by J. L. Abramo
Frank Raft had been watching the house since six. He caught the shift change at seven and wondered how the LAPD could justify the manpower. Fucking LAPD. Raft had taken a few days off for Tully’s wake and burial. He would have to get to the funeral parlor in Sherman Oaks at one. Raft poured a cup of coffee from a thermos and he thought about Jackson Masters. The old man was coming back to town that night and Masters was still waiting to hear that Raft had the situation under control. Raft’s only comfort was his fee was about to increase considerably. Frank Raft had his mind set on early retirement. He took a doughnut from a paper bag on the car seat and hoped for a fucking break.
Angel had been awake for hours; she hadn’t slept much at all. She was lying on the motel bed, watching a really dreadful movie on cable, stomach queasy from worry and the Chinese food, praying for the telephone to bring word from her mother. Angel took a shower, disgusted that she would have to get into the grubby underclothing and jogging suit she had been sweating in since the night before last. By eight she was climbing the walls trying to resist the urge to telephone Maria, wanting to spare her mother additional grief. Finally, Angel had to get out. She needed air and thought a walk would calm her down. She gathered all the money she had left, went down to the lobby, walked out onto Broadway and headed southeast toward the ocean.
Ten minutes later, Maria Rivas phoned the motel. She left a message, asking Angel to call. The day clerk wrote down her name. After the call, the clerk went back to the newspaper article he’d been reading. A gun battle the day before had led to the death of a Santa Monica resident and a uniformed police officer. SMPD was searching for a young woman named Angel Rivas, wanted for questioning. The desk clerk telephoned the Santa Monica Police Department asking to speak to the detective in charge of the investigation.
Barnum made it over to the motel in eight minutes.
Ray Boyle woke up with a splitting headache. Much too much Scotch Friday night. Before dragging himself into the shower he called Parker Center to make sure the Rivas house was covered.
“We still have cars in front and back,” Stephens told Boyle, “but probably not for long.”
“What do you mean?”
“The captain is bitching and moaning about overtime. He’s ready to call them in.”
“Stall him, Sam,” Boyle said. “I’ll be there in less than an hour.”
Jimmy was up early on Saturday. He waited until after nine to call Vinnie Strings. Vinnie was asleep. Jimmy told Fran he would come over to the house around one in the afternoon to visit her and her son.
At nine-thirty, Jimmy sat at a booth in Meg’s Café. A headline in the Santa Monica Outlook had caught his eye the moment he walked in. Shootout on Ninth Street. He grabbed the newspaper and read the front-page story over coffee.
The shooting, which took the lives of a civilian and a police officer, was thought to be related to the two deaths in Woodland Hills on Thursday and the deaths of Ed Richards and Lenny Archer at the beginning of the week.
What the hell was going on?
It was the first time investigators in any of the three police departments entangled in the related incidents had suggested the possibility there may have been more than one man involved. Pigeon knew there were two men in the office when Archer was killed, but had kept it to himself. A hold card, in the event the police decided the death of Ricky Diaz wrapped up the case. So here comes Carlos Valdez. Two suspects, both dead, end of story, case closed; drugs and guns, villains and martyrs, crime doesn’t pay and police work doesn’t pay enough. Good triumphs over evil at a terrible cost and the curtain falls.
So who in the world was Angel Rivas and what the hell could she possibly have as an encore to this Shakespearean slam-dunk?
Jimmy threw the newspaper across the table, frustrated and bewildered. He waved to the waitress for a refill.
Angel had walked to the Santa Monica pier with a large cup of fresh squeezed orange juice and sat down on a bench, needing to clear her mind and hoping to settle her stomach. The soothing sound of the ocean succeeded in doing both. In fact she lost track of time and was rushing back to the motel for word from her mother when she saw the headline on the cover of the Santa Monica daily paper through the front pane of a corner vending machine. Shootout on Ninth Street.
She dropped two quarters into the coin slot, scooped up the newspaper and found an empty chair in the rear of a nearby coffee shop. Oh, God. Carlos. Angel soon noticed her own name in the article and she knew she would not be returning to the motel.
