Chicago Boogie Woogie

by Gregory C. Randall

  Alfano stepped inside the apartment.

  “Let me think—Monday, yeah, Monday. That’s trash day. I remember the truck driving by his fancy car. As I said, he said thanks and left. Nice enough, didn’t say ten words.”

  “So you really don’t know what exactly he took?”

  “No. Weren’t my business, honey. He seemed to know all about her, had a key. But I never seen him here, not like your boyfriend here.”

  “No other police stopped? No one else looked around?”

  “No, you are the first.”

  “Thank you . . . Candy. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “You want me to come in? Maybe I can help,” Candy said.

  “No, it’s best if I go in alone to preserve the scene.”

  Candy looked impressed. Alfano smiled at her. “David, why don’t you entertain Candy while I look around.”

  David gave Alfano a pained look.

  Alfano shut the door behind him, then stood in the center of the living room and slowly took everything in. The venetian blinds were pulled down so that light slashed across the room. He peeked behind the blinds; the corner windows had iron grid frames about one foot square that gave at least some amount of security. A dark grey velvet settee, two chairs, and a coffee table filled the center of the room. A large desk and office area were off in the side corner. The kitchenette had a small range and refrigerator, a new one. The counters were clean, and neat. Kitty had cleaned up before she left for Chicago. A thin, dull grey-green carpet covered the main part of the room; a smaller matching piece lay under the desk chair. One wall had a dozen black-and-white photographs of city scenes. Alfano assumed they were from around Los Angeles. However, one, directly behind the desk, was of the Water Tower building on Michigan Avenue in Chicago.

  The bedroom was dark and unremarkable other than the bed was very large—king size, he thought they called it. The bedspread was a buff-colored chenille; three pillows were arranged against the padded headboard. The single window, also with the same iron framework, was covered with a heavy roll-down shade that cut out almost all the light. He clicked on the wall switch. A lamp on the right side of the bed filled the room with a soft aura; the shade was red silk and glowed. He went to the bedside table and looked in the drawer: some ointments, a comb, a nail file. When he pushed it closed, he noticed the drawer from the outside was about six inches thick, inside only about two inches deep. He tapped on the inside drawer bottom; it sounded hollow. He removed the drawer and overturned it on the bed. A false bottom fell out as well as four dildos made of wood and bone; maybe one was ivory, the other rubber. There were other ointments, jells, a glass container with a white substance inside, and a leather satchel about six-by-eight inches. He opened the zipper and found hypodermic needles, matches, a small candle, and a large metal spoon. A small divider held packs of more white powder in glassine envelopes.

  “You doing okay in there, honey?” Candy yelled into the apartment.

  “I’m fine, Miss Longacre. Another ten minutes.”

  After replacing everything, he pushed the drawer back into its place in the dresser. He then looked in the closet: the clothes were expensive, and elegant. He was surprised by the men’s suits, shirts, and ties, but the sizes were all petite and would have fit Kitty. The men’s shoes on the floor were stylish, well made and polished. None were larger than a six or seven; he wore a size twelve. He knew he couldn’t afford them even at their size.

  In the back of the closet, he found two small studio lamps on tripods and what looked like a tripod similar to the ones he’d seen yesterday in the Sierra Films studio. They were smaller versions of the ones in Melnik’s playroom.

  He turned to the dresser. The clothing inside the drawers was a tangled mess. At least Melnik had closed them. There was a small jewelry box on the top of the dresser. It was empty. He guessed that the asshole had looted it.

  The bathroom had also been cleaned out. Only Band-Aids, soaps of many kinds, and a large powder bowl remained. He opened the bowl and smelled the perfumed powder. He was certain she wouldn’t keep her cocaine and heroin in the bathroom; the drawer did nicely. Obviously, it worked since Melnik probably inspected the drawer but didn’t find the secret compartment.

  He went back into the living room and went through the desk. It had been rifled, most probably by Melnik. The top drawer looked as though it had been tipped, then the pencils, pens, notepads, and other miscellaneous items dumped back in. The side drawers held files. Their labels dealt with humdrum personal items, rent receipts, utilities, and taxes. If anything had been taken, it would be hard to discover what. Kitty had been an organized and neat woman.

