by Jon Talton
As the train departed, huffing and clanking, I gave Dorsey a fifty-fifty chance of getting home—he might slip off somewhere along the way. It was the best that could be done. I stopped at the Western Union desk in the depot and sent a telegram to his family, telling them he was on the way and when the train was scheduled to arrive.
This part of the job was much easier than it would have been eight years ago. Until then, Phoenix was only connected to mainline railroads by branches, south to Maricopa on the Southern Pacific and north to Ash Fork on the Santa Fe main. I would have had to ride with him to those junctions. My dad was a conductor on the “Ess-pee.” I wished he could have lived to see this.
Now, with the Southern Pacific’s main line coming through Phoenix, we had a wealth of trains from which to choose, even in the Depression: west to Los Angeles, San Diego, and San Francisco, east to New Orleans, Texas, and Chicago. This railroad had so far avoided the fate of so many others, going into bankruptcy.
Then, out of an impulse that was too delinquent to be called noble, I drove back to the camp.
Marley and his men were gone, but a snazzy 1928 Nash Advanced Six Coupe was sitting beside the road, green, two doors and a rumble seat. I looked toward the hobo jungle, which was now visibly on fire. The smell of ashes and gasoline mingled with the pungent scent of the Tovrea Stockyards. The wind had shifted and was coming from the east.
I leaned against the Nash watching low-level lightning strikes from the direction of the camp. In ten minutes, a young woman in tan trousers marched up the grade. Her lush mane of black hair was tied in a ponytail, and she was lugging a Speed Graphic camera along with a smaller, elegant Leica dangling from around her elegant neck, and a heavy bag of other gear on her shoulder. Her large, dark eyes complemented high cheekbones.
“Hello, tall, blond, and handsome. What brings you here?”
I tipped my hat. Victoria Vasquez was a news photographer, a freelancer who sold her images to the Phoenix papers, the Associated Press, and the United Press. The Republic and Gazette were tiptoeing into using photographs, but the wire services were more likely to send her images nationwide. The caption below her photos carried the name “V. Vasquez” and “Special to the Republic” or “Special to the AP.”
She also worked for the police and went on some of the most lurid crime scenes. She was the first photographer at the Winnie Ruth Judd murders, and told me how the uniforms had allowed neighbors and reporters inside, contaminating the integrity of the crime scene, before I arrived as the first detective.
“What happened down there, Eugene?” she said. “It looks like a marauding army came through.”
“Kemper Marley and his goons, running out the commies, or so he said.”
“Oh, bullshit.” She took the nail I offered and I lit us both.
She exhaled. “That little punk thinks he’s the king of Phoenix.”
“Maybe he is,” I said, “or he will be. All the land he’s buying, plus the liquor business. It gives him a lot of cash to grease the politicians and the cops.”
“Speaking of liquor.” I pulled out my hip flask, and she took a sip. I toasted her and let the white stuff burn my throat and insides. No way was I going to give Sam Dorsey a toot of this.
She repositioned my hat to a jaunty angle and put a warm hand on my cheek. “You should show off those sad blue eyes, Eugene.”
“If you say so.” Only my mother and Victoria had ever used my full name.
She smiled. “Have to run. Midnight deadline for the wire services, chance to make the West Coast papers. Girl’s got to make a living.”
After the Nash swung around on the dark highway and headed west, I walked down toward the fire.
Considering the baseball bats, I was surprised not to find dead or injured bodies. Of course, the gorillas might have taken them in the truck to drop them off in the desert. Marley’s pull with the cops might not extend to overlooking cold-blooded murder here, out in the open.
The remains of the camp were without a human soul. Blood pooled in several spots on the ground as if a biblical plague had come through. A left-behind dog wandered, a frightened look in its eyes, barking and whimpering. Most of the cars were gone. But two were ablaze, along with piles of belongings and several busted-up shanties. Clothes, books, furniture, precious belongings turned to kindling. Sparks flew in the manure-perfumed wind. The piano had made it out, as far as I could tell.