“Bad news,” said Stephens when Boyle reached Parker.
“Why am I not surprised?”
“SMPD put the girl’s name out there. It showed up in a front-page story in the Santa Monica rag and Barnum got word the girl had checked into the Best Western. She must have stepped out earlier, Barnum has been over at the motel for more than an hour and she’s not back.”
“If she reads the newspaper she’s not coming back.”
“According to the motel clerk, her mother paid for the room and left a message for the girl this morning. I guess the woman wasn’t entirely forthcoming when we talked to her yesterday.”
“Let’s go back to see her mother, try to convince the woman the girl is scared shitless and we need to find out what the fuck she’s afraid of before it is too fucking late,” Boyle said.
“Tanner wants to see you,” Stephens said.
“The captain will have to wait,” said Boyle. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Tanner won’t be happy, Ray.”
“Well, Sam, who the fuck is?”
Angel tried calling her mother, but the line was busy. She went to the counter for coffee. When she reached into her pocket for cash she found the piece of the page she had torn from the motel phone book. The address and the phone number for Archer and Pigeon Investigation. Angel sat for a while before trying to call her mother again.
Maria had been on the phone, calling the motel. When she asked for Angel’s room, a police detective came on the line. Maria could honestly say she had no idea where her daughter had gone. A few minutes after Barnum finally let her go, Boyle and Stephens were at her front door. By the time Angel called again, Boyle had Maria so frightened the woman was ready to cooperate. She told Angel she would meet her at the coffee shop in thirty minutes.
“All you need to do is bring her out to your car and we’ll be there,” said Boyle. “Please believe me, you are doing the right thing. You are protecting your girl from harm.”
Boyle told the stakeout teams to remain watching the Rivas house. Boyle and Stephens jumped into their car and waited until Maria came out of the driveway. They started off to Santa Monica and Maria followed.
Frank Raft pulled out from the curb at the end of the street and headed out after the two cars.
Jimmy made a quick stop at his office to check phone messages and thankfully he found only one. Nathan Archer would be at Jimmy’s apartment at nine that night with his lock picks ready.
As Jimmy left the office he decided to leave the door unlocked. If anyone wanted to get in they would get in, no use jeopardizing the new window.
Angel stood inside a small boutique across the street from the coffee shop waiting for her mother; wanting to be sure Maria hadn’t been followed. Angel had purchased and changed into fresh undergarments, a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt reading Property of the Los Angeles Raiders.
From the window of the boutique, she saw Maria’s car pull into the parking lot beside the coffee shop, and a second car pull in alongside. She saw Maria say several words to the other driver and walk to the coffee shop entrance.
Oh, Mama. Why?
Angel waited until Maria was inside. The two men in the second car remained in their vehicle. Angel put down the bag that held her old clothing, quickly walked out of the boutique and up the street away from the parking lot. Boyle and Stephens didn’t notice her and she was soon out of their line of sight.
Frank Raft, in his car at the far end
of the street, saw the girl come out of the boutique and move away at a slow run. He took off after the girl. When Raft turned the corner, she was gone. He looked at his watch. There was just enough time for him to get home and changed and over to the funeral parlor by one. Raft could only hope the girl would continue to be unbelievably adept at avoiding the police.
He wished her luck and he drove off.
Maria returned to the parking lot.
“Where is she?” asked Boyle, jumping out of the car.
“Gone, God help us,” Maria answered. She was holding the purse in her hand; passport, bank card and a thousand dollars in cash. “My baby is still out there, all alone.”
Boyle and Stephens followed Maria back to her house in South Central. When they arrived, both stakeout cars were gone.
“Motherfucker,” said Boyle.
“It’s Tanner, Ray. He said he would pull them off.”
“That girl knows something, Sam. She was there at the Diaz condo and she was there at the Valdez place and if she disappears you know what will happen.”
“Six homicides will be cleared and a couple of mayors and the brass of SMPD, LASD and LAPD will rejoice.”