  Alfano sat in the desk chair and looked around. He pushed back and rolled across the thin carpet. The wheels caught briefly, then again as he rolled back the other way.

  “Your time is almost up, Detective.”

  “If you walk in here, Miss Longacre, you will spend the rest of the day in a jail cell for impeding an investigation. They will love you in that outfit.”

  He heard David laugh.

  Alfano stood and pushed the chair away from the desk. He grabbed the corners of the small rug and methodically rolled it up. The oak boards of the floor under the carpet were surprisingly clean and dust free. Where the wheels of the desk chair had caught, he saw the outline of a four-wide board panel that had a nearly imperceptible gap in its seam. He took his penknife and carefully ratcheted up the panel of flooring and gently removed it. Inside the hidey-hole were a dozen six-by-six-inch film boxes, two leather-bound ledgers, another jewelry box, and a walnut-handled Colt Police Positive .32 revolver. He took his handkerchief and removed the pistol; it smelled like it had been recently fired. He checked the cylinder; four empty casings were still inside.

  He put the gun on the desk and turned his attention to the film boxes, squinting as he looked at a length of 8-mm black-and-white film. He smiled wryly. “The actors jump right in. No foreplay here,” he muttered. He placed the reel back in the box and then back in the hole. The journals were pages of shorthand notes about expenses, income, and profits—he guessed business books. He placed them back next to the film boxes, then laid the revolver back on top of the journals. He replaced the floorboard panel and rolled back the carpet. Cute Miss Kitty Hill had many secrets.

  He went to the door and opened it. David stood between the apartment door and Candy Longacre.

  “She give you any trouble, Officer?” he said with a smile to David.

  Looking a little surprised by the address, David responded, “No trouble, Detective. She was a good girl.”

  “This punk kid is a copper? Well, I’ll be diddled.”

  “That thought will stay with me all day. Thanks,” David said.

  “Miss Longacre, this apartment is a crime scene. The police will be here in about an hour. One of them will be a Detective Suarez. Do not let anyone else in. If you do, and I will know, you will be arrested for tampering with evidence. I will also see that you are arrested as an accomplice in a murder. Do you understand, Candy?”

  The robe dropped open to full retreat. David blanched. Alfano was impressed.

  CHAPTER 17

  Alfano walked back to the small table where David sat. The limo was parked at the curb just beyond the window of the diner. The midafternoon heat filled the un-air-conditioned room populated with booths and tables and few patrons. Fans spun overhead. A thin Latino girl stood over David with an order book in her hand.

  “The hamburgers are good here, Detective,” David said.

  Alfano smiled at the girl. “Burger and fries?”

  “Got it. Something to drink?” she asked.

  “Cold Coke?”

  “That is about the only thing cold today.” She smiled. “Two burgers, fries, and Cokes. Be right back.” She walked behind the counter and stuck the order slip on a steel ring and spun it toward the kitchen

  “Did you get ahold of Suarez?” David asked.

  “Told him everything.
He is sending a few of his guys to check it out.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Sadly, David, even though I temporarily promoted you from limo driver to cop, I have to keep this information to myself. There’s many interconnected moving parts.”

  “If you found something, why didn’t you take it?”

  “There are two murders: Kitty’s in Chicago and Melnik’s here. The evidence must be managed. If I took everything, it all could be questioned—assuming we arrested someone at some time. Suarez will have control over it now. We came to an agreement.”

  “Agreement?”

  “It’s a cop-to-cop thing. He’ll discover on his own what I found, no problems.”

  “You think Longacre will stay out of the apartment?”

  “If she’s smart she will, but then again, smart ain’t on the menu today. Somebody did something stupid back there, and I need to see where it leads.”

  ✥✥✥

  Alfano stood under the spacious walk-in shower in his hotel room. The only time he’d had this luxury during the last few years was at the YMCA when his apartment was being fumigated. This hotel had everything: air-conditioning, beautiful furniture, a well-appointed bathroom with a glorious shower. As he dried himself with the lush towel, trying to think of a way he could coerce his landlord into installing one in his apartment, the phone rang.

