Golden Throat (Cable Denning Mystery Series Book 1)

by James P. Alsphert

  And suddenly I, too, felt far from home. I didn’t get off at my stop but kept riding the yellow car until it approached Olvera Street. I got off and ran the few blocks, desperate to get away, desperate to see her once more. There’s a compulsion in humans that rips them out of thought into that place of action, responding to something they cannot define, yet are compelled to obey. This was such a moment in my life. It was about 2:30 a.m. when I banged on the front door of Todo el Mundo. Finally a light went on under the inside door. A figure in a robe came to the front door and opened it. I rushed into her arms. “Adora! Adora! I couldn’t stay away! All the way here I was thinking about your beautiful hair and how it flowed like black silk—and that touching it, makes my whole body come alive! You make me come alive!”

  “Oh, mi amor!” she cried as she clung to me. “Me, too! I miss you! I miss you…yo te adoro, mi querido!” We stood there glued together in the cool of that Los Angeles early morning, not speaking for what seemed the longest time. She ran her long, tapered fingers through my hair, stroking me, and when her warm lips sought out my own, I kissed her like it was the last kiss love would ever give us in this world and I would never have enough.

  Finally, when I had regained my senses sufficiently, I closed the door behind us and we sat at her desk, she the travel agent, I the adoring customer, eager to be taken away by her on a new journey to paradise. “I—I’m sorry to wake you up. But I was out late at a club—”

  “—mi vida begins when I see your face, mi precioso.” Her eyes sparkled as she looked across the desk at me. “You are mi sueño magnifico, mi obsesion! Have you come to take me away with you—por siempre?”

  “If I could, I would—this minute, now, here, Adora.” I got up and went around to her side of the desk. She stood to embrace me. I put my hand under her robe and clutched her womanhood with my whole palm.

  “Oh, señor, I bleed—I cannot make love—I mean, without amor y sangre all over mi oficina.”

  I withdrew my hand. “Oh, sorry. I’m just so pent up for you. I don’t know how it happened. I was on my way home—and suddenly I had to let the streetcar keep going until I knew I could leap off and run all the way to you.”

  She drew me to her and clung to me until her body trembled. “Yo te quiero, amor.” There in those hours before dawn, as this beautiful woman and I stood together, I knew I could not speak of past or future with her. We could enjoy only these stolen moments, now…while we are helplessly suspended in time.

  'It All Depends on You'

  What’ll I do? For the next two days I wondered that and meandered through my job, thinking both about Mario behind bars and Adora, imprisoned from seeing me as I knew her heart yearned to do. To some, life was cheap, but to me it was precious and I saw what it was like to grow old before your time, like my lovely and intelligent mother, swept aside by time to end her days in a ramshackle little house on the wrong side of town. Adora lived simply with the same kind of grace my mother had in her, a kind of spiritual compass, led always to a nobler kind of thought, a lofty version of the human condition where good always triumphed over evil—and love always won-out, because for them, it was the natural way of the cosmos.

  The radio broadcast from the Bella Notte was a huge success. The National Broadcasting Company established a third network on the West Coast called the Pacific Coast “Orange Network”. Through an AT&T phone wire to the greater L.A. area and fed through the main source in San Francisco, people coast to coast could hear Honey singing two of her blockbusters that night. Brunswick Records had recorded Can’t Help Lovin’ That Man of Mine and her newly popular hit, It All Depends on You with trumpet player Chet James. From the thousands of people tuned in that night, Honey received several offers to appear as a guest on various radio shows, hosted by popular artists of the day, like Rudy Vallee and Al Jolson. Yep, it looked like my Golden Throat had made it, and deservedly so, for her talent grew and soon Honey Combes metamorphosed into Lana Loren on the screen in a few old silents. Her management had decided to keep both names separate but active for the time being, so the singer thus remained unassociated with the movie actress.

  I was just heading out for some fresh air and a smoke when a familiar voice called out to me. “Cable! Cable Denning!” I turned and looked into the semi-darkness of the club. “Here!”

  I walked toward the voice and saw some light reflecting off the glasses of an older man. “Jedediah Penn! Damn! I was just thinking about you! Where’ve you been, you old son of a gun?”

