THE DEADLY DOOWOP

A Red Trevorak Mystery

By Charles Deemer

Synopsis

 

 

1/

 

Tues, 8 June 54: Lionel's great line in the Army, "Fashion is the first refuge of a scoundrel."  Get this in a play!

 

            I found the address on a shady, pine-lined lane in the foothills north of Pasadena.  It was one of those new upper-crust neighborhoods I'd never heard of, called - surprise of surprises - Foothills.  All the homes were lean and long, on huge, shady lots.

            I was about half an hour late, having under-estimated the time it would take to negotiate all the new freeway construction going on between the office in Venice and the suburban glitz of east Los Angeles County.  The trip had been one detour after another, crisscrossing back and forth over the deep gullies that were the transportation arteries of the future.  It was hard to see the future in all the dust and racket of construction.

            I pulled Bad-Ass the Buick into the driveway, turned the key and waited until the engine sputtered still.  Adjusting the rearview mirror, I buttoned my shirt collar and pulled up my tie. Then I got out.

            On a lesser scale, digging in the earth was going on here, too, right next door.  A gray-haired man in a red baseball cap was chest-deep in a hole alongside his house.  Bad-Ass had attracted his attention, so I acknowledged his stare with a wave and he nodded before going back to his shovel.  I guessed he was digging himself a fallout shelter.  Freeways and fallout shelters were all the rage, both granted the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

            I walked up the brick walk to the front porch and rang the doorbell.  A young Negro woman answered, and I probably did a double-take, forgetting for a moment where I was.  But her presence made sense:  in the lily-white glitz of Foothills, having a Negro housekeeper would be as prestigious as having a fallout shelter.

            When I told her who I was, she invited me in and led me to the den, not the living room.

            "Mrs. Davies will be here directly, Mr. Trevorak," she said.

            She was tan and pretty but somehow looked out of place in her starched white uniform.  I got the idea she didn't like her job.

            The den didn't look lived in, which made me wonder what the living room was like.  I'm a big man, almost three hundred pounds, and all the chairs in the room looked too expensive and frail to sit on. For a moment I stood in the middle of the room, admiring the view out the large bay windows.  It looked like a golf course back there. Finally I sat down on the divan and picked up a magazine off the adjacent coffee table.  There was a framed photograph there, too, and I wondered if the tired-looking guy at the barbecue was her husband.

            I was lingering over an underwear ad when a woman entered the room. As I closed the magazine and made a move to rise, she said, "Keep your seat."

            I relaxed and heard the cushion under me groan.

            "You're late," she said.

            "I forgot about all the construction going on."

            She just looked at me, as if I'd said something in a foreign language.  Then she stepped to the divan with her hand out, saying, "I'm Joan Davies.  You're not the one I talked to on the phone."

            I shook her hand and tried to rise a gentlemanly distance up off the cushion, which was no easy task at my weight.

            "Red Trevorak.  You talked to my dad.  We're a family agency."

            "I see.  And he sent you."

            Though it was late in the morning, she was dressed for cocktails and dinner, in a black dress that looked expensive. She was a pretty woman, slender, tall, with jet black hair to match the dress. I put her at not quite thirty.  She didn't seem thrilled that Dad had sent me and, to tell the truth, I wasn't so thrilled to be there either.

            "I suppose you'll do fine," she said.  "I want you to hear something."

            She went to a radio console in the room and turned it on. She stayed there, looking out of place without a martini in her hand, staring down at the radio.

            Then the radio came to life and said, Yes, indeedy!  It's Lovin' Dan the Sixty-Minute Man, approaching the hour of high noon. Oo-ee, and we been having fun this morning!  I love you cats out there, you know I do!  And we'll be right back with more of the best in rhythm-n-blues, on radio KRB, your station for top Negro entertainment - after this message.

A commercial jingle started, One little, two little, three little sparkplugs; four little, five little, six little sparkplugs; seven little, eight little, worn-out sparkplugs . . .

Joan Davies said, "I want you to listen carefully and answer some questions about the disc jockey."

Who was soon back on the air:  Oo-ee, baby!  We got a great one for you now, going all the way back to 1948.  Last year they had Crying in the Chapel but this was their first big one, and it's one sweet side. Lovin' Dan playing for you: It's Too Soon To Know!

The song started and Mrs. Davies turned off the radio.

"Well?," she said.  "What can you tell me about the disc jockey?"

I had no idea what she was getting at.  I said, "It sounds like he loves his job."

"What race is he?"

Though the question came from left field, I threw back a quick answer.  "Negro, I assume."

"Exactly," she said.

She moved back across the room and sat in one of the frail wooden chairs across from the divan.  She was so thin the chair didn't even squeak under her.

"That was my husband on the radio," she said, "and he's white.  Or at least, I assume he is." xxx

        She paused, letting this sink in, but I was still looking for her

    drift.  Then she came from left field again.

        "Did you read the paper a few weeks ago, about the little scandal

    we had here in Foothills?"

        I tried to remember a story about Foothills and couldn't. Lately

    the papers were dominated by what reporters called the Rat Murders, a

    bizarre series of killings with a weird m.o.: the murderer left a dead

    rat with each of his victims, as well as a short chapter in an on-going

    treatise he called "The History of Rats."

        "I don't recall," I said.  "I was up in the Bay area for a few

    days, maybe I missed it."

        "Flo Albertson, who lives in the neighborhood, not far from here,

    as a matter of fact - I used to play bridge with her regularly -

    anyway, she gave birth to a son recently.  The baby is a Negro."

        Again she paused for effect before going on.

        "Flo is white, or so we thought.  So her husband thought. As it

    turns out, she's a Negro who was passing for white.  Hence, her dark

    baby.  You can imagine how upsetting this is to everyone, not to

    mention her husband."

        I thought I was beginning to see her drift but it was too bizarre

    to take a wild guess about.  Better she told me herself.

        "What are you trying to tell me, Mrs. Davies?"

        "Dan, my husband, hasn't been himself lately.  Ever since Flo was

    discovered.  And I'll never understand why he took the job at that

    horrible station, he used to work in Pasadena, playing Montavani and

    wonderful music.  He says he actually enjoys Negro music.  I just need

    to be sure."

        My hunch was right but I still wanted her to say it herself.

        "Sure about what?"

        "Well, you heard yourself that he sounds just like a Negro on the

    air.  Under the circumstances . . . well, I was one of Flo's best

    friends, I thought I was, and never for a minute suspected she was a

    Negro."

        I just looked at her.

        "I want a family myself some day," she said.  "Your father said you

    can do background checks."

        "We do that," I said.

        "Well, then?"

        "I'm still not sure what you want," I lied.

        "I want to know if my husband has Negro ancestry."

        It pained her to say it, and suddenly I felt sorry for making her.

    She stood up and said, "Your father quoted me a fee over the phone.

    I'll get it."

        She fetched an envelope from a shelf filled with knick-knacks.  I

    managed to struggle to my feet by the time she got back with it.

        "How long will this take?," she asked, handing me the envelope.

        "Depends.  It would help if I knew the name of his

    parents, grandparents, as far back as you can go."

        "I thought you'd want that.  I wrote down everything I know - it's

    all in the envelope."

        "Shouldn't be a problem then."

        "Call me as soon as you find out anything."

        We turned to leave the den and found the housekeeper standing in

    the doorway.  I wondered how much she had heard.

        "I'm through now, Mrs. Davies," she said.

        "Very good, Ruth."

        Ruth didn't budge from the doorway.

        "Is there something else?," Mrs. Davies asked.

        "Today's payday, ma'am."

        "I'm sorry, I forgot.  I'll write you a check."

        I told Mrs. Davies I could find my own way out.  She offered her

    hand, and I shook it.  Her hand seemed colder than before.

        "I want to hear the minute you find out anything," she repeated.  I

    nodded and got the hell out of there.

        On the porch I pulled loose my tie and snapped my collar open.  I

    started toward Bad-Ass and heard a voice calling to me.

        "Excuse me!  Can you give me a hand over here?"

        It was the neighbor digging the hole for the fallout shelter.  "I

    can't quite reach my ladder," he said.  "Apparently I've dug myself

    into a hole!"

        He laughed like hell at this while I walked over and got his ladder

    for him.  I lowered it into the hole.

        "Thank you," he said and climbed up to ground level.  He took off

    his baseball cap, which I saw now was a Phillies cap, and wiped his

    brow with a forearm.  He drew one hand over his thinning gray hair and

    put the cap back on.

        "How about an iced tea for your trouble?," he asked.

        His name was Jeff Berger.  I waited in the den while he fetched

    drinks and, unlike the den next door, this one was lived in

    considerably.  A sports shirt was draped over a rocking chair.

    Newspapers and magazines were cluttered about.  A dirty dish was on the

    coffee table.  One wall was dominated by a large record collection and

    phonograph console, another by framed color photographs of various

    nuclear bomb explosions.  Returning with iced tea, he caught me staring

    at the photographs.

        "Incredible, aren't they?," he said.  "Beautiful and frightening at

    the same time.  I'll put them on the wall down in the shelter when I'm

    done."

        He handed me my glass and went to the phonograph, playing the

    record that was already on the turnstile.  It was classical, some

    symphony or other.  He kept the volume low.

        "Sit down," he gestured.  The chairs in the room looked sturdy

    enough.  Jeff took the rocker, and I took a stuffed chair adjacent to

    it.

        "Forgive me for being nosy," he said, "but I'm guessing you're the

    detective that Joanie has been threatening to hire."

        When I admitted I was, he told me what he thought about the matter.

    He thought Dan Davies was as white as he was but was having an affair.

    That's the difference in him that Joanie was reacting to.

        "Not that I understand it," he went on.  "Joanie's the catch, not

    Dan.  She has family money, and Dan married up. Personally, I think

    he's a fool to jeopardize that but I'll bet it's the story.  I've

    learned to read human nature pretty well by now, if I say so myself."

        He rocked in his chair, looking very pleased with himself.

        "Then there's nothing to this Negro business?"

        "You have to understand that Joanie was pretty close to Flo, they

    were bridge partners.  My wife Edna was in the same bridge club.  When

    you spend that much time with someone, only to find out that they

    aren't at all the person you thought they were, well, it's very

    disturbing."

        He had as much hair on his eyebrows as on his head, and he raised

    them now, in case I missed the seriousness of the matter.

        "If Negroes have anything at all to do with this . . .," he

    continued.  The eyebrows jumped again.

        "Yes?"

        "Well, maybe Dan's girlfriend, mistress, whatever, is a Negro.  He

    does seem to have an affinity for them.  You should hear how he carries

    on the radio, you'd think he was a Negro himself.  I don't mean that

    literally.  I mean it - well, spiritually, does that make sense?"

        The question hung in the air as he got up and moved to a desk in

    the room.

        "Do you build things?," he asked.

        The desktop was covered with blueprints, all of which he insisted

    on showing me, pointing out the various features he was incorporating

    into his own original design for a fallout shelter. He would be able to

    lay in enough canned food and water to last three months.  There would

    be sleeping facilities for four - himself, his wife, his daughter and

    granddaughter.  There'd be a small library, a phonograph and the best

    of his records.  When he was done, I lied that I had another

    appointment to make and thanked him for the refreshment.

        He walked me to Bad-Ass.  I started the engine, and a cloud of blue

    smoke bellowed out from the exhaust pipes.  Grinning, I waved as he

    shook his head in dismay and got the hell out of there.

        On the drive to the office, I found KRB on the dial.  The radio

    said, Shoo-doot-n-shoo-be-do . . .

 

 

 

 

 

    2/

 

        Between the foothills of east county and the ocean, smog was rising

    over the city like bad breath.  The newspapers liked to write about all

    the beatniks living in Venice but at least here we could breathe

    relatively fresh air.

        I parked Bad-Ass in front of the vacant storefront and hiked up the

    stairs to the office.  The glass window in the door needed a paint job:

    the final s is Trevorak Private Investigations was almost gone, looking

    like a foreign language's curly accent line; below it, the

    disintegrating paint read Henry Trevorak, Sr., Henry Trevorak, Jr. and

    yours truly at the bottom, Clyde Trevorak. No one called me Clyde, and

    I hated the name.  I'd been Red for as long as I can remember, homage

    to a body full of freckles and orange hair.

        I walked in.  The office was barely large enough for three desks.

    Dad was alone, feet up on his desk, reading the paper.

        "Read the front page," he said at once, tossing me the Times.

    "Tell me she's not a hooker."

        The reference was to another Rat Murder, announced in a bold

    front-page headline, Rat Murderer Strikes Again.  Real original, these

    headline writers.  I poured a cup of coffee and took the paper to my

    desk.  I preferred the evening paper to the morning, which made me feel

    like I was always behind on the news.

        "You read the story and tell me I'm not right," Dad said. He went

    back to reading the Sports section.

        Dad had spent almost twenty years on the LAPD before a stray bullet

    during a foiled robbery put him on disability.  Now he let Hank run the

    agency while he concentrated on solving the major crimes of the city.

        It was Dad's theory that the rat murderer was a prostitute. All the

    victims to date had been male, all murdered by a .22 caliber pistol at

    close range.  Each victim had been found in his car, two in

    compromising positions suggesting sexual activity. But I thought there

    were holes in Dad's theory, the main one being that it didn't explain

    the dead rat motif, nor the on-going history of rats, which was written

    with some intelligence, I thought.

        This victim fit the pattern: Franklin Cowley was 32, an attorney in

    his father's firm.  His Chrysler was found parked in the Hollywood

    Hills overlooking the city, Cowley slumped over the steering wheel (two

    other victims had been found partially nude in the back seat) with a

    .22 bullet hole in his neck.  The rat and new installment were on the

    front seat beside him.  As always, the installment had been neatly

    typed on blue-lined school paper by a Remington Standard typewriter.

    This one read:

 

 

        Rats are very good swimmers.  A rat can stay under water for three

    minutes.  Rats are good climbers and can jump about two feet.  The rat

    can breed all year.  However, it likes to breed best in the spring or

    fall.  A female rat will have five or more litters in a year.  The

    average litter is eight baby rats.  The baby rats are born 21 days

    after mating.  A few hours after the litter is born the mother can mate

    again.

 

 

       There was a photograph of the installment and also of the car, taken

    from an angle that showed the lights of the city below.  The reporter

    was buying Dad's theory and speculated that the murderer was "a deadly

    lady of the night."

        "They were parked in Lover's Lane," Dad said when he saw me put

    down the paper.

        "But no unzipped fly," I retorted.

        "So no blow job this time, big deal.  You want to cut it out and

    put it on the wall?"

        I fetched scissors from the desk drawer and cut out the new

    installment.  Dad was saving them, like episodes in a serial.  I took

    this one to the wall and pinned it up with the others. Together, they

    gave an on-going history of rats.

        The first installment read:

       

        A rat is very different from a mouse. This was probably said for

    the first time in the writings of Giraldus Cambrensis, who lived from

    1167 to 1223.  For one thing, a rat is much bigger than a mouse.

        There are many famous stories about rats.  One is about the rats

    carrying away a whole hen's egg.  One rat grabbed the egg with all four

    paws, and three other rats pulled the egg away with their tails.  This

    story was told in Persia in 1291.

        Another story about rats is from 1284.  The pied piper played on

    his pipe and led all the rats into the river named Weser.  But the city

    would not pay him, so he played his pipe again and led all the children

    into a hollow mountain.  The pied piper is also called Rattenganger von

    Hamelin.

 

 

        The second installment read:

 

 

        A rat belongs to the Genus Rattus and the Order Rodentia and the

    Family Muridae.  Rats make up the most varied genus of mammals.  For

    example, over 550 species and varieties of rats have been noticed and

    described. Some examples of the species and varieties of rats are brown

    rats, house rats, wander rats, gray rats, Norway rats, cotton rats,

    wood rats, kangaroo rats, barn rats, sewer rats, roof rats, black rats,

    pack rats and Alexandrine rats, to name just a few.

        However, there are only two main kinds of rats.  These are Rattus

    norvegicus and Rattus rattus.  Rattus norvegicus is also called the

    Norway, house, brown, wander, gray, barn and sewer rat.  Rattus rattus

    is also called the roof, black, climbing and Alexandrine rat.

 

 

        The third installment read:

 

                       

        Rattus rattus is the smallest rat and the oldest.  Old fossils were

    found in Europe.  Then the rat disappeared but returned to Europe

    between 400 and 1000 A.D. It came to Europe from somewhere in the East,

    probably Chinese Mongolia.  It probably came to Europe on a ship.

    Rattus norvegicus didn't arrive in Europe until the 18th century.  It

    was in England by 1728.  It came to the United States in 1775. Then it

    went west on the wagon trains.

 

 

        And now a fourth installment.  Dad joined me at the wall, limping

    from the old injury that had made him a temporary hero and a permanent

    retiree.

        "A pretty intelligent whore," I said.  "She writes different from,

    not different than.  She knows how to use the encyclopedia."

        "So she's intelligent.  Unzipped flies, Lover's Lane, male victims,

    a weapon only a woman would use.  The facts speak for themselves."

        Dad started rereading the history top to bottom, and I returned to

    my desk with the Sports section.  I was reading about the Angels

    blowing a five-run lead to the Stars when Hank walked in from lunch.

        "You get the gig?," he asked me.

        "I got it."

        Hank took after Dad.  Both were big boned but able to keep their

    weight down, which made their appearance more athletic than their

    habits.  Both wore trim moustaches in the manner of leading men of

    Dad's generation.  Dad's moustache was almost fully gray, Hank's dark

    brown.

        "Dad, don't you have that memorized by now?," Hank asked.

        "She got another early this morning," Dad said from the wall.  He

    turned and began limping toward Hank.

        "If the killer's a she," Hank said.

        "Course she's a she, even the reporter's calling her a deadly lady

    of the night now.  You wait and see if I'm not right."

        I sympathized with Dad's interest in the major crimes of the city.

    When he was on the force, he'd been involved with the real thing, not

    the petty business of Trevorak Private Investigations. Most of the time

    we were the Peeping Tom Patrol, scurrying about with our cameras,

    hoping to add the documentation of an adulterous embrace to a client's

    suspicions.  Dad had never been able to stoop to the level of the

    agency's bread and butter, letting Hank run everything, and when I came

    back from Korea with no worse damage than a missing toe and a bad

    attitude, Dad had put me on the payroll. As near as I could figure, the

    only reason Dad kept coming to the office was to have someone to talk

    to and to listen to his theories about whatever crime was in the

    headlines.

        Hank asked about my morning meeting, and I told him about Joan

    Davies and Lovin' Dan the Sixty-Minute Man.  The gig was a little

    bizarre, which perked Dad's interest considerably.

        "She doesn't even know the race of her own husband?," he asked.

        "Her neighbor was passing for white," I said.  "She's a little

    paranoid about it."

        "It's different anyway," said Hank.

        "He's a deejay and sounds like a Negro on the radio, actually.  He

    works for a station that plays only Negro music."

        Dad said, "She pay you?"

        "Sure did."

        I told them about Jeff-the-neighbor's theory that her husband was

    having an affair.

        "As long as she pays her bill," Dad said.  He started limping

    toward the door.  "You had lunch yet, Red?  Hank can hold down the

    fort."

        "I grabbed a sandwich on the way back," I said.  It was a figure of

    speech: actually I'd grabbed three Bob's Big Boy Hamburgers, a double

    order of fries, and a vanilla malt.

        "See you when I see you, then."

        Dad limped out of the office.

        I waited until Hank left before phoning Butch, a buddy from the

    Army.  Hank was always nosing into my gigs, not in a helpful way but to

    declare his superiority and establish my ineptitude for investigative

    work.  I'd been a linguist in the Army but somehow this didn't count,

    he couldn't trust me to do anything right.  To be sure, the day I sold

    a play to Broadway I'd be long gone from the Peeping Tom Patrol - but

    not even I expected that to happen soon, if at all, any more.  In the

    meantime, I kept my gigs to myself as much as possible and tried to

    stay out of big brother's way.  Butch was the only Negro friend I had,

    and I wanted to pick his brain about a few things without Hank looking

    over my shoulder.

        "You're buying me breakfast?," Butch said on the phone, pretending

    to be shocked.  "What'd you do, man, finally hit the big time?"

        "Been a while since we touched bases, is all."

        "You usually call when you want to bitch about work or need

    information.  But that's cool, man, a free meal is a free meal. So when

    and where?"

        We set a time and place, and hung up.

        I got up and went to the radio on Dad's desk, turning it on.  When

    nothing happened, I pounded on it until it came to life.  I found

    station KRB.

        The radio said, We sizzle!  We sparkle!  We fire!  Hot Wire Wally's

    got all the best in Negro music for you - from blues to ballads, from

    bebop to boogie!  Yes, indeedy!

 

        It wasn't Lovin' Dan the Sixty-Minute Man but this deejay sounded

    Negro, too, I thought.  I looked up KRB in the phone book, waited for a

    station break, and dialed the request line.

        "It's your nickel, baby!," someone answered, in the same frantic

    voice of the deejay.

        I said, "Do you take requests?"

        "That's what we're here for."

        "Anything by Perry Como."

        There was a silence.  Then, in a totally different voice, a voice I

    took to be clearly white, the man on the other end of the line said,

    "Don't I wish, man, don't I wish."   He hung up.

        I listened to KRB for the rest of the afternoon, background music

    to beginning the paperwork and phonework of tracing the lineage of

    Lovin' Dan the Sixty-Minute Man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

    3/ 

 

    Wed, 9 June 54.  A play about illusion and reality, people

    pretending to be something they are not.  This is what politicians do

    all the time!  A political play, then?  A political farce?

