swelled from the magic of her touch. “You’re something else, babe,” I said as I moved her quietly toward the bed.

  “Mr. Denning,” she whispered, “you must get a good night’s sleep now, mustn’t you? When are you on duty again?”

  “Who can sleep when I hold the makings of a goddess in my arms all night?” Then I checked out her eyes sparkling there in the light of a candle. “Are you sure about this? You can’t toss another token over your shoulder this time and tell the guy he’s gonna have to wait for his dance, you know. And he can’t get his money back after he’s had that dance with you…”

  She put her finger to my lips. “Shhhh…..!” Then she sat on the bed, lay back and pulled me onto her. All the rest is fairy tale, some kind of kinetic dream of passion and motion, thrill and sensation, elation and exhaustion. Her naked body was an exquisite thing and we blended together and curved around each other like the other half of a heretofore lost mold. Now we were found, rediscovered in each other.

  All through the night I kept hearing that lonely sax from above the Hollywood Dam wailing in my ear, wending its way into some new and added layer in me. Honey Combes was a complete woman, a whole person, a truth person like myself. I would never regret one moment of my life spent with her. And speaking of truth, I considered myself to be the luckiest guy in town to have a sparkler like this beautiful woman kiss and caress every part of my body. Yep, April 21, 1927 would be a red-letter day for a twenty-seven year old cop. Happy Springtime, Miss Honey Combes!

  Chapter 3

  TWO IRONIES IN THE FIRE

  We had been up all night, sort of. After love making, we slept the sleep that lovers sleep, but when you’re that young, it doesn’t take long for the body to regenerate itself and the power of desire drives it again and again into the little death of ecstasy.

  When the Los Angeles sun peaked into her bedroom window that morning, she was still wrapped around me, completely at peace. We slowly awakened to each other. “Good morning, Mr. Denning,” she said with a very contented smile on her face. “Did you enjoy your evening?”

  I squeezed her into me. “Yeah, you might call it that. I—I, uh, had this strange dream, though.”

  “Feel like sharing?”

  “There was this dame who made love to me non-stop, but every time we did it, we got closer and closer until she got glued to me, somehow. And…I awoke with that amazing feeling…the kind that dreams are made of and you never expect it to happen in this life.”

  She kissed me gently on the lips. “From the beginning I felt it, Cable. That’s what my mother always said, that when it’s the right guy, there’ll be no question about you saying ‘yes,’ and that it’s there from the beginning. And if it’s not, it’ll never quite work out…”

  “I think I’m going to like your mother,” I said, kissing her on the forehead and getting up. I had to pee an
d staggered my way down the little hallway to the bathroom. When I got back, Honey was already in her robe and out in the little kitchen, brewing up some hot coffee. Now, that was the kinda doll I could go a lotta miles with.

  The breakfast nook was a card table with three chairs, adjoined by a tiny kitchen with an icebox, a small cast-iron gas stove, a deep sink and a few cupboards.

  We sat at the table, hardly able to resist touching each other every minute. “So, what I said last night before you brought me home to seduce me, still sticks. I’d like you to try out at a great little nightspot, The Bella Notte, out on Wilshire near La Cienega. The manager, Affonso Amadore, is a good friend of my buddy, Mario Angelo. He loves good music.”

  “Oh, Cable, you say I’m that good—but am I, really? I mean, I hear so many good female singers these days.” I looked around the room. On top of the icebox stood a large wooden radio. This technical advancement had been out for only a few years and broadcasts were beginning to come in clearer and clearer.

  “Would you mind turning on the radio—if it won’t wake up your roommate?”

  “She’s gone off to classes, early.” She switched on the radio. A nice orchestra version of Irving Berlin’s What’ll I Do? was playing.

  “That’s the future, babe. Three things can make or break you as an entertainer, as I see it. First, lots of people buy records. Second, lots of people go to the movies—and third, radio will help make you a star if you can get your records played on it.” Suddenly I imagined I was in this wonderful night club and Honey Combes was on the stage in a dazzling gown, singing the Berlin song and people applauded and cheered as she finished and smiled that magical smile as she took her bow.

  “That was great kid,” I said, completely immersed in my fantasy.

  “What was great?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Your song. I—I was visualizing you up there on a stage singing that tune and people—well, hell, people loved you!”