CHAPTER 10
The ringing wouldn’t stop. The pain throbbed behind his ears in time with the thumping of his heart. Alfano tried to open his eyes, but a cloth covered his face. He tried to move his arms. They felt frozen, unmovable.
“Lie still. It will only hurt more,” a voice said. A man’s voice, strong, one that had experience giving orders.
“What . . .” Alfano started to say.
“Just lie there, you’re good. Just a little more time, Detective. Try to get some sleep. That’s the best thing right now.”
Alfano wanted to say something, but the darkness dropped like a warm blanket.
✥✥✥
The next time Alfano woke up, a cool, damp cloth lay over his face. “I could use a cigarette.”
“All I got are Lucky Strikes,” the voice answered.
“They will do.”
“Feel like sitting up? Let me help.”
Alfano felt two strong hands grab his shoulders and pull him forward; he felt pillows being stuffed behind him. Then the strike of a match, the smell of sulfur, the taste of a cigarette. The cloth fell away from his face; he slowly opened his eyes.
“That guy clocked you good. Damn, you went down like a sack of potatoes.”
Alfano squinted at the owner of the voice. “You Gil Tuttle?”
“At your service, Detective.”
“Thanks, I guess. What happened?”
“Lot of balls on that guy, knocking you down in the hallway of a hotel in the middle of the afternoon. I wonder what his game is?”
“Someone sapped me?”
“Yeah, I just got off the elevator, turned the corner, and this guy whacked you on the back of the head. You dropped like the aforementioned sack. I pulled my piece, but the guy bolted—ran to the stair door and disappeared. I dragged you into the room—could see it was just a love tap, a little cracked skin—I’ve had worse. I dropped you on the bed. That was an hour ago. I thought Chicago detectives had harder heads.”
“I’ve been called stubborn, not hardheaded,” Alfano said.
“I’d say you were lucky. Not sure what that guy had in mind. Once you were down, I wonder what he was thinking of doing. He wasn’t a big guy, couldn’t have carried you down the stairs, or used the elevator.”
Alfano nodded. “Too public, too many questions.”
“Right. And he didn’t take anything. Maybe if I hadn’t showed up, he would’ve stripped you down, taken your money, your bag, maybe your pistol.”
“Just clothes. I travel light. My gun?”
Tuttle nodded toward the bedside table. “I pulled it from your holster. Nice piece; that Colt 1911 would blow a man’s arm off.”
“Chicago is a rough town.” Alfano swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pushed his feet into his shoes. Then slowly felt the back of his head. Took another drag. “That why you left?”
“Boyo, I can take rough. I can take any of it. My dah was a cop. I knew what I was getting into. McDunnah and me grew up together in Bridgeport. I spent five years on the force there.”
“He told me. Why did you leave?” Alfano slowly stood, holding onto the iron bedstead to steady himself.
“Look, Detective, I took on the gangs that prowled the city. I made my bones in those days before Prohibition, even took a bullet in a bar from a kid who believed he was immortal. The asshole wasn’t. So, I can take it and put out even more. Even got married. That’s what changed me life. I had a bunch of time saved up and used it on my honeymoon. Took the train here to California. We was married in December, just before Christmas. Fact is, we celebrated the holiday going through the Rockies, then we arrived in Los Angeles.”
Tuttle finally took a breath and handed Alfano another cigarette. “You want a little stimulant? They put a nice setup for you on the dresser there.”
Alfano, for the first time, looked around his room. A tray on the dresser held a couple bottles of bourbon, a carafe of water, and another with a yellow liquid.
“What’s that on the right?”
“Tequila.”
“Bourbon.”
Alfano shot the liquor back; it helped.
“So, me and Dora arrived in Los Angeles; it was eighty wondrous degrees. When the train pulled out of Chicago, it was fucking five below zero. Both of us decided, right then and there, to move. Now, I got a nice home, two kids, a good job on a very corrupt and racist police force. And, Detective Alfano, I am your Hollywood liaison while you are here. Didn’t think I’d have to be a nurse. Does this happen often, Detective Hardhead?”
“No. I’m usually better at seeing behind me.” Alfano looked at the alarm clock on the side table: 5:13 pm. “I have a dinner date at six. Do you want to join me?”