 

 

        I continued listening to KRB at home at night and also the next

    morning while writing in my journal.  All the deejays sounded Negro to

    me, all had the same frantic style, all had nicknames like Lovin' Dan,

    Hot Wire Wally, Rockin' Ronnie, Brian the Bopper.  The music selection

    varied greatly: a sweet ballad by Nat King Cole could be heard after a

    lowdown blues by Lightnin' Hopkins, music with nothing in common except

    that it was performed by a Negro.  The emphasis, however, seemed to be

    on singing groups with names like The Crows, The Robins, The Orioles

    and The Clovers.  In fact, KRB was in the midst of a local teenage

    doo-wop singing contest, "doo-wop" apparently being the label given to

    the group style of singing, in which nonsense but rhythmic sounds wove

    in and out of the melody line.  Though my own tastes tended toward The

    Weavers, Woody Guthrie and Leadbelly, the music on KRB was catching.  I

    wondered if Butch listened to the station.

        When I went to the office in the morning, there was a note in

    Hank's handwriting to call Dad.  There was also a snotty p.s.: Where

    are the blowups you promised me?  Our office was so small because half

    the space we rented had been converted into a dark room.

        I phoned Dad.

        "Where's this deejay guy from?," he asked.

        "Chicago.  Why?"

        "It will take you forever to put together his family tree by mail.

    Let me check around and see who's in Chicago who can help us.  I'll

    call you later in the morning."

        Dad had former colleagues and connections all over the country.

    While they were no help in peeping into a bedroom window, they could be

    a real time-saver in looking for a missing person or doing a background

    check.  Within the hour Dad called back and gave me the name of Stan

    McNaughton, who was a friend of a friend of his.  Fifteen minutes

    later, I had McNaughton on the job in Chicago.  I figured I might have

    Dan's family tree by next week.

        I spent the next hour in the darkroom, enlarging and cropping

    photographs of a well-known TV personality doing nasty things to a girl

    who couldn't have been fourteen.  At least I think that's what he was

    doing.  It was hard to say, the quality of the photographs was poor and

    enlarging them didn't help.  The action had taken place on the deck of

    his yacht, and I was shooting with a zoom lens from a rowboat a good

    distance away. What I remembered most about the gig was worrying about

    falling into the harbor.  A three-hundred pound man standing up in a

    rowboat is not the definition of stability.

       The radio said, Doot-doodle-loot doodle-loot doodle-lootle- loot,

    doot-doodle-loot doodle-loot doodle-lootle-loot . . .

 

        I found radio station KRB in a small Negro business district

    southeast of downtown L.A., called South City.  I'm not sure what it

    was south of, except the new Pomona Freeway, which was noisily, dustily

    under construction less than a mile north of the dilapidated building

    that bore the address of the station.  It was a rundown neighborhood,

    far past its prime, with more boarded-up storefronts than operating

    businesses.

        I parked Bad-Ass across the street from the station, turned off the

    radio, turned off the ignition, and unwrapped the first of three Bob's

    Big Boy Hamburgers while waiting for the engine to sputter into

    silence.  I was going to wait for the tired-looking guy at the barbecue

    to leave the building.

        I could have let McNaughton in Chicago trace the lineage without

    staking out Dan Davies, of course, but the adultery business made more

    sense to me than the other.  Besides, this was a solo gig, and I wanted

    to make the most of the opportunity to work without taking orders from

    Hank.  If McNaughton gave Dan a white slate, so to speak, I'd be that

    much farther ahead if I knew he was engaged in extra-curricular

    diddling.

        It was getting warm past noon, and with the heat came the smog.  In

    the distance I could hear all the digging, scraping, shoving of

    progress.  Were all these new freeways under construction supposed to

    take people into L.A. or give them a quick way out?  It was too warm to

    roll up the window, so I got all the noise and the thickening smog

    together, as I finished the first two hamburgers and started on the

    third.

        I almost didn't recognize him.  In the photograph in his den, he

    looked thinner, perhaps because of the weary expression he showed the

    camera.  He didn't exactly bounce out of the building with a happy,

    carefree gait but he was halfway down the block before it registered

    that this fellow looked a lot like the guy at the barbecue.  I started

    the engine, adding bellowing blue smoke to the smog, but turned it

    quickly off when I saw Dan enter the corner building.  I got out and

    hurried down the street, stuffing the last of the burger into my mouth

    and throwing the wrapper in the gutter.

        A hand-painted sign said Caviar's Market, though it looked like the

    last place in the world to purchase gourmet foodstuffs, even though a

    1950 pink Cadillac was parked out front.  Unlike the store, which was

    in a building as dilapidated as the others in the neighborhood, the car

    was immaculate, its pink body gleaming in the dismal afternoon.

        I waited on the corner across the street.  If I smoked, it would've

    been a great time to light up and think about what to do next.  What

    the hell, I didn't need a cigarette to know that the journey begins

    with a single step.  I pulled up my tie and crossed the street.

        We almost ran into one another at the doorway.  Dan - and from

    close now I knew it was the guy at the barbecue - mumbled something I

    couldn't make out, perhaps an apology, and turned the corner, leaving

    me outside the door.

        A voice in the market yelled, "If you're coming in, close the door!

    If you ain't, close the door anyway!"

        I closed the door and turned the corner in time to see Dan going up

    a back stairway.  I heard the voice of an old man calling down to him

    from above, "You're ten minutes late!"

        What now?  I went into the market.

        "Hey, close the door behind you!," the same voice yelled.  I found

    its source at the counter, a large Negro who was sitting in front of an

    electric fan, going over something or other in a ledger book.

        "I'll be with you in a minute," he said.  "You after the special on

    Russian Caviar, we're all sold out, man, and I don't expect nothing

    more in a long time.  We ain't getting along too hot with the Russians

    these days."

        He couldn't be serious, I thought - he sold Russian Caviar in a

    joint like this?  Moving down an aisle, with one eye on the filthy

    front window, watching for Dan, I began to change my mind. There was no

    rhyme nor reason to the items on the shelves but many were indeed

    foodstuffs common to a gourmet market.  I found canned froglegs,

    pickled dwarf corn, escargot complete with a package of shells, dried

    Chinese mushrooms.  Scattered among these delicacies were flashlight

    batteries, cans of motor oil, various Negro cosmetics, a huge box of

    rubber bands.  I didn't know what to make of the place.

        "What can I do for you, man?"

        On his feet, he was even larger than I had realized, towering

    perhaps six-seven above me, with the build of a lineman for the Rams.

    Even at my size, I felt dwarfed.  He was grinning broadly as he shoved

    a huge hand at me.  When I took it, he was kind and no bones were

    broken.

        "I'm Tank," he said.

        I wondered if this were Tank Younger, who played with the Rams.

    Apparently it was a common question.

        "Not the Tank Younger," he laughed.  "I had the nickname longer

    than he do."

        "I'm Red," I said.

        "You need help?"

        "Just browsing."

        "That's fine.  If you're here to ask about that apartment for rent

    upstairs, the deejay cat already beat you to it. Unless he don't take

    it, of course.  He's up there talking to Mr. Romanowitz right now.

    Tell you the truth, I think he's taking it.  He been walking up and

    down the street, looking up at it, all damn week, man.  I wish he be

    making up his mind."

        "You know him?," I asked.

        "He come in a couple times a week.  He works at the station up the

    street, playing that goddamn doo-wop for the kids."

        Tank was still grinning, staring down at me.  If this was his way

    of intimidating a customer, it worked.  I decided to buy something and

    get the hell out of there.

        "You have pop?"

        "A whole big cooler full, man.  Back there."

        There was no Dr. Pepper, so I purchased a bottle of coke and didn't

    object when Tank rang up fifty cents for it.  He even had an

    explanation.

        "That's vintage 1949 Coca Cola, man, they ain't never had a year

    better than that."

        I went back onto the street to discover that, once again, I'd

    almost lost Dan.  He was heading back toward the radio station.  Coming

    around the corner at the same time was the old man from upstairs, Mr.

    Romanowitz, the landlord.

        "Excuse me," I said.  "I understand you have an apartment for

    rent."

        "Just rented it," he said.  He was much older than Dad, perhaps

    seventy, with full white hair and bad teeth.  He grunted and rasped as

    he went on.  "Been trying to rent it for six months, now I get two

    interested parties the same day.  Two white men, the same day.  What

    you want to live around here for is beyond me.  Neighborhood full of

    winos and dope fiends.  You interested in Buena Park?  I got property

    in Buena Park."

        "Is the guy moving in right away?"

        "He paid a month's rent, he might as well."

        The old man started up the street, walking slowly, and I followed

    along.

        "He says he works right in the neighborhood.  How about Arcadia?  I

    got property in Arcadia.  You want to live in Arcadia?"

        When we were halfway up the street, Dan drove by in a recent model

    Mercury.  I left the landlord stewing in his offers and ran up the

    street to Bad-Ass.  After raising the usual cloud of smoke, I was

    accelerating behind the Mercury when Dan got through a yellow light

    that was red for me.  Bad-Ass was no friend of heat and, in my anxiety,

    I let the engine stall waiting for the light to change, then flooded it

    trying to restart.  By the time I was going again, Dan was long gone,

    and I just drove on back to Venice.

        No one was in the office but I could tell that Hank had been at my

    desk, snooping around.  He also had left a note to call Joan Davies.

        "Hello?," she answered.

        "Mrs. Davies?"

        "Yes."

        "This is Red Trevorak."

        "Thank you for returning my call so promptly."

        "No problem."

        "I was talking to Jeff Berger, my neighbor.  He said he gave you

    his theory about Dan having a mistress."

        "Something like that."

        "That may or may not be true, but I insist that you make that

    background check.  I'm paying your salary, after all."

        "Already started it," I said.  "I may have something to show you as

    early as next week."

        "That's wonderful.  I was afraid you might think my request was,

    well, too bizarre, is the term Jeff uses.  He's positive it's the

    other, and maybe it is, Lord knows Dan's been interested in something

    besides me lately.  But I do need peace of mind about the other.

    That's the first priority."

        "Like I said, the investigation has begun."

        "If you knew what a shock it was, to have your own bridge partner

    turn out to be a Negro!"

        "I can imagine," I said.  But I couldn't.

        "Well, that's all I wanted to say."

        "Mrs. Davies?"

        "You can call me Joan, Mr. Trevorak."

        "That neighbor who was passing for white, I forget her name . . ."

        "Flo Albertson."

        "Right.  So what's the story with her?  I mean, did she move out of

    the neighborhood or what?"

        "The house is up for sale but it's poor Gregory who moved out.  I

    think he's staying with his mother."

        "That's her husband?"

        "Yes."

        I brought the conversation to an end and hung up.  I didn't intend

    to tell her about the apartment until I knew more about it, and why Dan

    had rented it, myself.  But one possibility was immediately obvious: an

    apartment close to work would be damn convenient for messing around.

    Maybe the neighbor Jeff could read human nature as well as he bragged.

        I scribbled a note to the effect that my desk was off limits and put

    it on Hank's calendar, then locked up the office.  I spent the rest of

    the day walking along the beach, barefoot and carrying my shoes, making

    four-toed prints in the sand and glorying in the sea breezes and the

    lithe and not-so-lithe female bodies baking in the sun, white skin

    sweating under oil to turn brown, thinking about brown-skinned bodies

    trying to pass for white.

 

 

 

 

 

 

    4/ 

 

    Fri, 11 June 54.  Something along the lines of Gogol's Inspector

    General.  A reasonably common political event carried to extremes, to

    farce.  Set it in a foreign country?

 

        I met Butch for a late breakfast in Westwood, near the campus of

    UCLA, where he was taking classes on the G.I. Bill.  We got together

    every two or three months, usually for breakfast at Connie's in

    Westwood, sometimes for beers and a few games of pool after he was done

    with classes.  Butch liked to bug me about taking classes myself but

    sitting around with a bunch of budding Eugene O'Neills and Tennessee

    Williamses was not my idea of a good time.

        Butch was an artist, a painter who worked with gigantic canvases

    that captured the worklife and streetlife of his neighborhood in Watts,

    the largest Negro community in the county. He was studying to be a

    teacher, more interested in bringing something back to his community

    than in building an independent reputation.  I didn't know anything

    about visual art but the sheer accomplishment of his huge canvases,

    which cluttered the warehouse he called both studio and home, impressed

    the hell out of me.

        This morning, like always, Butch wore paint-splattered coveralls

    and a cap (today a new beret) that hid a premature bald spot.  As if

    making up for early loss of hair, he sported a Van Dyke beard, which he

    habitually stroked during conversation.  In deference to the warm

    weather, he wore no shirt under the broad shoulder straps.

        Waiting to be seated, I teased him about his outfit and he teased

    me about my floundering career as a playwright.  I hadn't written a new

    play in six months but I was taking notes in my journal about a new

    idea for one.

        The waitress seated us far back in the rear corner of the

    restaurant, and we both were hungry enough to order from memory.

        "Take off that goddamn beret," I said when the waitress was gone.

    Usually he wore an Angels baseball cap.  We were both diehard Angel

    fans but, somehow, had never taken in a game together.

        "Picasso eats with his beret on," Butch replied.

        "Now how in hell do you know that?"

        "I saw his picture in Life Magazine, eating breakfast in a Spanish

    cafe with his beret on."

        "They don't eat breakfast in Spain."

        "Not ham and eggs, man.  He was eating a roll and drinking red

    wine."

        I smiled, conceding the point.  Every time Butch and I got

    together, I wondered why we didn't do it more often.  We'd met and

    become fast friends in the Army hospital, both put there by Korean

    frostbite.  Like myself, Butch was in the Army Security Agency; I was a

    linguist and Butch a traffic analyst, the Army's term for keeping track

    of what the North Korean and Chinese military units were up to.  In the

    hospital we discussed books and played gin rummy and exchanged war

    stories.  We talked about our very different lives growing up in Los

    Angeles County.  By the time the doctors let us go, each with a missing

    toe, we'd compared fantasies we shared with no one else, about bringing

    an art center to Watts or taking a play to New York.  Now, a couple

    years after discharge, we were still getting together, but more

    casually now.  We'd weathered since Korea and kept our fantasies to

    ourselves.

        Small talk continued through breakfast.  When I kept ordering

    coffee after the waitress had cleared our table, Butch guessed that

    something was bothering me.

        "What's on your mind, man?  You look like you're sitting on a hot

    potato."

        "I'm not sure where to begin."

        "You got a problem at work?"

        I told him about my gig with Joan Davies, about the neighbor woman

    who had been passing for white until she had her dark baby, about

    Joan's anxiety that her own husband might be a Negro, about Lovin'

    Dan's radio show and renting an apartment in South City. When I was

    done, Butch just looked at me.

        Finally he said, "So where do I come in?"

        "Everything strikes me as so bizarre.  I thought maybe you could

    shed some light on it for me."

        "What's so bizarre?"

        "A Negro woman pretending she's white.  A white man sounding like a

    Negro on the radio.  His wife wanting to check his lineage."

        "Come on, man, you're pulling my leg.  What's so difficult to

    figure out about that?  If you're a Negro light enough to pass for

    white, and you want to climb up the social ladder, you got no choice

    but to pass for white.  You think they're gonna let Negroes move into

    Foothills, man?  Get serious.  And what is she, probably one part in

    sixteen or some damn thing?"

        "I mean, I know we live in a prejudiced society but--"

        "Prejudiced society, shit.  Racist, Red.  Racist to a

    conspiratorial degree."

        I'd heard this theory two or three times before, usually when Butch

    had had too much to drink, but I'd dismissed it as the anger and

    frustration of a victim of prejudice.

        Butch said, "If she wants to live in the best neighborhoods, man,

    the lady got no choice but to pass for white.  Nobody's gonna let

    Negroes move around at will.  Why the hell do you think they're

    building all these new freeways?  Think about it."

        "I don't see what this has to do with freeways."

        "Come on, Red, open your eyes!"

        He pulled a ballpoint pen out from a pocket and began drawing on a

    napkin, all the while continuing with greater excitement.

        "What do the white City Fathers fear most of all?  The expansion of

    Negro neighborhoods, man.  The darkies infiltrating good white

    neighborhoods.  I'm not jiving.  Looky here."

        His diction was changing as he spoke, so that now he was sounding

    more like Lovin' Dan the Sixty-Minute Man, with his hip vernacular,

    than like the cultured Butch I knew.  He turned the napkin around so I

    could see what he'd drawn so quickly, a pattern of lines with a circle

    in the middle.

        "This is the Freeway Grand Plan, okay?  They even published it in

    the newspaper.  Now this here is Watts, man.  So more Negroes have been

    moving into Watts, so it's expanding to the west, right?  Oo-ee, we got

    to head off them niggers at the pass! And so we start building this

    here Harbor Freeway to block them off, and this here Santa Monica

    Freeway to catch and trap all the ones that slip over the boundary

    before we can finish up the Harbor.  But now Watts is expanding east,

    man, cause it's got to go somewhere, and so we got to head off them

    damn niggers again, oo-ee, baby, let's build ourselves the Santa Ana

    Freeway, only this time a whole mess of niggers got so far east we got

    to come down with another one, too, the Pomona Freeway -- look at it,

    Red.  All these freeways ain't nothing but fences to keep the niggers

    from getting too close to good white neighborhoods.  You mentioned

    South City.  Well, what's South City, man?   A town because people want

    it to be a town?  Hell, no.  It's nothing but the part of Watts that

    got over the Santa Ana but got cut off with the Pomona.  It ain't a

    freeway system, Red, it's the walls of a prison!"

        I stared at the napkin.

        "You're saying," I began slowly, "that the purpose of the freeway

    system is to contain Watts?"

        Butch laughed.  "Shit, man, I think I'd better pay the check, you

    so dumb."

        He started to get up.

        "Wait a minute," I said. "Sit down."

        Butch gave me a sad little grin, shaking his head and stroking his

    Van Dyke.

        "What about the traffic problem?," I asked.  "Freeways are being

    built to solve the traffic problem."

        "Course they need freeways for the traffic, man.  I'm talking about

    where they decide to build them."

        "To get back to what started this - you're saying it's not unusual

    for a light Negro to pass for white.  It is, in fact, the only way a

    Negro can get beyond the freeway walls.  Something like that?"

        "I'm saying if somebody is so dumb to want to move into your better

    neighborhoods, which are white, then they got to be white themselves -

    and if they can pass white, then somebody's going to try it."

        "Would you try and pass for white if you were lighter?"

        "Get serious.  I generally don't even like white folks, Red. I ever

    tell you that?  I make an exception of you.  You got so many freckles,

    man, you don't even look like a white man.  Dig this: if I'm the monkey

    in the zoo, you're the leopard, boy!"

        Butch laughed, and I had to smile.  I liked Butch, I really did.

        I said, "Do you realize the way you talk has changed over the past

    few minutes?"

        Butch howled and slapped the table.  Then he replied in what was

    meant to be a cultured New England accent.

        "In a society such as ours," he said, "a wise man assesses the

    rules of the game before he deigns to engage the competition."  And

    then he switched to vernacular, more outrageous than ever:  "Shee,

    baby, I don' think them UCLA pro-fessors dig what be happenin' in the

    world, man, in the world!"

        He roared with laughter.

        "Come on," he said, wiping tears from his eyes.  "Let's get out of

    here."

        He had a class, and I walked toward campus with him.  Along the way

    I asked him why Dan would want to sound like a Negro on the radio.

        "What you really mean," said Butch, "is he's talking jive. He does

    that because it's cool, man, it's part of the job.  He's playing hip

    music for the kids, so he wants to sound hip."

        "I don't know anything about the music," I admitted.  "I like what

    I've heard."

        "You're still listening to folk music, right?"

        I nodded.

        "The craze for the kids is doo-wop.  It's just all that moon and

    spoon shit put in a new package."

        We walked the rest of the way in silence, and at the edge of campus

    I thanked him.

        "For what?"

        "I think I've got a little better handle on things."

        "If you say so."

        "Not that I can understand why a woman would want to check the

    lineage of her own husband."

        "Never under-estimate paranoia when matters of race are concerned,"

    said Butch.

        We shook hands and went our separate ways.

        I spent the rest of the morning listening to KRB on the car radio

    and cruising the streets of Watts.  To my amazement, Butch had a point,

    you couldn't drive in any direction out of Watts without being cut off

    by a new freeway under construction.  It was like being caught in a

    maze.

        It was past noon by the time I found a way over construction on the

    Santa Ana, too late to get to South City in time to tail Dan after his

    show.  I decided to drive to Foothills and look up Flo Albertson.  The

    playwright, more than the investigator, was fascinated with what made a

    woman like her tick.  In the odd event that Dan had Negroes in his own

    background, understanding her psychology would help me understand Dan's

    -- this, at any rate, was the rationalization I needed to stay away

    from the office and to avoid any boring footwork Hank might have for

    me.

       So I drove north toward the central city, heading Bad-Ass into the

    worst soup of the smog.  I rolled up the windows, preferring sweat to

    stinging eyes.  I cranked up the music.  The radio said, wah-wah-oh

    wah-oh . . .

 

 

 

 

 

    5/   

           

       After pulling off the Pasadena freeway, I discovered that a gas 

    war had developed almost overnight.  I chose a Standard station offering

    four gallons for a dollar.  While the gas jockey filled the tank, I

    walked to the phone booth and looked up the Albertson address in

    Foothills.

        A thin gray mist washed over the San Gabriel mountains to the north

    but it was difficult to know if it was smog creeping out of the city or

    the smokey residue from the morning burning of hundreds of family

    backyard incinerators.  A movement had started to ban home incinerators

    in east county and a counter-movement had risen to protect the

    Constitutional guarantees of burning one's own garbage at home.

        The Albertson home was like others in the neighborhood, a long lean

    ranchstyle set under the tall pines.  Going up the brick walk to the

    front door, I saw a woman come out of the house and when we passed I

    recognized Ruth, the housekeeper for Joan Davies.