No, the flames shifted and I saw it smashed against a cottonwood, its keys hanging askew as if a giant had been slugged in the mouth.
The only touch missing was salting the earth.
Through the dry air, the vault of the Milky Way looked down on us in judgment.
Then the toe of my shoe tapped against something substantial. Thanks to the blaze, it glimmered in the dirt. Bending down, I picked up a pocket watch. It had a gold case and white face with large numbers. I compared it with my wristwatch and it was keeping perfect time. I slipped it in my pocket and walked back to the Tempe Road.
* * *
The next morning, after breakfast at the Saratoga Restaurant at Washington and Central, I walked into Isaac Rosenzweig & Sons jewelry store on north First Avenue. Sometimes I acted as a guard for diamond couriers, escorting them from the train station to the store and back. Rosenzweig had also been good enough to allow me to place a small stack of my business cards on the counter after I started my PI business. The old man wasn’t there, but his son, Harry, was behind the counter talking to Barry Goldwater. They both greeted me.
“How’s the shamus business, Gene?” Barry was strikingly good looking with a shock of wavy dark hair, a healthy tan, and an easy grin. He wore a scraggly full beard that nearly obscured his blue bow tie.
“Probably about as good as the department-store business. What’s that wild animal attached to your face?”
Barry’s eyes twinkled and even standing still he radiated vitality like a dynamo waiting to be unleashed. It was easy to see why so many women fell for him.
“He’s been up in the High Country camping and taking photos,” Harry said. “And he’s on his way to Otis Kenilworth’s shop to get it shaved off, right Barry?”
Goldwater shrugged. “I rather like it. Peggy likes it. But I suppose so.”
Otis Kenilworth’s real name was William Jones, and he had opened his Kenilworth Barbershop in the Gold Spot Market Center at Third Avenue and Roosevelt Street in 1925. I didn’t claim to know why he took the new name, but he was one of the few Negro business owners serving a white clientele and gave the best haircuts and shaves in town.
Barry said, “I’m trying to settle into my duties. My dad’s been gone for three years now, so the family is pushing me to take over managing the store. Can’t say I love that. It’s not in my blood like it was for my dad and grandfather.”
“Big Mike” Goldwater, his grandfather, was a legend. He emigrated from the Polish part of the Russian Empire, and after time in Paris, London, and California, made his way to Arizona Territory. Stories say he ran a bordello and saloon in California before turning to dry goods. It’s also true he took an Apache arrow driving his wagon through an ambush. Big Mike hit better times with a store in Prescott—he served as mayor there, too—and a Phoenix location opened for good in 1896. His son Baron, Barry’s father, trained at Philadelphia’s famous Wanamaker’s Department Store.
Barry turned and scrutinized my suit. “That’s wearing out, Gene. Time for you to come over and buy a new one. Times are tough, but maybe I could barter, give you work chasing shoplifters.”
Harry Rosenzweig tut-tutted and came around the counter.
“Watch and learn, my friend.” He faced me, half a head shorter, with a high forehead and a big smile. It said I was the most important person in his world, I was iron filings and he was the magnet. “Mr. Hammons, it’s so good to see you again. I love this navy-blue suit.” He straigh
tened the fabric on my shoulders with expert hands and gently tugged the coat down. “We have a sale at Goldwater’s on a gray ensemble that would perfectly complement it. A new fedora would top it off. You’ll be togged to the bricks! Remember our motto, ‘The best, always.’ Come by this afternoon, and I’ll personally show you the variety we have.”
“I’d love to,” I said, playing along.
“You see?” He turned to Barry. “We’ll make a merchant prince out of you yet!”
Goldwater shook his head, unconvinced.
Rosenzweig went back around the counter. “So, what can I do for you, Gene? Nice Longines Flagship Heritage wristwatch on special.”
“The detective business isn’t that good.” I gently set the pocket watch I’d found in the dirt last night on the glass of the counter.
“Oh, my friend, please don’t tell me you need to sell your father’s watch.”