“You feel up to it?”
“Might help take my mind off the lump on my head. Let me take a quick bath, put on a clean shirt, and then I’ll tell you. And thanks.”
“Welcome to LA, Detective.”
At 6:00 pm, Alfano and Tuttle walked out of the elevator and into the lobby of the Georgian. Standing in the middle of the lobby, in a flowery dress and soft cap, was Gloria. She waved at Alfano and made a face that said, “. . . and who the hell is this?”
“Gloria, this is Detective Gil Tuttle with the Los Angeles Police Department. He is helping me while I’m here. Gil, this is Gloria . . .” Alfano stalled, trying to remember her last name.
“Gloria Downs,” she said, unflustered. “Detective Alfano never knew my last name, or actually my stage name. Everybody in LA has a stage name. Don’t you think so, Detective Tuttle?”
“Sometimes we call them aliases. That all depends on what or who you are trying to hide from.”
“You are kind of funny and kind of cute,” Gloria said. “Don’t you think so, Detective Alfano?”
“I wouldn’t know, Gloria. Tuttle looks like the usual Irish cop to me.”
“Before I forget, Mr. Melnik will pick you up at 9:00 am tomorrow. Here is his phone number. He said to call him when you get back to the room, anytime tonight. He will be up.”
“Thanks,” Alfano said, taking the slip of paper she held out. “Where’s this restaurant?”
“Two blocks from here. It’s on the pier. It will be loads of fun.”
Alfano could tell Gloria was disappointed that Tuttle came with him. His intuition, such as it was with women, said as much. They never mentioned to Gloria what had happened in the hotel hallway. After a couple of drinks, served in teacups, he felt himself relax.
“Prohibition? What’s it like here?” he asked Gloria.
“Well, my opinion as someone who has never had a legal drink, is that it is all a bunch of foolishness. My view, sitting here with two police officers illegally drinking, is that I am sorely sad to see this fine experiment in morality end. I dearly believe it has made American better. Don’t you think so, Detective Alfano? Hasn’t it made America better?”
“The lady is a politician,” Tuttle said. “But, of course, it’s all bullshit.”
“Oh, Detective Tuttle, how could you say that?” Gloria said, feigning indignation.
“And an actress,” Tuttle said. “Alfano, one thing you will learn here is never listen to an actor or actress. Prohibition has raised a whole new generation of criminals and led to the deaths of hundreds if not thousands of wannabe gangsters, thugs, and quick-buck artists. And that money has spread to all sorts of other dour human proclivities—gambling, drugs, and if you’ll excuse me, young lady, prostitution. And look around, the Depression has knocked this place for a loop. Half the stores in Santa Monica and across LA are shut down or close to it. Crime is rising, and I think it will only get worse. In Los Angeles, the one bright spot is the picture companies. A lot of money comes through those concerns.”
“And dreams are dreamt, and hearts broken,” Gloria said.
“There’s that, too,” Tuttle said. “Here’s to your dreams, Gloria.” He raised his teacup.
“I’m exhausted. It’s been a long two days,” A
lfano said as he stood. “Where’s home?” he said to Tuttle.
“The Los Feliz area, if the traffic’s not bad,” Tuttle said. “I’m parked on Ocean. I can be home in forty-five minutes—promised Dora I would be home tonight, and it’s still early. Gloria, I enjoyed the evening and the company. Alfano, here’s my card if you need to get me.”
“Can I have one, Detective? A girl might need a cop someday.” She winked as she smiled at Tuttle. “Detective Alfano, I’ll walk you home.”
At his car, they said goodbye to Tuttle and watched him drive up Ocean and turn onto a wide street that Gloria said was Santa Monica Boulevard. “He can follow that all the way across Los Angeles to within a few blocks of his house.”
They crossed the street, and Gloria said goodnight to Alfano. She snuggled in close and gave him a peck on the cheek. When Alfano didn’t readily respond, she said, “I guess you really are tired.”
“Gloria, you are a great kid and fun to be with, and I hope we have a few more of these dates over the next few weeks. However, I am tired—exhausted, in fact. And tomorrow will be a long day.”
She shrugged. “It’s still early though. We could have a little fun.”
“I need sleep, Gloria, not fun. I’m going to call Melnik. You go home and be a good girl.”
