Chicago Boogie Woogie

by Gregory C. Randall

  “I like Chicago, been there my whole life, so I’ll probably pass. But I get why you suggested it.”

  “Never let an opportunity pass you by,” Gloria said.

  CHAPTER 24

  Monday night, after eating dinner alone at the diner on 2nd Street, Alfano bought a Cuban cigar from the tobacco store on the corner and strolled through the park that capped the bluff above the Santa Monica beach. The pier below was lit with colored lights that spun and flashed; hundreds of people walked along its wooden boards. The air was still, the ocean glasslike, the setting sun spit a fiery orange boulevard across the water’s surface and directly at him. Yeah, it would be nice here, walk away from all the shit in Chicago, breathe fresh air for a change. Yeah, maybe be a cop. Beverly Hills was nice, the LA Police looked professional, but then again there was a hard side to Tuttle, intolerant, rough, even for a Mick. Pull up stakes at my age, not likely. Then again, I can adjust to almost anything. I’ve done it on the force a dozen times. New captains, new sergeants, new mayors, all such bullshit. DiTomasi and his Italian deli, now there was an idea. Maybe the movies, acting? Anthony Alfano, just shut the fuck up—what the hell are you thinking? You got a limited future, and that future sure as hell ain’t in California.

  The room phone woke him from the first good sleep he’d had in a week. He looked at the clock: 5:45 am. He groggily remembered walking back to his room and collapsing into bed.

  “Who the hell?” he said.

  “Sorry, Detective. Suarez here.”

  “You getting to miss me at this time of the night?”

  “I sure as hell would trade places with you right now. I got a body.”

  “I hate calls that begin, ‘I got a body.’ It never turns out well.”

  “Well, it didn’t for them.”

  “Oh, bodies.”

  “Yeah, I got two. Both found in the swimming pool.”

  “Only in Los Angeles.”

  “Beverly Hills.”

  “Even better. Name or names?”

  “Adam Roberts.”

  “Well, fuck.”

  “Yeah, there’s that, too. I’m at his house. The coroner will be here in an hour. He was on a fly-fishing trip, got in late. Needed his sleep.”

  “There’s a lot of that need going around. Give me the address; I’ll catch a taxi.”

  “Thanks. My guy is getting coffee—black?”

  “As black as possible.”

  Alfano sat back on the bed and lit his first cigarette of the day. He checked his watch, then lifted the receiver and made a long-distance call. After a ten-minute conversation, he dressed, secured his weapon, took the elevator to the ground floor, saw the closed restaurant, listened to his stomach yell, and then wandered out to the street. He had a tangible feeling that the approaching sunrise promised a hot day. A yellow cab sat at the curb, its windows down.

  “That you, Detective Alfano?” a woman’s voice asked through the open window.

  “Ruby? You work night shift hours?”

  “I get all the handsome men to myself then. Where we going?”

  “A few blocks from last Thursday. I got to see the man.”

  “I assume there’s a murder or two involved?”

  “An assumption?”

  “Not really. The LA Police’s newfangled radio transmitter—call letters KGPL—can be picked up on my car radio. It keeps me entertained and busy. You would be surprised about how many people want to go to the scene of a crime, or escape said scene. There was a call sent by the Beverly Hills Police for some help at a scene where two male bodies were found. LA broadcast the initial report at four forty-five this morning.”

  “So, you were waiting for me?”

  “That would not be right, Detective—that would be called stalking or something. Anyway, what’s the address?”

  Alfano handed Ruby the slip of paper with the address he’d jotted down as he talked with Suarez.

  “Yep, just a few blocks from that dead movie director. Fifteen minutes, if the . . .”

  “. . . traffic ain’t bad,” Alfano said.

  “You are learning, Detective.”

  Ruby was on a mission; she took twelve-and-one-half minutes door to door on the mostly empty streets. His knuckles must have barely recovered their feeling when she slid the car to a stop in front of Roberts’s house. Three patrol cars were parked on the street and along the curb. Snugged in between was a nondescript black Ford. Alfano knew it was Suarez’s. A dozen people in bathrobes and various stages of dress stood across the street watching. Three of the uniformed cops stood in the driveway smoking.