  “Alfano.”

  There was a pause, then came a woman’s voice, loud and penetrating: “Detective Alfano, Maxime Durant here. Are you free for dinner? My treat. We haven’t had much time together and the days are such chaos with the filming and all, and besides, I think we didn’t hit it off in Chicago. So, I believe we should spend some time together.”

  Alfano, standing naked in the middle of his room, said, “One second, Miss Durant.” He shook a cigarette loose from its pack and lit it. “Now, dinner, that right? Tonight? Where?”

  “Of course, tonight. I want to show you some of Los Angeles; the best restaurant is Musso and Frank Grill on Hollywood Boulevard. I have a standing table at nine. I assume you are free; I will pick you up at eight thirty?”

  “Eight thirty, I’ll be out front. You know where I’m staying?”

  “Of course, Detective. I know everything.”

  The line went dead.

  “Well, this ought to be fun,” he said to no one in particular.

  Thirty minutes later, Alfano had his shorts on and two fingers of bourbon in a glass. The phone rang, again.

  “Thanks for the heads-up, Detective,” Suarez said. “We found the hole under the floorboards and the other items you mentioned. The gun is at the lab being checked. We will see if it matches the rifling on the slug pulled from Melnik. The caliber is the same. Any idea on why the gun was stashed in Hill’s apartment?”

  “No, not now. Someone had to have a key. There was no break-in, and the windows were secure. Candy Longacre—”

  “Now that one’s a prize.”

  “Not one you want to win, Suarez. Besides, she’s such a snoop, if someone broke in, she’d have heard them. Someone could have parked in back and dropped the gun—but they would have had a key. Maybe in and out in less than a minute, and they had to know about the hidey-hole. And they’d have to be close to Kitty, real close.”

  “We are going through the journals and the films. Porn, stag films, nothing fancy, just a lot of screwing—usual stuff. A couple of the more religious guys have issues with all this. Hell, I got issues with all this, especially when two slugs are pumped into a man’s heart. You still available for dinner?”

  “Sorry, Suarez, I’ve got to break it,” Alfano said.

  “That’s okay. The wife hasn’t seen me for a couple of days. Says she misses me. Hope she’s cute.”

  “She has a way about her. She’s taking me to some joint on Hollywood Boulevard. Musso and Frank Grill.”

  “Lah-de-dah,” Suarez sang. “She’s going all out. First, she’ll ply you with liquor, then fill you with the best prime rib in LA. Anything on the dessert tray is delicious.”

  “Theirs or hers? And you know all this on a detective’s salary?”

  “I get out. This is LA, after all. The restaurant is also full of actors, writers, and other dregs of society. Some are from your part of America; some should be in jail. Be careful.”

  “Yes, Mother. Let me know what you find out about the gun.”

  ✥✥✥

  Alfano was standing at the curb when a bright yellow convertible coup, top down, skidded to a stop. Maxime Durant was at the wheel. Her dress, coat, and hat matched the car’s color. It was a new Packard and looked remarkably like the one he drove in Chicago. Aside from that, nothing else about the massive chunk of Indiana steel reminded him of Chicago.

  “Climb in, Detective. I do not want to be late.”

  Alfano did as ordered and was immediately jammed back into the seat as she accelerated.

  “I drive one of these!” he yelled over the roaring of the engine. He took a quick glance at the speedometer; it was tapping 60 mph on a city street.

  “I love it. It’s fast, comfortable, and screams, ‘Get out of my fucking way!’”

  “I don’t want dinner at the morgue.”

  “Spoilsport, you take all the fun out of being bad.” She reached over and squeezed Alfano’s upper thigh hard enough to hurt.

  Again, Alfano watched the scenery along Santa Monica Boulevard clip by. This time he noticed a few buildings that were little more than rubble piles, the debris pushed back from the sidewalk.

  “What happened to those buildings?” he yelled.