        "Afternoon," I greeted her.

        She nodded and passed.  She was in the same white outfit, her black

    hair hanging in bangs in front, short and straight in back.  It made

    sense that she had as many gigs in the neighborhood as she could get,

    and I liked her for not dropping Flo Albertson after what had happened.

    I also liked Mrs. Albertson for keeping her on.  I wondered, since they

    both were Negro, if they talked about what had happened.

       When Mrs. Albertson answered the door, it was clear that she had

    been crying.  Her eyes were puffy and red but even this fact did not

    hide that she was stunningly attractive, movie star attractive.  Face

    to face with her, I never would have imagined that she was a Negro.

    She had a face like Audrey Hepburn, full of wonderful sweeps and

    angles.

        "May I help you?," she asked.

        "My name's Red Trevorak.  I'm a private investigator and wonder if

    you have time to answer a few questions."

        "About what?"

        "Your neighbor, Dan Davies."

        "Do you have identification?"

        When I showed her, she invited me in.  In this home, strangers were

    led to the living room.  She offered me a seat in a wooden chair that

    could have been an antique but to be on the safe side I sat down

    instead on one end of the divan.  As she sat down on the other end, I

    noticed that she was wearing an apron. She was so lovely that an apron

    had just disappeared on her.

        "What do you want to know?," she asked.

        I got right to the point, explaining about the gig with Joan and

    asking if she had any opinion one way or the other about Dan's race.

        "Do you drink in the afternoon, Mr. Trevorak?," she asked, ignoring

    my question.  "I'm having a gin and tonic and you're welcome to join

    me."

        Though a gin and tonic sounded good, I declined.  It wasn't that I

    was against drinking on the job, booze often loosened up an interview

    and let information surface that wouldn't come out sober.  But I was

    too attracted to her to drink.  I didn't trust myself to avoid acting

    like a fool.

        She got up and went to a liquor cabinet across the room.

        "I hardly know Dan Davies at all," she said. "I do enjoy his radio

    program.  And I play bridge - used to play bridge with his wife.  Of

    course, I'm ostracized up here now."  She turned from the business of

    making her drink and faced me.  "You do know what happened, of course."

        "Just what Joan told me."

        "I'm sure she told you everything."

        Turning back to mix her drink, Mrs. Albertson said, "What we have

    here, Mr. Trevorak, is a case of classic white paranoia. Since I am not

    who I appeared to be, everyone is suspect. Especially poor Dan, who

    plays Negro records on the radio.  Did Joan send you here?"

        "She doesn't know I'm here," I said.

        "She'll find out.  If she hasn't found out already."

        She came back to the divan with her drink, moving across the room

    with the grace of a ballet dancer.  It was all I could do not to tell

    her she was beautiful and that I thought she was getting a raw deal.

        "But to answer your question," she said, "the notion that Dan

    Davies may have Negro ancestors is ridiculous."

        "A neighbor thinks he may be having an affair."

        "That would be Jeff Berger, I bet."

        I felt like telling her that her insight was incredible and let's

    have dinner tonight.

        "And what does Jeff Berger say about me?," she asked.  She smiled.

    "That I'm a loose woman.  Am I right?"

        "The person involved did not mention you," I said.

        "Once you're a nigger, Mr. Trevorak, and a woman, it's a short step

    to becoming a whore."

        She raised her glass in a sad toast and drank.

        I couldn't hold it in any longer and said, "I think it's very

    unfair the way you've been treated."

        "Oh come on now," she laughed in an outburst that surprised me.

    "Let me tell you something, Mr. Trevorak."

        "Please call me Red."

        "Mr. Trevorak.  My mother was white, and my grandmother was white.

    I never knew my grandfather and my father left us when I was two.  I've

    always considered myself white.  At least until I applied for college,

    when I found out that legally I am a Negro. It was on my birth records.

    It was on my school records.  The college I wanted to attend didn't

    accept Negroes.  That information threw me into a tailspin, and for

    more years than I care to recall I was not doing myself or anyone else

    any good. When I finally got back on my feet, I decided that since I

    looked white, and since I had thought of myself as white for most of my

    life, there was no reason that I shouldn't be white.  With such a

    positive outlook, it only took me five years to move into Foothills."

        She finished her drink and moved across the room to fix another.  I

    struggled to my feet and followed her.

        "Straight tonic would be nice," I said.

        "Surely."

        "You said you enjoy Dan's radio show."

        "I do."

        "Don't you think it's strange that a white man tries to sound like

    a Negro on the radio?"

        "Heavens," she burst out again, "he's not sounding like a Negro!

    Maybe like what he thinks a Negro should sound like. He's trying to be

    hip for the kids.  All the deejays do it.  To be honest, it seems to be

    the direction the radio station is going in, appealing more and more to

    kids.  I prefer the way it used to be."

        "How was that?"

        "Playing more Nat Cole and Louis Jordan, and less of these new

    doo-wop groups."

        She handed me my drink.  I raised the glass, offering a toast, and

    she touched her own glass against mine.

        "Mrs. Albertson," I said, "we have no control over the color of our

    skin.  Look at me: I'm an orange-spotted mistake."

        "And what makes you so liberal?"

        "I call it common sense."

        "My husband is a liberal.  A liberal Democrat.  Not that he flaunts

    it around, especially in Foothills.  Well, do you know his reaction to

    all this?  He's divorcing me.  He thinks I married him for his money."

        She smiled sadly and said, "And all the time I was pregnant, he was

    having an affair."

        From a distant room, a baby started crying.

        "Please excuse me a minute," she said.  She set her drink on the

    counter of the liquor cabinet and headed in the direction of the

    crying.

        I looked around the room, which reeked of money.  There were

    abstract paintings on the wall.  A small sculptor on a wooden stand

    stood in one corner of the room.  There were crystal glasses in the

    liquor cabinet and the brands of booze were the best.  This was one

    cultured lady but culture and money were going down the drain because

    the baby crying now in a distant room had the wrong color skin.

        The phone began to ring.  I located it on a table in the adjacent

    hallway.  As it continued to ring, Mrs. Albertson called from down the

    hallway, "Would you answer that and take a message, please?"

        I picked up the phone.

        "Hello?"

        "Is that you, Mr. Trevorak?  This is Joan Davies."

        "This is Trevorak."

        "The housekeeper just came in and said she saw you."

        "I saw her, too."

        "Please don't be cute.  What in hell are you doing there?"

        Coming from Joan, hell sounded like a first rate expletive.

        "I don't have to answer that," I said.

        "As long as you're in my employ, you do."

        "I'm in the employ of many people."  Didn't I wish.  "The way I do

    my job is my business."

        "I think I deserve an explanation at least.  Everyone in the

    neighborhood knows I hired you by now.  Obviously you're not hiding the

    fact that you're over there.  No one can miss your car, even if they

    miss you."

        I said, "Mrs. Davies, I'm here in your best interests, believe me."

        "I don't see what she has to do with Dan.  Unless you think . . .?"

        There it was, right on cue, first a nigger woman and then a whore.

    I could feel the flush of anger rising in my face.

        "I'm only going to say this once," I said.  "Flo Albertson was

    passing for white.  You think your husband may be doing the same.

    Ergo, they may have this in common.  Ergo, they may have shared their

    common anxieties.  That's why I'm here."

        It was a pretty good job for thinking on my feet, delivered with

    the right balance of formality and phony jargon.  What I really wanted

    to do was teach her a few real expletives.

        "I see," she said.

        There was a silence.

        "I'll be by when I'm done," I said.

        "Yes, I think that would be good."

        The comment almost made me change my mind.

        "How long will you be?," she asked.

        I said, "As long as it takes" and hung up.

        I turned to find Mrs. Albertson in the hallway, watching me. She

    was holding her baby, rocking it gently, only dark hair visible above

    the blanket the baby was wrapped in.

        "You didn't realize the risk of coming here, did you?"

        "No risk," I said.  "In fact, you've been helpful.  I appreciate

    your time."

        I didn't want to be talking this way, making remarks prefatory to

    leaving.  I wanted to ask her what she was doing tonight.

        "Do you have a card?," she asked.

        I fumbled through my wallet for one, feeling ridiculous, feeling

    like a high school snake in the presence of the prom queen, looking for

    something with two left thumbs.

        "Trevorak Private Investigations," she read when I finally handed

    her the card.  "There are three of you, all Trevoraks."

        "We're a family agency."

        "How nice that you have family."

        She walked me to the door.  I felt more awkward than ever and moved

    forward and out without turning to say a word.  It wasn't until I

    opened the door to get into Bad-Ass that I realized I had an erection.

 

 

 

 

 

 

    6/

           

        Ruth, the housekeeper, seemed surprised to see me.  Finally she

    said, "Hello again."

        "You didn't say hello the first time," I said, stepping inside.

    "The boss lady's expecting me."

        "I see.  Mrs. Davies is in the den."

        "I know where it is."

        Ruth still led the way, as if house rules demanded it.  Just before

    we reached the doorway into the den, she stopped and did a little bow,

    gesturing with one arm for me to go ahead and enter. I smiled but she

    didn't smile back.

        "Come in, Mr. Trevorak."

        Joan Davies was standing near the radio console, looking like a

    bored party-goer waiting for the tray of drinks to pass by.  I couldn't

    tell if her pink silk robe was morning or evening wear.  She moved away

    from the radio to the coffee table, on which I saw a ceramic pitcher

    and glasses.

        "Would you like a glass of iced tea?," she asked.

        Apparently iced tea was the neighborhood drink of fashion.

        "Sure, thanks."

        She poured drinks, and we sat on opposite ends of the divan. I

    noticed that the framed photograph of Dan was no longer on the coffee

    table.

        "I should apologize for the phone call," she said.

        "No problem, as long as we're straight that I do the job my way."

       "Of course.  I'm pleased that you're being so thorough.  It never

    would have occurred to me to make a connection between Dan and Flo."

        "I doubt if there is one.  But you have to check everything."

        "I thought you said they might be good friends - considering their

    - well, their common mask."

        Common mask came out sounding lowlife and ordinary, like ordering

    beer in a fine restaurant.  I was sure she only went to fine

    restaurants.

        I said, "Frankly, Mrs. Davies--"

        "Joan."

        "I seriously doubt if your husband has any Negroes in the closet.

    I think the difference in him you've noticed probably has another

    explanation."

        "Oh?  And what explanation is that?"

        "He rented an apartment near the radio station."

        She considered this a moment, then said, "That would be in a Negro

    neighborhood."

        "Yes, it is."

        "Then perhaps he plans to admit it before he's discovered."

        There was no way a stranger over-hearing this would have known she

    was talking about her own husband.  She was distant and clinical,

    sitting in her pink silk robe with every hair in place and her makeup

    fresh and perfect.

        "There's another, more logical explanation," I said.

        What was worse to her, I wondered, that Dan might be a Negro or

    that he might be cheating on her?  I couldn't tell.  Maybe she was

    trying to figure out the same thing.

        "And what explanation is that?," she asked.

        I didn't reply, giving her time to figure it out herself.

        She said, "You think Jeff is right and Dan is having an affair."

        "It would explain arranging a home away from home, so to speak."

        "Perhaps."

        For an instant, I saw a hint of emotion, a passing flash of pain in

    her expression before she abruptly rose from the divan and moved across

    the room.  I grabbed the arm rest and pushed myself to my feet.

        "I'm glad you told me," she said.  "I want to think about what it

    means.  You said you might have his family tree by next week?"

        "Or the week after."

        "The sooner all this is resolved, the better.  In the meantime, Mr.

    Trevorak, do whatever you think is best.  Obviously you know what

    you're doing."

 

        Driving down the hill from the Davies home, I saw Ruth walking

    along the sidewalk.  I pulled Bad-Ass to the curb and opened the

    passenger door.

        "You need a ride?," I asked.

        "No thanks, the bus stop is just at the corner."

        "Where are you headed?"

        "South City."

        "I'll take you."

        "No need to go out of your way."

        "I've got business there anyway."

        She still hesitated to get in.  I said, "I've got an appointment at

    KRB."

        It wasn't true but it did the trick.  She climbed in, and we

    continued down the hill out of Foothills into Pasadena.

        She wasn't much for small talk.  Her bus came every hour, I

    learned, and yes, the smog was real bad this summer.  I gave up on

    conversation and turned on the radio.

        The radio said, Bah bah-oh, bah-oh, bah-oh, bah-oh . . .

        After pulling off the Pasadena Freeway, we drove the string of

    detours over construction into South City.  I asked her where she

    wanted to be let off.

        "Anywhere's fine," she said.  "At the corner."

        "This cab gives doorstep service."

        "Turn right at the light, then."

        She directed me to a house at the very edge of construction on the

    new Pomona Freeway.  It was a woodframe house with a small backyard

    that suddenly dropped off into a deep gully of noise and dust.  I

    couldn't imagine anyone living in such a place but the neighborhood

    seemed to ignore, or at least was used to, its unusual setting: kids

    were playing baseball in the street and, on the front porch of Ruth's

    house, four teenagers were gathered in a loose circle, singing.  At

    least they appeared to be singing, with their arms gesturing

    rhythmically and their fingers snapping.  I couldn't hear them for all

    the clank and boom of machinery coming up from the backyard gully.

        "Thanks for the ride," Ruth said, opening the door.

        "My pleasure."  Before she slid out, I added, "Are they singing on

    the porch?"

        "That's Artie's doo-wop group.  They're practicing for a contest."

        "The one on KRB?"

        "You know about that?"

        "I've been listening to Lovin' Dan the Sixty-Minute Man."

        "Have you?"  She was studying me, as if trying to decide whether or

    not she believed me.

        "Your employer," I added.

        Ruth smiled and said, "He's a character, isn't he?"

        I couldn't tell if the remark was sincere or guarded.

        "What do you think about Dan?," I asked.

        "What do you mean?"

        "Do you know why I was hired?"

        "I don't even know what you do."

        "I'm a private investigator."

        "Really?  What are you investigating?"

        "Whether or not Dan is a Negro."

        "You're kidding me."

        "The Flo Albertson business has Mrs. Davies a little paranoid."

        "Well, I guess so."

        "Actually I think he has a girlfriend on the side."

        Sometimes insight comes all at once or not at all.  The remark had

    just come out but her expression after hearing it told me I'd made a

    wild toss of the dart and hit a bull's-eye.  Ruth was the girlfriend.

    Dan was messing with the housekeeper.  It made perfect sense.

        Ruth said, "Thanks again for the ride," and quickly slid out.

        Since I was in the neighborhood, I drove to Caviar's Market and

    parked behind the pink Caddy.  Either it hadn't been moved or had the

    parking place right in front of the market reserved.  It definitely

    looked out of place.

        I entered the market and found Tank creeping down an aisle with a

    broom raised over his head.  I stopped, wondering what was going on.

    He swung the broom but apparently missed whatever he was swinging at

    because he began swearing.  Turning, he saw me and grinned.

        "Well, looky here," he said, "the man like my vintage coke so much

    he come back for more."

        "I was wondering if that fellow moved into his apartment yet."

        "I don't hear nothing up there today.  You still looking for a

    pad?"

        "No, I was just wondering if he'd moved in."

        "I think it's just a party pad anyway."

        "What do you mean?"

        "A place where he can take his trem, man.  You can't tell me no

    white man's moving into the neighborhood permanent or nothing like

    that.  Like I told you before, he works up at the radio station.  He

    probably needs a place to take the secretary during lunch hour."

        "You've seen him with the secretary?"

        "He come in with different ladies at different times, man."

        "Does one of them wear her hair in bangs in front?  Short, black, a

    pretty woman."

        "White woman?"

        "No, a Negro."

        "Yeah, that fits one.  I only seen him with black women."

        The pieces were fitting together.  It seemed very likely that he'd

    been in the market with Ruth herself and that I'd catch them together

    in the upstairs apartment soon enough.  I was feeling pleased as punch

    with myself and bought an over-priced "vintage" coke to celebrate.

        It also was Friday, which meant it was time to check in with my

    girlfriend Carla.  Instead of returning to the office, I began the

    chain of detours to Santa Monica and Carla's apartment, where I often

    spent the weekend.  Carla was an American gypsy, dark and bohemian, who

    managed to scratch out a living as a freelance astrologer.  She also

    was a hedonist, and we had a stable relationship based on too much

    food, liquor and sex, and I was in the mood for all three.  Maybe we

    didn't have what the movies called true love but at least our charts

    were compatible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

    7/

           

        I awoke out of a dream with my mind racing.  For a minute I didn't

    know where I was: I reached for my journal but it wasn't there, there

    wasn't even a bedside table for it to be on.  Then I heard Carla

    snoring beside me.  I scooted to the edge of the mattress and dropped

    one leg to the floor, then the other, and got out of bed.

        The room was barely lit by a streetlight two stories down. I found

    an empty grocery sack on the kitchen counter and took it to the small

    breakfast table.  I found a pencil on top of an astrology chart Carla

    had been working on just before we went to bed.  I began to scribble

    furiously in the near-dark:

           

    Sat, 12 June 54.  A political farce set in a fictitious foreign

    country: the President of the country has fallen in love with an exotic

    dancer and wants to run off with her.  He is a student of Eastern arts,

    ala some of the stuff I saw in Japan. He fakes his own death, able to

    will his blood pressure, breathing, etc., to realms too low to measure.

    (Not as far fetched as many would think.)  His corpse is being prepared

    for public viewing by a very proud State Mortician.  Then the

    President's mask is betrayed: he's been thinking about his exotic

    dancer and gets an involuntary erection.  The corpse has an erection!

    The proud Mortician refuses to display the body in such a condition, he

    has his reputation to think of.  Add the usual twists and turns of a

    broadly played farce.   A one-act play, working title "The Stiff."

 

       It was not much to write but afterwards I felt exhausted.  I left

    the grocery sack on the table and stumbled back to bed. Carla was still

    snoring beside me.   I fell quickly and deeply asleep.

 

        Carla was walking around naked, digging through the cluttered chaos

    of her studio apartment for a clean pair of panties.  She was as big

    for a woman as I was for a man, and as she stooped to root through the

    pile of clothes in the corner near her dresser, her white belly folded

    into endless ripples. Now and again I imagined the Peeping Tom Patrol

    catching Carla and me in the heat of lovemaking, a near-300-pound man

    sweating and groping for pleasure with a near-200-pound woman.  It gave

    a whole new image to romantic love, which was perhaps why Carla and I

    were unromantically down to earth.  We were both admitted hedonists and

    sex and other bodily pleasures were the kingpin of our relationship.

    "Mutual use for mutual self-abuse," was the way Carla sometimes

    described our relationship but when she said this, there was always

    laughter in her voice.

        I was up on one elbow, watching her, when Carla said, "Piss on it."

    She stepped into a pair of panties that would have to do.  Leaning

    forward, she dropped her large breasts into an awaiting bra, adjusted

    it, stood up and adjusted the fit some more, then reached back and

    snapped it on.

        She noticed me watching her.

        "You horny or something?," she asked.

        I shook my head, no.

        "I'll make some coffee," she said.  As she passed the small table

    off the kitchen, she picked up the grocery sack.

        "Can you actually read this?"

        "Don't throw that away," I said.

        She tossed it to me.  She was right, I could barely make out my own

    handwriting.  What I read sounded like a pretty stupid idea for a play.

    A phony corpse with an erection?  That's what I got for drinking most

    of a fifth of Jameson's Irish Whiskey last night.

        When the coffee began gurgling, Carla finished getting dressed and

    went to the front door.  Her parting shot before leaving was, "Get your

    ass in gear and make breakfast or something."

        I was dressed and bacon was sizzling by the time she returned with

    the morning paper.  I was at the table sipping coffee and staring at

    what I had written on the grocery sack. Maybe the idea had

    possibilities after all.  You could get away with a lot in a farce.  As

    my favorite drama critic, Jiminy Cricket, liked to sing, "It ain't what

    you do, it's the way that you do it."

        Carla always got the sports section first.  She dropped the rest of

    the paper on the table in front of me and went to the stove to pour

    coffee, the sports section folded under her arm.

        The headline on the front page announced another rat murder, and I

    began to read the story.  Before Carla returned to the table, I was

    choking on my coffee and getting to my feet.

        "You all right?," Carla asked.

        "I just talked to her yesterday!"

        I grabbed the front section of the paper and headed for the door.

        "Talked to who?  Where are you going?"

        I mumbled, "I've got to get to the office."

        "Red!," Carla yelled.

        I turned in the doorway and said, "I know the woman who was

    killed."

        "Let me see," Carla said.

        I tossed her the paper and turned to leave.  As the door closed

    behind me, I could hear her yelling, "I thought we were going to spend

    the day together!"

        I picked up another paper on the way to the office and tried to

    finish the story while I was driving.  Flo Albertson had been

    discovered in her home Friday evening by the paperboy and his friends,

    the paper said.  The paperboy was out collecting in the neighborhood

    and his friends were along because Mrs. Albertson was a controversial

    figure.  There were rumors that she was a witch from some Caribbean

    island, according to the paperboy.  At any rate, when no one answered

    the door, the boys got brave enough to begin peeking into windows, and

    they found her body on the floor of the kitchen.  The police weren't

    called until several hours later, when the paperboy told his parents.

        The usual m.o. was at work: she had been shot at close range by a

    small caliber weapon.  On the kitchen counter, close to the body, were

    a dead rat and another installment of "The History of Rats."

        Dad was upset because a woman victim compromised his pet theory

    that the rat murderer was a prostitute.

        "Unless this one was a prostitute herself," he said, grabbing at

    straws.

        "Dad," I said, "I told you I saw her yesterday.  She's a very

    articulate and intelligent and cultured woman."

        "Was."

