Chicago Boogie Woogie

by Gregory C. Randall

  A radio voice said: “And tonight, brought live and direct to you from the Apex Club on Central Avenue, we have a special presentation of Los Angeles jazz. We are open until three o’clock, brothers and sisters. Why don’t you come on down and enjoy the Avenue? It’s a great night for a stroll.”

  Alfano clicked off the safety on his Colt, then raised the weapon and guardedly looked around the rest of the terrace. He circled the pool. Nothing. The radio began playing another Dorsey tune.

  He went back into the house and headed up the circular stairway that spiraled its way upward from the foyer. He stopped at the landing on the second floor. The hallway split and went left and right. A thick, light beige runner laid over the oak parquet flooring crossed the stairs and down hallways that headed left and right; the carpet going left was clean, the right carpet had the faint outlines of dark footprints, in two distinct sizes. They led to a room on the left, the side facing the pool; the door was open.

  As he had done downstairs, Alfano walked along the thin strip of wood flooring that paralleled the runner, the footprints leading the way. He stopped at the open door to the first room. He took a chance and quickly looked in, then stepped back. What he’d seen was an office with a large desk, chairs, bright lamps, bookshelves, a far wall of windows, the blue light from the pool below, and what looked like a man’s body sprawled in the middle of the room.

  He entered, holding close to the doorframe. The office was cluttered; stacks of papers and books filled every tabletop and horizontal surface. There were a dozen oil paintings on the walls, and movie posters flanked the doorway he’d just come through. A baby grand piano took up one corner of the large room. On the far wall, to the right, a large door hung on its hinges. It was the door to an open and empty safe.

  Alfano went to the body. The man lay on his back, his chest soaked with blood. What looked like two holes were punched through the fabric of his elegant white silk shirt. Blood covered everything; a large pool extended outward from the body and across the oak floor in all directions. It stopped where it met the edge of an oriental carpet. Alfano placed his fingers against the neck of Hines Melnik. Nothing. Then he stepped back, his gaze taking in the entire room. Three glasses sat on the top of the desk—two were empty, one contained about an inch of gold-colored liquid in the bottom. A bottle of bourbon, two-thirds empty, sat next to the glasses. A bottle of champagne sat in a silver bucket, water beads on its exterior. He crossed the room, looked in the safe, and confirmed it was indeed empty. Papers were scattered on the floor outside the safe. They looked like legal documents; one lying faceup read Will at the header. There were two empty watch boxes, one printed with the jewelry firm name Laykin et Cie. No money, bonds, or other negotiable paper. On his mental list of what happened, Alfano posted the first obvious thought: robbery.

  His second thought was the similarity to the Kitty Hill killing: body in the center of the room, two bullets to the chest. Unlike the Hill murder, where all the doors were locked, Melnik was fully dressed and the house was as open as a church on Sunday.

  Alfano decided not to use the phone on the desk. He remembered seeing a phone box hanging on the wall near the double doors in the dining room. He went back down the stairs to the terrace and removed a business card from his pocket. He dialed.

  “Gil? Tony Alfano here. Sorry for the late call. I got a situation here. Is Beverly Hills in your jurisdiction?”

  “No, it has its own police force,” Gil Tuttle said.

  “Well, I got a male body here at a house on North Crescent Avenue. Looks like gunshots to the chest, killed in the last hour.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “Yeah, my meal ticket.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Alfano watched the lady cab driver walk up the dead man’s driveway. He’d forgotten about her. She walked over to where he stood at the foot of the marble entry steps talking to Gil Tuttle.

  “Do you want me to hang around? Your fare’s been adding up,” she said and pointed over her shoulder. “It’s been almost an hour, and people are starting to gather out there.”

  Seeing her really for the first time in the blare of lights from the house, he was impressed. Her brunette hair was hiked up under her cabbie’s hat, the starched blouse she wore was well fortified, and her dark eyes didn’t look too bad over the small nose and newly lacquered lips.