I shook my head. I still had Pop’s railroad watch, which, unlike this one, had a hunter case which snapped over the face and a gold chain.
“No, I found it.”
“Well, let’s have a look.” He placed it on a felt-covered tray and brought a loupe to his right eye.
“Oh, my goodness.” And that was all he said for a few minutes. He took out a cloth, gave it a good polishing, and examined it further. Then: “It’s a Hamilton with a Ferguson dial. Double-sunk special railroad variety. The outer Arabic numbers, five to sixty, are enameled black, and the inner numbers, one to twelve in red. Spade pointer hands. Inner hand for seconds. Fancy damaskeening pattern.”
He turned it over and, pulling out some tools, slipped off the back. He continued his inventory of the inside works. Sapphire pellets, compensated balance, lever-set, Breguet hairspring, gold screw-down jewel settings, 21 jewel whiplash micrometer regulator, stem-wind lever set… It was all Greek to me, but his tone was that of a dazzled Howard Carter making an inventory of King Tut’s tomb.
Barry slipped on his glasses and leaned in until Rosenzweig swatted him away. Goldwater was more to the point. “It’s beautiful.”
Slipping off the loupe, Harry said, “This is a very rare watch, Gene. I’ve only seen two like it. Where did you get it?”
When I told them, both men let out sighs. “What are we going to do about Kemper?” Barry said to nobody in particular. When nothing more was said, my mind wandered badly.
In late May of 1918, in the Third Battle of the Aisne, we first encountered German Stosstruppen—stormtroopers employing revolutionary tactics. Hutier infiltration tactics. We didn’t realize they were among us until it was too late, or nearly so. It was an ugly jolt, not least for us inexperienced Yanks. Our front didn’t break, but it was a near-run thing, a bloody education.
“Are you with us, Hammons?”
I snapped to. “Sure, I had a long night.”
But behind my lie was uneasiness. I didn’t like surprises. I wondered anew about the devil’s spell of young Marley over this town, even over these two young men from respectable pioneer families, members of the chamber of commerce, and in the case of Harry at least, a budding politico. I felt guilty about suspecting my friends, but there it was.
Rosenzweig went back to the watch: “It’s hard to see how a man would let it go, even in times like these. But I might be able to give you a few clues about the owner.”
Three
The next night, Wednesday, I went to choir practice at Central Methodist Church. I sing tenor, although I’m actually a baritone with a wide range. But the chancel choir is always short of tenors. We practiced Isaac Watts’s “I Sing the Mighty Power of God” for this Sunday’s anthem. We had sung it before, of course, but not every week could offer up a complex new choral work. I loved it nonetheless, the soaring and confident harmonies, the sentiment of the lyrics.
I sing the goodness of the Lord,
Who filled the earth with food,
Who formed the creatures through the Word,
And then pronounced them good.
I set aside reconciling this with the injustice and violence I had witnessed two nights before. The music made me happy, kept me sane. Not many things moved my heart now, but the music still did. On Sunday, we would be backed by the new pipe organ and facing several hundred worshippers. Tonight, we made do with the Steinway grand piano in the choir room.
As we concluded the last run-through, I heard clapping off to the side and saw my brother. All the comfort and inspiration drained out of me.
Don Hammons was tall and broad-shouldered like me, but he had Mother’s dark-brown hair and eyes. It was like looking at myself through a distorted mirror. A trench coat was draped over his arm as he brought his hands together. But even his applause sounded cynical. This didn’t stop my fellow choir members, especially the women, from surrounding him. Of the two Hammons brothers, Don was definitely the charmer. And the dresser: a soft cream glen-plaid cashmere jacket, tangerine patterned necktie, coral pocket square with a leaf pattern, dark woolen trousers, and wingtip oxford shoes in stone and dark tan.