        "Was," I agreed.

        Hank said, "I hope you two get all this resolved by the time I get

    back in an hour or so.  I have some things to run by you on the

    Zimmerman case."

        Ted Zimmerman was the star of a children's television program.  His

    wife had hired the firm to prove that he was messing around with the

    show's puppeteer.

       "In an hour," Hank said again before leaving.

        Dad had cut out the front-page article from his own copy of the

    paper and took it to add to the others.  The new installment of "The

    History of Rats" read:

           

        There is only one helpful rat.  This is the white rat.  The white

    rat is very helpful in experiments.  It is used in the laboratory to

    experiment with human diseases, nutritional studies, and anatomical

    research.  The white rat is a good rat for dissection.  It is also

    helpful to psychologists.

        The white rat can make a very interesting pet.

                       

        "A woman victim just doesn't make any sense," Dad said.  "It

    could've been set up to look like the rat murderer.  I mean, the m.o.

    has been splashed across the front page for weeks.  All the kooks out

    there, somebody's bound to pick up on it and try it himself."

        I went back to my desk and picked up the phone.

        Dad said, "It's a phony goddamn rat murder, is what I think. The

    rat episode doesn't even sound the same."

        "What do you mean?"

        "Sounds less scientific or something."

        I let him ramble on and dialed Joan Davies' number.  I hung up

    after fifteen rings.

        There was something else missing in the story about the murder: no

    mention was made of Flo Albertson's Negro baby.

        "I'm going to Foothills," I said.

        "You going to be back for that meeting Hank wants?"

        "I doubt it."

        Dad let it ride, as I knew he would.  He didn't like to get caught

    in the middle.

        I didn't know what I expected to accomplish in Foothills. Flo

    Albertson had been ostracized and perhaps few mourned her murder there.

    I was going on instinct, feeling I wanted to be close to where I had

    talked to her, where I had been vaguely attracted to her.

        I turned to an all-news station on the drive to Foothills, wanting

    to hear any voice but the one in my head.  Mayor Poulsen had ordered

    the immediate desegregation of the Fire Department, the last city

    service closed to Negroes, but the City Council was raising such a

    stink that the mayor's proposal seemed certain to be defeated.  City

    Hall also had reaffirmed its 1952 decision regarding the official

    pronunciation of Los Angeles, which was "loss an' juh less," and not

    "loss an' juh leez."   A new Gallup poll had 64 percent of the American

    public believing that war with the Soviet Union was likely in their

    lifetimes.  Finally came the real news, as inevitable as it was, the

    Angels had blown a four-run lead on the road to lose in the bottom of

    the ninth.

        The reason Joan Davies hadn't answered the phone was that she

    wasn't home.  She didn't answer the door either.  I cussed under my

    breath and was about to climb back into Bad-Ass when Jeff Berger, the

    neighbor, called to me.

        "Can I speak to you a minute?," he asked.

        I went to the front porch, and we shook hands.  I noticed he was

    wearing a Dodgers cap this time.  I didn't like fickle baseball fans.

        "It's terrible news about Flo Albertson," I said.

        "Oh, that," he said, dismissing the murder in two syllables before

    continuing.  "We've had nothing but problems this morning, first Dan

    and Joan at the crack of dawn, then my daughter calling about Harriet -

    well, why don't we talk about it inside?"

        In the den he poured iced tea and was in no hurry to get to the

    point, and I could tell he liked having the power to tell everything

    his way, in his own sweet time.  When he finally began, I was too

    fascinated by his meandering calm delivery, despite a murder having

    happened a few blocks up the street, to interrupt.  This guy had acting

    talent he probably didn't even know he had.

        Dan had moved out this morning, Jeff reported, or at least it

    appeared that he had.  Dan and Joan had held an outdoor screaming match

    at seven in the morning.  Since Dan was carrying a couple of suitcases,

    Jeff put two and two together.

        But the real news was - no, not a murder in the neighborhood - the

    real news was that his granddaughter Harriet had run away. He feared

    the worst because she listened to KRB every day.

        "I've kept my opinion to myself in the past," Jeff went on,

    "because Dan, a neighbor, works at the station, after all.  No use

    going out of your way to find an argument, even when it's obvious we

    have little in common.  He may even be a Democrat for all I know.  But

    that radio station has been changing in recent weeks in ways I don't

    approve of at all.  It's started focusing on music for teenagers.  I

    wouldn't have found out if Harriet didn't listen to it when she comes

    to spend the night.  The music on that station - now I'm not saying Dan

    plays it, because I'm talking about evening and night programming, and

    he's on in the daytime and deserves the benefit of the doubt - but the

    music I've heard Harriet listen to, Mr. Trevorak, is no music anyone,

    any decent parent, would want their children listening to.  It's filth.

    Unexpurgated trash.  I can't even explain how bad it is, you'd have to

    hear these records yourself to believe that they can actually play them

    on the air.  Don't think I'm alone in this judgment, there's already

    been a couple organizational meetings to do something about it.  You

    have to get your facts in order first, of course, so a watchdog

    committee's been set up, for about three weeks now.  In the meantime, I

    told Candy, my daughter, to forbid Harriet to listen to the radio.

    Which I assume she did.  Well, I should've acted sooner, I'm afraid,

    because the music has done its harm and she's gone.  She's run away.  I

    hate to think of the crowd she may have gotten involved with because of

    that Negro music."

        He stopped.  It had been an impressive monologue, theatrically

    speaking, but personally I felt like getting up and getting the hell

    out of there.  Before I had a chance to make a move, however, he was

    starting again.

        "To get to the point," he said, "I want to hire you to find her."

        I'm probably a coward at heart because I heard myself sounding more

    polite than I felt.

        "Runaways aren't our gig," I said, though this wasn't true.

        "I haven't told you everything," he said.  "I think Dan may have

    had something to do with this."

        He was clever, I had to give him that.  In a single turn of phrase,

    he had me hooked.  Immediately he was trying to reel me in.

        "Harriet worships him.  That name he goes by on the radio, I forget

    what it is--"

        "Lovin' Dan the Sixty-Minute Man."

        "Right.  She worships Lovin' Dan.  Well, I can't prove it, but I

    have this gut feeling she's with him.  You've listened to him on the

    air, haven't you?"

        I nodded.

        "Then you know how he develops a personal relationship with the

    kids listening.  Saying how much he loves them and all, to keep phoning

    in requests and all.  These are just junior high and high school kids

    he's talking to.  It's not natural.  But the terrible thing is, this

    approach works.  Harriet is crazy about him.  She may even, well, have

    a kind of crush on him, a puppy love sort of thing, you know how girls

    her age are.  Why, I've made sure she never knew that he lives right

    next door, or did, for fear that Harriet might throw herself at him."

        "You never told me how old she is," I said.

        "Didn't I?  Fourteen.  Or maybe fifteen.  She had a birthday a few

    months ago, as I recall.  It must be . . . well, she's at that age, is

    the point."

        He smiled and said, "So what do you think?"

        "We don't chase runaways."

        "Since you're investigating Dan anyway, it wouldn't hurt to snoop

    around for Harriet, would it?  I have this gut feeling Dan has

    something to do with this."

        "If she shows up, I'll let you know.  Now I have a request."

        "What is it?"

        "Tell me why the hell you're not upset about a murder happening

    right up the street."

        He turned on the smile and let it flow into a chuckle, the kind one

    saves for moments of superiority.

        "You have to understand," he said, "that that woman has already put

    us through as much suffering as we can muster."

        "It doesn't bother you that the rat murderer struck up here?"

        "I don't for a minute believe that this has anything to do with the

    rat murders.  This has marital argument written all over it."

        "You think her husband did it?"

        "Yes.  And set it up to look like the rat murders, I suppose.  Poor

    Gregory.  I hardly know him but just imagine what that woman has put

    him through.  If he'd turn himself in, I think the jury would

    understand and be lenient."

        This stopped me.  It wasn't that he thought he had everything

    figured out.  I just didn't like Dad and this asshole sharing the same

    hypothesis.

        "One more question," I said.  "Do you know where Joan went after

    Dan walked out on her?  She doesn't answer her phone, and she doesn't

    answer the door."

        "Why didn't you ask?  The poor woman was so upset all morning over

    the scene Dan caused, that Edna finally had to drag her off to get her

    hair done."

        "To get her hair done?"

        "So she would calm down.  They're at Pierre's."

        I nodded and lifted my glass to finish the iced tea, wishing to

    hell it was straight Jameson's.

 

 

 

 

 

 

    8/

           

        Pierre's, I learned, was where anyone who was anyone got her hair

    done, and it was located smack dab in the middle of the small Foothills

    business district at the bottom of the hill.

        I parked Bad-Ass, pulled up my tie and entered the shop. The smell

    got me first, as overwhelming as embalming fluid, and then the morbid

    sight of a long line of ladies with their heads under wired silver

    helmets, like victims in a mass execution at a woman's prison.  Then I

    remembered that they were there to become beautiful.  I told the

    receptionist I was looking for Joan Davies and that I'd wait.

        An hour later, we were sipping coffee in the Foothills Cafe. Our

    table for two was graced with a blue-checkered tablecloth and fresh

    flowers.

        "This day has been a nightmare," Joan told me.  Her new perm

    glistened like a plastic wig.  "And it's not even noon yet."

        I said, "I wish you could be more specific about what Dan said to

    you."

        I'd told her what Jeff Berger had related to me.  I hadn't brought

    up Flo Albertson's murder, and I was morbidly wondering if she would

    even bring it up herself.

        "We were yelling at each other," Joan said, "not listening. I can't

    tell you what he said word-for-word."

        "He didn't give you a reason for leaving?"

        "Just that he needed time to be alone."

        "And he didn't mention another woman?"

        "No."

        "Did he say he'd be back?"

        "No."

        "Where he was going?"

        "No.  To that apartment he rented, don't you think?"

        "Probably.  I'll check it out."

        She nodded.  She had brought some of the odor of embalming fluid

    with her, an odor more subtle and less offensive, as if someone had

    just sanitized the restrooms and left the doors open.

        I said, "What about last night?  Did you have a fight or anything?"

        "No."

        "Nothing happened out of the ordinary?"

        "Not really."

        "Do you still sleep in the same bed?"

        She seemed offended by the question.

        "I'm looking for a motive, Joan," I said.

        "Yes, we still sleep in the same bed.  I mean, we did last night."

        "Do you still make love?"

        "I won't answer that."  She took a deep breath.  "Can't you see

    this has been hell for me?  We must've woken up the whole neighborhood.

    I'm so embarrassed."

       Flo Albertson getting murdered was nothing in comparison to waking

    up a neighbor with a marital fight.

        I said, "It takes two to tango, Joan."

        She glared at me.  "What's that supposed to mean?"

        "I'm sure you both were very upset."

        "Of course, I'm upset!  I have every right to be.  He tried to

    sneak away without even telling me."

        An uncomfortable silence settled between us.  I didn't know what

    else to ask her.  I didn't want to bring up Ruth until I had proof.

        Finally Joan said, "Is there anything else?  I have things to do at

    home."

        "Just one more thing," I said.  "How come it doesn't bother you

    that a serial killer came to the neighborhood?"

        "No one believes the rat murderer killed Flo."

        "What'd you have, a town meeting on the matter?"

        "Word gets around very quickly here."

        "And what's the consensus?"

        When she hesitated to tell me, I said, "Jeff thinks it was her

    husband."

        "If it was, well . . ."

        She stopped and shrugged.

        I said, "Who can blame him?"

        "I don't condone murder," she said.  "But it's certainly a

    tragedy, any way you look at it."

       "Yes, I suppose it is."

        "Is that all, Mr. Trevorak?"

        "For the moment, Mrs. Davies."

        She got up without taking the bill, and I let her go.  When she was

    out the door, the waitress came by to see if I wanted anything else.  I

    asked for a refill of coffee.

        "Terrible thing to happen," I told the waitress when she returned

    with the pot.

        "It's creepy," she said.

        She was probably still in high school, blonde and innocent, with

    the bouncy cute looks of a cheerleader.  I liked her for knowing what I

    was talking about and thinking murder was creepy.

        "Did you know her?," I asked.

        "Not very well.  Sometimes they all came in for dessert after their

    afternoon bridge game."

        "Did you like her?"

        "Well, I didn't know her, really.  And she did turn out to be a

    liar."

        "Terrible thing to happen, all the same."

        "Well, it's her own fault.  No one made her lie about it."

        "Murder's still creepy, just as you said."

        "Murder?"

        I could tell she didn't know what I was talking about.

        "Flo Albertson was murdered yesterday."

        "She was?"

        "It's in the morning paper."

        "I don't read the paper," she said.

        "You said it was creepy."

        "I thought you were talking about the way she tried to pretend she

    was white.  What can be more creepy than that?"

        I paid the check and got the hell out of there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

    9/

           

        I parked Bad-Ass on the side street around from Caviar's Market.

    As I climbed the stairway, I could hear loud music playing in the

    apartment, and at the top I recognized the high falsetto of a doo-wop

    singer, under which voices wove nonsense lyrics in counterpoint, be-doe

    be-do-be-do-be or something.  I tapped on the door.  When there was no

    answer, I knocked.  Then I banged.

        When the door opened, I found myself face to face with one of the

    saddest looking humans beings I've ever seen.  He looked like a

    caricature, as if he were auditioning for the role of Sad Sack in some

    dramatic adaptation of the comic strip.  Dan Davies looked ready to

    break into tears at any moment.

        "Excuse me," he said, apparently acknowledging his appearance.

    "It's just so beautiful."

        It took me a moment to realize that he was referring to the music.

    A teenager was wailing in falsetto about unrequited love, in the

    baroque doo-wop style, with backup voices weaving nonsense sounds into

    a layered pattern of melancholy, and Dan, an adult, was responding by

    looking close to an emotional nervous breakdown.

        I took out my identification and said, "Can we talk?"

        He nodded without checking my credentials and stepped out of the

    doorway.  I walked into the apartment.

        The song, I saw, was on a 78-record being played on a portable

    phonograph on the coffee table.  The table itself was pock-marked with

    cigarette burns, which pretty much summarized the decor of the place.

    Cheap Motel, all the way.

       We both stood silently in the middle of the room, listening to the

    doo-wop song.  I felt as awkward as a teenager at a dance. When the

    record finally ended, as Dan made a quick move to put on another one, I

    made a quicker move to get down to business.

        "Your wife hired me, Dan.  We have to talk."

        He stopped, turned and stared at me.  He was slightly built, with a

    paler complexion than is common in Southern California, and somehow

    this added to the aura of melancholy that surrounded him. I traded the

    image of Sad Sack for Salinger's character Seymour Glass in "A Perfect

    Day for Bananafish," and the switch was a little frightening.

        "Do you mind?," I asked, gesturing that we sit.

        We took lumpy stuffed chairs across the room from one another. On

    the arm of his was an ashtray stuffed with cigarette butts.  Dan was

    the first to speak.

        "I'm not having an affair," he said.

        "I never said you were."

        "You said my wife hired you."

        There was something about his manner that put me on guard, choosing

    indirection now instead of getting right to the point. I said, "Have

    you read today's paper?"

        "I seldom read the paper."

        "Flo Albertson was murdered."

        I tried to read his reaction.  He stared at me, as if waiting for

    me to say more, and if this was a contest, I won.  He got up and went

    to the phonograph, taking off the record and slipping it into a paper

    jacket.  I expected him to put on another but he didn't.  He plopped

    back down onto the mangy stuffed chair.  The stories that chair could

    tell: stains and cigarette burns suggested arguments, shouting matches.

    I wouldn't have paid a nickel for it at a garage sale.

        "The m.o. belonged to the Rat Murderer," I said.

        He just looked at me.  I couldn't believe that he hadn't heard of

    the rat murders, whether he read the paper or not.

        I said, "Unless it was someone else, trying to throw off the cops

    by using the same m.o."

        "But who would want to kill Flo?," he asked, with obvious pain in

    his voice.

        "You sound like she's a good friend of yours."

        "She's my wife's bridge partner.  Was."

        "Did you know her husband?"

        "Gregory and I didn't get along at all."

        "Why not?"

        "He's arrogant.  A social climber."

        "Having the kid must've shocked the pants off him."

        "It shocked many people."

        "Including yourself?"

        "I was surprised, too, of course.  But . . ."

        He stopped and abruptly got up.  He took a few steps toward the

    door before turning.  He seemed surprised that I was still sitting and

    not following him on my way out.

        "I told you," he said, "I'm not having an affair."

        It seemed much too defensive.  I was sure he was - and with Ruth,

    the housekeeper.

        "Happens all the time," I said.

        "What does?"

        "Hanky panky.  Getting a little on the side."

        "Not with me, it doesn't."

        "Right.  You just happen to prefer this crumby neighborhood."

        "I don't know what you're talking about."

        "Why did you rent this apartment, Dan?"

        "I happen to work just up the street."

        "You moved out this morning.  You woke up your neighbors doing it."

        "You've only heard her side of the story," he said.

        "So tell me yours."

        "I took the apartment so I could have time alone."

        "Come on, Dan, we're big boys.  You can tell me the real reason."

        "I just told you the real reason."

        "You're leaving your wife, is that it?"

        "She told you that?"

        "You walk out with suitcases in your hand, you wake everybody up

    playing kick the can, what the hell is she supposed to think?"

        He shook his head, turning on the melancholy again, and said, "You

    don't understand."

        "So tell me."

        I decided that his melancholy stare, behind deep-set eyes, might

    get anything they wanted in the right time and place.  Sad eyes,

    begging to be understood, they might get any woman he desired.

        "Can we go somewhere for a drink?," he asked.

        "Why not?"

        He suggested a bar in my own stomping grounds of Venice, called The

    Oar House.  I went there often but didn't remember ever seeing him in

    the place before.  We drove to Venice in separate cars, Dan leading the

    way.

        The Oar House was huge, a converted warehouse, and usually packed

    since the drinks were cheaper than anywhere along the beach. We took a

    weather-worn picnic table in the back and waited for one of the amazons

    in Daisy Mae briefs to deliver our drinks.  The Oar House didn't hire a

    barmaid under six feet tall.  There were women at The Oar House whose

    breasts weighed more than the frail Dan Davies.

        When the drinks came, I took the offensive.

        "Let's cut the crap, Dan."

        He lit up a cigarette and said, "Well, I was shocked actually."

        I wasn't sure what he was talking about and waited for more.

        "I never would have guessed something like that about her."

        "About who?"

        "Flo.  I never would have guessed she was a Negro."

        "She told me she was a fan of yours."

        "She did?"

        "Listened to you often," I said.

        "Yes, she did phone in a request now and then.  She liked the older

    stuff.  The Clovers, B.B. King.  She liked the blues."

        "She said the station is changing."

        "You must have had quite a long talk with her."

        I let this slide.  We sipped our drinks in the silence, until I

    countered from a different direction.

        "Your neighbor Jeff told me Harriet's missing."

        "So she finally ran away," Dan said.  He blew smoke at the ceiling.

        "You expected her to?"

        "She's not a happy girl."

        "You know Harriet well?"

        "She's more than a fan - she's a fanatic.  She must request six or

    eight songs every show.  Other deejays would tell you the same."

        "Do you know where she is?"

        "Of course not.  Why do you ask that?"

        "Jeff thinks she might have run to you.  Being a fanatic and all."

        "Jeff Berger is . . ."

        He didn't have to finish to let me know what he thought of Jeff

    Berger.

        I took advantage of the moment to go for the jugular.

        I said, "It's Ruth, isn't it?"

        He looked up from his drink, staring at me, as if trying to

    determine if he had heard right.  He stabbed out the cigarette and

    immediately lit another.

        "The guy in the market told me," I said.  "Tank.  He's seen you two

    together."

        He weighed his words before saying, "He's a liar."

        "You've never been in the market with a Negro woman?"

        "Of course I have.  With the secretary at the station many times.

    Sometimes we buy lunch there, you know, something to go."

        "Yeah, it's a great neighborhood for a picnic," I said.

        "I've never been there, or anywhere else, with Ruth."

        "Why don't I believe you?"

        "Look, Joan hired you because she thinks I'm having an affair - but

    I'm not.  If you don't believe me, well, you won't be able to prove

    anything because I am not having an affair."

        I thought I had him hooked now.  It was time to reel him in.

        "Actually, she hired me to check out your background."

        "My background?  I'm not sure what you mean."

        "Your lineage."

        "You lost me."

        "Your racial purity."

        He looked genuinely confused.  He wanted it spelled out, fine, I'd

    spell it out.

        "Look, Dan, that business about Flo Albertson's kid made her

    nervous and paranoid.  She hired me to trace your lineage to make sure

    you don't have any Negro ancestors."

        "You can't be serious."

        "That's the gig."

        "Joan did that?"

        I let him squirm a moment, then said, "Which is ridiculous, right?

    She was just picking up on certain changes in your behavior.  Changes

    which have other origins.  I know that, and you know that.  So why

    don't we cut the crap?"

        "I don't follow.  What do you want from me anyway?"

        "Dan, I figure you have two basic choices.  You fess up to the

    mistress, Ruth or whoever, and prepare for divorce.  Or you fess up,

    repent, and go home to your wife.  Why don't we start with the fessing

    up part?"

        "I swear to God, I'm not having an affair!  Jesus . . ."  He put

    out the cigarette.

        We sipped our drinks in silence again.  Not quite jockeying for

    position, more like neither one wanting to make the first move.

        Finally Dan said, "I rented the place because I've been very

    depressed lately.  I have reason to be."

        "Want to talk about it?"

        "It has nothing to do with Joan or my marriage."

        "Tell me about your marriage."

        "I made a mistake."

        "Can I tell her that?"

        "I'll tell her myself."

        "Will you, Dan?"