“LA is full of good girls . . . girls who are good at a lot of things.” Her smile was dazzling. “Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite, Detective.” She winked again.
Gloria turned, whistled loudly through her teeth, and raised her hand. A taxi pulled directly to the curb. She turned back to Alfano and smiled. “It’s on my expense account.”
He watched the taxi turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard and follow Tuttle’s route east.
As Alfano crossed through the hotel lobby, boarded the elevator, and walked down the hallway to his room, he did something he should have done earlier: he looked over his shoulder at every turn. He made it to his room unscathed and unmolested, though the thought of Gloria Downs bounced around in his head. Fun, yes; trouble, also yes. Old enough to be her father, yes.
He looked at the address card for Melnik and called the number. “Thanks for the_”
“Forget that shit,” Melnik broke in. “I’ve got a bigger problem. It has serious impacts on the production. Grab a cab, come to my house, now. I know it’s late, but Jesus, we need to talk.”
“Mr. Melnik, I’m beat. I haven’t slept for two days. What can’t wait until morning?”
“Someone sent me a photo of Kitty. She was dead, nude, on the floor—it was sickening. On the back is scribbled YOU ARE NEXT.”
CHAPTER 11
Alfano gazed wistfully at the large bed. “Well, fuck,” he said after he hung up the phone. He went to the dresser and poured an inch of bourbon into a glass and tossed it back. Out of habit, he pulled his Colt, ejected the round in the chamber, inspected the magazine, and pushed in the ejected bullet. He looked longingly at the bed again, sighed, put on his jacket, and left. It was 10:45 pm.
A yellow cab waited at the curb in front of the hotel; a woman sat in the driver’s seat.
“How long will it take to get to 1003 North Crescent Drive, Beverly Hills?” Alfano asked, reading from the scrap of paper that had Melnik’s details.
“This time of night, twenty minutes, tops,” the driver said as she pitched her cigarette out the window. “Classy, high-hat neighborhood—I’ve made a few runs up in that part of the hills in the last month. Late-night party?”
“No,” Alfano said as he pulled open the back door and slid into the seat. The driver dropped the lever on the clock and pulled away from the curb.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” she said. “Aren’t you that actor, no the director, who did that movie Wait Until the Rain? Just came out—great picture. You were great, the cast was great, that broad Sheila Linquest, she was great. Yeah, you’re that director, name is . . .”
“No, I’m not. Mind if I smoke?”
“Sure, no problem. Yeah, you certainly are. I know it.”
“I am not. In fact, I just got into LA this morning. Don’t even know the movie.”
“It was just premiered. I try to go to all of ’em—if I ain’t driving. Saw it at Grauman’s Chinese in Hollywood. Where you from? Saying you just got in?”
“Chicago.”
The driver whistled. “That’s a long train ride.”
“I flew.”
“Like in an aero-plane? Jesus Christ, really? Wouldn’t get me up in one of those, no siree. By the by, my name’s Ruby. If you need a tour guide or a driver, grab a card from the back of the seat. I’ll take you anywhere.” She craned her neck and looked back at Alfano. “I know Los Angeles like the back of my hand.”
Alfano obligingly slipped a card into his jacket pocket.
“I check my service five or six times a day; you need me, just call,” Ruby said. She looked again at Alfano. “Damn, you look just like that director; the name will come to me. What’s your line of work—banker, attorney? You look like a serious professional; I get a lot of them. Yeah, I’ll go with attorney.”
Alfano leaned back and sighed. Exhaustion, the five drinks during and since dinner, and the chatter from the cabbie was about to knock him down. “I’m a cop.”
“Well, damn. I’d never have guessed that,” Ruby said. “Local? No, wait, you said you just got in from Chicago. Must be a big case if you came out here? Big case—like in the movies? Hey, did you see Midnight Mary? All crime and gangsters and cops . . . That’s it. Damn, I knew it. You look like William Wellman, the director. Don’t I have a great memory?”
“I’m not Wellman. I am not a director. And I haven’t seen Midnight Mary.”
“Well, you should. Loretta Young, Ricardo Cortez—you will absolutely love it,” Ruby said.
