One for Our Baby

by John Sandrolini

  Frank burst into the interrogation room and announced, “C’mon, Joe. Grab your stuff; these Harveys are gonna cut you loose. I already spoke to Gene Biscailuz. He still runs this county—all of it.”

  I turned my head toward him, raised my hand the four inches the chain allowed, and opened my palms upward in the universal whaddamigonnado? gesture.

  He looked at me, saw the blood on my face and the welt under my eye, and just stopped dead.

  “You fucking gorillas,” he said, his face darkening. “You roughed up my guy? Which motherless bastard touched my man?” His fists came up, his eyes bulging like a gargoyle’s. “Who was it?”

  No one ever did incendiary like Frank Sinatra.

  Fatso stood up and stepped forward, posturing with his chest out and his hands on his hips.

  “Hey, buddy, I don’t care who you are in Hollywood, you watch yourself in here or you’ll get some of your own.”

  Frank hit him running, a good right cross to the eye. The blow sent Fatso staggering backward into a corner table with a coffeepot on top. He pancaked down on top of it with a heavy groan, pot, mugs, and muddy water raining down on the checkerboard floor amid the clatter of breaking objects.

  It was a Pier Nine brawl after that. Fatso went for his gun, but I kicked it out of his hand as he cleared leather. Then a wall of blue wool surged into the room and fell on us. It took the lieutenant, a sergeant, and two other uniforms to keep them separated, Frank screaming the entire time that he was “gonna kill that sonofabitch!”

  It ended when the station captain stormed in, gun drawn, and grabbed Frank by the neck, pulling him out of the room. Thirty minutes, two calls from the DA, and one from retired L.A. County Sheriff Biscailuz later, Frank and I walked out of the station like two kids who just dodged detention. As we passed through the opaque glass doors, Frank cut loose with a yuk.

  “Did you notice that goon I popped looked like Fatso Judson? Ha! Maggio finally gets even! That was beautiful.”

  “Tough Monkey,” I quipped.

  He looked at me grinning, that sparkle in his eyes. Then we both broke up.

  We walked over to Frank’s Dual Ghia and climbed in, still chuckling. Frank left a foot of rubber in the chief’s spot when he pulled out.

  “Fucking hayseeds,” he said as we zoomed away. “I hate small-timers!”

  As soon as we’d turned the corner, he went stone solemn. “Have you got anything, Joe? Where’s Lilah?”

  “I don’t know, but she might be in trouble.”

  “What do you mean, trouble?”

  “I don’t know, just a feeling. I spoke to her girlfriend Betty and I got a funny response when I asked about Lilah. I’m pretty sure she lied to me.”

  “Jesus, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know yet, but she didn’t spend the night at home. She might have stayed at Betty’s, but I don’t know why. And how did you know I was in the tank down here anyway?”

  “When I didn’t hear from you, I called the Alhambra PD, I couldn’t wait any longer; it’s killing me not knowing where she is. I told those idiots I’d sent you over there to check, but someone dropped the ball.”

  “Yeah, right here,” I said, touching my swollen cheek.

  “And these hicks are telling me that she isn’t missing yet, that she could be sleeping one off. Can you believe that shit? What am I gonna do now?” he demanded, shaking both hands above the wheel.

  “You’re going to run by Lilah’s and we’ll ring her bell again. If she doesn’t answer, you’re going to Beverly Hills to cool your heels, Marciano. I’ll take the airport car to Betty’s apartment—she knows more than she’s telling. Do you know her, by the way?”

  “No. Just heard Lilah mention her name once or twice.”

  “All right. I’ll find out what I can and call you as soon as I have something.” I laid a hand on his shoulder. “One more thing, Frank …”

  He glanced over at me. “Yeah?”

  “Try not to deck any more patrol sergeants, okay?”

  Frank murmured his consent and took a deep drag on his cigarette. I caught a glimpse of his blue eyes in the rearview mirror. There was a hint of anguish in them.

  I wondered about my own.

