Chicago Boogie Woogie

by Gregory C. Randall

  “From what you just said, they got even,” Durant answered. That brought a laugh from the others.

  “See that, Roberts?” J.J. said. “See Alfano’s passion, that commitment—that’s what I want from you. You are the leader of your men. You don’t just carry the sword of justice—sometimes it’s the sword of vengeance. I want that when you are driving your officers, especially just before the scene when you break into the church where the hostages are held. You are God’s instrument.”

  “Really, J.J.?” Durant said.

  The director was unfazed. “You, sister, need to stop going through the motions,” he told Durant. “You are the reason that our detective is hesitant. He loves you, but you don’t love him back. He knows it, and you’re making him think twice about leading the attack. For him, it’s all or nothing. His reputation is on the line.”

  “Well, fuck, J.J.,” Roberts said. “I get it, really. Thanks, Tony. I get it now.”

  Alfano looked at Roberts; he wasn’t sure, but there was something a little off about Adam Roberts.

  David Baine was waiting on what was called Main Street within the studio’s complex of buildings and trailers. The street roughly divided the complex in two. He waved to Alfano as the detective left the building.

  “Need a lift? I’m free this evening,” David said.

  “I’m running on empty. Tell you what, give me a ride back to the hotel. Then go have the afternoon to yourself. Pick me up at five. I want to see downtown LA and a few places on a street called Central Avenue. I was told there’s good music there.”

  “You won’t exactly fit in there. In fact, neither of us will fit in.”

  Alfano nodded. “Same in Chicago, but I’ve learned that’s where the good music is. Jazz and swing don’t fit with so-called civil society.”

  “Detective, I can’t tell a sharp from a flat. Can’t sing a note, but I’m game.”

  “That’s the attitude,” Alfano said.

  “I hope it’s not an attitude that will get us in trouble.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Adam Roberts walked west on Santa Monica Boulevard after leaving the morning session at Sierra Films. After two blocks, he turned left on a residential side street and there was Wells Barker, leaning against the hood of a deep green Cadillac Coupe. Barker pitched his cigarette as Roberts opened the passenger door and climbed in.

  “Went late?” Barker said, sliding in behind the wheel.

  “Yes, sorry,” Roberts said, and leaned over and kissed Barker on the cheek.

  “That’s okay. You sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes, I need the money—we need the money. I told Jones that I have a polo match this afternoon, and since the asshole’s afraid of horses, it’s the last place he’d be, not that I give a fuck.”

  “You sure about the address? San Fernando Valley?”

  “Yes, take Sepulveda to Ventura, and put the top down. I need the sun.”

  Sepulveda Boulevard cut north through a new tunnel carved through the San Gabriel Mountains that flanked the whole northern side of the Los Angeles Basin. The mountain ridge separated the farm fields and orange groves of the San Fernando Valley from the urban sprawl of Los Angeles with its islands of high-rises, one-story neighborhoods on gridded street patterns, and skeletal, stinking forests of oil derricks. It was a ride that took you back a half century to an age before the derricks, the stench, and cheap hustle that Los Angeles had become. Fresh and sanitized-looking stretches of tacky homes with six-foot palm trees lined the streets of neighborhoods like Sherman Oaks and Van Nuys, though the Valley was too much like Fresno, Roberts sometimes thought. The farm towns had, fungus-like, spread into a seamy boredom of cheap housing, cheap stores, and cheap people. The towns of San Fernando and Burbank, being the two largest, showed potential to continue the infection and metastasize into real cities. Looking down into the Valley from high up on Sepulveda Boulevard, the haze convinced you that it all went on depressingly, forever. And it was here where the porn industry of Southern California had truly sunk its cheap dyed roots.