“They can all slap each other on the back until their hands are raw and swing from the fucking rafters until the next election, but I will not let them forget Officer John Billings. This case is open until I am convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that his killer is not still out there.”
“So be it, Ray. I am with you one hundred percent,” said Stephens. “Except for tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is my wedding anniversary. Thirty years of marital bliss. And if I fail to show Linda the time of her life, it will be me swinging from a rafter.”
“Thirty years.”
“Three zero.”
“Lovely Linda. What a woman.”
“They broke the mold, Ray.”
CHARLIE CHAN IN BEVERLY HILLS
Jimmy Pigeon sat in an overstuffed armchair, a library book on his knees. Vinnie sat beside him in a wheel chair, his broken limb propped up horizontally by the leg support.
“Page seventy-three,” Vinnie said.
Jimmy flipped through the pages.
“I’m making lunch for Vinnie,” Fran said, coming into the room. “Can I interest you in a tuna sandwich, Jimmy?”
“I don’t know, Fran,” Jimmy said. “I’m not really sure if I’m hungry.”
“Chunk white on white toast, lettuce and tomato.”
“Hellman’s mayonnaise?”
“Of course,” Fran said.
“Sure, sound’s great.”
“Coming right up,” said Fran, heading for the kitchen.
“Okay, I got it,” said Jimmy, opening to page seventy-three of Homes of the Hollywood Stars, History and Mystery by Edward Richards. “What I am looking at?”
“You’re looking at a mansion built for Warner Oland in 1933 at a cost of two hundred thousand bucks, a hefty chunk of change at the time. Warner Oland also owned mansions in Boston and Santa Barbara and a very large horse ranch down in Mexico.”
“So, now that I have a good handle on his real estate portfolio,” said Jimmy. “Who the hell is Warner Oland?”
“Warner Oland was an actor who played Charlie Chan in sixteen movies between 1931 and 1937.”
“Well, how do you like that. What else?”
“What else?”
“We know from phone records that Lenny and Ed Richards were talking with each other and could have been working an investigation together, an investigation which possibly got them both killed. Lenny drops the name Charlie Chan onto a postcard and here is a photograph of Charlie Chan’s crib in Richards’ book. If there’s nothing else, then their deaths go down as two drug related homicides and goodbye Charlie,” Jimmy said. “So, what else?”
“How about this,” Vinnie said. “In 1937, Charlie Chan vanished.”
“Tuna sandwiches and cold milk,” Frances Stradivarius announced, carrying a tray into the living room.
“Vanished?”
“Disappeared.”
“You should eat the sandwiches before they get soggy,” Fran suggested.
“Disappeared. Hold that thought, Vinnie,” Jimmy said.
Ray Boyle and Sam Stephens sat side by side in chairs facing Captain Tanner’s desk.
Tanner stood behind the desk like a preacher about to give a sermon, which was exactly what he was about to do. The detectives had been warned to remain silent until Tanner was done speaking. Boyle made a big deal of locking his fingers together and placing his hands on his lap like a kid in Sunday school.
“Don’t get cute, Ray,” Tanner said.
They waited.
“I’m catching holy hell from upstairs because you guys are running all over creation looking for this girl with no concern for jurisdictional protocol. Whether we like it or not, we rely on cooperation from the County Sheriff and the local municipalities and they expect the same. There is an APB out on Angel Rivas and that is that. If you hear she’s in Malibu or El Segundo or anywhere outside of the city you will notify the local police department and let them handle it. Am I understood?”
“Yes,” said Stephens before Boyle could say something he would be sorry for.
“Good. Now whatever this girl may or may not have to contribute, the evidence speaks for itself. Everything we have says Ricky Diaz shot Bob Tully with the same gun that killed the reporter and the PI in Santa Monica. Diaz was a known drug felon and it’s been confirmed that Carlos Valdez was a known associate. And there is no evidence to contradict the assumption that Valdez and Officer Billings killed one another in an unfortunate confrontation.”
“Unfortunate confrontation,” said Boyle, rising from his chair. “This is fucking bullshit.”
