Golden Throat

by James P. Alsphert

  Honey looked at Joe Lorena. “This is what you work with every day?”

  “Except Jack doesn’t usually drink much. I think he’s celebrating your success, Honey. This is unusual for him.”

  “Well, I hope he never takes me seriously when I say I’m so mad at someone I could kill ‘em!”

  We both laughed. “Just don’t say it around him,” I chuckled. “Life, death, rape, murder, torture—all the same to these guys, right Joe?”

  Lorena gave me a hard look. “Well, Cable, not exactly. It’s that by necessity the syndicate has to have a different set of standards. Society operates on certain assumptions because it is programmed that way—”

  “—the most honest thing I ever heard you say. Yeah, the public is programmed about good and bad, right or wrong, work hard to support the roof over your head and you might go to Heaven—”

  “—Boys! boys! It’s my birthday! Let me pick the subjects we can get bored about. Hmmm….let me see…what about children?” A sudden wet blanket fell over me. She leaned towards Joe. “You say you’ve improved your success rate for survival with the method of implantation and going to full-term birth?”

  Joe looked at me and then back to Honey. “Yes, Honey. We’re near one-hundred percent these days.”

  “So, correct me if I’m wrong, Joe—but are you saying there’s this ongoing process of you alien guys interbreeding with non-alien, human babes? So that on the street, we never know who we’re gonna meet?”

  “Yes, Cable, that’s about it. How else are we going to elevate the state of consciousness for humans?”

  “Oh, I just thought that maybe good old Mother Nature takes care of things like that in time. Ha! Maybe I’m just old fashioned, huh? But I wouldn’t go around talking this alien stuff around Dragna and his bunch—they might take things personally, consigliere,” I said with a lacing of sarcasm on my voice.

  “So—I’ve had just enough to drink to be open minded to this process. I’d love to have Cable’s baby—as ornery and cantankerous as he can be—maybe we can filter out those traits, huh?” We all laughed.

  “We can do it, Honey,” Joe assured her. “You know by now, I would never risk you as I did your mother. You’ll have the healthiest baby on the block—no…make that in town!”

  “Oh, Joe, if it were really true—I’d have to really talk it over with this old cop sitting next to us—but I’d do it—I would!”

  “I know we’ve got a day off tomorrow, but how about moseying our way home, Honey bun?” I said, feeling a little tired.

  “He just wants sex, I can tell by that tone of voice,” Honey quipped.

  Joe laughed. “Well, enjoy your youth whilst you may. Which reminds me...if you’ll follow me outside, Honey, I have a little birthday present for you.”

  “That big, huh?” She got up and Joe led us out into the parking lot. There, guarded over by one of Dragna’s henchmen, stood one of the best looking automobiles I’d ever seen.

  “Happy birthday, Honey,” Joe Lorena said as he hugged his daughter.

  Honey stood there stunned. It was a rich green with lots of chrome including the spoke wheels and the ‘boy Adonis’ hood ornament…the top down revealed a nice tan interior. “Joe! No—I can’t—I can’t accept this—no one’s ever given me something like this—I’m—”

  “—it’s all yours, Honey. A 1929 Packard Roadster just waiting to take you anywhere you want to go—a magic buggy, this one! I think it suits you to a T.”

  “That was really swell of you, Joe,” I said. “I was beginning to worry about Honey taking the streetcar home after work. Now—zip! your world’s about to change, little darlin’.”

  Honey ran over to me and threw her arms around me. “Cable! My very own car!” Then she ran back and hugged Joe again. “This is my biggest and best birthday ever! What woman do you know is this lucky—a loving, generous fiancé, a loving, generous Dad—how did I manage that?”

  Joe Lorena ceremoniously gave Honey the keys, and he and the goon walked over to the waiting sedan. Honey watched Joe Lorena walk away into the night. Well, there we were driving home to Honey’s bungalow in her brand spankin’ new Packard Roadster. “Damn, Cable…who would ever have thought my life would go this way? Do you feel you might like him more now? I know I do.”

