Golden Throat (Cable Denning Mystery Series Book 1)

by James P. Alsphert

  Honey’s mouth was agape as if her tongue suddenly got paralyzed with a ray gun from a science fiction novel. Then she laughed. “Cable…damn, you probably did date one of those Asian princesses—okay, I believe that. But please, let’s not add any bullshit to embellish it, okay? So you got lonely, went out for a couple of drinks, right? And you didn’t screw her, did you?”

  “I told you the truth. Tantric sex is filling your whole body with healthy energy. You just happen to stop along the way at the genitals and give them an extra revving. That’s it, doll, take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll leave it, thanks,” she said in a droll tone of voice. “Okay…okay…let’s just let it be…I’m going to believe what I feel and you’re going to tell me you believe whatever you experienced is what happened. I can buy that.”

  “In light of what you experienced just before we left—one Mr. Joe Lorena and all—I thought you’d be a little more open minded. You do believe that, don’t you—about him being your Dad and an alien?”

  “I have to. I felt it all my life.”

  “Are you gonna tell your foster parents?”

  “I don’t think so. They’re getting older and why distress them? I understand why they did what they did. I might do the same if I were in their shoes. Funny, how all my wit fails me just about now. How come I can’t make light of any of it—I used to be so funny, Cable.”

  “There’s a time for everything, toots. Rest now. Just nestle with me in our little cave here in the mountains above the sea.”

  “In the cave where you fucked her—your Asian princess? No thanks.”

  She turned over and went to sleep. She was a woman and she couldn’t just let it be. Women get pissed either way you go. When you tell a lie they get pissed…when you tell them the truth they get pissed…so like I said, it’s best to shut up and get on with living today. Hell, tomorrow you could be dead!

  Dinner with Hearst was sumptuous and boring. Fortunately for us, he had some money troubles overseas and had to depart early. The old boy did his business on the phone during the night and slept until noon or so the next day. He told us the U.S. economy was booming but that the stock market was accelerating too fast and real estate values had been falling since 1925. He also mentioned that the average citizen wanting to invest in the booming stock market were borrowing the money to invest and thus caused a risky “flooring,” as he put it, if the market hit a snag. He congratulated Pickford, Chaplin, Lloyd and Fairbanks for investing in the entertainment world, which he thought would prosper in both good and bad times. He was unsure about the next two years in the American economy, he said, and wished we’d all take a nice swim in the indoor pool before retiring. So, Chaplin, Cherrill, Lloyd and Honey decided to do just that, but Pickford and Fairbanks said they’d play billiards for a while and then turn in for the night. I told Honey that as soon as things settled down for the night I would need to accomplish the task at hand by grappling with the Augsburg Tilt Knight.

  I liked Marion Davies. She stayed on and talked a while after Fairbanks and Pickford went off to play at the billiard table. She liked Honey. I was trying to catch an off-glance between Chaplin and Davies, but observed none. Maybe it was a myth. But what was true was that four years before, a guy named Thomas Ince mysteriously died aboard one of Hearst’s yachts out of San Pedro. Chaplin, Hearst, Davies and a few other guests, including the film producer, director, actor-writer Ince, were celebrating Ince’s 44th birthday. It was said that due to existing health problems, he reacted to ingesting certain food and drink on the yacht and became ill. From the yacht he was taken by train to Del Mar and then with his wife and eldest son to his Los Angeles home where he died, presumably from heart failure. The other story which had much more sensational appeal and seemed to have more longevity, spoke of a hushed murder at sea , when apparently romantic trouble brewed up a storm, and thinking Ince (donning Chaplin’s famous derby) to be Chaplin cuddling in a corner with Davies, Hearst shot Ince in the head. If this was indeed the truth it was swept under the Persian rug and the official certificate said cause of death was heart failure. Many believed that the real truth would never be known—except by the killer. Maybe Hearst had good reason to suspect Chaplin of playing midnight bed games with Davies, maybe not. But this night Chaplin’s focus was definitely on Virginia Cherrill.

  I told Honey I was going to play cat burglar for a while and excused myself from the table after sucking down the one alcoholic drink we were allowed, which happened to be Benedictine, an herbal liqueur. I said my goodnights, telling the folks I was still exhausted from the trip and disappeared. When the three swimmers went to change I made my way down the dimly lit hallway toward my waiting knight. I stood before the armor on the pedestal and realized how really small our ancestors had been. This guy might’ve been five-foot four, if that. I took the left arm gauntlet in hand and played with it. Finally I twisted it counter-clockwise and it snapped off. I reached inside and felt for the capsule. Voilá. It was wrapped in a very soft doeskin and I immediately put it into my pocket and clicked the gauntlet cuff back onto the arm of the knight’s armor.

  A marvelous new energy overtook me as I tucked the Fen de Fuqin in my pocket. It was as if I had re-connected with it and Lei-tao at the same time. I made my way up to Honey’s room, only to find her crying on the bed when I entered. “I knew if I didn’t sleep with him he’d choose Virginia. Crap, Cable, why does everything always have to hinge on sex?”

  “Did he tell you that—I mean, that he’d chosen Cherrill?”