  We embraced. I hugged Polly Parker as well. “We’ve been off to China. Sorry I hadn’t time to tell you. We have much to discuss. When can we meet?”

  “Yeah, sure, soon….how in the hell did you happen to come into this club? My fiancée is that gorgeous creature up there with the honey-colored hair.”

  “You’re kidding. Some guys have all the luck. We’re staying a little ways down Wilshire Blvd. near Rampart at the Bryson Hotel and we came and ate here.” He looked up at the stage where Honey stood. “My, my, such fine taste, Cable. Congratulations.”

  I agreed to meet with Jedediah Penn the next day after work and excused myself to take in that breath of fresh air and a smoke. There were a few other folks out with me, taking in the night air and watching the traffic whiz by. Suddenly I felt a tug on my coat sleeve. “Cigarette! Cigarette!”

  I turned to find Crazy Jack nervously shivering in the night air. “Jack! Well, now, isn’t this a strange night? First old Jed Penn—and now you showing up…the good penny that you are. How’re you doin’, old boy?” I did my usual ritual by taking a cigarette out of my pack and handing it to Jack. Then I tucked the rest of the pack inside his shirt pocket. “There. So, as I was saying, how are you?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know! Jack come—get lady out. Friend caught in jar behind—behind bars—look black to Jack—take lady and friend—go! But I don’t know! I don’t know!”

  People were starting to watch and overhear Crazy Jack talk, so I grabbed his arm and took him around the corner. “Okay, now, Jack…talk! I’ve come to respect you too damn much, now—you nailed the Chinese thing. So I gotta listen up. So what’s this thing about getting Honey out of the club? You’ve been saying that for months, but she just gets more and more successful here, Jack. I don’t know what to think.”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know! Jack see trap—zap! Go, now….take pretty honey-color lady! Take friend, pale in jail…but I don’t know!”

  “You mean Mario, my pal, don’t you? I don’t know what to do about him. You see, Crazy Jack, he stepped on the wrong toes and took it further than just a lotta patter, like I do. You see, I’m a coward. Mario puts his life on the line for what he believes in.”

  “I don’t know! Crazy Jack say Cable get him out! Talk in court—make it short! But I don’t know! I don’t know!”

  “What if I can’t spring him legally? Whatta we do, an old west trick by backing up the wagon to the jail cell window and ripping it out? Yeah, that’d look swell on my impeccable police record now, wouldn’t it?”

  Jack began trembling again. “I don’t know! I don’t know! Friend die in desert heat—save him seat—talk him free…else Jack cry—old friend die! But I don’t know!”

  “Awww…Jack, I know life’s a crap shoot. So I’ll really take care of it this time, okay?” I reached into my pocket. I had a ten and two ones. I gave him the ten, leaving me enough for carfare home and some coffee on the job tomorrow. Jack smiled when I handed him the money and shook my wrist with both of his hands.

  He laughed. “Cigarette! Cigarette! Good now….like good friend Cable.” Then he dashed away toward the streetcar island out in the middle of the street.

  Honey and I were driven home by an executive limousine that night. Most of the conversation had to do with booking Honey Combes into major shows and making sure her motion picture career did not conflict with the radio interests NBC might have in her. By the time we got to her place she had begun to drag and so we sai
d our good-nights and I escorted her into the house and into her bedroom. I sat her on the bed and began to undress her. She looked at me with those lovely but tired blue eyes of hers. “Are you seducing me—or trying to be my valet, sir?”

  I chuckled. “Tonight think of me as your old pal who happens to sleep with you when the going gets rough.”

  “Yeah, thanks. And it was rough tonight, wasn’t it? But how did I sound? I mean, live is one thing, but on the air at the other end of a radio set—quite another, I imagine.”

  “Well, you sure moved some of those NBC guys. And at least one of them was at the far end of a radio receiver. I think you sounded great. I never heard you sing Can’t Help Lovin’ That Man before like that. I think you got Helen Morgan beat, and she’s good.”

  She put her toes up under my chin. “You always say the right things, Cable. But I do believe I sang the hell out of that tune tonight, know why?”

  “Tell me, Golden Throat.”