        He shook his head in dismay, and I understood that the usual

    melancholy was turning to anger.

       "Look," he said, leaning across the table, "there's a conspiracy.  I

    am very upset about it."

        The guy had more left fields than the Stars on a hitting streak.

        "Now I'm lost," I said.

        "With the music."

        "A conspiracy with the music?"

        "I don't know if I should do this but . . . well, someone has to

    know.  Once you understand, maybe you'll get off my back.  But you

    can't tell Joan.  You have to promise me that.  If I show you, you

    can't tell Joan."

        "I'm in your wife's employ," I reminded him.

        "Then I can't trust you."

        "Does this have anything to do with your marriage?"

        "Not at all."

        "Then you can trust me."

        I was angry for almost blowing it by bringing up his wife. I had no

    idea where he was going but I wanted to find out.

        I said, "I was hired to trace your lineage.  I have no other

    professional obligations to your wife."

        After a moment, he said, "Okay.  Can you meet me at the station at

    three in the morning?"

        "Three?"

        "We're off the air then.  We can be alone."

        "I'll be there."

        He stood up, leaving a half-filled drink on the table.

        "I'll meet you at the back door."

        "And this is about the conspiracy?"

        "At three, you'll know more than you ever wanted to know."

        I stayed at The Oar House for over an hour after he'd gone. I

    finished my drink, and then his, and chased these with two more. By the

    time I left I decided a nap was in order, particularly with a

    rendezvous at three in the a.m.  I didn't have the slightest idea what

    kind of conspiracy he was worried about but surely it was bonded to his

    own paranoia.  I found myself thinking that Joan would be doing herself

    a favor by dumping this weirdo, adultery or not.  Not that I would

    suggest such a thing to her.  You make your own bed in this world.

        I decided to nap at Carla's.  On the drive to Santa Monica, I

    listened to KRB.  The radio said, dit-dit-dit-dit-dit-dit-dit- dit...

 

 

    10/

           

        Sometimes my plays come to me in dreams.  Entire scenes are

 

    performed in my head, on a nebulous stage before which I sit passively,

 

    watching and editing and revising along the way, and when I awake, if

 

    I'm lucky, I'll remember enough to race to my note pad to scribble

 

    notes of the production.

 

        But now the play was being interrupted and for a moment I didn't

 

    realize why, I didn't realize what was happening, and then I opened my

 

    eyes and found the bulk of Carla at the end of the bed in the dark

 

    room, her long black hair on my stomach, her head rising and falling in

 

    a steady rhythm over my crotch, making what she sometimes called her

 

    contribution to the arts.

 

        I'd come over only for a nap.  Now, in my last clear thought before

 

    orgasm, I wondered if I'd overslept.  I wondered what the hell the play

 

    had been about.  I vaguely remembered thinking it was quite brilliant.

 

    They usually were, in dreams.

 

        "You getting some on the side?," Carla asked me later, as I

 

    dressed.

 

        She was pulling open the curtains she had drawn for my nap, and the

 

    glow of evening swept into the room.

 

        "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

 

        "Or have you been jacking off more than usual?  You're not your

 

    usual gushing self."

 

        "Carla, for Christ's sake, I stayed over last night, remember?  We

 

    wallowed around like alley cats for hours.  You may have your best

 

    years ahead of you but I'm already on the downhill side.  I need time

 

    to recover."

 

        "On the downhill side?  You're only twenty-four."

 

        "Which is over eighteen.  Read your biology."

 

        We decided to have dinner at Angelo's, an Italian Cafe not far from

 

    Carla's apartment.  We walked through the evening hand in hand, silent

 

    and relaxed.  The sun was dropping into the ocean, a cool breeze erased

 

    all memories of smog, and the streets were filled with people happy to

 

    be where they were.  In the distance I could hear bongos playing,

 

    probably as some ecstatic beatnik celebrated the sun sinking into the

 

    sea.

 

        Our usual table near the front window was taken, so we settled for

 

    one in the back corner of the small cafe.  Carla was a professional

 

    people watcher, one of the best around, but tonight she'd have to

 

    settle for the dinner crowd instead of the larger crowd strolling past

 

    the front window.

 

        We were having our first glass of chianti when Butch walked in with

 

    Ruth.  Our usual table near the window had just vacated and they took

 

    it, which kept them far enough away to miss us, I hoped.  Seeing Butch

 

    and Ruth together was such a shock, I didn't know if I wanted them to

 

    know I was there or not.

 

        Carla had seen Butch as well.

 

        "Isn't that your friend-," she began before I cut her off. I put a

 

    finger to her lips.

 

        "I don't want him to see me," I said.  "The lady he's with is

 

    involved in the case I'm working on."

 

        "You never tell me anything."

 

        "I'm telling you now, let's just lay low and hope they miss us."

 

        "What case?"

 

        "This is not the time."

 

        "It's never the time.  Like the way you ran off this morning.  You

 

    can be so rude.  You're lucky I forgot about it long enough to give you

 

    a blow job."

 

        "Carla, can we talk about it later?  This may be important."

 

        "I'm not important at all, am I?"

 

        "Of course you are."

 

        "You're lucky your goddamn planets are aligned right."

 

        She began to sulk, which at least kept her quiet.  Butch and Ruth,

 

    I noticed, were not laying low at all, they were practically climbing

 

    all over one another, Butch having moved his chair around to her side

 

    of the table to simplify the maneuvers. They were behaving like lovers,

 

    which threw me.  If Ruth was hanging out with Butch, then she probably

 

    wasn't hanging out with Dan.  Or was this a moral judgment without

 

    logic?

 

        Our dinners came and Carla inhaled hers, then began to squirm the

 

    signal that she was ready to go.

 

        "You're not any fun when you're working on a case," she finally

 

    said.

 

        "I didn't know they'd be here, believe me."

 

        "You could at least tell me what's going on."

 

        "Later.  It's too complicated."

 

        "Later," she said mockingly.

 

        She made a move to get up and I grabbed her.

 

        "I'm ready to go," she said.

 

        "If we go now, we'll have to pass their table."

 

        "If you think I'm waiting here til they get up enough nerve to

 

    screw under the table and get it over with . . ."

 

        She pulled free and was off.  I grabbed the check and hurried after

 

    her.

 

        As we passed the front table, Butch said, "Well, looky here!"

 

        I didn't stop and almost made it past the table before Butch

 

    grabbed my arm.

 

        "Hey, man," he said, "what's the matter with you?  You drink too

 

    much dago red?  It's me."

 

        I stopped, turned and smiled.  I continued grinning during the

 

    introductions.  I didn't let on that I knew Ruth, and she didn't let on

 

    that she knew me.  Which surprised me.  Carla, for her part, was off

 

    again as soon as the introductions were over, which gave me an exit

 

    line.

 

        "Sorry, she just started her, you know, period and we got to, ah,

 

    get some Kotex."  This said, I got the hell out of there.

 

        I walked Carla back to her apartment and tried to give her a kiss

 

    at the door but she swerved away, saying, "You owe me one, Red."  Then

 

    she closed the door in my face.

 

 

 

    11/

           

        Dan came out of the dark shadows like Bogart.  His collar was up, a

 

    cigarette was hanging from his mouth, all that was missing were the

 

    trench coat and hat.  Without a word he unlocked the back door of the

 

    station.  I followed him in.

 

        The radio station wouldn't have won any honors from the health

 

    department.  Or maybe it was just too early for the janitor to have

 

    made the daily rounds.  Following Dan down a hallway, I ran into a

 

    cobweb and continued along brushing invisible insects out of my face.

 

        We entered a small studio, and Dan turned on the light. Immediately

 

    I heard a scurrying sound, like an animal racing into hiding.  I'd let

 

    out an involuntary gasp at the sound, and Dan said, "Rats.  They'll

 

    leave you alone if you leave them alone."

 

         The studio was cluttered with more records and tapes than I'd ever

 

    seen in my life.  Dan went to a shelf where records were lined up like

 

    books, pulled out a 78 and put it on one of two adjacent turnstiles.

 

    He sat down in front of a control panel and started twisting dials.

 

        "Exhibit one," he said.

 

        The cigarette still dangled and dropped an ash onto the record as

 

    he leaned forward to cue it up.  He blew the ash away.

 

        "Cut the dramatics, Dan," I said.  "What the hell is this about?"

 

        He stabbed the cigarette out in a large golden ashtray shaped like

 

    a record.

 

        "Let me do it my way," he said.

 

        The record began to play.  As far as I could tell, it was a typical

 

    doo-wop song, forlorn and yet lyrical, with its intricate weaving of

 

    voices.  Before the song finished, Dan picked up the needle and said,

 

    "Keep the song in your mind."

 

        He put a second record on the turnstile.

 

        "Exhibit two."

 

        This, to my surprise, was the same song performed by a different

 

    group.  To my greater surprise, the singing group sounded white to me.

 

    Gone were the intricate weaving and blending of voices in the doo-wop

 

    pattern, though many nonsense background lyrics were retained.  Somehow

 

    this version had less energy, and I preferred the first.

 

        Dan lifted up the needle and said, "Need I say more?"

 

        "Frankly, yes."

 

        "You heard two versions of the same song, right?"

 

        "Right."

 

        "Which do you prefer?"

 

        "Dan, I hope you didn't drag me here at three in the morning to

 

    evaluate my musical tastes."

 

        "Which best?"

 

        "The first, I guess."

 

        "You're not sure."

 

        "The first.  I'm sure."

 

        "The first is the original, by an obscure group of Chicago

 

    teenagers on a label no one ever heard of.  The second is by

 

    The Crewcuts, a nationally known group, and it's a smash hit."

 

        I just looked at him.

 

        "The Crewcuts are white, of course," he said.

 

        "Dan, will you get to the point, please?"

 

        "What you heard is happening throughout the industry. Listen."

 

        He played more records, and in each case a doo-wop song, recorded

 

    by Negro teenagers, was rerecorded in a more traditional, less

 

    energetic way by a white group.  According to Dan, the white records

 

    were selling nationally but the Negro originals, recorded on small

 

    regional record labels, were not even distributed nationally.

 

        When I finally got the idea of what he was getting at, I said,

 

    "You're telling me that this is happening because of some kind of

 

    conspiracy, is that it?"

 

        His eyes positively sparkled.

 

        Dan said, "Now you know enough to get to the real heart of the

 

    matter.  Listen to this."

 

        He put on another record.  This song was different entirely,

 

    recorded not by a doo-wop group but by an individual, singing an

 

    uptempo tune that was bluesy in feeling and yet different somehow from

 

    the traditional blues of Lightnin' Hopkins or B.B. King that I'd heard

 

    on KRB.  I rather liked it, and when the song was over I expected Dan

 

    to put on the white version of it.

 

        "What do you think?," Dan asked.

 

        "I'm sure I'll like it better than the white version.  Dan, I get

 

    your point but-"

 

        "You're wrong," he interrupted.

 

        "You haven't even heard what I was going to say."

 

        "You think the singer is a Negro."

 

        "You're telling me he isn't?"

 

        "His name is Elvis Presley, and he's white."

 

        Dan spat out the name as if he were mentioning Hitler or Attila the

 

    Hun.

 

        "I take it you don't like the song," I said.

 

        "I don't like what it implies."

 

        "Which is?"

 

        "Sam Phillips, who owns the Sun label this was done on, said that

 

    he could get rich if he could find a white singer who sounded like a

 

    Negro.  I'm afraid he's found him."

 

        I didn't know what to say and so said nothing, which only managed

 

    to crank up Dan's anxiety level a notch.

 

        "Damn it," he said, "don't you see?  White people are stealing

 

    Negro music!  At least up until now, they managed to castrate it. At

 

    least one could get the satisfaction of knowing the Negro versions were

 

    superior.  But if white people begin to sound like Negroes, and the

 

    mass white audience responds - well, it's the end."

 

        To look at him, one would have thought it was the end of the world.

 

    Dan brushed aside a strand of hair that had dropped to his forehead.

 

        "And there's more," he said.  "There's an organization that wants

 

    to ban Negro music and the white imitations altogether.  They think

 

    it's music from the devil.  Don't you see what can happen?"

 

        "Frankly, no," I said.

 

        He moved toward the door.

 

        "I don't know what else I can tell you," he said.  "If you don't

 

    understand . . . well, we might as well go."

 

        "Wait a minute," I said.  "I don't get it.  I don't know why the

 

    hell you dragged me out here to tell me this."

 

        He took a deep breath before saying, "Because I want you to

 

    understand how upset I am about this.  Then maybe you'll get off my

 

    back."

 

        Following him outside, I decided he was a lousy actor.  Sure, he

 

    wanted me off his back, but not because of any presumed musical

 

    conspiracy.

 

        He was about to get into his car when I said, "It's Ruth, isn't

 

    it?"

 

        He stopped and turned.

 

        "Let's cut the crap, Dan.  I don't understand why you're so upset

 

    about this music business unless, for some reason, you're taking it too

 

    damn personally.  I ask myself, why should a white man give a hoot

 

    about the fate of Negro music unless he's somehow personally involved?"

 

        "What's this got to do with Ruth?"

 

        "She's your mistress, isn't she?"

 

        "I don't have a mistress."

 

        "Right, Dan."

 

        "I have nothing more to say on the subject."

 

        "You know, when I got this gig, I thought it was pretty weird, I

 

    mean, you'd think a wife would know what race her husband is, for

 

    Christ's sake.  But maybe she's on to something.  Are you a Negro,

 

    Dan?"

 

        He mumbled something which, I swear to God, sounded like, "Don't I

 

    wish."

 

        "What's that?," I asked.

 

        "I have nothing more to say."

 

        I watched him get into his Mercury and drive away.  I took my time

 

    leaving, sitting for a long while in Bad-Ass, trying to make sense out

 

    of what had just transpired.  Sometimes, in Korea, trying to make sense

 

    of garbled language on tape, I'd take off my earphones and try to

 

    repeat what I'd been hearing over and over again in my mind, with

 

    different rhythms, different emphases, looking for a key that would get

 

    me into the meaning.  I was doing something similar now, rehearing the

 

    records he'd played, the Negro doo-wop and the white copies, and the

 

    energetic bluesy Elvis Presley, who was white himself.  But I was

 

    getting nowhere.  Dan was strange, and finally I wondered why he had

 

    shared such a bizarre theory with me.  A theory, I reminded myself,

 

    which was as bizarre as Butch's theory of freeway construction.

 

        In the end, after I'd driven home and was drifting off to sleep,

 

    only one tentative conclusion managed to stay on the surface of

 

    thought: Dan may or may not be a Negro but I felt sure that he had a

 

    Negro mistress and this mistress was Ruth.

 

 

 

    12/

           

        I hadn't been to Butch's warehouse digs in a long while.  He was

 

    three floors up, in a building in Watts where rents were cheap and

 

    amenities non-existent, a great brick building filled with artist

 

    studios and cobwebs.  Butch rented an entire floor, which he filled

 

    with his huge murals and canvases, saving only a clean corner for his

 

    mattress and sleeping bag.

 

        I found him in front of a half-finished painting of four teenagers

 

    standing on a street corner, singing doo-wop, I guessed. At least they

 

    looked like they were in song, fingers snapping, mouths open.  They

 

    also looked vaguely familiar.  The canvas had Butch's usual scope, the

 

    figures towering more than twice life size.  He was up on a stepladder,

 

    working on a corner street sign, as I let myself in through the

 

    unlocked door.  I cleared my throat to let him know he had company.

 

        "Just a minute, man," he said.  "Help yourself to coffee."

 

        He kept a pot and toaster on a small table near the mattress. I

 

    poured a cup and sat down carefully on a wooden folding chair, which

 

    creaked under my weight.

 

        "I've been expecting you," he said, finally joining me to pour the

 

    last cup of coffee from the pot.  "Ruth told me about your gig with her

 

    employer.  Same gig you were telling me about, right?"

 

        "What else did she tell you?"

 

        "How fucked up things are in Foothills.  You find any niggers in

 

    that deejay's closet?"

 

        "Not yet."

 

        He sat down on a folding chair and stretched his legs out in front

 

    of him.  He crossed his hands behind his head and grinned.

 

        "White folks never cease to amaze me," he said.  "You're lucky

 

    you're one of the spotted hybrids, man.  So what's on your mind, Red?

 

    You come over to check up on my love life or what?"

 

        "Well, I was surprised to find you two together."

 

        "Hey, let's not beat around the bush, okay?"

 

        Butch was always up-front and direct.  It was one of the things I

 

    liked about him.

 

        "You may have ruined a hypothesis I've been working on," I said.

 

        I told him how I had concluded that Dan was having an affair. This

 

    was the difference in him that his wife had noticed.   I told him I'd

 

    concluded that Dan's mistress was Ruth.

 

        Butch laughed and said, "You think she's balling that deejay?

 

    Shit."

 

        "Are you telling me you two have an exclusive relationship?"

 

        "Exclusive relationship?  Man!  The ofay profs at the University

 

    don't even come up with jargon like that.  What the hell have you been

 

    reading?"

 

        "I'm trying to determine if Ruth is the type who would see Dan at

 

    the same time she's seeing you."

 

        "She may be," Butch said.  It didn't seem to bother him.  "But I

 

    doubt it.  He's not her type."

 

        "What type is that?"

 

        "He's white, for one thing.  This chick has more race hatred than I

 

    do, man.  Best thing about her."

 

        He was grinning again, which softened the remark a little. Butch

 

    loved to try and upset me.  I didn't take the bait.

 

        "If she hates white men," I said, "what better revenge than to

 

    break up Dan's home?"

 

        "You're grabbing at straws."

 

        "Standard m.o. in this biz."

 

        "She told me about that neighbor getting killed.  The same one you

 

    were telling me about, right?  Who was passing for white?"

 

        "Same one."

 

        "You think it was that rat murderer?"

 

        "No."

 

        I said this without thinking.  Hearing it, I decided I hadn't

 

    really made up my mind one way or the other.

 

        "Ruth thinks it was her husband," Butch said.

 

        "She's not the only one."

 

        "But you're not officially on the case, right?"

 

        "My only gig at the moment is to find out Dan's lineage."

 

        "So lineage is what you call it."  He shook his head.  "Man, every

 

    ofay in America got a rapist way back in the closet somewhere.  How

 

    else you get all those spots you got, man?  You're just one of the

 

    visible ones, carrying around a hundred little scarlet letters to

 

    remind you of your ancestry.  Excuse me, your lineage."

 

        To change the subject, I asked, "How long have you been seeing

 

    Ruth?"

 

       "A couple months.  I met her when I was making sketches for the

 

    painting I'm working on.  That's her little brother's doo-wop group."

 

        Of course, these were the kids whom I'd seen singing on the porch

 

    when I dropped her off.

 

        "I talked to Dan yesterday," I said.

 

        "Then why didn't you ask him about Ruth yourself?"

 

        "I did, and he denies it."

 

        "But you can't accept that, right?"

 

        "I don't know.  He's a real strange case, Butch.  He has this

 

    theory about a musical conspiracy, how white singing groups are

 

    remaking all the Negro doo-wop songs."

 

        "The cat say that?"

 

        "Something like that."

 

        "He's on to something, man.  That's exactly what's coming down."

 

        "Then you think there's a music conspiracy, too?"

 

        "No different from the freeways, man.  A black man makes progress,

 

    shit, the powers that be got to do something to head him off at the

 

    pass.  With music, it's the white teenagers making their parents

 

    nervous by listening to nigger music.  Been happening a couple years

 

    now, ofay kids digging rhythm-n-blues, doo-wop, giving up their parents

 

    music, all that mares-eat-oats shit, all that up- a-lazy-river shit.

 

    Man, you can't have white kids digging nigger music, don't you see

 

    that?  They listen to nigger music, next thing you know they'll

 

    discover their bodies, man, they'll discover sex.  They'll want to get

 

    it while the gettin' is good, man.  So what's the alternative for white

 

    parents?  Make a safe white copy of the music, man, dilute it so it's

 

    fit for white teenage consumption. And that's exactly what's been

 

    happening.  If that deejay understands this, man, he's the smartest

 

    ofay in L.A."

 

        "Well, he's quite a fanatic on the subject."

 

        Butch stood up.

 

        "So what else you need to know before I go back to work?"

 

        "You don't think Ruth is seeing Dan?"

 

        "She hates white men."

 

        "Not even to break up his home?"

 

        "Maybe.  Why don't you ask her?"

 

        I didn't reply, and Butch said he had to get back to work.

 

        "Thanks for giving me some time," I said.

 

        Grinning, Butch said, "Say hello to Ruth for me."  Then he climbed

 

    back up on his stepladder.

 

 

        At Ruth's house, a pack of dogs was ransacking the garbage cans

 

    along the side of the house.  Seeing me, they took off like burglars

 

    caught in the act.  I stepped up on the front porch, went to the door

 

    and knocked.

 

        The day was turning very smoggy.  From the huge gully behind the

 

    house, I could hear the racket of construction, the jolting percussion

 

    of progress.  How in hell did Ruth and whoever else lived here get a

 

    moment's peace?

 

        I knocked again, less timidly, but obviously no one was home - or

 

    at least no one was going to answer the door.  What the hell, I decided

 

    at least I could do a good deed before I left and stepped off the porch

 

    to put the garbage back into the cans.

 

        The dead rat was under a torn garbage sack and, seeing it, I

 

    jumped.  It was huge, much larger than any mouse I'd ever seen. Using

 

    the torn brown paper for protection, I carefully picked it up and

 

    dropped it into the can.