  “Duh…he didn’t have to. He was playing footsies with her under the water. Even Harold kind of looked the other way. He knew—after all, Lloyd’s not just an actor, but like Charlie, a producer and director.”

  “Well, maybe not everything depends on sex, toots. I’m sorry about City Lights but your career has just begun, kid.” I came over and comforted her. “Look at the bright side. You’re only starting out in a marvelous career. You’ll see, other opportunities will present themselves….you’re gonna hit the top, babe!”

  She reached for me and held me to her. “I love you, Cable. So damn much. Let’s just be us from now on, okay?” Then she held me back and looked into my face. “We’ve got something wonderful going on here, Mister. How about being exclusive so we never have to worry about anyone else coming in between us? I don’t know what you did with that Chinese gal—and I don’t want to know. I just want a straight shooter, Cable. Isn’t that you, Mr. Truth?”

  I kissed her. “Yeah, you bet. There’s only time in that part of our lives for us—and I’ll gladly toe that line for you because you’re so good in bed.”

  She hit me hard on the shoulder. “Damn! Crap! It’s that sex thing again, isn’t it?” she chided me with a certain kind of Honey Combes smirk.

  “Yep. Think of it, our lives wrapped up inside each other whenever the notion overcomes us—can you beat that?”

  “Nope.” I knew in that moment I’d have to try and make it with Honey as my one and only squeeze. Yet a terrible pain went ripping through me as I contemplated having to tell Adora that we couldn’t continue seeing each other. And what would I tell my mother? Her magic, psychic eye scoped Adora out from the beginning and approved without question. And even though I knew a guy could be happy with more than one doll in this world, somehow my heart wasn’t in it. After all was said and done, Honey was first and we fit so well, despite the busyness of her career and my discontent with mine. Life is filled with missed timings and bitter ironies.

  “Well, I found it.”

  “Found what?”

  “The God of Our Fathers thing, the golden capsule. The thing I really came for.”

  “You sneak. I thought you came to be with me. So you found this capsule thing and now suddenly the world is going to be okay?”

  “It’s not like that. Supposedly, it holds timeless, ancient knowledge. And it’s priceless. I need to return it to the Red Dragon Lady.”

  “Not her again. Cable, if this is
some weird play you’re acting out so you can get into some Chinese woman’s pants, just tell me. I can take that a lot easier than you chasing down some golden memento that probably belongs in a museum.”

  “Okay. I’ll stop talking about it. I just want you to know that some pretty big players are after it as well as my little Chinese consort.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “Could be. But for now, you not believing me is more dangerous than they are.”

  “Okay. I’ll go along for a ways. But I can’t swallow the whole thing, okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I’ll keep you posted.”

  New Year’s Eve 1928 was a bust at Hearst Castle. All the unfinished beauty and the pretend glory measured by what money could buy, couldn’t take a stagnant pall from off the dinner table. Old Billy Boy did come up with some damn good Champagne that was actually from Champagne, but we only got one glass at dinner and one at midnight. Hardly a time to get tight and squeeze your señorita. Good sport that she was, Marion Davies was up for playing a game or two. So Mary, Doug, Harold and Marion went to go play cards somewhere. Honey and I had talked about seeing the harbor below at San Simeon and asked William Sr. if he’d be kind enough to see to our transportation in the morning. I must say he was a kindly and gracious host, no matter how peculiar and eccentric in his ways of living life and doing business. We thanked him and retired.

  The next morning we walked on the beach near San Simeon just as the mysterious and constant fog began to inhale itself back into the sea. Soon birds were heard in the little Mexican-like haciendas in front of the pier and the little Sebastian’s Store was just opening. I noticed it was the only private business on the block. 1852 was written above the owner’s name. Hearst had built several gigantic warehouses that looked like Spanish missions and a very long pier with railroad tracks going down the middle of it. Steamers from all over the world, so Harold Lloyd told us, would make port in San Simeon laden with treasures from all over the world. Crated and stacked to the ceilings, this compulsive collector of art kept his kingdom a tight ship and ruled over all from the top of the hill above us.

  There was a little jutting peninsula we walked out on. Rudimentary trails meandered through brush and woods. Old Hearst had planted hundreds of Eucalyptus trees and word was that the wood and medicinal use of the seedpods were of commercial value. Remnants of an old nineteenth century whaling station stood on the banks of the sea and seals barked in the distance while sea otters played in the calm of San Simeon Bay.

  Honey was holding my hand tightly. “I can’t believe it, it’s 1929. I wonder what kind of year it will be for us."

  “You’re gonna fly to the top, babe,” I said , squeezing her hand. “And then you’ll be able to support me in a fashion to which I will have become fondly accustomed, as the English might say,” I joked.

  “Now’s the time, Cable,” she said, as we looked at the receding fog bank pulling back out to sea in the morning breezes. “Now’s the time for us to run away and never come back to the old life. We could live like this, on the edge of the sea in a wonderfully fragrant forest near the top of a hill. We’d have a good chance, darling, to forge a good life out of the simple things—”

  “—you’re dreaming, Honey. You couldn’t give up your singing career any more than I could give up the love-hate relationship I have for L.A. and chasing down crooks. Maybe when you make it big, we could have a second home, you know, a cottage somewhere in a place like this. Then we’d have the best of both worlds—doesn’t that make a lotta sense? We’re both young, babe, and there’s still a lot of mileage in both of us.”

