by Arlette Lees
“You’ve got to get her to the hospital,” said Tom. “This isn’t right.”
“I can’t,” said César. “Put Ariceli on.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
TRAGEDY STRIKES
“I’m going to grab a bite and stake out the Grayhound Station,” said Tug. “A Nebraska woman says her sixteen-year-old son and his thirteen-year-old girlfriend are on their way to the city of broken dreams. You coming?”
“You go ahead. I’m picking up Teddy at the vets and eating lunch at home.”
“You going to keep that fur ball?”
“You bet.”
“You see Edwards in the coffee room?”
“No. Why?”
“Looks like someone rearranged his face with a bar stool.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. He’s got a broken nose, two black eyes, and a cracked front tooth. He looks like the Frankenstein Monster.”
“Maybe his wife got tired of his misogynistic bullshit.”
“There you go flaunting that Catholic school education.”
“He hates women, Tug.”
“He hates everybody.”
“Everybody hates him.”
They were still laughing when Tug headed out the door.
There was an envelope in Hallinan’s in-box from a deputy in Crazy Horse, California. He opened it, pulled out a cardboard backing and five, grainy eight by ten photos, possibly taken through a telescopic lens. The deputy’s card was enclosed with two words scribbled across the bottom: Daisy Adler?
A child riding a pony had been photographed from several angles. In the background was an old man and a woman with bushy red hair. If this was Daisy, how did she get from Griffith Park to Crazy Horse, hundreds of miles from where her clothes had been found? He compared the photos to the one on the missing person’s flyer. Time had passed. It was hard to tell. Before he talked to Helen, he wanted to hear what the deputy had to say. He looked at the clock and left to get Teddy.
Hallinan set the cat carrier in the screened back porch off the kitchen. He opened the carrier door, but Teddy hunkered toward the back, his eyes big and distrustful, his leg full of horse hair stitches. Hallinan left him with food, water, a new cat bed, and a litter box, then went to the kitchen and made a sandwich. As he was getting settled, Tug called.
“Rusty, turn on the news.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“You’ll have to see for yourself, big guy,” he said, and hung up.
Hallinan snapped on the TV. A reporter from an Arizona station stood in front of a vast landscape with a photogenic rock formation in the background. Behind the reporter was a movie set, a herd of cattle and horses, actors hugging one another and crying or sitting with their heads in their hands. Hallinan felt his stomach tighten and laid the sandwich aside.
“For those of you who are tuning in late, I am reporting from the set of Dynamite Pass, outside Sedona, Arizona. This morning at ten o’clock, during a stampede scene, there was a tragic accident involving popular cowboy star, Monty West. His mount’s hooves became entangled in the lasso of another rider, plunging him to the ground and crushing the well-loved star beneath his weight. Head makeup artist and close friend, Dorothy Stanhope Hallinan, accompanied Mr. West by ambulance to the local hospital, where he was pronounced dead on arrival.” Hallinan felt the energy leave his body and he thumped heavily into his chair.
“Jesus!” he said. “That poor kid.” His next thought was of Dorothy. By the time he got through to the hospital in Sedona, Dorothy had already left.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CÉSAR
Crystal lay shivering under a quilt in her dressing room. Tom brought her a bowl of soup and some crackers. He was as scared of César as she was, so when César entered the room, Tom left. César walked to the safe and removed the gun.
“Where are you going with that?” she said.
He closed the safe and spun the dial. Without a word, he ripped the phone cord out of the wall and took the phone with him. Later that evening she heard him talking with his brother in the hall outside the dressing room. “I’ve got to go out for a while, Fernando,” said César. “Keep an eye on Crystal. Make sure Tom keeps his hands out of the till, and have Ariceli hand over her tips.”
“What’s the story with Crystal?”
“I’ll be back later. We’re driving to Riverside County. I might ask Tom to come along too.”
“Why? There’s nothing out there except sand and buzzards.”
“Be a good brother. No more questions, okay?”
Five minutes later she heard his car pull out of the lot.