  They reached their destination, a concrete block building with a sign that announced La Dolce Vita Films. Roberts leered: such blatant advertising for a less-than-acceptable business. He was well known in the film industry. The unlamented Hines Melnik had made him a star, one that could no longer participate in the more interesting and enjoyable aspects of the industry, at least on film for public dissemination. Six years ago, soon after he’d arrived from Fresno, someone told him about a way to make a few desperately needed dollars. He certainly wasn’t a virgin. He’d lost that when he turned fifteen and a few high school buddies took him to one of the more well-known shacks on the south side of Fresno. Her name was Juanita. It was over in seconds and barely worth the three dollars, but he got better at it. It became more than a desire, it became a full-blown need—some take to alcohol when young, he took to sex. He also discovered he was what he called “nondiscriminatory” in his partners and liaisons, a true Lothario.

  He asked around and ended up one afternoon at an address in the Valley. He bedded three of the most beautiful women he’d ever slept with, did what was directed, never failed his duty, and smiled for the camera—and made fifty much-needed bucks. These clandestine operations moved around the Valley, and even into Los Angeles proper. Soon Roberts got a reputation, a solid reputation. It was at one of these shoots that he had been handed an invitation to a party at the home of Hines Melnik. He came for the drinks and food and stayed for the fucking. Melnik said he’d make him a star, and Melnik was true to his word. The only change was that he’d have to give up this secret parallel life, a small price in exchange for the dollars Melnik paid him.

  It was during this time that he met Wells Barker, who, three years later, quietly moved into the Beverly Hills house. Barker, even though once called an Adonis by a film fan magazine, was not as lucky career-wise, though Roberts and Barker were a known thing within the industry, and thus were cut some slack. Many actresses, known for their insatiable appetites, were given the same latitude. The seamier rumors about many of these queens of the cinema would curl Grandma’s hair. Many young men and women came to Hollywood for their chance to be in pictures; many remained because they were trapped in places like La Dolce Vita Films.

  Nowadays, Roberts stayed off to the side, off-camera, even did some directing of two of the shorts. He did miss the excitement of the couch and bed. He had reasons for not screwing up his deal with the newly departed Hines Melnik and Sierra Films. His contract was with the studio and not a personal services contract. Someone would be taking over the studio, probably for ten cents on the dollar, and Roberts wanted to be there when it happened. He would become somebody in this industry.

  Barker was the film star that afternoon, and Roberts was mildly jealous. Job done, it was dark as they drove back over the San Gabriel Mountains. This time they took Mulholland Drive to Benedict Canyon. When they reached Beverly Hills, they were five blocks from Roberts’s house. Ten minutes later, they walked in the front door, and Roberts vented his pent-up vigor on Barker, who did little to stop the onslaught.

  ✥✥✥

  About the time Roberts and Barker were departing the Valley to return to Beverly Hills, David drove the limousine east on Pico Boulevard to the dizzy white lights of Central Avenue.

  “How do you know about this street?” Alfano said.

  “I asked around. Everyone said, ‘Stay the fuck out of there.’ But they did say the best jazz, out of a dozen places on Central Avenue, is at the Apex Nite Club. It’s next door to the Dunbar Hotel.”

  “Look, kid, if you don’t want to go, just tell me. No big deal. I got the word from friends in Chicago that this was a great place for music.”

  “Are you nuts, Detective? We’ll give it a try. It’s an adventure, and as warm as it is, the joint will be packed.”

  They turned right off Pico onto Central. It looked like every man and woman in this part of Los Angeles had come to stroll, pos
ture, display, and preen on Sunday night. To Alfano, it was no different here than on a warm evening in Chicago. As they drove slowly down the avenue, the music came at them in waves, as if bouncing from one side of the street and then the other.

  David slipped the limousine into a parking lot where hand-painted signs advised All Night—$5.00. The other fifty or so cars jammed into the lot were sleek and elegant. Five dollars would do that, separate the wheat from the chaff.

  “What can I do for you, mister?” asked a lanky black man sitting on a stool near the entry.

  “I need a few hours,” Alfano said from the passenger side of the front seat.

  “I might be able to find you some room.”

  “Would twenty dollars find me room?”

  “Mister, for twenty dollars, I’ll dust her off and spit shine the lights.”