  “Do you want me to wait? Same deal as before,” Ruby said as she backed up against the curb.

  “Yeah, wait. What do you charge by the hour?”

  “Normally ten dollars. For you, I’ll make an exception—it’s twenty. Hazard pay; there’s guns around. And I think you still owe me ten from last Thursday.”

  “Cute, but twenty it is if you throw in the return trip to the hotel.”

  “Done. Do you want me to get coffee? There’s a diner down the hill, open all night.”

  “I was promised a cup.”

  “Good luck with that. Just let me know if the police deal falls through. I’m going to get one and I’ll bring you a backup.”

  “Thanks, Ruby.”

  Alfano walked up the drive to the cops.

  “You Detective Alfano?” the sergeant asked.

  “Yes. Detective Suarez, he inside?”

  “Through that open door.”

  Alfano went as directed. Another uniform stood at the door. He held a clipboard, Alfano identified himself, the cop waved him in.

  “They are in the back; coffee is in a thermos in the kitchen. Please don’t touch anything,” the cop said. He looked at least thirteen years old, all bright and shiny, his uniform a little too large, the hat a little too settled over his ears. Alfano smiled, nodded thanks, crossed through the house, and found the kitchen where an odd collection of cups littered the counter. A stainless-steel thermos stood on the counter. He picked it up—empty.

  “Sorry, I tried to save you a cup. My back was turned,” Suarez said.

  “My day already stinks,” Alfano answered.

  “The bodies are next to the pool. This way.”

  The two detectives walked through the house to a rear-facing wall of windows. A French door was centered in the panels, and beyond lay a terrace and a pool. A diminutive oriental woman sat in a chair in the hallway; an officer stood near her. Alfano guessed she was Chinese.

  “She’s the maid and cook. Her name is Luanne. Her English is excellent,” Suarez said.

  The woman looked up and in perfect English said, “I went to USC, acting. I needed a job. Adam was kind. This all sucks.”

  “She comes in early to make breakfast for Roberts,” Suarez said, “especially on shooting days. She usually goes directly into her work. She found this door open. She walked out, expecting to find the ‘boys,’ as she calls them, passed out on the lounges. It would not be the first time, she said. She saw no one. When she went to the edge of the pool to collect glasses and other things that needed to be cleaned from the tables, she saw two dark shapes in the lights. They were at the bottom of the pool.”

  A deep, caught-breath sigh came from Luanne. “Awful,” she said.

  Alfano looked out the windows; Suarez’s partner, Buddy Loomis, and a second man stood next to two bodies neatly laid out on the paving stones a few feet from the pool’s edge. The terrace was still wet around the bodies, both of whom were male, wearing bathing suits and colorful, loose buttoned shirts. Alfano went out to the terrace. Suarez followed.

  “Good morning, Detective Loomis.”

  “Nothing fucking good about it. It is too damn early for this shit.”

  “Yeah, there’s that,” Alfano said as he looked down at the bodies. They appeared asleep; they hadn’t been in the water long—his guess maybe a few hours. He studied the area around the terrace, the small ta
bles, and what was on the tables. He went to the edge of the pool and stared into the water. He followed the wet terrace stains to the bodies, then noticed small shards of broken glass under one of the tables and across the deck—not good for bare feet, he thought.

  “You might have your boys look and see if there are any larger pieces still lying around,” he said, pointing. “I’m thinking these two were not alone. You never know, maybe a fingerprint.”

  “These were big men,” Suarez said. “You don’t hold their heads underwater and wait for them to drown. Maybe there were a couple of guys helping.”

  “So, you think murder?” Alfano said.

  “Or, maybe they was drunk, one fell in, and the other tried to rescue him. Then the fags struggle until they both drown,” Loomis said.

  “That’s helpful, thanks, Buddy,” Suarez said tightly.