  14

  Frank dropped me at the car and went inside, but he came out shaking his head two minutes later. We said good-bye, then I got in the Stutz and hotfooted it over to Hollywood. It was pushing one o’clock when I reached the Chinese laundry.

  It was an open-air job like most of the others, only just a bit shadier. The pink exterior had turned a swarthy salmon from decades of accumulated smog, and the weathered marquee above had a few cracked and wayward characters that weren’t toeing the line. An Oriental woman, somewhere between sixty and six hundred, stood at attention behind the counter staring down the building across the street as if she thought she could make it blink.

  I waited until the single departing customer took his wrapped packages and left before I approached the counter.

  “He’p you, sir?” she said through an accent as thick as a banyan tree.

  “Yes,” I said, holding up the ticket. “My girlfriend works with Betty over at Columbia. You know Betty Benker, right? She’s an actress, probably comes here a lot. Always wants to look nice.”

  The old woman just stared at me, her black eyes giving away nothing.

  “Well, I’ve got a bit of a predicament, you see. Betty needs this dress today for an audition, but she left it at my girlfriend’s place by accident. I told her I’d run it over to her, but I forgot the address and Betty doesn’t have a phone.”

  I feigned sheepishness, turned up my palms.

  “Lilah—my girlfriend—is on a soundstage all afternoon and can’t be reached. All I need is Betty’s address—I know she’s on Afton, here in Hollywood. Can you please tell me?”

  It was a fairly convincing story, I thought, since I had her name and her street. To help sell it, I put on my most obsequious face and pulled out a two-dollar bill, then plaintively mouthed the word please.

  The woman munched on her lips a few seconds, stealing glances back and forth. Then a hand shot out quick as a viper and snagged the deuce from me.

  I watched her eyes snake downward as she consulted a worn black ledger. She stopped abruptly, looked up, and said, “6344 Afton,” then nodded.

  Before I could thank her, an angry voice cut loose behind her in Chinese. I looked toward the sound as a man in a Mandarin coat appeared in the roiling steam cloud at the laundry room entrance. He was young and lean, and he was glowering at me through coal-dark eyes. He ordered the woman to leave the counter, telling her not to say anything else to me.

  “What goes here?” I muttered, utterly mystified by his broadside.

  His eyes marked mine, lips wrinkled up. I stared back, searching his face for recognition, but getting none.

  I had what I’d come for anyway, so I just shook my head and turned to leave. The man continued to berate the woman as I walked away. He couldn’t have known that I understood a fair amount of Cantonese—but I’d seen enough of that world to let the past stay in the past.

  15

  I shot on over to Betty’s place in two minutes and parked out front. As I yanked up the parking brake, I noticed a newer black Mercury in the rearview mirror. The car was double-parked and idling at the far corner of the block. I hadn’t seen anyone following me, but I knew that car hadn’t been there when I drove past twenty seconds earlier.

  It wasn’t overly suspicious, but it didn’t feel quite right, either, so I leaned back against the driver’s seat and dug out a smoke. I took my time lighting it to see if anyone got out of the Mercury. The car was just out of range. I could tell that someone was in it, but nothing more. No features, just a smudge.

  I waited a reasonable amount of time for someone to get into or out of the Merc, but no one did so I stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray and got out of the car. I faked a stretch and took one more long look at the idling ca
r, but it remained dark and quiet. I shrugged and walked toward Betty’s place.

  It looked a lot like every other decorative-era apartment building in Hollywood—pastel paint over stucco and wood—but it was dressed out in a faux nautical motif, right down to the porthole window on the front door. Might have been a cute idea in 1930, but who in their right mind would sign on to a ship in this grimy corner of town these days?

  Two young girls in tennis whites with rackets in their hands burst out the main hatch as I approached, tittering down the gangway as they darted past me. Probably actresses too green to know what Hollywood had planned for them. I doubled my pace, just catching the door as it swung back before it could lock.

  “Permission to come aboard, sir,” I said aloud, just to be a smart-ass.