  “Because he gave you a car? I don’t base my likes or dislikes on things, Honey, you know that. I’ve told you how I feel. Your Dad will always be a hoodlum’s mouthpiece as far as I’m concerned. But I won’t interfere with your relationship with him or throw a wet blanket on it. Just don’t ask me to laugh and puff smoke rings up into the air over a few glasses of champagne when he comes for dinner.”

  I could tell Honey felt disappointed. For her it must have felt like a kind of fatalistic déjà vu, living this moment all over again. And who knows, the layers buried in us might very well pass beyond that dark ecstasy that psychopaths and the truly insane experience. Who knows where and when that line is crossed, when that euphoric numbness allows us to overcome all moral and ethical concerns, so when we smile over the bassinet, chopping off all the limbs of a baby, we can wink at the devil and say it out loud, “I’d kill anyone for you…”

  Chapter 14

  MURDER IS A LONELY PLACE

  By the end of May, Honey and I were doing really great. May 16th was the first year Hollywood patted itself on the back with the First Annual Academy Awards presentations held at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel and hosted by none other than good ol’ Doug Fairbanks. The Lana Loren thing seemed to fade away for Honey and the world of film, in light of her fabulous success as a song stylist extraordinaire. We had actually discussed Joe Lorena’s offer to have a baby by implantation and bring it to full term using the aliens’ advanced facility. Honey seemed to bloom in her career and she increasingly appeared as a guest singer on radio shows. The Bella Notte continued to be her musical career headquarters and her audience draw was right up there with the best. Even East Coaster Al Jolson came in one night to see and hear Honey. He was so impressed with her, that he gave her a personally autographed copy of a recent hit of his entitled, Sonny Boy. He left her with the advice, so she told me, that if she sang that song to her favorite guy, he’d never leave her.

  Despite all my willpower, I could not stem the tide of passion I felt for Adora Moreno. Willing to take a back seat to my busy personal life, she would call me late at night or come rapping at my door in the early evening when she knew I would be in my apartment and not at Honey’s. I knew that after December, our late-night liaisons would have to come to an end as Honey and I intended to rent a house of our own until we could afford to buy one. It already hurt me somewhere inside to know I may never again hold that winsome Latina in my arms and feel her womanly surrender as we were both swept into the whirlpool of our desires for one another.

  I was barely hanging on by a fingernail in the police force. My new rookie, Davie Spivak, was working out okay but I knew he’d always be a so-so flatfoot, there to get by, and look the other way when he was supposed to and if he stayed with the force, would end up dead in the street or farmed out in old age to a tiny cracker box of a house with a wife and a couple of kids. Our current police chief Davis marked me out for a new patrol assignment, which would begin in June, 1929. It was called the Dragnet system and cops were supposed to keep their eyes on cops. Davis wanted to reign in “the lawless streets of Los Angeles,” created by goons like Jack Dragna and his kind. But as long as crime paid on both sides of the law, a lot of the corruption would continue on under the heading, “business as usual.”

  And that’s what griped Mario, and worried me most. The department had given him a full thirty-day paid leave of absence, and when he returned, the powers that be never again paired the two of us together as a patrol team. Instead, they stuck Mario in the properties processing department downstairs. Mario was a burly, outdoor type of guy and stuck behind a birdcage all day drove him nuts. But that wasn’t what worried me. H
e had been compiling more and more subversive material to lower the boom on the idiots who ran things downtown, including the mayor. That worried me. By the time he had called me in to join forces with him, it had all gone too far and without my knowledge, he had submitted a tell-all article to the Los Angeles Times, a rag run by a guy named Harry Chandler. It was no surprise when Chandler panicked and let City Hall know they had a rat among them, one of their own who had written an exposé against the police force, an indictment against the other rats who ran downtown—and lots of name-throwing levied against the large ring of organized crime that ran everything else. I knew in a minute it would not go well for Mario. Within hours Chief Davis had sent a couple of tough cops over and arrested Mario.

  He seemed prepared for this move and had a sharp but crooked attorney spring him within eight hours. Milton Silverstein then conveniently disappeared behind a rock before the shooting started. Chief Davis ordered Mario to appear before him and had him resign on the spot. Mario was crushed, for as long as he held a position on the force, he felt he had some clout and therefore a platform to bring his gripes. But nobody saw it that way, least of all the police department.