Alfano rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I’m tired. I need a few minutes of shut-eye. Can you give me that? Wake me when we are almost there.”
Looking in the rearview mirror, he could see her eyes focused on his. “Sure,” she said. “It’s about fifteen minutes. That enough?”
“That will do.”
“What’s your name?”
Alfano closed his eyes. “Tony Alfano. Detective Tony Alfano.”
“A fellow wop. I knew it. Me, I’m Ruby Lombardi.”
“Ruby, a few minutes?”
“Right.”
Alfano leaned back against the seat and pulled his hat over his forehead. Even with his eyes closed, he was aware of the streetlights flashing by; the lights were mesmerizing. He faded in and out, half conscious of the rolling countryside passing below as the road wound upward, the mountains, the lights of towns eventually lost in the blackness of night, the drone of an airplane.
“We’re almost there, Detective.” Ruby’s voice startled him awake. “Two blocks.”
The soft light of streetlamps climbed up the road ahead of them, round bright dots that disappeared with the curve of the street. The taxi slowed; Ruby whistled softly. “Nice castle, Detective. This the place?”
Alfano looked through the iron gate that crossed the drive, which swept up the hill. A massive house, lit up like Christmas, filled the horizon. Ruby wasn’t far off calling it a castle.
“There’s a phone on the column over there. Maybe you have to call up to the house to open the gate?” Ruby said.
“What time is it?” Alfano asked.
“I got 11:25. Do you want me to wait? There’s no cabs this time of night up in this part of Beverly Hills. Just five bucks more to sit tight.”
“Wait. I’ll see what’s up.”
Alfano climbed out of the taxi and walked to the double gate. He saw the phone and opened the panel door in the column to use it, but when he took the phone receiver in his hand, the cord fell loose and away from the box. He heard a whistle from the taxi.
“That’s not a good sign, Detective,” Ruby observed.
Alfano went to the closed gate and pushed. The right side swung open.
&nbs
p; “That’s not good, either,” Ruby said.
“If I’m not back in ten minutes, get to a phone and call the cops. This is probably nothing, but . . .”
“I saw something like this in a movie.”
“This is not a movie, Ruby.”
“It’s beginning to feel like one, Detective.”
Alfano pushed the gate open enough to walk in, then quickly hiked up the limestone-paved drive to the front door of the mansion. Light poured out of every window; the courtyard drop-off area was lit by overhead lamps. A sleek blue Pierce-Arrow sedan was parked to one side of the turnaround. He continued up the seven marble steps to the double bronze-and-glass front door; the right-hand side was ajar about one inch. Alfano peeked through the open slot, took a step back and to one side, and pulled out his Colt. Using the toe of his shoe, he silently pushed the door open about two feet, enough to look straight into the large foyer. A small alcove sat off to the left, about ten feet ahead. He took a deep breath and slipped his way through the open doorway and quickly made his way across the checkerboard-patterned floor to the alcove. There he waited; no reaction, nothing. No sound, no radio, nothing except a methodical clicking, from the far end of the hallway, courtesy of an exceptionally tall oak grandfather clock. Working his way along the wall, Alfano slipped past the clock and into a larger room that looked out onto the backyard. The room was stuffed with gilded furniture, landscape paintings, and a massive fireplace that filled one wall. He guessed the room to be the front parlor. Beyond the French doors, the blue luminescence from the swimming pool eerily illuminated the entire deck and terrace.
Alfano made a thorough search of the ground floor and found nothing, especially no Melnik. Returning to the foyer, he regrouped. Ahead down the hallway was the kitchen, and off to one side of the hallway was a dining room that also looked out onto the pool area. He so wanted to yell out for Hines Melnik, but his detective habits muzzled him. He went to the French doors off the dining room and used his handkerchief to push down the latch. With a click, the door opened. Soft music came from a radio on the far side of the pool where an oriental tentlike structure had been erected. The fabric glowed from an incandescent light on the inside. Alfano cautiously crossed the pool deck and stopped at the tent. It sounded like someone had left a radio on somewhere just beyond the tent. Standing close to the fabric, he strained to hear the music: it was a Tommy Dorsey swing tune, and it was ending. He slowly looked around the corner of the tent; the chaise lounges near the pool were empty.
Chicago Boogie Woogie Page 7