CHAPTER FIFTY
THE BIG UNEASY
L.A. is a magnet for people in trouble, running from trouble, or looking for trouble. No one has to look far in the blight of bars, smoky back rooms, flophouses, shabby hotels, brothels, and drug dens in the general area of Main, Hill, and Olive. Willie’s Donut Shop, a rather innocuous oasis where the flamboyant and unstraight gather, sits in the center of the bull’s-eye not far from Pershing Square.
Tonight, everyone in Willie’s is having a good time laughing and shooting the shit: drag queens, transvestites, female impersonators, sex-hustlers, and miscellaneous flotsam who defy precise definition even among themselves.
Tyrisse Covington, with her imperious cheekbones and androgynous sensuality, sits at a table with successful female impersonator, Lady Precious, who lights a lavender cigarette with a jeweled lighter from Cartier.
Some of the butt-ugly guys who masquerade as women are a little hard on the eyes, especially those with hairy ankles the size of fire hydrants and voices like fog horns, but public enmity has engendered a bond of tolerance among the city’s more colorful personalities. They flip their boas and flaunt their glitz, but instead of Mardi Gras in the Big Easy, L.A. is Carnivale in the Big Uneasy. Willie, in his scarlet beret, saw an unmarked and several black-and-whites fan out on the block. Buzz Storch crawled by in his Studebaker, peering through Willie’s window.
“Scatter!” cried Willie. “It’s a sweep.” Customers piled out the back door, pulling off wigs, kicking off high heels, rubbing lipstick off on their sleeves.
“I forgot my cigarettes,” said Tyrisse, when she and Lady Precious reached the back door. “I’ll catch up.” In the seconds it took to grab her smokes, Precious was gone, both ends of the alley were blocked, and two officers stood sentry out front. Trapped! Tyrisse scribbled a number on a matchbook and handed it to Willie, the only other person left in the shop. “Call Hallinan. Tell him to hurry. He needs to bring a gun and a camera, both loaded.”
“You think he’ll come?”
“Of course. We’re almost engaged.” Tyrisse clattered down the hall to the lady’s room, snapped off the overhead, and locked herself in a stall. Willie crouched behind the counter and dialed by the light of a match.
Storch sat in his car at the end of the alley, waiting.
* * * * * * *
The phone rang as Hallinan was headed out the door in his new jeans and Hawaiian shirt. He and Amanda had reservations at a restaurant on the coast that served tropical drinks and clam chowder in bread bowls. If he answered it, it would be a solicitor. If he didn’t, it would be Amanda.
“Hallinan here.”
“Rusty, this is Willie Camacho. Me and Miss Tyrisse are holed up in the donut shop with vice cops all over the place. She says come with a gun and a camera. If Storch gets to us before you do, we’ll be dead by the time you get here.”
Hallinan paused for no more than three seconds. “I’m on my way.” He dialed Tug’s number and explained the situation. “I gotta have backup on this one.”
“I’m taking Linda to the Crescendo, and you want me to get worked up about the queer who called me your head cock-sucker?”
There was no time to argue. He slammed down the receiver and dialed Amanda’s number. After five rings, he hung up. He bolted up the stairs, strapped on his shoulder holster, and grabbed the
Baby Brownie he’d used when he was camp counselor. He caught his reflection in the hall mirror as he headed out the door. He looked like a tourist from Iowa.
* * * * * * *
Amanda was in the shower when she heard the phone ring. By the time she picked up, the caller was gone. When she called Hallinan, there was no answer. She put on her blue silk dress and sandals with starfish buckles and pulled her ponytail into a seashell barrette. Eight o’clock came and went. By ten she knew he wasn’t coming. It was beginning to feel like the night she’d waited for Gavin. When the phone finally rang she snatched it up.
“Rusty, where are you?”
“It’s Crystal Monet. I’m in deep trouble, Amanda. I need your help. If you pick me up, I’ll tell you everything you want to know, but I have to get out of here…now.”
“Where are you?”