  Now my lifetime buddy was being thrown onto the rocks below, and for the time being, suspended as a man without a country—or a job. It’s a funny thing about breaking out of the norm, or the accepted and established authority that somehow nobody agreed to initiate but everyone kowtowed to once it was in place. Now Mario faced the loneliest road in the world, the outcast in search of truth and justice.

  It was Wednesday and I started looking for Mario as soon as I got off work. I called Rosalie and her voice trembled when she told me Mario was going to stay with an uncle in Glendale. She also informed me Mario had told her the newspaper publisher had betrayed him and alerted the unhappy recipients of Mario’s written wrath. But he wasn’t through yet, she said, and he was going to a couple of radio news agencies to spill his beans. Desperate to stop Mario before he did more harm to himself, I called Honey to give me Joe Lorena’s phone number. When I finally reached him and told him my predicament, his voice stayed calm. “I don’t think you can help your friend, Cable. Bow out of it now. News travels fast and Chandler’s pretty close to city hall and big business supports the newspaper. He’s out of the crime syndicate loop, but he’s got a few cops in his pocket just in case.”

  “So, Joe, what can I do? Can I get him out of town and make sure he doesn’t come back for a while? He’s a damn good cop, maybe he can get a patrol post in another city.”

  “More likely another state, Cable. He’s through in California. In my profession he’s called a songbird, and nobody likes men who tell tales they shouldn’t. If you know where he is, I’d get him out of town in the dark of night as soon as possible. Good luck.” He hung up.

  I rushed over to Honey’s to borrow her Packard. She tossed the keys at me and told me to be careful. I sped out to the address Mario’s wife had given me for Mario’s Uncle Sesto. 1514 Gardena avenue off of South Central Avenue was near the train station and looked like a cigar box someone had tossed onto a lot. Weeds were grown up over the fence, a half-dead oak tree hung over the roof and the stairs were so rickety I had to step lively not to fall through. I knocked on the front door. Nothing. I pushed on the door. It was open. I drew my .38 and entered slowly. The room smelled of garlic and old coal oil. It appeared Uncle Sesto was not the richest man in the neighborhood. I flipped on a light switch. There on the kitchen floor lay an old man with blood mingled with his receding silver hair. “Sesto—Sesto Angelo!" I bent down to check him out. "Can you hear me, man?”

  “Ay, Mario—il povero ragazzo—you…musta….’elpa him…”

  “Yeah, I would if I knew where he was. Who hit you?” I propped him up against his stove. “I need to find Mario pronto, Sesto. His life may be in danger—if it’s not too late already.”

  “Assassini arresto—aiuto me!”

  I cranked the phone on the wall and asked for police assistance. I talked to a desk sergeant I knew and told him to send someone out to Sesto’s. I didn’t mention Mario or his predicament in order to avoid stirring the pot any more than it had been already. I picked old Sesto up off the floor, gave him a glass of Chianti and left him in an over-stuffed chair that looked like it came from the local dump. Where to now?

  I raced back to Honey’s because I knew she needed her car later that night to go to work. Zelda answered the door. “Cable! You look terrible—and you’ve got blood all over your hands—did you kill someone?”

  “No, Zelda, but someone is about to be killed if I don’t get to him first.”

  “Oh, gees! Is there anything I can do?”

  Just then Honey came out in a slip and her hair in curlers. “No luck, darling? Oh! I hope that’s not Mario’s blood…”

  “No, but the next batch could be.” I went over to the sink to wash my hands. Honey and Zelda followed. “This red stuff belongs to Sesto Angelo, the uncle I went out to Glendale to see. Remind me, let’s not settle anywhere near South Central Avenue. All that’s missing are the hogs.”

  “So what’s next, Cable?” Zelda asked. “I’m a pretty good bird dog, maybe I can come along and help?”

  “I don’t think so, Zelda, thanks all the same.”

  “No, really, I’m very good at sleuthing—it’s like tracing the reasons for sick plants. I always find the culprit.”