  “Because I have a man I love to sing it to. How many men do you know support their women as you do me, huh? That’s why it’s true, Cable—you can come home as late as can be, because without you here, it’s not a home to me—anymore. I can’t wait until we have our own house. God, wouldn’t that be wonderful…a place that’s got just the two of us written all over it?”

  “Yeah, babe. By the way, I went to get some air tonight and ran into Crazy Jack—you remember the guy we took the streetcar ride with—”

  “—yes, what about him?” I slipped her dress off.

  “Well, he’s still alarmed about you working at the Bella Notte.”

  “Crap, Cable, he’s still on that? Every time he warns us I get more successful there. It’s a gold mine for us, honey bug.”

  “It’s—it’s just that he’s been so right about everything else—”

  She got a bit irritated with me. “—so he can be wrong once, right?”

  I didn’t say anymore but finished undressing her and tucked her into bed. I did the same for myself and slid in next to her. “Good-night, babe,” I whispered, kissing her on the neck. She moaned once and fell asleep.

  Mario’s Journey to Hell

  Immediately after work the next day I went upstairs to see O’Malley. He wasn’t particularly glad to see me, but he didn’t kick me out and continued reading the newspaper while I talked. “Captain…you know why I’m here. Sooner or later you’ve gotta give Mario Angelo a hearing. He’s got rights, you know.”

  “Does he, now?” the policeman responded smugly from behind his newspaper. “I’m seein’ traitors have no rights, Denning. You’re a loud enough wheel, but you don’t go around submittin’ State’s Evidence.” He pointed to a file at his left hand. “Here. You be takin’ a look at the top letter to Sacramento. This’ll tell ya how your so-called friend intended to expose some upstandin’ citizens—not to mention upbraidin’ the very heart of this department itself now, man.”

  I read Mario’s latest letter to the State District Attorney that had obviously been intercepted by the cops before Sacramento could receive it. There was no postmark on the envelope. It mentioned half of the big boys downtown, about a third of the higher ranking members of the Los Angeles Police department—and of course, Dragna and his organization. “Well, it’s all here, Captain. So who isn’t savvy to what’s written here?”

  “My point, Denning. You’re a good Irishman, and a fellow police officer. With us it’s safe, now, ya know. But out there in the bloomin’ world? It might be misconstrued—as—as an imaginable truth, now, couldn’t it?”

  “I want to represent Mario at a hearing, assuming he gets one.”

  O’Malley looked at me strangely, his eyes widening a bit. “That’d be professional suicide now, that would, Denning. You’d be takin’ sides against the hand that feeds ya.”

  “We grew up together, O’Malley. Don’t you have any allegiances to friends?”

  “Not ones a-twitterin’ on the wrong side of the tracks, Denning.”

  I thought fast. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll make it look like Mario did all of this because he has been under a lotta pressures lately. And I’ll suggest a leave of absence. The thing will cool down after a while—and bingo! everybody forgets.”

  O’Malley reflected, his beady little eyes darting around the room. “You can do that? If ya can, lad, you’ll be coverin’ up the wound before it can fester. I’ll requisition a hearin’ and you would serve as what might be called a lay counselor.”

  I thanked O’Malley and ran downstairs to talk to Mario. He was less receptive.

  “So you’re making me back away, Cable—you’re making me appear to be some idiot weakling from the scum-streets we came from! Are you selling me out, Cable?”

  “I’m trying to save your butt, Mario. Look, if I get you off by just telling them you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately and maybe you were a bit hasty in writing—”

  “—but that’s not the truth, Cable! All of my life I’ve known you as the one person I could count on to tell the truth—yeah, what happened to the truth guy—”

  “—Mario! In this case, truth doesn’t matter—they don’t wanna hear it! And if I don’t get you that leave of absence so you can go back home to your family, celebrate Danny’s birthday, love your beautiful wife and be home for a month or so—”

  “—okay! Okay! But I won’t quit, Cable. Sooner or later, I’ll rise up again with that banner of ‘right’ scribbled across my chest. We both know I’ve got to do this, and I won’t stop until the people who support these bastards realize how bought and sold they are.”