  Alfano got down on one knee and looked at the faces. “I see no scrapes, no bruises, their hands show no cuts, and both have manicured nails—if either struggled, there would be marks or scratches. No obvious wounds. Neither was shot or stabbed. Sadly, I’ve seen a few drowned people in my career; they can be a mess if there was an attempted rescue—a drowning man will do anything to stay alive.”

  He looked at the bottoms of both men’s feet.

  “They did not cross this paving after the glass was broken. There are no cuts on the soles of their feet, either one. It’s a bet they were in the water before the glass was broken. Interesting.”

  Alfano looked back to the doors. Two pairs of tennis shoes sat neatly next to each other on the stone paving. The exterior lights were still on, as were the pool lights. There were no liquor bottles, no pitchers, only two glasses. This small party of two had ended poorly.

  “Do we know who the other man is?” Alfano asked.

  “Luanne says his name is Wells Barker,” Suarez said. “When she started working here a year ago, they were together. She says they were very close.”

  “I’m gathering that’s not unusual,” Alfano said.

  “Thick as fleas on a dog here in Tinseltown,” Loomis offered.

  “So I’m learning. An actor as well?”

  “Not unusual either,” Suarez said.

  “Strange town,” Alfano said.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Loomis blurted.

  A commotion came from inside the house, preceding a man in a pinstripe suit walking out onto the terrace. He was tall, lanky, wore specs, and sported a thin, stylish mustache. His hat was a straw boater with a brown and orange band. He looked more like a banker than the coroner. Alfano knew who he was; they’d met at Melnik’s four nights earlier.

  “Not home six hours and already back to work. This town stinks,” the coroner said.

  “Dr. Goodspeed,” Alfano said. “How was the fishing?”

  The doctor lit up. “I caught a four-pound rainbow near one of the tributaries that feeds Big Bear Lake. In a canoe, mind you. With my son, nothing better. So, Suarez, what do we have?”

  For the next half hour, the coroner studied everything about the bodies. He poked and prodded, opened their shirts, looked at the fingers and arms, even the toes.

  “Preliminarily, I’d say they both drowned, and I agree with Detective Alfano about the lack of injuries. I’ll know for certain after the autopsy. You are in luck—even with the weekend, there’s no backlog. They are first on the list. I’ll also look for drugs; that’s a possibility. These actors and actresses have recently been doing some strange stuff, heroin, cocaine, so who knows? No obvious needle marks, but I’ll look, of course. Anything else, Suarez?”

  “No, Doc. When do you think?”

  “Preliminary, midafternoon at the earliest. Just pray some of your partners don’t step into line before you.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Instead of going back to his hotel, Alfano asked Ruby about a place to eat near the Sierra Film studio. He also asked her to join him.

  “I don’t often eat with the customers,” Ruby said as she wolfed down a stack of pancakes and a side of bacon. “I drop them at some of the fanciest places in town, and pick ’em up there, too. But never go inside. I watch my budget—thanks for this, Detective, delicious.”

  She looked at Alfano with a warm smile, causing him to flatter himself with a rude thought.

  “You are a Chicago detective. Why the hell are you out here?” she asked him.

  “You have a good memory. I’m a technical advisor for a movie. So far, the producer and director of the movie is dead, murdered with two bullets in his chest. His executive assistant was murdered in Chicago two weeks ago, also two bullets. And back there in Beverly Hills were two men, also probably murdered, who were fished out of a swimming pool. One was the star of the film under production, the other was his boyfriend.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around,” Ruby said. She pointed to her coffee cup; the waitress nodded.

  “So, I hear—homosexuality or murder?”

  “Both, Detective. I read the papers and listen to the police radio. You would think this town was one bad movie itself. Riots, shootings, dead bodies, Sodom and Gomorrah stuff—it all makes you wonder about people and civilization.”

  “Yeah, twenty years scraping up people from gutters makes you kind of hard about them.” Alfano finished his scrambled eggs. “You from here, Ruby?”

  “Unless you are a Latino, Mexican, or Indian, all of us white folks are from somewhere else. This all was once a part of Spain, then Mexico, then the United States, and all stolen from the Indians. It’s been fucked so many times its bastard children are wandering around like lost souls in the wilderness. I’ve seen a lot driving a taxi, sometimes too much. It’s getting close to the time for this girl to get out. I like the heat, it’s cleansing, so maybe Yuma or Phoenix. I was from Minneapolis originally, farm family. Came here twenty years ago.”