  “Jesus, you’re still here,” he said belatedly.

  “Detective, you said to wait, I waited. Now there seems to be a party, and you didn’t invite me. Nonetheless, I still need my fare paid and you did promise me a five spot.”

  Alfano nodded but made no move to reach for his wallet. His mind was still on Melnik and the bloody scene inside the mansion.

  “What the hell happened?” the cabbie continued. “The whole Beverly Hills police force is out there, and nobody is saying nothing. One flatfoot questioned me about why I was sitting out front waiting. I told them I was waiting for a cop. They said it wasn’t funny. Then you came out, and they let me come up to see if you’re ready to go.”

  “Gil, this is my driver, Miss Ruby . . . ?”

  “Lombardi,” she reminded him.

  “Lombardi,” Alfano repeated. He usually would have remembered. “She was my ride here,” he said unnecessarily to Tuttle.

  “And the detective still owes me my fare—and five clams. Don’t you, honey?”

  Two men in suits walked out the front door and down the steps to Alfano and Tuttle. The first was medium height, slicked-back black hair, smart suit, polished shoes. He sported a thin mustache that accented his dark complexion. A gold shield hung on the pocket of his vest. Alfano’s first thought a half hour earlier had been that this guy would have made a good movie cop. To keep the universe in balance, the second guy was the direct opposite. Short, creased face; everything about the guy, including his suit with mismatched pants, was scuffed. His shoes were well worn and dull. A cigarette hung limply from his lips.

  “Alfano, who’s this?” the first detective asked.

  “Detective Tuttle, Los Angeles Police,” Alfano answered. “He’s the guy who called you.”

  Detective Dominic Suarez was the lead detective with the Beverly Hills Police. His scruffy backup was veteran Buddy Loomis. Alfano was waiting for them at the top step of the marble steps when they arrived. He introduced himself and told them why he was there.

  “Glad to see you two have met,” Tuttle said.

  “Who’s this?” Suarez asked, looking at Lombardi.

  “I’m the one who is wondering if he’s gonna pay me,” Ruby said.

  “Beat it, sister,” Loomis said.

  “I leave when I’m paid, buddy.”

  “How’d you know my name?”

  “What name?”

  “Buddy.”

  “Your name is Buddy? Damn weird,” Ruby said.

  “That’s enough, Loomis,” Suarez said. He looked at Lombardi. “Why don’t you wait out by your cab? I might have a few questions for you.”

  “Ruby, hang in here for a few more minutes,” Alfano said. “I’ll make it worth your wait.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ve heard that before.”

  “Please wait. I’ll be there shortly,” Alfano said. As Ruby walked back down the drive, Alfano turned to Suarez.

  “A little out of your jurisdiction, ain’tcha, Alfano?” Loomis said. He crushed his cigarette on the driveway.

  Alfano looked at the scuffed-out butt and shook his head.

  “Cool it, Buddy. And welcome to Los Angeles, Detective,” Suarez said, getting around to niceties. “The first patrolman on the scene said you found the body. That true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you call Beverly Hills Police?”

  “Detective, I haven’t a clue where the hell I am right now. Gil Tuttle here was and is the only person I know in this whole fucking town. I called him; he called you guys. I hung around. Professional courtesy, you might say.”

  “That a crack?” Loo
mis said.

  “Really, Buddy? Cool it. I understand where he’s coming from,” Suarez said. “Why were you here?”

  “The dead guy, Hines Melnik, invited me out here to Los Angeles as a technical advisor for his next movie, a cop picture. I flew in today. Tonight, after dinner, I called Melnik from my hotel, the Georgian in Santa Monica. That was ten thirty-five. I was told by the woman who picked me up at the airport that Melnik was going to meet me at the hotel at nine tomorrow morning.”

  “Her name?” Loomis said, making notes in a notebook.

  “Gloria Downs.”

  “Then why the call?”

