Chicago Boogie Woogie

by Gregory C. Randall

  “Aren’t you working at the studio today?” Suarez asked.

  “That’s the call I made; I’m taking the day off,” Alfano said.

  “That producer will be pissed.”

  Alfano shrugged. “Anything on the gun?” Alfano said.

  “Yes, it’s the one that put two slugs into Melnik,” Suarez said. “After canvassing Hill’s neighborhood, nada. No one saw anyone that night hanging around the alley or the complex. Based on our timeline and the coroner’s numbers, it would have been sometime around midnight. Of course, you could have shot him, then stashed the gun, then called Tuttle—all to take any heat off you.”

  “Nice. I came to the same conclusion. The only part that blows it all is that I didn’t do it.”

  “The guilty always say that.”

  “This time I’m telling the truth.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve heard that, too. A thousand times.”

  “Moving on,” Alfano said as he poured syrup from a tiny white pitcher over his cakes. “What I see is that my Chicago victim, Kitty Hill, was running a number of games out of her apartment—and most had to do with the sex business and porn films. She also was good at her job working as a producer with Sierra Films and Melnik. If she was making money, she was hiding it somewhere—maybe get a warrant to look at her bank records. You might check the apartment for other hidey-holes.”

  “We only found the one, even searched under the building. Nothing. You said she was originally from Chicago?”

  “Yes, she danced, sang some, worked at a few of the better clubs. Her brother and husband were gunned down; my people say she saw it. Afterwards, she took off and ended up here. That was about ten years ago.”

  “Maybe because she knew the killer?” Suarez said, plastering butter over his cake.

  “Possibly, but more likely who sent them—and there was only one gun used on both men. Whoever did it was good. After Hill escaped to LA, Durant told me she worked her way into legit picture making; she found a place here. She was hoping for a bigger future, which means money, more money.”

  “She was also in the stag film business and—how do I put this so my mother would understand—playing on both sides of the street,” Suarez added. “The films bear that out.”

  “Your mother would be pleased with your discretion,” Alfano added.

  “My mother is a saint. So, for now, I will leave it as playing in the street.”

  “I know, your mother thinks you are an insurance agent.”

  “My mother knows exactly what I am, and I love her for it. My father was a cop in Tijuana, got out when he could.”

  Alfano raised his coffee cup toward the waitress. “Miss Hill is found dead—two bullets to the chest—during a Sierra Films motion picture tour of the Midwest. There was nothing I saw, other than the bloody nude body, to suggest a connection to the sex industry. Maybe a kinky lover, maybe something got out of hand, but nothing that I saw was based on her proclivities.”

  “Shot?”

  “Yes. Large caliber, close range to the chest, same as Melnik. My three lead suspects—Miss Hill was traveling with them—are Melnik, Durant, and Roberts. They quickly changed their plans, climbed aboard an airplane, and returned home before I could ask more questions. Then I’m invited here, all expenses paid, set up in a nice hotel, clobbered over the head, discovered the murdered body of my benefactor, and have enjoyed the on-and-off-again company of you, LA detective Gil Tuttle, and assorted lost souls for the last few days.”

  “You failed to mention an evening and morning with one of Hollywood’s most promiscuous leading ladies,” Suarez added.

  “Are you following me, Detective? Shame on you.”

  “Actually no, we were following Maxime Durant. You just happened to get in the way.”

  “So, I’m not her first?”

  “If, according to the tabloids and rumors, and the simple fact that Beverly Hills is a small town, you are not even on the first three pages.”

  “And I thought I was special. She fits the image, doesn’t she?”

  “And there is Mr. Melnik’s playroom to consider, and the rumor of Durant’s involvement in the porn industry herself. She wasn’t on the films, and there’s nothing we can put a finger on, but a few others are well known in the Valley.”

  “Ah, the Valley.”

  “The San Fernando Valley, where Hollywood dreams go to die or be screwed—literally.”

  “Fun town you got here, Detective.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “Can you send a copy of that ballistics test and photos to my sergeant in Chicago?” Alfano said. “By airmail; I’ll cover the expense. I want to check it against the report on the slugs found in Miss Hill. If they match, my list of living suspects is down to two.”