“In a phone booth outside Club Velvet.”
Amanda penned a hasty note for Rusty and taped it to the door on her way out. Dack stood in the shadows at the end of the walkway. As soon as Amanda drove off, he read the message she’d left for the fat cop. He ran for his car keys. He was up for a little adventure.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
THE DEEP END OF THE CITY
Black-and-whites were everywhere. Hallinan parked and showed his shield to a gray-haired officer who had taped off the end of the access alley behind the Main Street businesses. He smiled when he saw the bulge beneath Hallinan’s shirt.
“Go get ’em, boyo,” said the officer with a wink. “They’re guilty of congregating for immoral purposes.” Like drinking coffee and eating donuts? Or like the novitiates at St Joseph’s Seminary? “We’ll clean this city up yet.”
To use the word city and clean in the same sentence is the Godzilla of oxymorons. They could start with Parker’s racist and homophobic regime. Hallinan ducked beneath the yellow tape.
A paddy wagon was parked down from Willie’s behind the all-night cafeteria. Some of the occupants had mascara tears running into their five o’clock shadow and tangled wigs in their laps. Others sported black eyes and expressions of self-righteous defiance. All were handcuffed like mass murderers. “Get ’em booked and printed,” said an officer, slamming the rear door and waving the vehicle out of the alley.
When the black-and-whites thinned out, Hallinan spotted Storch’s unoccupied Studebaker at the far end of the alley. The glass panel had been broken out of Willie’s back door and unlocked from the inside. Hallinan cautiously entered the dark interior and followed the hall to the front. It was dimly illuminated by the street light at the curb.
“Willie,” he whispered. “It’s Hallinan.”
A head rose from the shadows behind the counter, Willie’s finger pointing down the hall toward the lady’s room, where a wedge of light escaped beneath the door. There was a terrified cry and the sound of a metal waste receptacle clattering across the tile floor. Hallinan took a few long strides and kicked the door in, ripping away a section of frame. The doorknob hit the wall behind it and shook the building.
Storch stood in mute shock, trousers hobbling his ankles. Miss Tyrisse was on her knees in front of him, her face battered, dress torn from neckline to waist, crystal beads from her necklace scattered across the floor. Before Storch could react, Hallinan snapped two photos that caught him with his mouth open, his pants down and his career in the toilet.
Storch went for the gun he’d set on the edge of the sink. Hallinan went for his and his hand got twisted in the folds of his shirt. Tyrisse curled into fetal position and covered her ears. In the confusion that followed, Storch grabbed his gun and drew a deadly bead on Hallinan, his face an incongruous amalgam of humiliation and victory.
As Hallinan was deciding what homily he wanted on his tombstone, a figure appeared in the doorway. Tug Boatwright, dressed to kill in an immaculate summer tux, had a serious-looking gun pointed at Storch.
“Drop the gun, pervert,” said Tug.
Storch slowly lowered the gun.
Hallinan held up his camera. “When I tack these photos to the bulletin board in the muster room, you’re going to be the most famous star in Hollywood, especially with your brothers in blue. And here we thought you were just one of the guys.” The gun wobbled in Storch’s hand as if it had become too heavy to hold.
“Drop it and hit the floor,” said Tug.
In one swift movement Storch shoved the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The red and gray splatter that decorated the wall behind the urinals resembled a Jackson Pollock painting gone seriously awry.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
THE DARK SIDE OF TOWN
When Hallinan reached The Castleton, the BMW was gone from the lot and there was a note tacked to the door.
Rusty, where were you? I’ve gone to pick up a woman named Crystal Monet at Club Velvet. She’s going to tell me what happened to Gavin.
Hallinan ran for his car. Club Velvet had gone by various names over the years, but its reputation was always the same: drugs, prostitution, gambling, loan sharking. Hardly a week went by without a fist fight, cock fight, knifing, or sexual assault. He jammed the gas pedal and the Buick flew over the asphalt like it had been shot from a cannon.