“Sit down, Ray,” Tanner said.
“The girl was in both places. How can we make fucking assumptions before we talk with her?”
“We don’t know if she witnessed anything, Ray, and we don’t know if she would tell us a thing if she did. There are three police departments aching to get these homicides cleared. That’s the track this train is racing down, it’s out of control and I have no way to stop it. And you guys are off the case. Now, please sit down, Ray.”
Boyle looked down at the chair as if he was ready to hurl it through the window onto North Los Angeles Street.
“Sit, Ray,” Stephens urged. Boyle sat.
“Sam, you’re off tomorrow,” Tanner said.
“Yes.”
“I want you to take the rest of the day off. Both of you. Ray, you are on tomorrow, seven to three, and I need you on call Sunday midnight until seven Monday morning.”
Tanner waited for a response, there was none.
“Then I want you both back here ready to work Monday morning. You have open cases on your desks; find one that keeps you in the city.”
The two detectives rose to leave the office.
“Happy Anniversary, Sam,” Tanner said.
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Don’t fuck around, Ray.”
Fuck you, Captain.
“Great lunch, Fran,” Jimmy said.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it, there’s more tuna salad.”
“Thanks, that was perfect. We should get to work.”
“Then I’ll leave you two alone,” said Fran. “Yell if you need anything.”
“Mom really likes you,” Vinnie said when she was gone.
“And I really like her and you are very lucky to have her. Don’t ever forget that, Vinnie.”
“I know how lucky I am. Don’t worry, I won’t forget.”
“Okay, good,” Jimmy said. “Now, tell me about Charlie Chan’s disappearing act.”
Vinnie told Jimmy all he’d learned from reading books about Charlie Chan while trapped in his hospital bed.
Earl Derr Biggers, while vacationing in Honolulu in 1919, read a newspaper article about the remarkable work of a Chinese police
detective named Chang Apana.
In 1925, the Saturday Evening Post carried the first installment of The House Without a Key, featuring Charlie Chan of the Honolulu Police Department. The story was so well received, Bobbs-Merrill published it in hardback. Biggers followed with a second Chan book, The Chinese Parrot in 1926. Both Chan titles were soon brought to the silent screen. The overwhelming popularity of the Charlie Chan franchise earned Biggers twenty-five thousand dollars for a serialized version of Behind That Curtain. In 1929, Fox Film Corporation paid the writer generously for screen rights to the third Chan mystery. Biggers would pen three more Chan stories before his death in 1933.
With the Fox Films release of Charlie Chan Carries On in 1931 and The Black Camel four months later, the Chinese detective became a national sensation and soon an overseas phenomenon. Fortunes were made. The success of the films rested squarely on the shoulders of a classically trained, Swedish born actor who brought immortality to the Oriental sleuth. Warner Oland would portray Charlie Chan in a total of sixteen films in less than seven years.
Then in 1937, Warner Oland disappeared.
Oland arrived in America from Sweden in 1892, at age thirteen. In his twenties, he enjoyed great success as a stage actor. Oland married artist Edith Shearn and they co-authored the first English translation of the plays of August Strindberg. Oland alternated work on stage and in silent film. In the movies he was often cast in Oriental parts because of his vaguely Asian features. In 1931, at the age of fifty-two, he landed the role of Charlie Chan.
By 1935, eight films starring Oland as the immensely popular detective had been released by Fox. The ninth in the series, Charlie Chan in Shanghai, marked the birth of Twentieth Century Fox. The studio, the producers and the distributors of the Chan films were sitting on a goldmine and Warner Oland knew he was a major contributor. He demanded a larger piece of the pie. In order to maintain a profitable budget, the studio robbed Peter to pay Paul; cutting the salary of Executive Producer Reginald Masters to accommodate Oland’s demands. Masters was not pleased. At the same time he understood that if push came to shove, the studio would find it much more expedient to replace a fledgling producer than to replace the actor who laid the golden egg. Masters decided to grin and bear it. He was young and ambitious and he felt his time would come. He hoped to outlast both Warner Oland and Charlie Chan.