We walked outside in silence and sat on the steps of the imposing new church building. The nearby Hotel Westward Ho, the tallest building between El Paso and Los Angeles, looked about half full. Like the Hotel San Carlos, Luhrs Tower, and other dramatic projects—the Professional, Title and Trust, Security, and City-County buildings—it was one of the gifts of the Roaring Twenties that gave Phoenix a skyline. We were hardly New York City or any of the big cities I came through on my way to and from the war. But it swept away the remnants of Phoenix as a frontier town. The central school we attended was demolished. The shady Town Ditch where we swam as kids in summertime was paved over.
Those boom years now seemed like a lifetime away, only the elegant art deco structures and inviting neon remaining. The globes of the streetlights resembled collections of full moons orbiting hidden planets. A light rain had fallen, and the pavement reflected the luminescence. The unique pleasing smell of wet desert was in the air.
“Remember when we went to church in the little brick building down at Monroe?” Don said. “Now it’s gone, and they’re talking about merging our M.E. South with the northern church. Our Confederate forebears wouldn’t be pleased.”
He pulled out a Lucky Strike and offered me one. He lit us both.
“I can’t believe you’re still singing there,” he mused. “You have a beautiful voice and all, but how could you believe in God after all we saw in Europe, and then the flu? Millions and millions dead. What kind of God would let that happen? No God I’d want anything to do with.”
I tried to conceal my sigh. “Humans caused the war, not God, who gave us free will. And the good guys won the war.” I was instantly sorry I had taken his bait.
“You think so?” he said. “The Versailles Treaty that forced the Germans to accept total responsibility for starting the Great War? You can count on this, little brother, it only set up a twenty-year armistice, and another war will come. My boys could be fighting the Germans again. Wait and see. I sure as hell hope not. We should have stayed neutral in the big one, and we should stay neutral next time. These are Europe’s quarrels. Let them sort it out. How did Wilson’s grand plans as savior of the world turn out? Badly. What an arrogant asshole.”
He said all this in a lazy Western drawl that dampened the anger behind the words. It helped Don get away with plenty of abuse. His voice was part of his charisma, and a dangerous weapon when he was a detective interrogating a suspect.
“How’s Mary?”
He let out a long plume of blue smoke. “Bigger bitch than ever. Bad marriage getting worse.”
“She’s a nice woman, and things might get better if you tried. You have two young sons to think about, Don. If you didn’t go to Chinatown for the dream wax…”
Don smiled. “Clean Gene, Clean Gene, Clean Gene Hammons,” he singsonged. “Not very Christian of you to be so
judgmental.”
“I care about you.”
“Spare me. You just have different vices. Anyway, I’m not using opium anymore.”
I raised an eyebrow.
He broke a wide smile. “Cocaine is better.” He held up a hand. “Gene, I need it because I hurt, and use it only occasionally, you bastard. I was wounded, shrapnel’s still inside me. I’m no hophead. And, by the way, I’m still on the police force, while you’re trying to make ends meet as a peeper, sneaking around to catch cheating husbands. And in the middle of the Great Depression. What a shit job, Mr. Perfect.”
I didn’t take those kinds of cases. But I said, “Then I’m not so perfect, am I?”
But he wouldn’t let up. “Going to church doesn’t give you a right to judge me, Clean Gene.”
“I’m not judging you.” But I was starting to get sore.
He tossed the nail away and watched it roll like a sparkler across the wet sidewalk. “I’ll never figure you out. You were the best detective we had.” That was an astonishing admission by my brother.
He continued: “You rose quick and caught the University Park Strangler. Hell, you could have become chief someday. McGrath loved you…” That would be chief of detectives John J. McGrath, officially a captain. “But you fell in love with Winnie Ruth Judd when you and the sheriff brought her back from Los Angeles. You should have stuck with Amelia Earhart.”
“I didn’t fall in love with her. The brass shoved a shoddy conclusion on us and withheld evidence.”
“So pure, Clean Gene. You pulled the pin to save your precious integrity. You think she was innocent?”
“The evidence was consistent with her claim of self-defense. And there’s no way she had the strength to dismember two women, put them in trunks, and take them to the train station. She’s five-five and a hundred-ten pounds. ‘Happy Jack’ Halloran helped her. You know that. But the evidence that would have implicated him was never introduced.”