  Alfano got out and waited as David parked the limo in a spot behind the attendant. He saw a cornet leaning against the back of the man’s stool.

  “I saw Louis Armstrong play that same model at the Grand in Chicago last winter,” Alfano said. “You play, or is it just for decoration?”

  A smile came over the man’s weathered face. “You know your shit. I played with Satchelmouth in New Orleans, maybe fifteen or so years back, during the war. We was playing cornets in them Storyville honky-tonks. The kid was self-learned; he got his own style of playing and singing and was good. Those were the days after he got out of that school for delinquents—but that’s another story—and that kid weren’t no delinquent. I could go on all night. I knows that kid, love him like a son. He’s gone uptown with the trumpet nowadays. When he split from New Orleans for Chicago, I came here, needed warmth for my bones, not that wet heat New Orleans got. I taught him a little, but the kid was his own man. When he comes through here, we talk about the old days. So, you know Satchmo?”

  “No, I wish. I have friends in Chicago who do. I go to the jazz clubs on State Street and elsewhere. I’ve seen him play but never met him.”

  Alfano stopped talking as a fresh burst of music could be heard from across the street.

  “That’s the Apex,” the guy told him. “It’s a good trio there tonight, from New York—you might like them. They are some fellas from Duke Ellington’s band who are out here for a few weeks. Rumor is they’s working on a picture over there in Hollywood or someplace. That’s their rental Auburn over there.”

  “Thanks. You ever get to Chicago . . . ?” Alfano looked into the man’s eyes.

  “I’m Edgar Dassault, New Orleans born.”

  “Mr. Dassault, Tony Alfano. Do you happen to know a man called Deacon Smith?”

  “Shore-do. We played together, too, but that was—oh, shit, let me think, maybe twenty years ago. You know the Deacon?”

  “Absolutely. He has a café on State Street in Chi-town, just opened. In fact, Mr. Dassault, I saw him two weeks ago.”

  “No fucking way. I’ll be damned and go straight to heaven. How is he?”

  “Wife, kids, good Baptist, has a small stage for new kids.”

  “That’s the Deacon. When you see him—wait a fucking minute. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m chasing down a murderer.”

  “You a cop?”

  “Detective.”

  “No shit. Nice fancy car, got a fancy white chauffer, hopping all over the fucking country—well lah-de-dah. What’s this old world coming to?”

  “Mr. Dassault, for that I have no fucking answer.”

  Dassault laughed. “I start playing right here in about an hour, make a few dinero. I split the rate on the cars with the guy who owns the lot. Listen for the sound.”

  “You bet I will.”

  “It’s a pleasure to know you, Detective Alfano.”

  Alfano shook Dassault’s hand, then he and David crossed the street and walked the one block to the Apex Nite Club. The sidewalks were packed, and more than a hundred people were waiting outside in the evening heat for a seat inside. Alfano guessed that inside was even hotter.

  “I’m thinking twice about this, David. It’s way too hot—and heat, booze, and jazz—well, that’s a strong concoction,” Alfano said as he lit a cigarette and looked up the sidewalk. Four young black men in long colorful jackets and balloon pants were strolling toward them. People stepped aside and watched them parade by.

  “We’re starting to see zoot suiters in Chicago; it’s showing up in the clubs and dances,” Alfano said.

  “It’s big here and getting bigger every year,” David said. He took the cigarette Alfano offered. “Mostly the pachucos, though. But the coloreds are picking up the vibe.”

  “Pachucos?”

  “Here in LA, it’s more the Mexicans and Latins that dress in zoot; they call themselves pachucos. The coloreds also wear the style. It comes from some of the black musicians who are wearing the costume. It’s an attitude thing as well. It does strike a look. On me, I’d be all jacket.”

  “In two days, Baine, I’ve gone from the beaches, to polo clubs, to pachucos. Los Angles is an interesting place.” Alfano rubbed the back of his head; he still felt the welcome knot from his first night in town.