  “About six months ago, we had a big earthquake. Shook the bejesus out of the whole city; the most damage was down in Long Beach. I was working in a studio doing final scenes. It hit just as we were shutting down for the day. All sorts of lights and shit fell from the ceiling. Couple of the grips were hurt, lucky no one was killed. But right here, on Santa Monica Boulevard, a brick wall collapsed and killed a couple of people sitting in a restaurant. Fires and earthquakes, hand of God shit, that’s what you get here, Detective. Exciting, yes?”

  Alfano held tight to the edge of the windscreen. Exciting? He wasn’t sure if he’d be the next one screaming.

  “Less than fifty years ago, this was all farmland and desert,” Durant said as she wove in and out of the traffic. “We don’t get rain for months at a time, then it comes washing down the hills, and mud covers the streets. Then there are the fires, holy Jesus, the fires. Another reason I live down here in a hotel. It’s safer. Every few years, those hills burn.”

  She pointed left and waved her arm. The evening blackness had swallowed the ridgeline. A few lights danced along the face of the mountains, then the garish HOLLYWOODLAND sign dominated the skyline.

  “A couple of years back, the fires covered most of the hills up there. It was something to see, something to be fucking scared of, too. My friends lost their homes. Burnt to the rocks they were built on.”

  Alfano looked up at the dark shadow of the ridgeline. She squeezed his thigh again.

  “Ouch.” Her idea of foreplay was giving him bruises.

  “I suppose you got a nice house, maybe a wife, kids. I peg you for a family man,” Durant told him.

  The scenery outside the car changed again. Now the storefronts flew by; new buildings sat in between not-so-old buildings. People walked about; they gathered in front of restaurants, bars, and liquor stores. Like Chicago on summer evenings, music spilled out onto the sidewalks. A record store had set up speakers near the door. The Mexican versions of jazz filled the street. As they waited at one of the infrequent stoplights, Alfano watched what young couples did everywhere: dance to the music.

  At the next light, he answered, “No wife, no family. Close a few times, but no cigar. Where are you from? Nobody I’ve met is from Los Angeles.”

  “Lover, I came about as far as you can get in these here United States,” Durant said. Her accent shifted from bland, toneless Angelino to a thick Brooklyn accen
t. A nasal sound he knew well from criminals that had moved on from New York and made Chicago their new haunt.

  “I ain’t saying anything no one knows here, but my mother, a dearly sainted Irish girl, got knocked up by a big, brawling, dues-paying Brooklyn Jew,” Durant told him. “He honorably married her—I’m sure my grandfather put a gun to his head. They named me Hildegard Karpinski. I have two younger brothers. They are still in Brooklyn, work at a bank. Mom is well; Dad was killed in the war. I did some stage work in New York. Melnik saw me nine years ago. He offered me a contract, I came here, and have no desire to go back. I’m having a good time and making a few bucks.”

  Until they reached the next light, it was impossible to talk over the roar of the wind and the motor.

  “So Melnik’s death hit you hard,” Alfano said at the stop.

  “Yeah, I guess it did. He was no saint, I’ll tell you that. I understand you found his body. You’ve seen his place—his playroom, as he called it. There are few secrets in this town, but everyone knows to keep their lips tight. We all have secrets, and we think we can keep them hidden. We also know, at the right time, they are as negotiable as a bank bond or a quickie. Melnik was okay. He wasn’t as kinky as many in this town, kept to his side of the road. Sure, some of his parties got out of hand; they often do up there in the hills.”

  She followed Alfano’s gaze out the window toward the dark hills. “Lover, if those hills could talk, the stories they could tell,” she said.

  CHAPTER 18

  They drove another ten minutes in silence, then Durant turned north to Hollywood Boulevard and made a right and then a U-turn in the middle of the street, forcing oncoming traffic to slam on their brakes. She pulled to an abrupt stop right at the curb. Two valets jogged to the car.

  “Good evening, Miss Durant,” one of the young men said, helping her from the car. The other valet opened the door for Alfano; he got out on his own.

  “Freddie, would you be a dear and wipe her down. We’ll be a few hours,” Durant said.