  “I was told to call him to confirm the pickup. Melnik told me that someone was trying to blackmail him. He was upset and wanted me to come over to his house tonight.”

  “This was when?” Suarez asked.

  “As I said, ten thirty-five. I caught a taxi out front of the hotel about ten minutes later. The doorman there will confirm that. And Ruby, down there in the yellow taxi, will give you the same story. I came here. It was eleven twenty-five when I went through the gate.”

  “How do you know what time it was?” Loomis said, scribbling.

  “I asked Ruby . . . Detective Loomis,” Alfano said.

  For the next few minutes, Alfano went through the entire process of entering the house and then finding the body. The one small detail he left out, for now, was the comment that Melnik made about a photograph, the photo of Kitty Hill. A photo that he didn’t find.

  “Then I came outside to wait for you guys. The first cops arrived about twenty minutes after I hung up with Detective Tuttle.”

  “It took twenty minutes for your guys to get here?” Tuttle said to Suarez. “Good God, I hope I don’t get mugged in this town.”

  “It was late. It’s Thursday, slow,” Suarez said. “There were only four patrolmen out, and they were down on Wilshire, a problem at a bar—drunks. How long are you in town, Detective?”

  “With Mr. Melnik’s unfortunate death, I’ll probably head back to Chicago in a day or two. No reason for me to stay here.”

  A uniformed patrolman came out the front door and walked down to the foursome.

  “Yes, Smith. What do you need?” Suarez said.

  “We found something you might want to see.”

  “And what’s that?” Loomis said.

  “You have to see this for yourself, Detective.”

  “Lead on.”

  “May I tag along?” Alfano asked.

  “Sure, what the hell? After all, it’s your party,” Suarez answered.

  They followed the patrolman up to the front door, then stopped and backed away as two men in white coats carried a stretcher with Melnik’s body through the door. Another older man followed; when they cleared the door, the older man took Detective Suarez off to one side. They talked for a moment, and then Suarez returned to where Alfano, Tuttle, and Loomis waited.

  “The coroner will perform the autopsy in the morning,” Suarez said. “We will know more then. Preliminary report is lead poisoning.”

  “Bada boom,” Alfano said unsmilingly.

  They followed the patrolman back into the house and proceeded through its labyrinthian hallways to the far back. A door at the end of the hall stood open. Another patrolman stood outside the door.

  They could smell the room as they gathered together just inside. Alfano had lost count of the bordellos he’d been in during his career. Some had been nothing more than stink holes made all the worse by unwashed sheets, beds, and the collective sweat of johns and hookers. Others were high-class, even elegant. The smells of lilacs and sex mingled together. This room said lilacs, sex, and film production. A large bed with satin sheets and fluffed pillows was against one wall. Nice pictures hung on the walls, and the furniture was contemporary. What took the romance out of the scene were the two movie cameras on tripod stands, both on wheels. Lights hung from the ceiling on brackets, others were mounted on stands. Folding chairs were set up behind the cameras, and electrical cords snaked across the floor. On a bench were two handheld cameras; boxes of film were stacked on shelves. On the far side, beyond the cameras on their tripods, was a dressing area with a cloth curtain.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Suarez said. “This is a first.”

  “For Beverly Hills, maybe,” Tuttle said. “We’ve rousted a bunch of these over the last three years, mostly in the Valley. One of the seedier sides of the movie business.”

  “Valley?” Alfano said.

  “The San Fernando Valley, over the mountain behind us. There are moving picture firms there as well, and pornography seems to just fit in nicely. Right now, there’s a never-ending supply of girls, guys, and experienced cameramen. Stag films are big moneymakers. They pay well if you’re an unemployed actor.”

  “We pick up a few cans of film during raids in Chicago,” Alfano said. “But they go out the door as fast as they come in. The market is never satisfied.”

  “This one looks to be high-class,” Suarez said, giving voice to Alfano’s earlier thoughts.

  “Better than most,” Tuttle said. “Some are just downright disgusting. Is this the reason Melnik might have been killed?”