  She took my hand and dragged me along with her. “I suppose so. Maybe you’re right. Make hay while the sun shines for both of us, huh? So Honey Combes became Lana Loren who became—became who? That’s the part I worry about.”

  “Well, how about becoming Mrs. Cable Denning—that way you’d have three names to worry about?”

  She stopped short. “You mean that? You’re finally relenting? I never thought I’d live to hear those words come out of your mouth, Mr. Denning.”

  “Well, I figure it this way, kid. Love like this doesn’t sit around growing on trees, you know. I realize what I’ve got in you, Honey Combes, and come hell or high water, I think we should try and make a go of it. Whatta ya say?”

  “Yes! yes! yes!” She ran to me and hugged me for all I was worth—which to me, wasn’t a hell of a lot those days. “When, Cable, when?”

  “What part of the calendar makes you happy?”

  “I do know! I’ve always wanted to be a December bride!”

  “Okay, doll—December 1929 it’ll be, then!”

  She held me, placing her cheek on my chest. “Cable, I’ve never thanked you. None of this would ever have happened had you not forced your way to the head of my dance queue that night when I was selling myself for ten cents a dance. You encouraged me from the beginning—you said I could—and I did—because of you. Thank you, Cable, for giving me a new life…”

  My gaze was out to sea, over her head, looking, squinting, seeing into the far beyond. “You’re welcome, baby…after all, you’re my golden throat, ain’t ya?”

  Honey was elated all the way back to L.A. I could tell my committed confession of love somehow completed her inside. Maybe that’s what happens when you finally aren’t in a lonely place anymore, and that two can combine to create a life together. Anyway, it sounded good put that way…and who knows, it might even sound good tomorrow.

  End Part I

  PART II

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PART II

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  PART II

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 11: GOD OF OUR FATHERS

  Pasta and Guns

  When You’re Dead Your Nails Grow Faster

  Cops Come On Sale Saturday Nights

  Chapter 12: RADIO DAYS

  Cutting Up the Rug

  Golden Throat

  Chapter 13: I’D KILL ANYONE FOR YOU

  Give Me a Little Kiss, Will Ya, Huh?

  Chapter 14: MURDER IS A LONELY PLACE

  Chapter 15: CABLE DENNING, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  Chapter 16: VIPER IN A BASKET

  Chapter 17: THE TRANSFIGURATION OF LEI-TAO

  The Goddess and the Gumshoe

  Chapter 18: THE DEVIL WEARS A DRESS

  Friday’s Child

  The Horrible Dr. Schumacher

  Chapter 19: THE EXCHANGE

  Last Candles on the Cake

  Chapter 20: LUNCH ON THE MOON

  When I Grow Too Old to Die

  Te Amo, Querido

  The End

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Part II

  Chapter 11

  GOD OF OUR FATHERS

  Pasta and Guns

  I was rather anxious to make contact with Toggth so I could hand over the capsule to him and get Ravna’s monkey off my back by giving him the phony. So each day I looked for a tell-tale sign that things would finally come to a swift and happy ending. Well, sort of…

  Sergeant O’Flaherty called me and Mario in one morning after Honey and I got back, for a rather peculiar assignment. It seems there was this very bad guy named Johnny Porrello who had been in hiding for a couple of years. The cops found out his whereabouts and wanted us to bring him in. I guess he was such a horrible piece of shit that even the crooked cops couldn’t stand seeing him go ‘gently into that dark night’. He had been living
incognito as a “non-alcoholic” vintner in the valley around Escondido, out of San Diego. The wily sergeant warned us he was dangerous and since at least one of us was sort of in training for a detective’s rank eventually, this assignment was a good choice— even if a bit dangerous.

  Escondido was mostly a flat land of orange groves and lemon trees. Some grapefruit grew here and there, but we were hard pressed to find Porrello’s vineyard. Finally, we were led to a small hilly area east of the main town. On the side of the highway in front of the vineyard stood a small café called Piero’s. Mario and I went in. The menu pushed wine, cheese and pasta as the mainstays. A cute little blonde number in her late twenties stood behind the counter. She was chewing gum like the stereotypical mobster’s moll. “Welcome, gentlemen, and have a seat. Some of Piero’s 1927 grape juice—non-alcoholic, of course—as an appetizer?”

  Every once in a while I forgot it was still Prohibition. “Yeah, swell,” I said. Mario nodded and we ordered some of Piero’s vino and some pretty good pasta. “Is…is Piero around?” Mario asked the waitress.

  “Who wants to know? And who do you think made the pasta, Little Bo Peep?” the young lady said in a strident tone of voice.

  Mario laughed. “Maybe…you never know nowadays. You didn’t answer my question—is that Piero out there slaving over a hot stove?” Mario kidded.

  “Well, we can call him out and see if he answers to that name now, can’t we, gentlemen? I can’t say for sure, but underneath the wonderful smell of the food, don’t you smell a rat—maybe a dead one?”