* * * * * * *
Amanda crossed the Los Angeles River. In summer it wasn’t much of a river, just an ugly concrete canal with a trickle of dingy water at the bottom. Every overpass and concrete wall was plastered with gang graffiti, the recently constructed housing projects showing signs of indifference and neglect.
Amanda turned right on Clapton, a dirt road running through a tract of undeveloped land. A sign reading Dead End lay in the weeds. After a few hundred yards the road narrowed and thick foliage closed in from both sides. She was so focused on the road that she was unaware of the vehicle following at a distance.
Up ahead she saw the lights of Club Velvet, a purple stucco building with cracked ropes of neon looping beneath the sagging eaves. Wary of jumping feet first into a foreign situation, Amanda left the car on the shoulder of the road and started walking toward the lights.
* * * * * * *
Dack followed Amanda’s car, separated by a tow truck, a Volkswagen, and a church van. The Volks turned into a driveway and the van pulled next to a storefront church. Once they’d crossed the river, Amanda began checking the street signs. When she finally turned onto Clapton, the tow truck followed at a crawl. Dack hung back a few hundred yards. The next time he saw the BMW, the tow truck driver and his sidekick were hooking it to chains and Amanda was nowhere in sight. Dack stopped and jumped out of the car.
“What the hell are you doing? I know who owns this car.”
“If she doesn’t make the payments, she doesn’t get to keep it.”
“I want to see some paperwork.”
“I have a copy of the pink slip. Come closer and I’ll shove it up your ass.”
The guy was burly. There were two of them. Dack backed off. Maybe this could work to his advantage. With her car gone, Amanda would have to depend on him to get back home. Maybe he’d finally get lucky. If not, it was time to make his own luck.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
END OF THE ROAD
Amanda stood behind an oak tree beyond the circle of light. A night wind ruffled her dress and she rubbed her arms to stay warm. It was intermission. A crowd of blue collar workers, migrants, young men in flashy zoot suits, and various sinister characters milled around the parking lot, smoking and drinking. A man occupied the phone booth where she’d expected to find Crystal.
A few heavily rouged women at the far end of the lot took turns pairing off with men, disappearing behind parked cars, and returning a few minutes later, smoothing their skirts and putting money in their bras. There was a drum roll. A light above the entrance flashed and everyone except the man in the phone booth went inside. She wanted him to finish his call so she could try Rusty’s number again.
A hand touched her shoulder. She spun around with a start.
“Amanda, it’s just me.”
“Dack! What the hell are you doing here? You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“I read your note. Your car’s been towed.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. You should have made the payments.”
“Shut up, Dack! I want you to go. I can’t think with you breathing down my neck.”
“If I leave, how will you get back?” A good point.
“If you stay, you’ll have to help. When the man in the booth gets off the phone, call Detective Hallinan.” She recited the number. “Tell him to get here as fast as he can. Then check the parking area for Crystal Monet while I check around back.”
Feeling less brave by the minute, Amanda walked down the side of the building past an overturned garbage can and followed a green light to the stage door. It was locked. She leaned against the back of the building, cold and a little scared. If she was a smoker, she’d have a cigarette, although she’d much rather have Hallinan.
Ten minutes later a man carrying a mop and bucket came through the door and walked to his truck. Before it closed, she stuck her foot in the crack and stepped inside, her heart ticking like a metronome. There were three doors opening onto the hall. She opened the one with the gold star painted on the surface. Inside was a rack of costumes, a cluttered dressing table and a woman lying motionless on a couch.
“Crystal?” she said, touching the woman’s cold, skin-and-bones shoulder. She shook her gently. “Crystal, it’s Amanda Chase.” A moan. “I’ve come to get you out of here.”
“It was so cold, I had to come in.” Her voice was barely audible.
“Have you been drugged?”
“No, I’m sick.”
If Amanda had entertained feelings of animosity or jealousy they evaporated at the sight of the suffering woman before her.
“Get up, Crystal. I’m going to get you to the hospital.”
“We have to go before César gets back. He killed Gavin and he’ll kill us too.”