  “That list had the same two names on it Friday morning—there is no way that gun could have gotten here faster than being carried in a suitcase.”

  “Call me old-fashioned, Detective Suarez, but I need a motive. Why was Hill murdered? How is she connected to Melnik’s death, especially if the same gun was used? Why kill Hill in Chicago and not here? And then kill Melnik here, in his house?”

  “And you are sleeping with one of the suspects, tsk-tsk. They do do things different in Chicago.”

  They walked back to the Georgian. The lobby clerk pointed to Alfano and motioned him to the desk. She handed him a note.

  “A woman called; I took the message,” the clerk said.

  Alfano opened the envelop and read the short note.

  I heard you were taking the day off. Are you free at noon? Call me at 1378.

  Gloria

  “Fan mail?” Suarez asked.

  “All work and no play makes Tony a dull boy, Suarez.”

  The detective gave Alfano a knowing look. “Durant?”

  “No.”

  “Who?”

  “You’re the detective, you figure it out.” He made the call.

  ✥✥✥

  Gloria drove up to the curb in front of the hotel. “Where did you find this?” Alfano said, looking at the car, a mid-1920s Ford Model T roadster, all shiny and black. Its driver was dressed in a loose orange tank top, white shorts, and white tennis shoes.

  “A friend lent it to me for the day for gas. I need to be back by five to pick him up from his mother’s place in Venice Beach. Until then we have the whole day, or what’s left of it. First, we are going to stop at the best Italian deli here in Santa Monica, and then we are going on a picnic. Do you have a swimsuit?”

  “I don’t wear swimsuits,” Alfano answered.

  “Ooh, that’s not acceptable, even in California.”

  “I mean I don’t ever wear one.”

  “We will find one,” Gloria said. “There’s a shop inside the hotel. Buy a suit; I’ll wait.”

  “As I said—”

  “I really don’t care, Detective. Go and buy a swimsuit—I’ll wait.”

  Strong women were another weak link in Alfano’s manly armor. He turned around and went back into the hotel; five minutes later, he returned to the car carrying a bag.

  “That didn’t hurt, did it?” Gloria said. “I have the perfect spot up the beach in Malibu. First the deli; do you like Italian?”

  “Really? For a picnic? I would never have thought . . .”

  “. . . nothing better. And quit being such an ass.”

  Six blocks later, they pulled to a stop in front of the Bay Cities Deli on Lincoln. Alfano was intrigued. The place had the look and feel of a delicatessen you would find on Chicago’s Taylor Street in the old Italian neighborhood. When they walked through the door, the aromas swept him off his feet. It was like he’d come home.

  “Number thirty-two!” yelled a large man with a thick black mustache. He wore a white coat. When no one answered right away, he reached across the counter and took a white tab from a woman who couldn’t have been four feet, ten inches tall. “Number thirty-three—you next, Silvia?”

  Alfano looked at the
man calling the numbers. He knew the face and the man, but why? Where?

  “I’m going to get two sandwiches, potato salad, pickles, some cannoli, and four bottles of beer,” Gloria said. “What do you want?”

  “What?” Alfano said, still distracted by the counterman. “All that for you?”

  “Yes, but I’ll have the other sandwich for dinner. And you are buying.”

  “Order me the same,” Alfano said, still looking at the man. Then he said, “Tony DiTomasi, is that you?”

  The numbers man looked at Alfano. He could practically see the man’s brain working, trying to put a name and a face together, then a big smile like a light bulb going on lit up his face.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” DiTomasi said. “Tony Alfano, what the hell are you doing in this part of the world? I thought they’d never let you leave Chicago. Damn, you look good. Give me a minute.”

  DiTomasi finished the order, passed over a deli bag to Silvia, and came around the end of the long glass case. He gave Alfano a big hug. “What the hell?”

  “I heard a rumor you were in Los Angeles,” Alfano said. “But that was seven or eight years ago. You work in a deli?”