 

        Then I went back to cleaning up the rest of the mess and almost

 

    missed it:  a single sheet of lined school paper was on the ground,

 

    wadded but loosely enough that I could make out a couple lines of

 

    handwriting at the bottom of the page, and what I read stopped me in my

 

    tracks.  I quickly unfolded the paper to read the rest:

           

        Rattus norvegicus is bigger and can chase off Rattus rattus

 

    whenever they come together.  But sometimes Rattus rattus can be in the

 

    roof while Rattus norvegicus is down in the basement.  In a fight

 

    Rattus norvegicus would win and this is why it is mostly what we mean

 

    when we say rats.

           

        The name at the top of the page was Artie Brownman and below it was

 

    written, Period 4.  A paper for school?  Perhaps, but this bit of the

 

    history of rats sent a chill down my spine.  I didn't recall the

 

    passage from anything that had been printed in the newspaper.  I

 

    carefully folded the sheet of paper and put it in my pocket.

 

        On the drive back to the office, I listened to Dan on the radio -

 

    or I should say, to Lovin' Dan the Sixty-Minute Man because
there was

 

    no resemblance between the frantic energy I heard on the radio and the

 

    sad-eyed melancholy of the man who had taken me into his confidence to

 

    relate news of a strange conspiracy.

 

Yes, indeedy!  The Clovers from 1951, their smash hit called One

 

    Mint Julep!  Were you having fun in fifty-one?  Well, don't mess with

 

    the radio dial, cats, because Lovin' Dan's still got more in

 

    fifty-four!  It's LA's own group now, The Jewels, with their new one -

 

    Hearts of Stone!  Yes, indeedy!

 

 

        Hank was the only one in the office, and when I dropped the sheet

 

    of school paper onto the desk in front of him, he frowned before

 

    saying, "Where the hell have you been?  Half of L.A. is trying to find

 

    you."

 

        "Read that," I said.

 

        Dad, I was sure, would have understood its significance

 

    immediately.  Hank was the skeptic in the family.

 

        Hank browsed the sheet of paper and said, "So some school kid is

 

    playing games.  So what?"

 

        I grabbed the paper back.

 

        "So who's trying to find me?," I asked.

 

        "There's a stack of messages on your desk."

 

        Joan, Ruth, Jeff Berger, even Lovin' Dan the Sixty-Minute Man (but

 

    not Dan Davies, I noted) - I hardly knew which call to return first.

 

        Hank came over to my desk.  I could tell by his manner that he had

 

    some shit work for me to do.

 

        "You got nothing going, right?," he said.

 

        "I've got the gig with Joan," I replied, not hiding the self-

 

    defense in my tone.  As far as I was concerned, being big brother's

 

    flunky was not in my contract.

 

        "I got a stakeout for you tonight," he said.

 

        "Fuck your stakeout."

 

        He stared at me a moment before saying, in his most haughty manner,

 

    "Well, excuse me, Mr. Playwright, I didn't realize you had a play in

 

    rehearsal."

 

        That was a low blow and he knew it.

 

        "I have messages to return," I said, trying to hide my anger.

 

        "The Zimmerman case.  The details are here," he said.  He dropped a

 

    paper onto my desk.  "Dad made the assignment, so spew your venom at

 

    him, not me."

 

        As if wanting to avoid further confrontation himself, Hank walked

 

    straight out the door without another word.  I glanced at the stakeout

 

    sheet, seeing Dad's note at the bottom of the page, Thanks for handling

 

    this one for me, son!  Dad.  Shit, there went the night.

 

        I picked up the phone and began to dial.

 

 

 

 

 

    13/

           

        Joan wanted to talk to me immediately.  In person.  Jeff Berger

 

    wanted to see me right away.  In person.  Dan was already gone from the

 

    station but I didn't leave a message.  I'd try and catch him at the

 

    apartment later.  Ruth hadn't left a number, saying merely that she'd

 

    call back.  With luck, I would find her at Joan's.

 

        The night stakeout started after dinner, so I phoned Carla before

 

    leaving the office.  I wanted more nap time.

 

        "What's in it for me?," she asked.

 

        I told her I'd try to be there by four and hung up.

 

 

        I pulled Bad-Ass into Joan's driveway.  As I got out and headed for

 

    the front door, I was distracted by a knocking sound: it was Jeff

 

    Berger at his kitchen window, pounding and waving at me, then gesturing

 

    for me to come over.  I gestured back, hoping to communicate that I'd

 

    come over later, then continued to the porch.

 

        Ruth answered the door.  She seemed cold and distant, not even

 

    giving me a sign that she'd been trying to get hold of me.  She said

 

    that Mrs. Davies was waiting for me in the den and this time let me

 

    walk there alone.

 

        Joan was dressed to kill.  She sported not only the cocktail dress

 

    but the martini that I'd looked for in earlier meetings.  I almost

 

    expected her to make a pass at me but she quickly let me know she had

 

    something else in mind.

 

       "I want evidence that my husband is having an affair," she said.

 

    "Photographs.  You do that, don't you?"

 

        I nodded.

 

        "Then do it."

 

        "And if he's not having an affair?"

 

        "You said he was."

 

        "I think I'm changing my mind."

 

        "Really?  I've decided you were perfectly right."

 

        I was no longer sure what I thought but I could tell Joan would be

 

    easier to get along with if I agreed with her.

 

        "I'll see what I can do," I said.

 

        "Of course you will.  That's what I'm paying you to do."

 

        "Not exactly."

 

        "I see," she said.  "You want more money."

 

        I gave her the usual Peeping Tom estimate, and without missing a

 

    beat she fetched her purse to write me a check.

 

        "Why have you changed your mind?," she asked as she wrote.

 

        "Hard to explain."

 

        "Do I get a refund if he's not having an affair?"

 

        "You save on expenses."

 

        "I see."

 

        She came forward and handed me the check, saying, "I assume you'll

 

    start on this tonight."

 

        I nodded a lie.  The stakeout was a more solid case of adultery:

 

    Zimmerman, the children's TV star, was diddling the show's puppeteer,

 

    at least according to Hank's notes on the case.  Hollywood clientele

 

    usually meant good bucks for easily gathered evidence.  They got too

 

    wrapped up in their own romantic images to cover tracks.

 

        Joan asked, "Can you find the door or should I escort you?"

 

        I told her I could find it.  I was hoping she'd ask if I wanted a

 

    drink.

 

        Ruth was waiting for me at the front door.

 

        "I have to talk to you," she said.  "Can you stop by the house

 

    later this afternoon?  Say around four?"

 

        It interfered with nap time at Carla's but I told her I'd be there.

 

    Before I could ask her what was up, she was hurrying off.

 

        Approaching Bad-Ass, I worried that Joan might be watching from a

 

    window and so decided not to go straight next door.  I got in, started

 

    the car with its usual belch, and backed out the driveway.  By the time

 

    I'd swung around to park across the street, Jeff was on the porch

 

    waving at me.  I liked the idea that he was waiting for me for a

 

    change.

 

        In the den, pouring two iced teas, he came right to the point.

 

        "Harriet called.  I was right.  She's with Dan."

 

        "She told you that?"

 

        "She's at his new apartment."

 

        I wondered if this was why Dan had phoned me.  Benefit of the doubt

 

    and all that.

 

        "She told me she was fine," Jeff went on.  "But of course she'd say

 

    that.  I was hoping you could go over there and bring her back."

 

        "I can try."

 

        "I'd rather not have the police involved."

 

        He handed me a glass of iced tea.

 

        "What if she doesn't want to come voluntarily?," I asked.

 

        "Don't you have methods or something?"

 

        Right, I'd slip a mickey in her cherry coke and carry her out over

 

    my shoulder.

 

        I said, "All I can do is try."

 

        "Phone me if she resists.  I'm closer to her than her mother. She

 

    thought she was doing us all a favor by calling in."

 

        "What exactly did she say?"

 

        "That she's okay and staying at Lovin' Dan's.  She said she's

 

    sleeping on the couch but, frankly, I'm very concerned about where she

 

    really is sleeping."

 

        "You think she's sleeping with Dan?"

 

        The question upset him enough to ignore it.  He finished his tea in

 

    a long gulp and without a word started toward the door to let me out.

 

        On the porch he said, "Just bill me your usual rates."

 

        "Well, let's see if I'm any help first."

 

        I could see Hank cringing at the remark, ever on my case that I

 

    wasn't hard-boiled and ruthless enough with clients.  From my point of

 

    view, lack of a contract was lack of responsibility.  If Harriet told

 

    me to fly a kite, I could leave without a sense of guilt or failure.

 

        "Be sure to call me right away if she's a problem," Jeff called

 

    across the lawn.  He stood on the porch until Bad-Ass had exhaled its

 

    roaring blue smoke, and I was on my way out of there.

 

 

        The same loud doo-wop music came from behind Dan's door.  As

 

    before, I had to bang louder and louder again before anyone responded.

 

    In the open doorway stood a teenaged girl with a complexion problem,

 

    popping gum at me.  Harriet.

 

        "Is Dan here?"

 

        She shook her head.  More gum popping.

 

        "I'm a friend of his," I said, almost shouting.  "Can I come in and

 

    wait?"

 

        Her stare was vacant.  The only life in her was in her mouth. Pop,

 

    pop.

 

        "He's down in the market," she said.

 

        "Pardon me?"

 

        "In the market!"

 

        "Thanks!"

 

        Dan was at the counter, buying two cokes and a bag of potato chips.

 

    Treats for the guest.

 

        "Hey, looky here," said Tank.  "The man is back."

 

        Dan gave me a quick We can't talk here look and scooped up his

 

    change from the counter.  As Dan turned to go, Tank said, "I introduce

 

    you two but I forget your names."

 

        "We've met," Dan mumbled and moved off, his eyes telling me to

 

    follow quickly.

 

        To our departing backs Tank said, "You two up to something sexy and

 

    evil, am I right?"  Then he roared like a man who knew something that I

 

    didn't.

 

        "I've been trying to get hold of you all day," Dan told me at the

 

    foot of the stairs.  "Harriet's up there."

 

        I thought I saw fear in his eyes.  "Did she just show up or what?"

 

        "What's that supposed to mean?  Of course she just showed up."

 

        "Why do you get the honor?"

 

        "She listens to me all the time.  She's always phoning in

 

    requests."

 

        "You don't seem too thrilled by her appearance."

 

        "I've got to get rid of her, for Christ's sake."  He looked

 

    frightened.

 

        I said, "I happen to know her grandfather.  I'll talk to her."

 

        We were at the top of the stairs by now, and I led the way inside

 

    without replying.  Harriet was still helping herself to Dan's doo-wop

 

    records, playing them loud and popping her gum.

 

        Dan put the cokes and chips on the coffee table.  He glanced at me

 

    while lighting up a cigarette, letting me know I could start talking to

 

    her at any time.  I wasn't sure how to begin.  The family agency didn't

 

    often mess around with runaway teenagers.

 

        Harriet put on another record and came forward to fetch her coke.

 

    Dan took a chair in the corner of the room and stared vacantly into

 

    space, his old melancholy self.  I stood just inside the doorway,

 

    wondering what the hell I was doing there.

 

        Finally I said, loudly, "I talked to your granddad."

 

        Harriet stopping popping gum long enough to say, "He told you I was

 

    here?"

 

        "That's right."

 

        "Well, I'm not going home."

 

        "He wants to talk to you."

 

        "I already talked to him."

 

        "He was thinking you might like to stay with him for a while."

 

        "I have a place to stay."

 

        I looked at Dan, who looked miserable.

 

        I asked, "And where is that?"

 

        "Right here," said Harriet.

 

        Dan didn't budge or say a word.  Real courage, this guy.

 

        "Dan," I said, "she says she's staying here."

 

        He mumbled something and blew smoke.

 

        "What?," I asked.

 

        He said, "She can sleep on the couch."

 

        Christ.  I told Harriet, "I think you should go stay with your

 

    grandparents."

 

        "Well, I don't.  I'm going for a walk."

 

        Dan didn't make a move to stop her.  When she was gone, he looked

 

    at me for - what?  Understanding?  Sympathy?

 

        "Do you know what you're getting into?," I asked.

 

        When he didn't answer, I walked to the phonograph and lifted up the

 

    needle.

 

        "What was I supposed to do?," Dan asked.  "She doesn't have a place

 

    to stay."

 

        "She has parents.  She has grandparents.  I suggest you call the

 

    police and tell them you have a runaway."

 

        "I can't do that.  She's unhappy."

 

        "You're flirting with real trouble, Dan."

 

        "I think she'll go home in a few days.  Don't you?"

 

        "She shouldn't be your problem."

 

        "She's a fan.  A true believer."

 

        Christ, another true believer.  She understood the music conspiracy

 

    or something.  She's on our side.

 

        "Call the cops," I said.  I stared at him, hoping to communicate

 

    that this was my parting shot.  Then I got the hell out of there.

 

        Outside I looked up and down the street for Harriet.  I was

 

    standing next to the pink Caddy and evidently Tank thought I was

 

    admiring it.  He came out of the market to say, "It ain't for sale,

 

    man.  That's my baby."

 

        "Beautiful," I said.

 

        "Class all the way," said Tank.

 

        I nodded.

 

        He winked and said, "You looking for that young quiff, she went

 

    thataway."  His head gestured up the street, toward the station.

 

        "Thanks."

 

        I cruised by the radio station, then around the block, checking

 

    side streets.  She was gone.  Disappeared as quickly as an Angel rally.

 

        I found a phone booth and told Carla I'd take a rain check on the

 

    nap, I still had work to do.

 

        "All you do is stand me up," she said.

 

        "Honey, something came up."

 

        "Don't you honey me!"

 

        I stepped out of the phone booth and into the smog and clamor of

 

    the afternoon.  I realized that my eyes stung, my ears ached. When

 

    Bad-Ass coughed to life in a cloud of blue smoke, my contribution to

 

    the rising pollution and noise was just a drop in the bucket.

 

 

 

 

    14/

           

        At Ruth's, an older Negro woman answered the door, her graying hair

 

    up in a bun under a red bandanna.  She smiled as if we were old

 

    friends.

 

        "You must be the one coming to see Ruth," she said.  She opened the

 

    door and gestured for me to enter.  "She called to say she'll be a

 

    little late.  Why don't we wait in the kitchen?"

 

        She introduced herself as Ella Mae, Ruth's mother.  As we walked to

 

    the kitchen, we passed through the living room where the teenagers I'd

 

    seen on the porch, and on Butch's huge canvas, were sprawled across

 

    ragged pieces of furniture.  They were staring at me.  Ella Mae didn't

 

    stop to make any introductions, which was a relief.  I felt vague

 

    resentment from the kids.

 

        "They're practicing for the song contest," Ella Mae explained

 

    later.  We were seated at the small kitchen table, and a doo-wop record

 

    was now playing from the living room.

 

        "They probably won't sing while you're here," she said.  "Just

 

    listen."

 

        She laughed at this, a mother's wise observation, and her laughter

 

    filled the small kitchen.  Outside I could hear the roar of distant

 

    construction coming up from the gully of their back yard.

 

        Ella Mae got up from the table, saying, "I hope you like apricot

 

    pie.  I picked the apricots yesterday.  They only left one tree in the

 

    yard."

 

        She didn't give me time to get a word in.  She talked constantly

 

    and aimlessly, telling me about her trip to Farmer's Market and how

 

    terrible the smog was lately and how hard Ruth worked, a rush of words

 

    united only by the perpetual cheeriness of her tone.

 

        Ruth walked in.  She looked ill at ease, turning down her mother's

 

    offer of pie and giving me another one of those looks I'd been getting

 

    lately, Let's go somewhere we can talk.  I wondered why she'd asked me

 

    to meet her there in the first place.

 

        Following Ruth to the door, I heard a baby crying.  Ella Mae told

 

    us to have a good time and headed off in the direction of the crying.

 

        "Mother was supposed to be visiting Aunt Martha this afternoon,"

 

    she explained as we drove away.

 

        "Where to then?"

 

        "Anywhere but South City."

 

        "You got some time?"

 

        "Yes."

 

        "I know a spot in Venice."

 

        "Fine."

 

        I was eager to hear what was on her mind but there was something

 

    about cars that clammed Ruth up.  Just as when I'd given her a lift,

 

    she quietly stared out the window, failing to bite at any of my

 

    attempts to start a conversation.

 

        I drove to the Oar House, and we found a picnic table near the

 

    entrance.  We were lucky to find a table at all but were just a beat

 

    ahead of the crowd coming in for happy hour revelry.  I liked noisy

 

    joints for important conversation:  it was like static to defend

 

    against eavesdropping.  I didn't know what was on Ruth's mind but had a

 

    gut feeling it would be worth listening to.

 

        But it took two Scotches for Ruth to loosen up and then she became

 

    suddenly defensive.

 

        "I'm not having an affair with Dan," she told me.

 

        "Did you think I thought you were?"

 

        "I think you think someone is.  Obviously his marriage is in

 

    trouble."

 

        "But it's not you."

 

        "No.  It was Flo."

 

        Dan and Flo?  A Negro baby from the liaison?

 

        "She's not here to defend herself," I said.

 

        What if Dan, not Flo, had the Negro lineage and was passing for

 

    white?

 

        Ruth said, "I was very close to Flo.  We've known each other for

 

    years."

 

        "Did you know she was passing for white?"

 

        "Yes."

 

        "And could Dan be as well?"

 

        "I don't think so."

 

        "Could Dan have killed her?," I asked.

 

        The question had just popped out but Ruth's reaction was

 

    interesting.  She quickly looked away.  I recalled that Butch had said

 

    she believed the husband had done it.

 

        "Or her husband?," I asked.  "Jealousy and all that."

 

        Ruth said, "I suppose it could be jealousy."

 

        She didn't sound very convincing, and she had nothing more to add.

 

    After a silence I said, "Do you know what happened to the baby?  It

 

    wasn't mentioned in the newspaper."

 

        "I don't know.  I suppose Gregory put it up for adoption."

 

        There was something too glib and easy about this.   And about the

 

    rest as well.  My gut feeling was that she was hiding something.

 

        "Have you been following the rat murders?," I asked.

 

        "Who hasn't?"

 

        "Why would Flo be one of the victims?"

 

        After a hesitation, she said, "I don't know."

 

        "The murderer may have set it up to look like the Rat Murderer."

 

        "Yes, I thought of that, too."

 

        "Did you know that Artie is writing a history of rats?"

 

        This time she looked down into her drink.

 

        "I found an episode in the trash," I said.

 

        She looked up and said, "You've been through our trash?"

 

        She didn't seem angry, merely surprised.

 

        I said, "I cleaned up after the dogs."  I told her the rest, about

 

    first finding the rat, then the paper about rats and how it looked like

 

    a school assignment.

 

        "I guess something so gruesome is exotic to a boy his age," she

 

    said.

 

        "Maybe.  What about the rat?"

 

        "What do you mean, what about it?"

 

        "Where'd it come from?"

 

        "We poison rats all the time, Mr. Trevorak.  South City is full of

 

    rats.  L.A. must have millions of them.  The city certainly won't do

 

    anything about it in our neighborhood, of course."  After a pause she

 

    added, "Surely you don't think my brother is . . .?"

 

        "Of course not."  As a matter of fact, I didn't know what I

 

    thought.

 

        The Daisy Mae amazon came by, and we ordered another round.

 

        "Have you talked to Gregory since the murder?," I asked.

 

        "Why should I talk to him?"

 

        "I thought you might have run into him while cleaning house or

 

    something."

 

        "I haven't seen him."

 

        "Where would I find him?"

 

        "I have no idea."

 

        "How'd you meet Butch?," I asked without preface.

 

        She took the question in strike, without missing a beat. "He's

 

    doing a painting of Artie's singing group.  We just, well, hit it off

 

    from the start.  I was as surprised as you were in the restaurant."

 

        "Small world," I said.

 

        "Yes, it appears to be."

 

        She let out a sigh that told me she was ready to change the

 

    subject.

 

        "If I talk to Gregory," I said, "do you mind if I mention you?"

 

        "Why would you want to mention me?"

 

        "You said Dan was having an affair with his wife."

 

        "Mr. Trevorak, I only wanted to see you to let you know that Dan

 

    wasn't having an affair with me.  I don't even know if Gregory knew

 

    about it."

 

        I said, "Dan denies having an affair."

 

        "Wouldn't you, considering the fact that someone murdered her?"

 

        She had a point.  All the same, something wasn't settling right.

 

        "So the reason you called me was to clear your good name."

 

        The question surprised her.  I saw her searching for words before

 

    saying, carefully, "I thought you would link me with Dan. I didn't want

 

    this to get back to Butch."

 

        "This meeting is for Butch's sake?"

 

        "I don't want rumors about me to get to him.  I like him very much.

 

    More than I've liked a man in quite a while."

 

        I don't know why I didn't believe her but I didn't. Everything

 

    about her was too orchestrated.

 

        "What about white people?," I asked, remembering what Butch had

 

    told me.  "Do you like white people?"

 

        Again I caught her off guard but she recovered quickly.

 

        "Since you ask," she said calmly, "not particularly."

 

        Ruth and I ended quickly after that, and I drove her back to South

 

    City in silence.  There wasn't time to swing by Carla's, and when I

 

    phoned she didn't answer.

 

        For the stakeout I bought a half-dozen Bob's Big Boy Hamburgers,

 

    two large vanilla ice cream sodas, a couple bags of potato chips and

 

    filled my thermos with coffee.  I fetched the camera gear from

 

    Bad-Ass's trunk.  Then I drove into Hollywood, found the address in a

 

    fancy residential section and settled in for the adultery to begin.

 

 

 

 

    15/

           

        Stake-outs are a drag.  The Army must have invented them, it's

 

    hurry up and wait, all the way.  For a playwright who couldn't make a

 

    living at his craft, however, it wasn't a bad gig.  When half of the

 

    Big Boys were gone, I took out my journal and, being a sink- or-swim

 

    writer, started right out on the idea that had been bugging me

 

    recently.

