by Bill Bernico
“Forget it,” she said, suddenly rising from her chair. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come here.” She grabbed her coat and started to leave.
“Wait, Mrs. McMillan,” I said, standing behind my desk.
She turned and smiled, “Maggie. Please, Matt, call me Maggie.” She handed me her coat and sat again.
I broke out the office bottle and two glasses and set them on my desk. She smiled as I poured us each a drink.
The Indio Club was on Santa Monica just west of Olive. It was the favorite nightspot of the elite Hollywood crowd. It offered privacy to those people who couldn’t afford to be seen in public. Movie stars and underworld figures alike frequented this dark, private club. It was exclusive. It was expensive. And it was Emil Becker’s.
The front of the club sported two towering palm trees, one on either side of the entrance. Just inside the recessed courtyard stood two huge clay vases, each three feet around and each filled with something resembling ferns. There was twenty or thirty feet of red carpet trailing from the entrance to the street where a uniformed doorman stood awaiting the arrival of limousines.
The doorman stood well over six and a half feet tall with a muscular build and dark hair. I could tell by the bulge under his coat that he was packing a piece. He didn’t look like he needed one, but I knew it was there just the same.
I sat half a block away in my Olds, watching with binoculars as a customer approached on foot. Without acknowledging the doorman, the customer walked past him toward the entrance. I couldn’t hear the exchange of words between them but I could tell from the doorman’s actions that this customer was not welcomed.
The doorman grabbed the customer with his large hands and in one sweeping motion, tossed him into the street like a rag doll. The customer picked himself up and hurried away while the doorman returned to his post as if nothing had happened.
I decided my approach would have to be more creative if I expected to get in. I carefully made it to the bushes that flanked the Indio Club and crouched. The doorman stood silently at the entrance, unaware of my presence. I did the first thing that came into my mind. I cupped my hands around my mouth and imitated my screen idol, Gary Cooper, doing his turkey gobble from “Sergeant York.” It seemed funny at the time, but it got the doorman’s attention.
He cautiously approached the bush where I waited. The large man looked up and down the length of the street and then at the bush where I waited. As he bent down to get a closer look, my knee came up and connected with his nose. With my fingers clenched together, I brought both hands down hard on the back of his neck and he fell in a bundle at my feet.
I wasted no time in finding the entrance and letting myself in. It was dark as I had expected and it took my eyes a while to adjust to my surroundings. Walking down a short, narrow corridor, I soon found myself pushing on a pair of swinging doors that led to the main ballroom.
I scanned the room, looking at the tables and their occupants. The tables were small and round with a single candle in a bowl illuminating the faces that sat around them. None of the faces looked familiar.
Then I spotted him. He sat in a corner booth with padded benches. It was Emil Becker himself, sandwiched between two lovely ladies in formal eveningwear.
As I approached his table, two tough-looking guys in pin-striped suits quickly took their places alongside Becker. They looked as if they meant business and I wasn’t about to find out what business that was. I stood looking at Becker, who was relaxed and seemed to be enjoying the floorshow going on behind me.
“Mr. Becker,” I said, reaching into my inside suit pocket. My hand was still inside my pocket when I found myself looking down the barrels of the two bodyguards’ guns. “Whoa, easy boys,” I said, slowly withdrawing my hand and producing a small piece of paper with a drawing on it. I held it up in plain sight and the two thugs looked at Becker.
Becker nodded and they returned their guns to the nests under their arms. They were so intent on this piece of paper, they hadn’t remembered to frisk me. I hoped my luck would hold out.
“Mr. Becker, I only wanted to give you something,” I said, holding out the drawing.
Becker took the paper and examined it, staring at the crudely drawn picture of the monogrammed tie tack. His first reaction was to slap his chest, feeling for his own tie tack. He didn’t find it. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, looking back up at me.
“Name’s Cooper, Matt Cooper,” I said. “I found that this afternoon in the empty lot on Santa Monica and Cahuenga. Thought you might be interested.”