  Inside, brass ship’s lanterns gave off just enough light to illuminate the area around each door in the gloomy corridor. I’d never been on a boat with carpeting before, but I appreciated the silence offered by the faded sea-foam pile as I inspected each brass-handled door. The architect was a stickler for authenticity, but he’d wasted his pearls on this dive.

  Some serious Charlie Parker bop swirled out from one of the units as I walked the hallway checking the little engraved nameplates. A familiar sweet smoky scent swirled out along with it under the door bottom. It seemed to fit—the place just had that certain edge to it.

  Betty’s name was on number four. I stopped in front, listened awhile, then knocked firmly enough on the hardwood door to fleck off a piece of the peeling paint. There was no reply.

  I tried twice more, then went to the knife routine again. This lock gave even easier than Helen’s. I never knew how easy it would be to be a burglar in Los Angeles—none of the locks were worth shit.

  The door swung open with a creak when I pushed it. I waited a beat, looking inside, then eased into the darkened apartment, pulling the door closed behind me.

  “Hello? Betty?” I called as I moved in.

  Sunlight filtered through the thin navy blue curtains, bringing some light to the murk. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed an upended high table and a broken planter lying on the floor, a bamboo stalk and a healthy amount of dirt fanning out across the carpet. Some picture frames lay a few feet away, one facedown, one faceup.

  In the hallway I spied a single high-heeled pump. I walked toward it, then peeked into the bedroom. Empty. The bathroom was the next room over. Its door hung partially open, but I couldn’t see inside. I stood there a moment listening to a faint echoing sound, making it for water dripping nearby.

  As I walked toward the door, the plopping sound of water falling in a full bathtub became clearer. My nose also began picking up a cloying scent I couldn’t quite place, but didn’t like. Some kind of cheap cologne or incense. The whole setup didn’t jibe.

  Just as I reached to push the door open, the telephone let loose with a shrill rrrrrring. I stopped, let it repeat a good five times, and then violated the very first commandment of breaking and entering.

  “Hello,” I said.

  Silence on the line.

  I said it again, louder.

  “Joe?” a voice asked in disbelief. “Is that you?”

  “Jesus … Helen? Where are you?”

  “I’m close,” she whispered. “I think I’m in trouble. Come get me, baby, I’m—”

  Suddenly, but far too late, I felt a presence behind me.

  I turned, saw a shadow scything across the wall, and caught just a glimpse of a large man with granite blocks for a face. There was a whoosh and then the boom came down on the back of my head. I lurched sideways and down as blackness flooded in.

  16

  I felt the pain before I opened my eyes. Throbbing, jolting, call-for-your-mother pain. I lay on the floor for a minute, rubbing the knot at the base of my skull before rolling over to stare at the ceiling. You never really get used to blackjackings no matter how much practice you get.

  The room was gloomy and appeared empty. I sat up slowly just in case it wasn’t, focus coming in grudgingly as I scanned the room. The phone was on the floor, but someone had racked it. Nothing else looked different.

  There wasn’t a sound except for the destroyer firing salvos in my ears. No telling how long I’d been out. I sat still another minute, choked down a little nausea, then collected myself and stood up by degrees—it didn’t take any longer than it did to build the Hoover Dam.

  I trudged to the kitchen, opened the cold-water spigot, and stuck my head under the faucet. A hundred little icy daggers stabbed me. It was bracing but brought me back around. I leaned against the sink for a long time with my eyes closed, rubbing my temples and examining the walnut on the back of my head, small waves of pain radiating irregularly from its center.

  I gathered that either I’d interrupted someone’s exit or Betty had one hell of a hard-assed housekeeper. Grabbing a dishtowel, I dried myself off, then ran my fingers through my hair several times until I looked just like Cary Grant.

  The thought that I should check the place over bored slowly through my lead-lined mind. I went about it slowly, checking behind me every few steps. I didn’t know what I’d do if I found someone, since they were apt to be armed, but I usually thought of something.