           

    Sun., 13 June 54

           

        Scene: a back room in the Public Hall, with the casket containing

 

    the President's body inside.  An unnamed Eastern European country.  Dr.

 

    Alberts is there with the State Mortician, Neck, and his assistant,

 

    Charles.  The President's Wife, Mrs. Jones, also is there.

           

        NECK:  Well, doctor?

 

        DR. ALBERTS:  Your suspicions are correct.  I find the organ to be

 

    tumescent.

 

        (Mrs. Jones breaks into tears.)

 

        CHARLES:  Please, Mrs. Jones.

 

        MRS. JONES (struggling):  It's sca-- . . . scan-- . . . it's

 

    scanda-- . . .

 

        CHARLES:  Now, now.

 

        NECK:  Perhaps you could give her something.

 

        DR. ALBERTS:  Come, Mrs. Jones.  You must try to relax.

 

        (The doctor and Mrs. Jones start out.)

 

        NECK:  Thank you, doctor.

 

        DR. ALBERTS:  I feel like I should be the one thanking you.  In my

 

    long career, I've never seen anything like this before.

 

        MRS. JONES (sobbing):  It's scandalous . . .

 

        DR. ALBERTS:  Come with me, Mrs. Jones.  I'll administer a

 

    sedative.

 

        (The doctor escorts her off.)

 

 

 

                       

        Car headlights approached through the darkening evening, and I

 

    looked up from my notebook.  But the car passed by without turning into

 

    Zimmerman's driveway.  I read over what I'd written and continued.

 

 

           

        CHARLES:  What do we do now?

 

        NECK:  I'm not sure.

 

        CHARLES:  You could display only half the body.  The upper

 

    half.

 

        NECK:  And compromise my reputation?  I didn't get where I am by

 

    displaying only half the body.  People expect a full deck.

 

        CHARLES:  They've been waiting out there for hours.  The lines

 

    are--

 

        NECK:  I know how long the lines are.  Let them wait.  We can't

 

    display the body as it is.

 

        CHARLES:  Of course not.

 

        NECK:  We've got to get rid of it.

 

        CHARLES:  Perhaps if . . .

 

        NECK:  If what?

 

        CHARLES:  If we dismembered . . . it was just a thought.

 

        NECK:  I do not mutilate bodies.  The entire body will be viewed

 

    intact or not at all.  I have my reputation to think of.

 

        CHARLES:  It was just a suggestion.

 

        (A pause.)

 

        CHARLES:  Perhaps it will go away.

 

        NECK:  Perhaps.

 

        CHARLES:  We can wait and hope.  We can pray.

 

        NECK:  Yes, we can pray.

 

        (They pray.  Then they approach the casket and look at the body.)

 

        NECK:  No luck.

 

        CHARLES:  They must be getting impatient out there.  The lines

 

    started forming as soon as his death was announced.

 

        NECK:  I know, I know.

 

        CHARLES:  He certainly is popular.  Even dead.  I suppose because

 

    he was so average.  According to the polls, there was never a more

 

    average man.

 

        NECK:  We have to think of something!

 

        CHARLES:  At least Mrs. Jones noticed the erection before the doors

 

    were opened.  If the people had been let in before anyone noticed . . .

 

        NECK:  I must have done something wrong.

 

        CHARLES:  Do you think so?

 

        NECK:  Perhaps I was nervous without knowing it.  I've never

 

    prepared a President before.  Something inconsequential could have

 

    slipped my notice, and consequently have become -- consequential. If I

 

    had somehow erred in draining all the blood, for example. Perhaps such

 

    an error would explain it.

 

        CHARLES:  That might be an explanation.

 

 

 

                       

        Another car passed in false alarm.  I took out my small pen- sized

 

    flashlight to work by and wrote on.

 

 

           

        NECK:  On the other hand, the blood measured (check the figure)

 

    quarts, which is average.

 

        CHARLES:  Then that must not be it.

 

        NECK:  Perhaps it has happened before.  I'm much too busy to read

 

    all of the literature.  New findings are always popping up. A premature

 

    ossification of the penis, for example.  I've heard rumors of such a

 

    thing.

 

        CHARLES:  That might be an explanation.

 

        NECK:  On the other hand, then one would presume that the organ

 

    would ossify in its normal state.

 

        CHARLES:  Then that must not be it.

 

        NECK:  Unless, of course, he died while the organ was . . .?

 

        CHARLES:  You don't think he died in the saddle, do you?

 

        NECK:  Suppose he did.  Followed by premature ossification . . .

 

        CHARLES:  Sounds unlikely to me.

 

        NECK:  There's only one way to find out.  I'll question his wife.

 

        CHARLES:  About THAT?

 

        NECK:  It's a delicate matter, I know.  But we must find out. It

 

    could be the explanation.  Get Mrs. Jones.

 

        CHARLES:  But the doctor was going to give her a sedative. She'll

 

    be resting.

 

        NECK:  A sedative will make the matter less delicate.  Get Mrs.

 

    Jones.

 

 

 

        Another car approached and swung to turn into the driveway. I

 

    cussed at the bad timing, threw the notebook into the back seat,

 

    grabbed the camera gear and got out of the car.

 

 

 

    16/

           

        The puppeteer and the kiddy host were not imaginative about

 

    covering their tracks:  hiding behind bushes in the backyard, I got

 

    photos of them swimming nude together, later the guy getting a blow job

 

    while sitting on the end of the diving board, and finally the whole

 

    ball of wax taking place in the shallow end of the pool, though the

 

    latter shots might prove hard to decipher since most of the hard

 

    evidence was happening under water.  Hank hadn't provided me with

 

    snorkeling gear.

 

        I wondered where the hell the wife was.  Probably visiting her

 

    mother or something.  Maybe on purpose, so we could get the evidence.

 

        Satisfied that I'd collected all the dirt she would need, I got the

 

    hell out of there before the bars closed.  I put down three shots of

 

    Jameson's before last call, thinking about what Ruth had told me.  Were

 

    her feelings for Butch real or just manufactured to throw me off the

 

    scent?

 

        When the bar closed, I drove to Butch's loft in Watts. Sometimes he

 

    worked late into the night and early morning, and if the light was on

 

    upstairs, what the hell, I'd steal some of his bourbon and maybe

 

    clarify a few things about Ruth.

 

        The light was on but, as it turned out, Butch wasn't alone. As I

 

    approached the door, I could hear sounds inside, the unmistakable

 

    moaning of a female in sexual heat.  Curiosity got the best of me, and

 

    I kneeled and put my eye to the keyhole.  The woman I saw riding Butch

 

    in great frenzy was not Ruth.

 

        The long night had brought too much peeping, not enough

 

    participation.  I drove Bad-Ass straight to Carla's, let myself in with

 

    my key, and was naked and going down on her before she woke up.  She

 

    mumbled a complaint, said something about a dream, realized it was me,

 

    swore a general complaint about the universe and a particular one about

 

    my place in it, then finally relaxed and began to enjoy herself.

 

 

        "You should call first," Carla said over morning coffee.

 

        I'd awoken first and dressed and made the coffee, delivering a cup

 

    to Carla in bed.  She sat up sipping now, naked, the single sheet

 

    dropping around her waist.  I sat at the nearby table.

 

       "I didn't want you to say fuck off."

 

        "I would have, too."

 

        "That's why I didn't call."

 

        "You can be so rude."

 

        "Right, you had a lousy time.  You only came a dozen times."

 

        It was only a slight exaggeration.  Carla's sexual appetite matched

 

    her size.

 

        "That's not the point.  You are rude and crude."

 

        "I spent the entire night watching other people suck and fuck. Give

 

    me a break."

 

        "Sometimes you can be such an animal."

 

        "Right, you come like proper royalty, no screaming and clawing at

 

    all."

 

        "You're just lucky I like sex."

 

        "No, I'm lucky you like me."

 

        "You're lucky you have the chart you have."

 

        It was her turn to lead the parade.  Afterwards we napped and when

 

    I woke up with a start, in the crisis of some forgotten theatrical

 

    dream, Carla's clock read eleven a.m.  I bounded out of bed and began

 

    to dress for the second time that morning.

 

        "You're always in such a goddamn rush when you leave," Carla said,

 

    rising up on one elbow.

 

        I thought she was beautiful in the morning, her long black hair a

 

    mess, her eyes puffy, her ample flesh wrinkled and splotched by the

 

    sheets.  What you saw is what you got, which is as good as it gets.

 

        "Hank's going to kill me," I said.

 

        "What?"

 

        I started toward the door.

 

        "See you," I said.

 

        "I shouldn't even let you in the goddamn bed next time."

 

        "You know you love surprises."

 

        I blew her a kiss and was gone.

 

        Back at the office, I managed to get the photos developed and

 

    printed before Hank, who wasn't there when I arrived, began wondering

 

    where they were.  He was pounding on the darkroom door just as I was

 

    finishing up.

 

        "Out in a minute!," I yelled.

 

        The photos were clear and sleazy, and while Hank was drooling over

 

    them I slipped out of the office before he remembered that they were

 

    being delivered four hours late.  Dad wasn't in this morning, which

 

    would have cleared the way for Hank to lambaste me with more venom than

 

    usual if I stuck around.  Who needed it?

 

        I remembered Joan Davies saying that Gregory Albertson might be

 

    staying with his mother.  Fortunately, the lady also played bridge and

 

    Joan knew her well.  She lived in Sierra Madre, which was adjacent to

 

    Foothills.

 

        Driving to Sierra Madre, I listened to KRB.  The teenage doo- wop

 

    contest was starting next week, I noted.  The deejay who followed Dan,

 

    Hot Wire Wally, plugged it four times by the time I maneuvered the

 

    detours into the civilization of east L.A. County, drove into the

 

    foothills of Sierra Madre and found the address.

 

        I didn't expect to find Gregory Albertson at home.  I assumed he'd

 

    be at work.  My plan was to get the address of his office from his

 

    mother, posing as a former business associate from out of state.

 

        But a gentleman answered the door, wearing a silk robe, no less.  A

 

    man of leisure or something.  I wondered where the cigarette holder

 

    was.

 

        "I'm looking for Gregory Albertson," I said.

 

        "I'm Albertson."

 

        He was good-looking in a Rock Hudson sort of way.  Clean, probably

 

    freshly, shaven, the aroma of after-shave still clinging to him.  I

 

    would have suspected he had a sweet young thing waiting in his bed

 

    except that mother probably didn't allow it.

 

        I showed him my identification and asked if we could talk.

 

        "Yes, but not here.  Mother would ask questions.   Does this have

 

    something to do with my wife?"

 

        I nodded.

 

        "There's a bar in the restaurant at the bottom of the hill," he

 

    said.  "The Pink Penguin.  You must have passed it."

 

        I told him I'd be there.  But instead of driving to the restaurant,

 

    I parked Bad-Ass around the corner and waited.  Sure enough, ten

 

    minutes later he cruised by in a black Chrysler.  I kept a safe

 

    distance behind and followed him into nearby Foothills, then watched

 

    through binoculars as he waited in front of Joan Davies' house until

 

    Ruth came out in her white uniform and got into the car.

 

        They drove to Santa Monica.  I expected a stroll on the beach but

 

    the rendezvous proved to be more intimate than that, and much more

 

    interesting.  They pulled into The Sea Breeze Motel.  For a long

 

    moment, no one got out of the car, and then finally  Albertson went

 

    into the office alone.  He was in white shorts and a tan polo shirt,

 

    cool and casual.  A few minutes later he was back, dangling a key, and

 

    they pulled in front of their room.

 

        But something was wrong, this wasn't a quick afternoon delight.

 

    Ruth didn't want to get out of the car.  Albertson had gotten out and

 

    gone around the car to open her door, a real gentleman, but she

 

    wouldn't get out.  He was bending down, apparently trying to convince

 

    her.  It took him a full five minutes before she followed him into the

 

    room.

 

        I've never held much stock in protocol.  "Fashion is the first

 

    refuge of a scoundrel," an Army buddy used to say.  I didn't even give

 

    them ten or fifteen minutes to make up.  I pulled Bad-Ass next to the

 

    arrogant, shiny Chrysler and began banging on their door.

 

        I didn't respond to Gregory's "Who's there?"  He had to open the

 

    door to find out.  He stood staring at me, in his shorts and polo shirt

 

    and great tan, looking like a magazine ad.

 

        I grinned and waved at Ruth, who was sitting on the bed, looking

 

    more angry than guilty.

 

        Gregory was at a loss for words.  I worried that he might let his

 

    fists be the dictionary.

 

        "We need to talk, friends," I said, trying to sound pleasant and

 

    unthreatening.  Who wants to trade blows with a magazine ad?

 

        Ruth said, "Let him in."  Gregory moved out of the doorway and went

 

    to the bed.

 

        "He's a private investigator," he said, bending forward to speak

 

    softly into Ruth's ear.

 

        "I know who he is.  Let me handle it."

 

        Gregory moved slowly away from the bed, watching me carefully, like

 

    a man who is never comfortable unless he knows exactly what is going

 

    on.  He'd be butting in, I knew, which was fine.  I wanted to play them

 

    against one another.

 

        "Well, are you going to ask him?," Ruth asked.  "That's what you're

 

    here for, isn't it?"

 

        I smiled at her.  I looked at Gregory.  He looked like he had to

 

    pee.

 

        "Ask what?," Gregory wanted to know.

 

        "Well?," Ruth repeated.

 

        "I work for Joan Davies," I said for Gregory's benefit.

 

        "He's investigating Dan," Ruth added.

 

        "You want to ask him?," I said to Ruth.  She glared at me.

 

        I said to Gregory, "I understand your wife, your late wife, was

 

    having an affair with Dan."

 

        Once again he just stared at me, without showing any visible

 

    emotion.  Certainly no visible grief for his wife, which is what I was

 

    looking for.  But maybe the tan was a mask, he was too goddamn photo

 

    perfect to show grief.

 

        "Could he have murdered her?," I asked.

 

        "I'll tell you the same thing I told the police: I have no idea who

 

    murdered her."

 

        "Could you have?"

 

        This made him angry.

 

        "If you're making accusations," he said, "I prefer you make them to

 

    my lawyer.  Ruth, let's get out of here."

 

        But Ruth stayed on the bed, watching me, waiting for my next move.

 

        "How do you know your wife is, was, a Negro?," I asked Gregory.

 

    "What if Dan is responsible for the baby?"

 

        He turned to me - at me, is better - more angry than ever. How dare

 

    you ask that!, was written all over his tan.

 

        I went on, "How can you be sure Dan didn't dish out the Negro blood

 

    and your wife is as white as you are?  And where is the baby, anyway?"

 

        I could tell that Ruth was confused by this line of questioning,

 

    since she'd already told me Flo was a Negro, but I was pleased as punch

 

    to be confusing both of them at once.

 

        Gregory said, "I told you to speak to my lawyer."

 

        Ruth decided to be the peacemaker.  She got up and went to him.

 

        "Joan is worried that Dan may have Negro blood."

 

        Poor Gregory looked more confused than ever.  If he was on the

 

    beach, I could've kicked sand in his face.

 

        Ruth turned to me.

 

        "You found out what you came here for, Dan and Flo had an affair.

 

    Why don't you leave?"

 

        "I'm trying to find out if Dan is a Negro," I said.

 

        Ruth began, "I wouldn't--," before Gregory cut her off with, "Don't

 

    answer.  He can talk to my lawyer."

 

        "Who killed Flo Albertson?," I wondered aloud.

 

        And then, for the first time, I thought I saw something like grief

 

    cross Gregory's countenance.  But I didn't know if it was grief for his

 

    wife or for himself, because I'd invaded his secure world with too many

 

    unanswered questions.

 

        "The police think it's the Rat Murderer," he said softly.

 

        So he did have emotions.  He was disobeying his own orders to clam

 

    up.

 

        "What do you think?," I asked.

 

        Before he could reply, Ruth put in, "Are you trying to solve the

 

    rat murders, too?"  She made no attempt to hide her sarcasm.

 

       "Nope.  Just here in inquire about Dan.  He had an affair with your

 

    wife, he may or may not be a Negro, he may or may not be a murderer.

 

    Sorry for the interruption."

 

        On my way out I turned back in the doorway and caught Ruth's stare.

 

    I said, "Don't worry, Butch isn't faithful either."

 

        Pulling out of the motel parking lot, I wondered if Gregory was

 

    still interested in his afternoon delight.  I hoped I'd ruined it for

 

    him.  I hoped his tan was starting to peel.

 

        I pulled into traffic and pointed Bad-Ass back toward the smog of

 

    the city.

 

 

 

 

    17/

           

        For once there was no loud music coming from inside Dan's

 

    apartment.  I put my ear to the door and still heard nothing.  I tried

 

    the handle; the door was locked.  I tapped and waited. Nothing.  I

 

    knocked louder.  And louder again.

 

        I took out my key chain, selected the proper tool and picked the

 

    lock.

 

        There was a stale odor in the front room like old cigarette smoke

 

    and stale beer.  Drawn venetian blinds added to the dismal atmosphere.

 

    Stained and dirty, the blinds looked like a primitive attempt at

 

    cartography.  I wondered what he was paying for rent. Two digits would

 

    be highway robbery.

 

        There were four rooms:  the front living room, a small adjacent

 

    kitchen, a smaller bathroom and, in the rear, a small bedroom.  The

 

    apartment was rented furnished and all the rooms had the same Cheap

 

    Motel decor, pieces of furniture that had witnessed neglect and abuse.

 

    I went into the bedroom.

 

        An open suitcase was on the floor.  I knelt and began going through

 

    it.  Under a pile of underwear I found some newspaper clippings.

 

        They were the same Rat Murder articles that were on the wall at the

 

    office, only these were annotated.  The names of the victims had been

 

    underlined in ink and in the margin next to them Dan, or someone, had

 

    scrawled notes to himself.  Next to each victim "RCA?" had been

 

    scrawled.  I put away the clippings and went to the chest of drawers.

 

        All the drawers but the top one were empty.  There, under folded

 

    dress shirts, I found two nudist magazines, the kind that have all the

 

    genitals smudged out.  Although the magazines attempted to represent

 

    nudist family life, most of the photographs were of teenage girls, high

 

    school nymphets playing volleyball and golf and softball.  I recalled

 

    Jeff Berger's fear that Dan might be interested in Harriet for reasons

 

    beyond her interest in doo- wop.

 

        I was about to move out of the room when I heard a commotion up

 

    front.  Several people had entered, a record was quickly put on the

 

    phonograph and began to play.  Over the music I heard Harriet's voice

 

    and laughter, and the voices of boys, kids like herself.  A party was

 

    about to start or something.  I didn't hear Dan's voice.

 

        There was a bedroom window but it was a long jump.  There was a bed

 

    but at my size I doubted if I could squeeze under it.  I had no

 

    alternative but to face them.

 

        What the hell, when in doubt go the whole hog.

 

        I barged into the front room, yelling, "What the hell's going on?

 

    I was trying to get some sleep.  Harriet, is this your idea? Dan's not

 

    going to put up with this shit and neither am I!"

 

        I thought it was a stellar performance.  My entrance, and perhaps

 

    my size as well, had intimidated Harriet and her two friends, Negro

 

    boys who looked her own age.  I kept trying to look as mean as possible

 

    while continuing.

 

        "What the hell's this about, Harriet?  You boys better get the hell

 

    out of here.  Harriet, I demand a full explanation!"

 

        It might have worked if Dan hadn't walked in.

 

        "How'd you get in here?," he asked me right off.

 

        "He was in the bedroom," Harried added quickly.

 

        All of a sudden I didn't feel like a threat any longer.

 

        "Let's talk outside," said Dan.

 

        Passing the kids, I could tell they'd be smirking as soon as I got

 

    out the door.  Then they'd be snapping fingers and listening to

 

    doo-wop, quickly back into their party.

 

        The porch wouldn't do, Dan led me down the stairs.  Then he turned

 

    and said, "You broke into my apartment.  I could get your license for

 

    that."

 

        These were heavy stakes, so I led my strong suit.

 

        "I found your magazines.  You like them young."

 

        I thought I saw the hint of red on his cheeks.  No time to letup now.

 

        "Flo Albertson was what?  A diversion with a contemporary?"

 

        "Let's go somewhere and talk," he said softly.

 

        "Yeah, let's do that."

 

        "I have to tell the kids I'm going."

 

        We drove in Bad-Ass to The Oar House.  I drove an intimidating car,

 

    no one liked to open up in it and Dan, like Ruth before him, sat

 

    huddled against the door, silently staring out the window.

 

        As soon as our drinks were on the picnic table inside, I said, "You

 

    were having an affair with Flo."

 

        "I'm not having an affair with anyone!"

 

        "That's not what Ruth told me," I said.

 

        He studied me carefully.  "What did she tell you?"

 

        "I just told you."

 

        He quickly lit up a cigarette and blew smoke.  He was fidgeting, as

 

    if trying to decide what to say.  I just sipped my Jameson's and

 

    watched him squirm.

 

        "Okay," he said at last, "Flo and I had a brief affair.  But I

 

    didn't kill her, if that's what you think."

 

        "I didn't think that," I said.  But it was something to wonder

 

    about.

 

        "Why did you break into my apartment?"

 

        I didn't tell him the truth, that when in doubt in this business,

 

    start snooping around.  I didn't respond to the question at all.  I

 

    wanted to be asking the questions here.

 

        "What about the kid, Dan?"

 

        "Harriet?  What about her?"

 

        Actually, I'd meant something else.  We'd talk about teenage girls

 

    later.

 

        "No," I said, "I mean Flo's baby.  Could it be yours?"

 

        I guessed from the old look of melancholy that he'd thought about

 

    this himself and the answer was yes, it could be his.