Becker nodded at the man to his left and I soon found myself hanging by my lapels from the man’s fists.
“Where is it?” Becker demanded.
“It’s safe,” I said. “The cops don’t even know I have it. I didn’t show it to anyone.”
Becker nodded again and the bodyguard dropped me to the floor. “How’d you get in here?” he said.
Before I could answer, the doorman came staggering in with his gun drawn. Blood ran from his nose and down his face. His visored cap was missing and his hair was messed up. He walked straight over to where I lay on the floor and pointed his gun at me. Becker waved him off.
“Clever, Mr. Cooper,” Becker said. “Clever enough to get past Vince, I see. Now, where is the tie tack?”
“I told you, it’s safe,” I said. “I have it tucked away. Don’t worry.”
“It’s you who should be worried,” Becker said, motioning to his henchman.
The guard picked me up off the floor and stuck the barrel of his revolver in my ear and pulled back the hammer. I’d heard this sound before, but never from this close. My arms sported a new set of goose bumps and a shiver ran down my back.
“I’ll get it for you,” I said, looking out of the corner of my eye at the gun.
“I know you will, Mr. Cooper. And Ike here is going with you,” he said, motioning to the man with the gun in my ear. He turned his attention to Ike and said, “Bring it back to me.”
“What about him?” he asked, pointing at me.
“Bring him along,” Becker said. “I’m not finished with him yet.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Becker.”
Ike holstered his revolver, grabbed my arm and nudged me toward the front door. As I passed Vince, the doorman, he reached for my throat but I dodged the huge hand. The second bodyguard held fast to Vince’s arm as Ike and I exited to the street.
It was deserted, long and lonely. I could see the movement of cars in the distance but the immediate neighborhood was still and deserted.
Ike continued nudging me toward a large, black car. It was a Packard and it looked like the car in the picture of Dexter McMillan. “You drive,” Ike said, throwing the keys at me and quickly stepping around to the passenger side front door.
We simultaneously slid into the front seat. Ike stared at me while I started the car. He was confident that he was in control, confident enough to leave his revolver under his arm. I started the sedan, pulled the shifter back into gear and pulled away from the curb as fast as I could.
I could feel Ike’s eyes burning a hole in my face. I’d just passed the spot where I’d parked my Olds. I had one chance and I knew it was now or never. Bracing myself, I stood on the brake pedal and screeched to a halt. Ike flew forward, his head connecting with the windshield. It connected hard enough to crack the glass. I quickly grabbed a handful of hair from the back of Ike’s head and pushed forward several times. Ike’s head connected with the metal dashboard with a solid thud. I released my grip on his hair and he fell limp to one side.
From the look on Ike’s face, I guessed he was in the middle of a dream by now. Maybe he was dreaming he was sunning himself on the beach in Rio. Maybe he was dreaming he was in intensive care in a hospital somewhere. My bet was with the latter.
I left the car in gear, stepped on the gas and jumped out, rolling over several times on the street. The Packard continued down Santa Monica for another half a block before impacting with a utilit
y pole. The passenger door popped open and Ike’s limp body flowed out into the gutter. I got into my Olds and drove past the accident scene, waving to Ike as I passed.
“Amateur.”
I drove east on Santa Monica and parked in the first parking lot I found. I shut off the engine and sat there, relieved to be far away from the Indio Club. I pulled a cigarette pack from my shirt pocket and shook it upwards. The tip of one cigarette stuck up above the rest and I pulled it from the pack with my lips and lit it. It was time to let Hollister in on my find.
I finished the cigarette and lit another from it, tossing the butt out the window. Two butts later I’d cleared my head and started the Olds, continuing down Santa Monica. My office was always a safe haven for me and I needed a drink.
I turned the key to the door of my outer office and entered, locking the door behind me. My office was dark with the exception of an occasional flicker from the Hotel St. Claire’s orange neon sign. My swivel chair felt good as I let my feet rest on the edge of my desk. I pulled open the bottom drawer and found my bottle of scotch. It felt good going down and I let it go down quite a few times.