  “Worse than that, Alfano. I own the joint.” DiTomasi looked at Gloria. “Hi, Miss Downs. You with this guy?”

  “I’m his babysitter while he’s here in LA. It has not been dull.”

  “Alfano is one of the best—you still a detective?”

  “Still a detective, on loan to Sierra Films here in Santa Monica. They’re doing a cop and mobster movie—I’m the technical expert.”

  “Miss Downs, this guy—when I was with the Chicago police—was one of the best. Always had the back of the honest cops on the force. But then bad apples started going really bad, too much mob money. That’s why I took off. Came out here, got as far away from all that crap as I could.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Gloria said. “You were once a cop?”

  “Yes, dear, a cop.” He looked at Alfano. “Sierra Films, that’s Hines Melnik’s studio. You involved in that murder? It’s all over the papers.”

  “Indirectly. Production is still going on. The locals out of Beverly Hills are handling the case. I’m staying out of it.”

  “Don’t be so modest, Mr. Alfano. Aren’t you the unidentified officer who found—” Gloria started to say.

  “Gloria, please,” Alfano said. “Tony, I’m here for a few more days, then back to Chicago. Maybe we can get together to talk about the old days.”

  “Alfano, the old days are just that, old. Give me a call, sure. Let’s talk. Miss Downs, take care of this goombah—so, what do you want?”

  CHAPTER 22

  Alfano asked, “How far out of the way is Melnik’s house?” as they drove north on Ocean Boulevard.

  “It’s a lot out of the way, but I get why you want to go there,” Gloria said. “We can take Sunset Boulevard, then it’s straight east. Have you seen where Adam Roberts lives?”

  “No.”

  “It’s on the way. We’ll drive by. Then up the hill to Melnik’s. Beyond Melnik’s, further east, there’s a great view from above the Hollywood Bowl; we can have lunch there. But you bought a swimsuit.”

  “Maybe I can use it later in the week.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  Gloria drove the flivver east on Sunset Boulevard like it was a European auto race. She wove in between cars, touched the harsh horn occasionally, and in general made Alfano squeamish. The Ford wasn’t all that powerful; he wondered what she would be like with his twelve-cylinder Packard. Then again, maybe not.

  “We turn here and go down Roxbury past Roberts’s house. He’s renting it from a director at Paramount.”

  “He lives there alone?”

  Gloria didn’t answer.

  “So, he doesn’t live there alone? One Wells Baxter lives there as well?”

  She took a breath. “Detective, things and people in California are different, or they think they are different. People think different, act different, are maybe a little more tolerant—and certainly ‘weirder’ and ‘unconventional’ comes to mind. Adam Roberts does not live alone; he has a gentleman friend. No one talks about it . . . sort of a code of silence about things like that. He makes a lot of money for a lot of people. So, they keep his secret.”

  “So, he is a homosexual,” Alfano said, seeking confirmation of what he already knew.

  “Yes, but not exclusive,” Gloria said as she slowed.

  “The euphemism I’ve heard is that one plays on both sides of the street?”

  “The rumors I’ve heard is that he plays on both sides of the boulevard, and it’s a wide and very busy boulevard.” She slowed the car to a stop. “That is his place on the right. I’ve been to a few parties there. Nice, roomy, a pool in the back.” She lowered her voice. “A high wall encloses the backyard. It’s very private.”

  “You know the layout of the house?”

  “I took a personal tour when no one was watching. It’s quite something, but the furnishings and decor are a little off, too butch for my tastes, or masculine depending on the point of view. Lots of nude male paintings, sculptures, and such. When things start getting comfortable at parties like that, I leave. Not that I’m a prude or even all that much a saint, but these mash-ups are more than I care to indulge.”

  “I don’t see a garage or a driveway.”

  “There’s an alley in the back for trash, parking, and utilities. It’s as nice as the street out front. Seen enough?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hines Melnik’s place is up the hill near the Beverly Hills Hotel, but then again you have been there.”

  “Gloria, the taxi driver could have taken me to the far side of the moon that night. It was late, you’d plied me with liquor, and I walked in on a murder scene. Not what I expected for my first night in California.”