  I looked under the kitchen table and in the pantry. Empty. I peered around the corner into the living room. Clear. Then I checked the front closet. Same. After that, I ducked into the bedroom and gave it a once-over. Still nothing. The bathroom was the only room left, but now I was sure I was alone.

  Turned out I wasn’t.

  I opened the bathroom door and leaned in. There was a woman in the bathtub. She was partially naked.

  And completely dead.

  Her body lay on the bottom of the full tub. Long, dark hair sprang from the depths, floating up to the surface of the still water. I couldn’t make out her features, but the body was all business. I felt a chill as I approached, wondering if it was Helen.

  I knew that she’d spoken to me earlier, but irrational fear blossomed in my mind as I moved toward the edge of the tub. I took a deep breath and swirled the cold water with my hand, the small eddy carrying the hair away in gentle ripples. As the water calmed, I made out the features of a very attractive face—but not Helen’s. I closed my eyes, exhaling deeply.

  I looked her over from above. She hadn’t been there too long, but her skin was bluish and already beginning to puff up. Her round eyes were wide open, pale blue irises staring without focus at the ceiling. She looked for all the world like a Siren, lolling listlessly in the waves, waiting for some doomed sailor to happen by. I shuddered at the sight.

  The woman had several scratches on her chest and some deep purplish bruises on her neck and throat. Someone had drowned her in the tub, sure enough, but for what reason I didn’t know. I assumed it was Betty, but couldn’t really be sure.

  I scanned the rest of her body and the pink-tiled bath area. My eye caught a black object on the bottom of the bath between her outstretched arm and torso. I rolled up my sleeve and stuck my hand in to retrieve it. It squirted away, so I reached under her rib cage to fish for it, grazing her cold, firm flesh in the process. That sent another chill through me.

  I noticed her arm then. Something didn’t look right. Grimacing, I pulled it gently from the water to examine it. A half-dozen small red areas and twice as many tiny scabs covered the inside of her lower arm—track marks. The girl had been on China White. Somehow, that made it just that much sadder.

  Holding her cold arm out a moment with one hand, I plunged my other back in, hunting anew underneath her for the dark object. Grasping it, I pulled my hand from the tub, then let her arm fall quietly into the clear water, where it sank below.

  I examined the item. It was a cuff link, two half-size black dice, face-on but offset, each showing a four.

  Eight the hard way.

  There were no initials or markings of any kind on the dice, or on the gold post. Somewhere, I thought I might have seen one before, but I couldn’
t recall where. I wiped the cuff link off, then dropped it back in the tub. It landed on the bottom with a ploonk.

  I checked the apartment over. It bore the signs of a struggle, but it hadn’t been tossed. There were several photos of the deceased woman on a dresser, as well as a glossy of a guy who’d borrowed his chin from Mt. Rushmore. An inscription was scribbled across the bottom. Forever was misspelled, but he got Carmine all right. It was a fair bet that he was the brute who’d sapped me.

  The facedown photo on the floor featured the late, great Johnny Stompanato and the dead woman in a clinch. It was now obvious that the Siren was Betty. I didn’t like the mob connection at all. How Helen figured in, I hadn’t a clue.

  I rifled through Betty’s address book and mail but didn’t come up with anything—no notes or numbers stashed away anywhere. I picked up a few books and leafed through them, but without anything to go on, I was just drawing dead. From time to time I looked at the telephone, hoping I could make it ring again, but nothing happened.

  Figuring that I’d just about used up my quotient of good luck for the day, I decided to punch out before anybody else saw me. I needed a shower—and a drink.

  I wiped down anything I’d touched with my handkerchief and headed out the back way. Then I cut down the alley and looped the block, planning to come up behind the Mercury, but of course, it was gone.

  I took a final look at the ocean liner parked at 6344 Afton—home to bobby-soxers, jazz hopheads, and dead starlets—then sped away at a good clip.

  On Sunset, I pulled up to a drugstore, dropped into a phone booth, and pulled the door shut. I threw a Roosevelt in and dialed CRestview 4-2368 in Beverly Hills. Frank answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Whaddya got? You find her?”

  “No. You sitting down?”