The room was still dark but I knew my way around from years of stumbling around after hours. The burgundy leather sofa seemed especially inviting and I took it up on its invitation to lie down. I counted off eleven steps from my desk, turned and sat on the edge of the sofa.
As I sat I felt a strange bundle behind me. The bundle and I stood simultaneously. I drew my .45 and pulled back the hammer. “Don’t move,” I said, pointing the gun at the person now standing next to me.
I inched my way toward the office door, keeping the gun on my visitor. I flicked the light switch up and stepped back toward the couch. When my eyes adjusted to the light again I heaved a sigh of relief and holstered my weapon. “What are you doing here?”
Maggie McMillan stood there looking sleepy and surprised to see me. “I needed to talk to you, Mr. Cooper. I couldn’t find you. I hope you don’t mind that I waited here.”
“How’d you get in?” I said.
“Force of habit,” she explained. “Dexter taught me quite a few things before he died. B and E comes naturally to me. Sorry.”
“Okay, so you’re here,” I said. “What do you want?”
“I just thought we could get to know each other a little better, Matt.”
The tone of her voice softened and I liked the sound of it. She straightened her dress and walked toward me. She took little steps—graceful, smooth steps that made me focus my attention on the soft curves that wiggled toward me. She stopped just inches from my face and parted her lips, licking them slowly. I grabbed her arms and drew her to me, kissing her hard. After what seemed like forever, I released her and she stepped back to catch her breath.
“Oh, Matt,” she said, primping her hair. “Let’s get out of here.”
A ton of bricks didn’t have to fall on me. I held my arm out and she clung to it. We walked downstairs to my car and I helped her in. “Where to, doll?”
Her eyes sent out their own little invitation. All she needed to do was fill in the blank. “My place.”
I started the car and drove, not really sure of where I was going. I just wanted to get moving before anything happened to spoil the moment.
Maggie looked up long enough to get her bearings and quietly said, “Turn left on Melrose.” She returned to the semi-reclined position against my shoulder.
A few minutes later she sat up and pointed to a white three-story apartment building with an iron gate in front. “Right here, Matt.”
I pulled up to the curb and got out, walking around to her door. She took my arm once again and we walked up the walk toward the front door. She gave me her key and I turned it in the lock, entering ahead of her to find the light.
As my hand reached for the switch, I felt another hand and instinctively pulled back but it was too late to reach my .45. Something hard and cold rested on the back of my neck and I didn’t have to guess what it was. I pulled my hand back out of my coat and held it up along with my other hand. I could hear the hammer being eased back down and I breathed a little easier.
From a spot behind me in the darkness I heard, “Mr. Cooper, it seems you have something I want.”
I knew that voice. I had heard that voice call me ‘Mr. Cooper’ earlier in a club on Santa Monica. The light came on as I turned and faced Emil Becker. Behind him stood the towering frame of his bodyguard, Ike. His nose sported a criss-cross of white bandages and his eyes looked puffy. Ike relieved me of my gun, inserted it in his belt and returned to his position by the door.
Maggie shrugged her shoulders and gave me a questioning look. “Sorry, baby, but that’s how it goes.”
She smiled but I was no longer drawn to her charms. I felt like a sucker who’d been licked and thrown in the dirt. I broke my own rule about mixing dames and business and now I was paying for it.
“Now, Mr. Cooper,” Becker continued, “I believe we have some unfinished business at hand. Where is it?”
“Back at my office,” I started to say, but stopped when Ike took two steps toward me.
Becker looked at Maggie. “It’s not there, Emil. I turned that place upside down,” she told him.
I looked at Maggie McMillan, disappointed in the way she’d gone from cuddly to deadly in a matter of minutes. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a dark mass coming my way. It was too late to dodge it and it connected with my jaw with enough force to send me reeling. It was the enormous fist connected to Ike’s arm.