  Honey started down the hallway. “Come in to my bedroom, Mr. Handsome, before you say good-bye.”

  I dried my hands and walked into Honey’s bedroom. “Thanks for the use of your car. That Packard drives like she has a dozen horses under her.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having one man under me just about now.” She lowered her slip to bare her wonderful, full breasts. “How about a quickie to take the edge off, Mister?”

  “Damn, Honey, I’d like to—but if I don’t find Mario before it’s too late—I’ll—I’ll never forgive myself.”

  She pulled her slip back up. “I understand. I’m sorry. I just felt playful, that’s all. I can only guess how you feel about Mario, childhood friends and all—and those years on the force together. What are you going to do, Cable? You can drop me off and take my car later, if you want.”

  “No, babe, that’s a couple of hours from now. The only thing I can do right now, is to try and get a hold of Crazy Jack—he’s the guy that warned me about both of you, remember?”

  “So, far none of it’s come true. I wouldn’t put too much stock in a bum who smells bad, lives in skid row and has a very nervous tic in his head.”

  I got a little pissed at Honey. “He’s still one of my friends, Honey. Such as they are, they’re real and dependable—and that’s a hell of a lot more than I can say about the majority of the so-called ‘okay’ people who roam our streets and eat at fine restaurants.”

  “I’m sorry, Cable. Go…find your friend. Please be careful and let me know at least something tonight after I get home, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.” I started to dart out of the house and Zelda grabbed my arm.

  “Please, Cable? I know I can help you. Give me a chance. I just love mysteries. Lost friends are even more fun.”

  Against my better judgment I nodded my head. “Alright, get a sweater and let’s go. But if you’re no help in exactly an hour, I’m sending you back home, agreed?”

  Honey peeked around the corner. “Zelda…do you really know what you’re doing? This man is relentless—and crazy--until he gets his way or gets to the bottom of things.”

  “I wish I had a man like, I mean, a relentless man who wants his way with me.” Zelda looked at me. “Ever since our wonderful dancing date, I’ve been looking for someone to ask out. But all they want to do is drink—I mean, get me drunk—and then you know what…”

  I grabbed Zelda’s hand and we left, lickety-split for the streetcar line.

  By the time we got downtown to the seedier parts near skid row, Zelda took my arm and he
ld on tight. “Gees, Cable, these are the places where you hang out?”

  “Yep. A cop’s work takes him everywhere, kid. From million dollar skyscrapers to—to this, the jumping off place where humanity toils in the debris like grubs. Take a good look.”

  “Ooooo! I really don’t want to. I’ve been sort of protected and spoiled most of my life. Poverty and filth like this---oooo! It gives me the creeps!”

  We walked up the rickety stairs to Crazy Jack’s fourth floor digs. I knocked. “No! No! I don’t know! I don’t know! Who—who….?”

  “It’s me, Jack, Cable…let me in, I need to talk to you pronto.”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know! The photes are coming! You bring the photes? They come now…soon…big…photes—but I don’t know!”

  “Jack—just open the damned door. I’ve got some smokes for you.”

  He opened the door. “Cigarette! Cigarette!” Then he glanced at Zelda who was staring wide-eyed at Crazy Jack through her glasses. I handed Jack a cigarette, lit it up for him and tucked the rest of the pack in his coat pocket as I always did. “Not Honey-color girl—ohhh……ohhhh…” He started rocking back and forth. “Oh….help her, go get her safe—she full of danger—but I don’t know! I don’t know!”

  “Well, Crazy Jack, so far Honey’s really been scoring big at the club. I don’t see any danger for her there. At least for the present. But you know my cop friend, Mario Angelo—he’s in deep shit and I need to find him. Can you help?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know!” Jack puffed wildly on his cigarette. “Friend die, desert heat…oh, Crazy Jack hurt in head—friend get dead! But I don’t know! I don’t know!”

  In the meantime, Zelda had been taking all of this conversation in with an attitude somewhere between fear and curiosity. “Oh, by the way, Jack, this is Zelda, she’s Honey’s roommate. Thought she’d like to come along and see where you live.”