  Gloria took two lefts—the second was Beverly Drive—then accelerated up the hill. Alfano recognized the sign for the Beverly Hills Hotel as they passed it. Melnik’s house was close and on the right. A police car sat in the driveway; that was the only evidence of any crime at the house. The gate was open. Gloria parked on the street, and they both walked up to the patrolman in the cruiser.

  Alfano said, “You are Smith. I met you Thursday night. You were the first car on the scene.”

  “And you are that cop from Chicago. Detective Suarez warned me about you; he thought you might stop by.”

  “I’d like to go up and take a look, refresh my memory.”

  “No can do, Detective. Suarez locked this place down as tight as a drum. I’ve had people wandering by for the last three days, just taking a stroll, they all said. All asking if this is where the murder was.”

  “You told them yes, of course.”

  “Didn’t tell them nothing. It’s none of their damn business. These people have more money than sense, I’ll tell you—nosey and all.”

  “You hungry?” Alfano asked. “Thirsty? Did you have lunch?”

  “Yeah, a little.”

  “So, here’s the deal, Officer Smith. You know Santa Monica, Bay Cities Deli?”

  “Absolutely. I always get something when I take the wifey to the pier.”

  “Well, Officer, this is your lucky day. I will trade you a triple Italian meat sandwich, with all the fixings, and a beer—of which I will never tell where you found it—for thirty minutes inside the house.”

  “That’s bribery.”

  “No, it’s a sandwich. Besides, all the evidence will disappear. I’ll take the wrapping paper with me when we leave. It never happened—other than you will need a breath mint.”

  Smith didn’t exactly drool, but he gave in easily.

  Gloria was already walking back toward the Ford when Alfano said, “Get the officer his sandwich and one of the beers, and don’t forget the napkins.”

  When the handoff was made, Alfano and Gloria started up the driveway.

  “Hey, she can’t go,” the patrolman said.<
br />
  “Who can’t go?”

  Smith looked at the two of them, shook his head, and chewed off another large piece of sandwich. “Get the fuck out of here. And don’t forget, you only got thirty minutes.”

  The house was just as Alfano remembered it. He noticed that Gloria had gone quiet and a little hesitant once they entered.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, but it’s all so creepy. I never liked this place. I always thought it was like some Polish castle moved here to Beverly Hills.”

  “Polish, interesting.”

  “At parties, Melnik would tell stories of growing up in Prussia or eastern Poland—I had to look that up. Then he’d tell about taking the boat across the Atlantic to New York, his new friends he met onboard the ship. He said it was the SS Manhattan. It was filled with a mixture of Europeans, Poles, Germans, even some Italians. Eventually his family reached Los Angeles—he’d go on for hours. And while he’d go on and on about his past, the liquor flowed, and the guests would pair off and wander off to some of the rooms.” She turned and walked away toward the terrace.

  “Is this where it happened?” Alfano asked.

  Gloria stood in the French doorway that opened onto the pool. She stared out at the pool without seeming to see it.

  “I had just turned eighteen. A friend of Melnik’s discovered me at a Woolworth counter, honest to God, that’s the truth. It was in my hometown, Denver. I was working that summer, just after high school graduation. I had plans to go to a secretarial school, then get out of Colorado. My dad was gone. He ran out on my mother when I was fifteen, and she went to live with her sister. I took a room in a boardinghouse for girls. It wasn’t too bad; the job paid twenty-five a week. Life was good. Well, one of those movie tours came through town pushing a film—to this day, I can’t remember the name of the movie. But a guy, a handsome guy, sat down at my station, looked at me, and said I had potential.”

  “And signed you up?”

  “No, worse. He filled my head with a dream. He gave me his card and said if I ever came to California to call him. I made two mistakes that day: I took his card, and I believed him. Six months later, I stood outside the door to his office at some studio, now defunct, and reminded him about who I was. He said he didn’t need me but gave me Hines Melnik’s name and this address. ‘Be there Friday night at eight,’ he told me. He said Melnik was interviewing actresses for parts in a new movie. I believed every fucking word.”