Ike picked me up from the floor in an effortless motion and raised his fist for an encore blow. “Hold it,” I said. “It is in my office. Mrs. McMillan couldn’t have known I have a secret hiding place. No one does. It’s in there.”
With a nod of approval from Becker, Ike released his grip on me and I fell off balance against the front door. I looked at Becker and then over at Ike. His overcoat was open at the waist and I could see his gun in his shoulder holster. My .45 was sticking out of his belt.
I pulled a business card from my shirt pocket and held it out to Ike. “Here. It has the location of my secret hiding place on the back.”
Ike took a step toward me, his hand outstretched reaching for the card. When he got close enough I dropped the card. In that instant when Ike’s eyes followed the card to the floor, I stepped ahead and kicked with all I had. My foot connected with Ike’s groin with enough force to dent the fender on my Olds. His eyes opened wider than eyes should and he momentarily lost his breath.
I immediately grabbed my gun from his belt and pulled back the hammer, aiming it directly into Emil Becker’s face. Becker said nothing at first. He just looked at Ike, who was on the floor on his knees, then back at me.
“Step back, Mr. Becker,” I said, taking his gun from under his arm. He did as he was told. I looked at Maggie. “You too, bitch.” She joined him. My eyes locked onto Becker’s and he stared back with cold, dark, shark-like eyes.
For a brief instant I noticed his glance shift and I spun around just as Ike had grabbed his own gun. Before he had a chance to slip it out of its holster, I fired and Ike flailed back and to the side. He kept pulling at his revolver and I fired again. The second shot tore into his heart and lung. With a gurgling sigh, Ike went down and stayed down.
I quickly spun around to face Becker again. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t displayed any emotion at all over having lost one of his henchmen. Seeing a man die violently and bloody seemed to have no effect on him. He just smiled and chuckled lightly.
“You’re in way over your head, Mr. Cooper. I suggest you....”
“You’re in no position to suggest anything,” I reminded him. You’re the one who needs suggestions and mine to you is to get the best lawyer your cold cash can buy.”
Three days later Dan Hollister and his team had cleared me on the killing of Emil Becker’s man, Ike. Becker, on the other hand, was back on the street before I was. Money can’t buy everything, or so I’m told, but appar
ently it can buy immediate, if only temporary freedom.
Maggie McMillan disappeared the following day. I suspect Emil had something to do with that, but as usual there was no solid proof.
I pushed the door open to my office building and headed for the stairs. I’d taken one step up when I heard a voice from under the stairwell.
“Psssst. Mr. Cooper?”
It was a voice I knew all too well. It was the voice of Peter Ryan, one of my well-used snitches. “Petie, what are you doing here?”
“Got to see you, Mr. Cooper,” he said. “It’s important.”
I looked behind me toward the front door and then back at Petie. “Come on up. We’ll talk in my office.”
“Can’t take the chance, Mr. Cooper. What I have to say I can say right here. I’ll make it short.” Petie looked around and then leaned into me. “What’s it worth to ya to nail Emil Becker?”
“Depends what you got,” I said. “Let me have it.”
Petie hesitated, thought about his options and continued. “There’s this guy, see? Emil Becker’s paper man, best in the business. I know where you can find him.”
“Where?”
Petie looked up as if his memory had escaped him and then slyly back at me. He looked down into his empty, outstretched hand. He cupped it and ran his thumb back and forth across the four fingertips.
“All right,” I said, producing a ten, “this better be good.”
“Name’s Baxter,” he said. “Frank Baxter.”
“And where do I find this Frank Baxter?” My patience was wearing as thin as Petie’s socks.
Petie went into his lost memory routine and once again I produced a ten spot. I held it just out of his reach, waiting for the payoff.
“Don’t know,” Petie said.
I pulled the bill away as he reached for it.
“But I know someone who does,” he said, looking at the bill.
I kept the ten away, waiting for him to continue.
“See a guy named Lester Hogan,” Petie said. “He can tell you all you need to know about Baxter.”