  “It does throw a twist into the killing,” Suarez said.

  “It certainly does,” Alfano said.

  CHAPTER 13

  The phone on the bedside table rang three times before Alfano pulled the receiver off the cradle.

  “Who the hell is this?” Alfano mumbled.

  “It’s me, Gloria. I’m downstairs, and you are late. Not really, except that Mr. Melnik changed the time to seven. He said he would tell you that when he talked to you. I’m sorry, but David is waiting. We need to go.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Five till.”

  The fog was clearing from Alfano’s head. “Melnik said for you to pick me up?”

  “Yes, he changed it last night. We need to get going. I can’t be late.”

  “I’ll be down in fifteen minutes,” Alfano said. He dropped the receiver back onto the phone, slowly extracted himself from between the sheets, and wandered into the bathroom. After the usual morning rituals, he dressed, slipped his pistol into its holster, and took the elevator. He walked into the lobby at 7:20 a.m. The one thing that nagged him was the way Gloria was acting. Obviously, she did not know about her boss’s untimely demise.

  “Good morning, Detective. The car is out front,” Gloria said, a bit too chipper for Alfano this early.

  “I am going into the restaurant to have breakfast and coffee, then we can go.”

  “That is impossible—we are already late. Mr. Melnik insisted that you be there well before eight. We can just make it. There will be food there.”

  Alfano took a deep breath, then turned and headed into the restaurant.

  “Detective, please, I need this job.”

  Alfano raised his hand and waggled a finger in a follow-me motion. He took a seat in the nearly empty restaurant that overlooked Ocean Boulevard. The morning marine haze obscured any view of the Pacific Ocean. Beyond the edge of the cliff that overhung the beach, the rooftops of the buildings on the pier were just visible.

  “For Christ’s sake, Detective, help me out here, please,” Gloria said as she followed him to the table.

  He pointed to the chair opposite his. “Sit.” He looked at the waitress walking toward their table. “Coffee, please—two.”

  Gloria looked around as if hoping to find something that would make Alfano understand her predicament.

  “Sit,” Alfano repeated.

  She sat.

  Alfano looked her over. She was dressed in a loose-fitting cotton dress, a string of large faux pearls, her hair was neat and nicely cut, and she wore a comfortable-looking summer hat. For a girl who lived hand to mouth, she looked very good. Two different outfits in two days? Yes, she spent her money wisely, he thought, and she cared for herself.

  “Detective Alfano, I understand, I really do, but they usually have a sp
read of food at the studio, even eggs sometimes. You could eat there, and I will have done my job and kept my job.”

  “And your job is exactly what?” Alfano asked as he watched his coffee cup being filled.

  “To get you to the studio on time. If I’m there, I have a better chance to get picked for a cast role or even a walk-on part. In this town, it’s all about opportunity and being in the right place at the right time. I believe I have Mr. Melnik’s eye and trust. Maybe I can make something of this.”

  The waitress came to stand next to the table, a small pad in her hand.

  “Simple. I’ll have bacon and eggs, over hard. And wheat toast. Gloria?”

  “Detective, please.”

  “She will have the same thing. Thanks.”

  The waitress walked away.

  Alfano looked directly at Gloria. “What did you do after you left me last night?”

  Gloria’s back stiffened. “I caught that cab and went directly home.”

  “What time did you get home?”

  Gloria thought for about ten seconds. “I walked into my apartment building around nine thirty. You didn’t want me to hang around . . . if you remember. I called Mr. Melnik from the hallway phone as soon as I got home. He asked about you. I told him you’d call. That’s when he told me to pick you up earlier, so I called David and told him the new time. Didn’t Mr. Melnik tell you all that?”

  “Did Melnick seem anxious, concerned?”

  “About what? But yes, he wasn’t his usual talkative self.”

  “Did you talk to anyone else about what you did yesterday?” Alfano asked.

  “No, I went to my apartment, opened a bottle of wine, and took a bath.”