  “And I’ll do it with you, pal,” I laughed a nervous laugh. “I told you, Mario, I’d go the distance with you—all fifteen rounds. But we gotta bide our time…and watch our moves. Someone is waiting for you around every corner, so someone else has gotta look out for your ass.”

  He reached for my hand through the bars. “You are my friend, Cable Denning. I won’t forget what you’re doin’ for me.”

  “Now there’s one more thing I gotta know. Where did you mail your second letter from?”

  “Here, at the postal drop. Why?”

  “Because it never left the station. I saw it on O’Malley’s desk. He had me read it—and…the envelope had no postmark. They intercepted it—”

  “—damn, Cable, that’s a federal offense! Tampering with the U.S. Mail. Shit, man, and you said nothing? How in the hell am I ever gonna—”

  “—I told you the whole house of cards was rotten, Mario. For the present, let it be. We’ll find other ways, okay, pal?”

  He calmed a bit. “Sure, Cable, sure…I just can’t stand injustice…”

  The hearing room was crowded. About twenty upper-crust cops and half as many hoodlums sat quietly with their hats on their laps as Judge Henry Wyndott entered. Everyone stood. Wyndott was a slender white-haired man with a thin face and piercing blue eyes that looked at you over clear spectacles. “All be seated,” he announced in a low-baritone that filled the room. He looked down at the papers in front of him. “This hearing concerns the matter of Mario Ferruccio Angelo, a sworn police officer and six-year veteran with the Los Angeles Police Department, and a filed complaint by his superior officers that claims he acted out of duress and emotional instability in writing a letter containing erroneous information to the State District Attorney’s Office, has been submitted to me.” He looked up from his glasses. “As such, this hearing is not an indictment, judgment or criminal action suit against said Mario Angelo, but a hearing to ascertain Mr. Angelo’s competency in writing such a missive. It also brings to light the question whether or not Officer Angelo is sufficiently qualified to continue at his present post as patrol officer for the City of Los Angeles.” He then glanced over at me. “Not as attorney in defense, but providing remarks on Mr. Angelo’s behalf, is fellow officer Cable Denning, also with the department since 1923. Please step forward, Officer Denning….I will now entertain your remarks regarding the issue at hand.” The ju
dge sat back and folded his hands, awaiting me.

  Everyone became dead still. A small lump stuck in my throat. I knew I was winging this one and had to rely on my gift of gab to pull it off. “Thank you, Your Honor. I really don’t have very much to say in response to this formal complaint made by Mr. Angelo’s superiors except to mention Mr. Angelo’s track record of consistent and loyal devotion to the department and the people of Los Angeles for the past six years.” I looked around the room. He had arrived late, but in the very back row I spotted Joe Lorena. I just wondered what he could’ve cooked up for this breakfast show. “To those officers mentioned in this complaint who hail from what we patrolmen call ‘the bums upstairs,’ you may have forgotten what it’s like to be in the trenches every day of your professional life, fighting not just crime, but being there at the aftermath of an accident, arbitrating domestic battles and violence, picking dead people off the street and propping them up against a wall until the meat wagon comes, helping a once-beautiful young woman stagger across a street because life made her a drunk and she’s been raped so many times it doesn’t matter anymore. Yeah, sometimes the privileges of higher office insulate our superiors from the real world out there.” I walked over to where Mario was sitting, looking up at me with large, admiring eyes. “Mario Angelo and I grew up in the mean streets of East L.A., where you got beat up for just walking to school, or disagreeing with the block-bully, or a gang member from across the river who just happens to have a grudge against you, or someone who wants to bash your head in because he doesn’t like your looks.” I surveyed the room. “A lot of you in this hearing room today came from that side of the tracks. Some of you, like Mario and me, decided to weigh in on the side of the law because we didn’t want our kids growing up as hoodlums, or poverty sealing off our fates until the end of the line. And there was hope that justice would be served when we caught the bad guys. Others chose a different path, one where you could shortcut the way to a quick buck at the expense of the common fellow. It seemed to them that crime did pay and poisoning people with cheap booze, laced cigarettes, or collecting extra dough on a laundry route, running a bordello or selling pretty white girls off the streets for import to Asia…were okay—stock-and-trade for the other chosen profession. So, you see—”