  Alfano resigned himself to another life story, though he had to admit he was interested in the events that landed people in this town of broken dreams.

  “I was just a kid,” Ruby was saying. “I needed to get away from a bad family situation before it killed me—or I killed it. I didn’t know shit from Shinola. Jumped right in, fell in love with a guy named Lucky; he was from somewhere in the San Joaquin Valley, Modesto, I think. Beautiful man, and I loved him dearly. One day he walked out of a bar and into a streetcar. Cut him up into four pieces, so they say. That was enough connubial bliss for me. There was a little insurance—Lucky worked for an insurance company. With the money, I bought a taxi. Been my own boss since and will never go back to working for someone else. But, as they say, this town has a thousand sad stories. You staying in LA, Detective?”

  “In about an hour they will shut down the movie I’m here for, fire whoever squawks and those who don’t, claim the insurance if they bought some, and after pissing on everyone they’ll pull up their pants and start something new tomorrow. I will, blessedly and with the grace of God, be on a train to Chicago tomorrow night.”

  “You will miss Los Angeles,” Ruby said. “I know you will.”

  “Ruby Lombardi, I can assure you I will not miss Los Angeles. And send me a card from Phoenix—it will give me a reason to find it on a map.”

  An hour later, Alfano was proved prescient. Detective Suarez broke the news to J.J. Jones, while Alfano sat in a chair in the back of the production office. Alfano wasn’t sure if Jones was happy or crushed. He just stared at the cop then stood, took a deep breath, and yelled: “Shut it down! Everyone out. We are done. This movie is over.” He looked around the room. “Where’s Durant? Where the hell is that bitch? Anybody seen her?”

  It was an excellent question, one Alfano had wondered about since walking into the studio. Where the hell was the female star of the movie? He looked at Suarez and tilted his head toward the door; they walked out.

  “One of three things has happened, Detective Suarez,” Alfano said. “Maxime Durant is dead somewhere like her moving picture partner, she’s hiding out waiting for this to bl
ow over, or she knows what happened and is preparing to take off.”

  “You think that actress could put those two men in the pool?” Suarez said.

  “If they were drugged, or unconscious, yeah, maybe. She’d just roll them across the deck into the pool and let nature do the job. That’s what we call in Chicago a working hypothetical theory.”

  “We call them that here, too, Detective. By the way, a little more information. After you left Roberts’s house, one of the neighbors—who most emphatically did not appreciate the activities of the residents of Roberts’s house and the antics of his sometime guests—told me that someone who looked remarkably like the actress Maxime Durant—‘that witch with a painted face,’ she called her—was walking down the street a few houses down from Roberts’s house late last night. This local informer and her husband were walking their dog, a white standard poodle named Fifi, I’m told. When they rounded the corner, Durant passed them in a hurry. She turned her head away when she saw them, but they were directly under one of the streetlights and the neighbor immediately recognized her. They didn’t speak, but Fifi barked. The informer claims she isn’t one of those nosy neighbor types. However, she also added that there was a yellow car parked at the curb the next street over. She’d never seen it in the neighborhood before. Her husband, who was all excited about the vehicle, called it a Packard coupe.”

  Alfano lit a cigarette. “I suggest we pay Miss Durant a visit, find out if she knew where her car was last night, and ask if she has an alibi.”

  ✥✥✥

  The lobby of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel was busy. When Detective Suarez flashed his shield, the manager shrugged.

  “I haven’t seen Miss Durant for a few days, Detective,” he said, clearly trying to act distracted. “If you would like to leave a message, I will see that she gets it.”

  Suarez leaned in, looked at the man’s name plaque, and calmly said, “Mr. Grande, you are going to go quietly to the elevator with us, then we are going up to Miss Durant’s suite, where you will knock on her door and tell her that you have an important message for her. When she opens the door, you will leave. Do you understand?”