  The four zoot suiters skipped down the sidewalk in style, almost prancing. When music spilled from the open doors of one of the clubs, the boys broke into an impromptu dance. A girl from the crowd joined in. Two more girls came out from the club and joined the dance, partnering with a couple of the guys. The crowd stepped back and into the street while some of the best dancing Alfano had seen in a long time worked its way up and down the sidewalk. A saxophone cut through the night and added to the sounds from the club. The crowd clapped and danced. Vehicles stopped as the dancers moved into the traffic lanes.

  The blast of a police siren broke the rapture.

  The police car stopped in the street, opposite the dancers. A megaphone appeared through the open front window. “Please clear the street. This is an illegal assembly. Please clear the street. No dancing in the street.”

  The crowd ignored the order. Another saxophone, a tenor, joined the first.

  “This is an official order by the Los Angeles Police. Please clear the street. This street must be kept open.”

  Two beer bottles sailed over the crowd and crashed onto the hood of the police car; the bottles dented the black metal and sprayed beer over the windshield. More bottles followed.

  “David, we need to get out of here. That patrol car has a radio. He’ll have backup in minutes, and this place will light up.”

  People spilled from the club; more bottles flew through the night. Alfano and David crossed in the middle of the street, weaving between the stopped cars. The drivers leaned on their horns; the honking seemed to come from everywhere. More sirens filled South Central Avenue. The double flashing red lights on the roofs of the incoming police cars could be seen between the cars on the street.

  Alfano looked back at the original police car—a dozen more bottles arched through the air and exploded on and around vehicle. The cops wisely stayed inside.

  As if mysteriously transported to Central Avenue, a dozen uniformed policemen appeared and marched two by two toward the action. They pushed and jammed batons into the crowd. All the officers were white; all the crowd was black.

  “Not good, Detective, not good at all,” David said as they reached the far side of the street. Edgar Dassault was standing next to his stool when Alfano and David ran into the parking lot. Alfano noticed that Dassault’s coronet was missing.

  “You see what the hell the police are rousting about over there?” Dassault asked.

  “Someone threw a bottle of beer,” David said.

  “That’s how it always starts. Some fool tosses a beer or a firecracker, and holy shit comes down. Go out the back, then take a right on Hooper. It’ll be fucking crazy here all night—and tell Deacon he still owes me ten bucks.”

  David did as directed; they drove for what seemed like miles to Alfano. Block after block of one-story buildings, dreary storefronts
—half-empty, abandoned, and derelict. Soon they were passing one-story cottages and bungalows. Some of the streets were paved, most not. To Alfano’s surprise, they ran back into South Central Boulevard at a Y-intersection.

  “This is depressing,” David said. “And I’m lost, Detective. I think we are headed the wrong way, but fuck, I don’t know.”

  Alfano looked at the clock on the dashboard of the limousine: 1:33 am.

  “Which way is the ocean?” he asked.

  “I think it’s to the right.”

  “Then, David, at the next street turn right. We will find out together.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The next morning, Alfano rolled out of bed, poured himself a wake-me-up, took a luxurious shower, and dressed. He walked out of the shower at eight forty-five. He was hungry. There were three sharp knocks on the door; he looked through the small peephole and saw the grin of Detective Dominic Suarez. He was still in the hotel bathrobe.

  “It’s Monday morning, Detective, a little early?” Alfano said as he backed away from the door and Suarez followed him in. Suarez was flying solo, no Detective Loomis. Alfano took another sip of breakfast.

  “Little early for that?” Suarez said, pointing to the glass.

  “Leftovers, cold leftovers. Besides, I was going to call you to find out the latest about Melnik. Buy me breakfast; I’m starved.”

  “There’s a pancake house a block from here. You game?”

  “After last night, I’m game for anything. I need to make a call.”

  As they walked to the diner on 2nd Street, Alfano told Suarez about his adventure on South Central Avenue. The detective told him what an idiot he was for going to the neighborhood; so far, Alfano realized that he had done nothing, since arriving in Los Angeles, to disprove the Beverly Hills cop’s assessment. They were given a table in the corner away from the windows. The diner was small, packed, and the coffee strong.