 

        "Dan, are you a Negro?," I asked.

 

        "No, I told you before."

 

        "But you had an affair with Flo."

 

        "It was a mistake.  It's been over for months."

 

        "And you're not having an affair now?"

 

        "No."

 

        "Not even with Harriet."

 

        "No!"

 

        Did he protest too much?  He quickly tried to convince me that

 

    he hadn't.

 

        "I got those magazines from a guy at work," he said.  "They don't

 

    mean anything."

 

        "Well, they don't show anything."

 

        Right after Korea, I'd had a false start on a play about a guy who

 

    made his living smudging out the genitals in nudist magazines. My

 

    working title had been "The Latent Gynecologist" and the play was

 

    supposed to have been a comedy.  When I realized it was going nowhere,

 

    a one-joke play, I dropped it.  But it was still a hell of a strange

 

    job.

 

        I said, "I also found the clippings."

 

        "You really went through the place."

 

        "Why did you scribble RCA in the margins?"

 

        He sipped his drink and said, "I don't understand why you find me

 

    so interesting.  I told you I'm not a Negro.  That's what you were

 

    hired to find out."

 

        "You have clippings for all the rat murders except Flo," I said.

 

        "I don't think the Rat Murderer killed her.  It doesn't fit the

 

    pattern."

 

        "And what pattern is that?"

 

        "You wouldn't understand."

 

        "Try me."

 

        "You don't understand about the music," he said.

 

        "Is RCA the record company?," I asked.

 

        He just looked at me.

 

        I said, "What if I was a true believer?  What then?"

 

        "But you're not."

 

        The music.  Did he think he'd found a connection between the rat

 

    murders and the music?  Ruth's little brother sang doo-wop and was

 

    reporting on the history of rats.  Was all this just coincidental?

 

        "Why doesn't Flo fit the pattern?," I asked.

 

        I saw immediately that he wasn't going to tell me.  He was turning

 

    haughty, holier-than-thou, a true believer who knew Truth that was

 

    invisible to me, who heard music I did not understand. In other words,

 

    he was a real fruit cake.

 

        I said, "The police would be interested in knowing you had an

 

    affair with Flo Albertson."

 

        "And they'd be interested that you broke into my apartment," he

 

    said.

 

        "And that you're contributing to the delinquency of minors. Don't

 

    tell me they don't drink beer up in your apartment."

 

        And my daddy's bigger than your daddy, too.  We were at a stalemate

 

    and silent.  Then Dan stood up.

 

        "I think I've told you all you need to know," he said.

 

        "For the moment."

 

        "My wife hired you, and now you know what you wanted to know.

 

    Obviously we'll be getting a divorce."

 

        "If you say so."

 

        He shook his head and said, "You'll never understand."

 

        "Lay off the sermon, okay?"

 

        "The world is crumbling all around you and you don't even see it.

 

    If you did, you wouldn't even know why it's happening."

 

        And he was out of there.  It didn't bother him that he was without

 

    wheels, it didn't bother him that I'd seen some of his dirty underwear.

 

    All that mattered was that he was a True Believer and I wasn't.

 

    Hallelujah.

 

        I had another drink and left.  I wanted to talk to Butch.  He

 

    wasn't a true believer but at least he was sympathetic to Dan's music

 

    theory.  Besides, I still had some things to ask him about Ruth.

 

 

 

 

    18/

           

        "Dan had an affair with Flo Albertson," I said.

 

        Butch studied me, then said, "What do you think, man, that maybe he

 

    murdered her?"

 

        "I don't know what to think.  The guy is definitely weird. This

 

    music conspiracy, or whatever it is, colors everything in his life."

 

        Butch smiled and shook his head.  I didn't know if he was amused by

 

    Dan or by me.

 

        "His conspiracy theory made sense to you," I reminded him.

 

        "Hey, all I'm saying is that if the cat sees that white music is

 

    covering R&B and doo-wop, then he's on to something.  To tell you the

 

    truth, I think it's the major direction music is going to head.  You

 

    wait a couple years and see if I'm not right."

 

        "But what does that have to do with the rest?"

 

        "The rest of what?  Be specific, man."

 

        "With the rat murders.  Flo's murder."

 

        "You're the detective, Red, don't ask me.  I don't see that there's

 

    any connection at all.  But I can see you're sure worrying about one.

 

    So you tell me what the connection is."

 

        I didn't know what to say.  What the hell did I know?  I wasn't Sam

 

    Spade, I was a playwright.

 

        We were sitting at his table, drinking coffee.  Butch, as always,

 

    was in his paint-splattered coveralls and, this morning, a dirty white

 

    T-shirt.

 

        "You want more coffee, man?," he asked.

 

        "No thanks.  I've got to get back to the office."

 

        When I didn't make a move to leave, he said, "Well, if you're

 

    leaving, then I'll get back to work."

 

        "Ruth says she really cares about you," I said.

 

        "You talk to her?"

 

        I nodded.

 

        "Come on," he said, "I can see you're dying to talk about it."

 

        I told him about our meeting at The Oar House.  I didn't tell him

 

    about following Ruth and Gregory to the motel.

 

        When I was done, Butch said, "I'm not sure I like you spending so

 

    much think-time on my love life.  You dig what I'm saying?  Or do you

 

    think she's involved in your case, too?"

 

        "I'm not sure."

 

        "But you're thinking she might be."

 

        "Hell, Butch, I don't know what I'm thinking."

 

        "You mind if I get back to work?"

 

        "How much do you care for her?," I asked.

 

        "Ruth is somebody I ball now and again, okay?  You got a problem

 

    with that?"

 

        "No, I don't care who you sleep with."

 

        But I did.  I didn't want him to be in love with Ruth.  I stood up.

 

        "I'm sorry," I said.  "I didn't mean to pry."

 

        "Right."

 

        "You're angry."

 

        "Forget it, man.  Get the fuck out of here so I can get some work

 

    done."

 

        At the doorway I turned and said, "Let's have lunch soon."

 

        "You got it."

 

 

        Dad was alone in the office.  When I entered he smiled and said,

 

    "Hank's pleased as punch with your photos.  Good work, son."

 

        "If I'd had snorkeling gear, I'd've really given him something."

 

        "Snorkeling gear?"

 

        "Private joke."

 

        I went to the coffee pot, filled a cup and took it to my desk.

 

    There were no messages.

 

        "Dad," I said, "the guy whose background I'm checking out is saving

 

    the clippings like we are.  Only he's making marginal notes. He writes

 

    RCA next to each victim."

 

        "The record company?"

 

        "Maybe."

 

        "Check it out," Dad suggested.

 

        I looked up the local division of RCA in the phone book, dialed and

 

    asked for Franklin Cowley, one of the victims.  The secretary had never

 

    heard of him.  I mumbled something and hung up.

 

        When Dad saw that I was off the phone, he said, "You're like me."

 

       I swung around my chair to face him across the small room.

 

        "You want to solve this thing so bad you can taste it," Dad said.

 

    "You're a born cop and don't even know it."

 

        "Hank's the born cop."

 

        "Hank's steady.  You're creative."

 

        He got up and limped the few steps to my desk, putting his hand on

 

    my shoulder.

 

        "Sometimes the best thing to do on a case is to get it out of your

 

    mind for a while," he said.

 

        "Dad, I'm not assigned to the rat murders."

 

        "Of course not," he grinned.  "So let's catch the Angels tonight,

 

    what do you say?"

 

        I smiled back.

 

        "Why not?"

 

        "You pick me up at seven?  That give us time?"

 

        "Plenty of time."

 

        "Want to wager?  I'll give you the Beavers and a run."

 

        "I never bet against the Angels."

 

        "What'd I tell you?"  He was still grinning.  "Like father, like

 

    son."

 

        When Dad was gone, I poured the last cup of coffee and set up a pot

 

    to be plugged in in the morning.  He was right, I was spending a hell

 

    of a lot of time thinking about the rat murders. Flo's murder had

 

    something to do with it.  And Dan, too, though it was hard to believe

 

    he could be the serial killer.  But he was sure a strange one.  And all

 

    the coincidences were there:  Dan and Flo's affair, Flo's murder and

 

    the rat m.o., the possible connections between the victims and RCA, a

 

    music company, a conspiracy theory that Butch bought as well as Dan.

 

    Even Artie and his history of rats.  What did it all mean?

 

        I took a bottle from my bottom drawer and poured Jameson's into the

 

    empty coffee cup.  For a long while I just sat there staring across the

 

    room.  Then suddenly I was flipping through the phone book, where I

 

    found Franklin Cowley listed.  If he had a widow, maybe she'd know why

 

    someone would write RCA beside the name of her husband.  I made a note

 

    to call her and looked at the time.

 

        A quarter to seven.  Time to play ball.  A shot for the road, and I

 

    was out of there.

 

 

 

 

 

    19/

           

        I never think of my childhood as the good old days.  I was a plump,

 

    shy, freckled towhead who was every other kid's favorite scapegoat.

 

    When the divvies before a game on the playground were almost over, I

 

    was still waiting to be chosen.

 

        An exception to this misery were the wondrous afternoons when Dad

 

    would take me to an Angels game.  We always sat as close to third base

 

    as possible, so Dad could decipher all the coaching signals.  We'd eat

 

    hot dogs and drink cokes and yell at the umpires, the opposing players

 

    and coaches and sometimes at other fans.  I'd leave the game feeling

 

    like I'd just finished participating in a grand athletic event.  Hank

 

    seldom came along on these outings, which made them even more special.

 

        We didn't go to games too often any more, though I listened to the

 

    Angels on the radio as often as I could.  In recent years, night games

 

    had taken precedence over afternoon games, and the Peeping Tom Patrol

 

    occupied too many of my nights.  Tonight, then, was special.

 

        It was a good game, as Angels games had been going lately. It was

 

    close until the seventh, when three Angel errors let in four runs.

 

    Most of the fans left after that but we stayed until the bitter end,

 

    even managing to find something to scream hopefully about when the

 

    Angels leadoff batter in the bottom of the ninth walked.  The next

 

    batter grounded into a double-play on the first pitch.  The final score

 

    was seven to two.

 

        "Hey, they scored two runs," Dad said as we followed along behind a

 

    trickle of diehards across the parking lot.

 

        "Half of what they scored all last week," I said.

 

        "So we're off to a good start," Dad laughed.

 

        We were in good spirits.  It'd been too long since we'd gone to a

 

    game together.

 

        "How about a drink before I take you home?," I asked.

 

        "Why the hell not?"

 

        We were at the car, and Dad waited behind for me to unlock the

 

    door.  Instead I tossed my keys into the air, a spontaneous gesture of

 

    good spirits - and this act probably saved my life. Because I missed

 

    them on the descent and as I bent down to retrieve them, the shot rang

 

    out.  I heard Dad yell in pain as he fell to the ground.

 

        I also hit the pavement and rolled close to Dad, who was bleeding

 

    from the shoulder.

 

        "I'm okay," he said.

 

        I didn't carry a gun and asked Dad if he had his.  He shook his

 

    head.

 

        I looked up.  About thirty yards away, a car was laying rubber in

 

    its escape but my view was blocked by the crowd of people who seemed to

 

    appear out of nowhere.  Where were they during the ballgame?

 

 

        Hank found me in the waiting room at the hospital.

 

        "He's all right," I said.  "Just a flesh wound.  They're keeping

 

    him overnight."

 

       "No complications?"

 

       "In and out, clean as a whistle."

 

        "Can he see anyone?"

 

        "He's sleeping.  Why don't you stop by in the morning?"

 

        "He checking out then?," Hank asked.

 

        "Late morning, maybe."

 

        "I'll take him home."

 

        I nodded.  There was an awkward pause.  Hank and I weren't close

 

    but it's not everyday your father gets shot.

 

        I said, "Want to get a drink?"

 

        "Sure."

 

        "Just don't keep me up."

 

        "Very funny."

 

        We went into a bar across the street from the hospital.  It felt

 

    like a morgue in there, with too many customers passing time while

 

    their loved ones went under the knife.

 

        When he had our drinks, Hank said, "You thought about who might

 

    have done it?"

 

        I was still wondering if the shot had been meant for me.  I

 

    shrugged.

 

        "I figure it's somebody he put away when he was on the force," said

 

    Hank.

 

        "Unless the bullet was meant for me."

 

        Hank just looked at me.

 

        I said, "I know, it's hard to imagine I'd be worth that much to

 

    someone."

 

       "Red, you said that, I didn't."

 

        "Must be my perverse sense of humor."

 

        I regretted turning surly.  But I was confused and upset.

 

        After a silence Hank said, "So what's the deal?"

 

        "Dad doesn't have an enemy in the world and as far as a con getting

 

    out - well, it's a longshot.  This case I've been working on has become

 

    very bizarre."

 

        "You think someone's after you because of the case?"

 

        I told him about Dan's music conspiracy and the possible connection

 

    to the rat murders.  Hearing myself, I knew it must sound farfetched,

 

    even paranoid.  I didn't even know if I believed it myself.  But I

 

    could feel myself shaking as I spoke.

 

        "Want an honest opinion?," Hank said when I was done.

 

        "No, I want you to lie to me."

 

        He ignored this and said, "I think you're wrong."

 

        "If I hadn't dropped my keys, it would've been me."

 

        "That's just speculation."

 

        "From the gut."

 

        "Why you?  Because you're checking the lineage of a cheating

 

    husband who sounds like a weirdo, to say the least?  Because white

 

    teenagers are listening to nigger music?  Come on, Red."

 

        I felt a twitch in my stomach when he said nigger music but let it

 

    ride.  I sipped my Jameson's.

 

        Hank said, "It makes much more sense to me that someone Dad put

 

    away is out and after revenge.  Think about it."

 

        After another silence Hank finished his drink and stood up.

 

        "Thank God he's a bad shot," he said.

 

        "Right."

 

        "So I'll see you in the morning."

 

        "Yep."

 

        He walked off several steps, then stopped and turned.

 

        "Oh, the photos were great," he said.  "Good work."

 

        I nodded and he was gone.

 

        I ended up closing down the joint.  I thought of phoning Carla but

 

    finally dismissed the idea.  If I told her about Dad, she'd pour on

 

    more sympathy than I needed; if I didn't tell her, she'd notice I was

 

    keeping something from her and we'd end up in a fight.  Nice thing

 

    about Carla, we knew one another like we knew the worst about

 

    ourselves.

 

        Outside, I wondered if I was sober enough to drive home. Beside me

 

    a man said, "Hell of a goddamn time in the morning to operate on an old

 

    man's heart."

 

        Neither of us said more, and he crossed the street toward the

 

    hospital.  I followed behind, on my way to Bad-Ass.

 

 

    20/

 

            Tues, 15 June 54:  Fuck it, I'm too hungover to write.

 

 

        I awoke with a bad hangover.  Stumbling into the bathroom, and

 

    later from the bathroom into the small kitchen, I found evidence that I

 

    had finished off a bottle of Jameson's at home before falling into bed.

 

        The kitchen clock read ten-thirty.  I phoned the hospital. Dad was

 

    waiting for Hank to get him out of there.

 

        "There was no goddamn reason to keep me over night," he grumbled.

 

        "Better safe than sorry, Dad."

 

        I couldn't recognize my own voice.  I cleared my throat.

 

        "You at the office?," Dad asked.

 

        I lied that I was.

 

        "I'll see you soon then," he said.

 

        "I think you should go home."

 

        "I got some calls to make."

 

        "Make them at home."

 

        "Business calls."

 

        "Can't they wait?"  I didn't know what he was talking about.

 

        "Hell, they can.  I want to find out who's been let out of the can

 

    who's got a score to settle with me.  I don't like being shot at."

 

        So Dad agreed with Hank's theory.

 

        I said, "We'll talk about that later."

 

        "See you soon."

 

        "Maybe, maybe not.  I've got some running around to do."

 

        "You sound like you're coming down with a cold," Dad said. "Or are

 

    you just hungover?"

 

        "See you later, Dad."

 

        I poured a shot of vodka into my orange juice before going to the

 

    office.  Hank had left a nasty note on my desk:  Where have you been

 

    all morning?  Was expecting you to hold down the fort.

 

        I made fresh coffee and spiked my first cup with a liberal shot of

 

    Jameson's.  That was it for the dog hair, I promised myself.  It wasn't

 

    a day for getting drunk, it was a day for finding out what the hell was

 

    going on.  I knew in my gut that the bullet had been meant for me.

 

        To hell with holding down the fort.  I wasn't going to find out

 

    anything by sitting around sipping spiked coffee.

 

        Where to begin?  As Bad-Ass idled in front of a rising cloud of

 

    blue smoke, I made a decision.  Dan and the music conspiracy theory

 

    were the jokers in the deck.  I put Bad-Ass in gear.

 

        Earth Angel by The Penguins!, said Lovin' Dan the Sixty- Minute Man

 

    on the radio.  And what a fine tune it is!  Maybe your doo-wop group

 

    has a fine tune as well, and maybe you'll win the grand prize of a

 

    record contract with KRB's own new record label, Teenbird.  That's

 

    right, KRB is having a talent search and you still have a few more days

 

    to register your very own doo-wop singing group . . . .

 

        I continued to marvel how little Lovin' Dan resembled the

 

    melancholy Dan who saw a conspiracy in the same industry he worked in.

 

    He was off the air before I navigated the new detours to South City,

 

    and Hot Wire Wally came on with the same bravado. It made no

 

    difference, it wasn't Dan I was after but information.

 

 

        I parked Bad-Ass in the station parking lot and walked around the

 

    building to enter through the front door.  A young Negro woman with

 

    shiny straight hair was filing her nails at the receptionist's desk.

 

    She looked up and, without breaking rhythm, asked, "Help you?"

 

        I pulled out my identification.  Professional demeanor, all the

 

    way.

 

        "You a cop?"

 

        "Private investigator," I said.  I always sounded silly to myself

 

    saying that but the few times I said playwright, I just got stared at.

 

    "I'd like to ask you a few questions about Lovin' Dan the Sixty-Minute

 

    Man."

 

        There was an office off the receptionist's desk, and through the

 

    open door I saw the man inside move to come out.

 

        "What do you want to-," the secretary began.  She was interrupted

 

    by the man moving quickly forward, "Can I help you with anything?"

 

        He was gray-haired and had the rumpled look of a busy middle

 

    manager.  When I showed him my identification, he invited me into his

 

    office.  He closed the door behind us.

 

       "I'm Buzz Taylor, the station manager," he said, moving behind his

 

    desk.  "Sit down.  What can I do for you?"

 

        It was one of those small wooden chairs with armrests, and I barely

 

    squeezed down between them.  If I stood without pushing down on the

 

    armrests, I was sure the damn chair would rise up on my ass.

 

        "I'm investigating Dan Davies," I began.

 

        "I hope he's not in trouble."

 

        "It's a personal matter.  I'm working for his wife."

 

        "Oh, I see.  Well, what do you want to know?"

 

        "For starters, what kind of a guy is he?"

 

        I realized that I really didn't know what I was doing there. All I

 

    knew was, I had to keep moving, I had to find out what the hell was

 

    going on to motivate someone to remove one lovable over- weight

 

    playwright from the stage for good.

 

        "Dan is very professional."

 

        "I'm interested in his character."

 

        "His character.  Well, I like Dan.  He's one of our most popular

 

    deejays.  He's hard-working, reliable, dedicated."

 

        "He having an affair with the secretary out there?"

 

        "Well," Buzz said, "maybe you should ask her."

 

        "I plan to."

 

        He stood up.

 

        "I don't think I can help you, Mr. . . .?"

 

        I didn't stand up.  I wasn't worried about bringing up the chair on

 

    my ass, I just wasn't ready to go yet.

 

       "From another source," I began, "I learned that Dan believes there

 

    is a conspiracy in the music business.  What do you know about that?"

 

        "I have no idea what you are talking about."  Staring down at me

 

    over the desk, he added clear hostility to his tone.  "I am a busy man,

 

    sir, if you don't mind.  I have nothing more to tell you."

 

        "White record companies are making copies of Negro songs."

 

        "I don't want to have to call security."

 

        Security, what a joke.  I doubted if they had a janitor, let alone

 

    an armed guard.  The building was infested with rats.  By the looks of

 

    the place, it was hard to imagine how they met payroll.

 

        "Good day," he said.

 

        I pushed down the armrests and got to my feet.

 

        "Thank you for your time," I said.  I offered my hand but he

 

    ignored it.

 

        He didn't follow me outside, which gave me the opportunity to drop

 

    my card in front of the secretary.  She was still filing her nails.

 

        "Call me sometime," I said.  "I'll buy dinner and drinks."

 

        She smiled.  I smiled back.  It was fun being misunderstood.

 

        Since I was in the neighborhood, I stopped by Caviar's Market.  I

 

    was still trying to keep moving because I knew I'd start thinking when

 

    I stopped and when I began thinking I'd remember how close I was to

 

    being a dead man.

 

       "Well, looky here!," Tank greeted me.  "The vintage coke man!  Maybe

 

    one day we get in a new shipment for you."

 

        "You don't know if Dan is upstairs, do you?"

 

        "Hey, man, it's been a scene up there this morning.  You already

 

    too late."

 

        "What happened?"

 

        "I never hear such screaming and hollering.  There's this white

 

    chick, just a high school thing, man, sweet little sixteen, I guess

 

    that deejay likes them young-"

 

        "What happened!"

 

        "Man, I be getting to it.  Here comes her mama and this older dude,

 

    who the mama later calls dad so that makes him the young chick's

 

    granddaddy, right?  Anyway, they had to carry her out of there, man,

 

    yelling and screaming the whole damn way."

 

        "Was Dan there?"

 

        "I don't see him.  Maybe he be at work because later he come in

 

    with this other chick, a black one, with the bangs in front like you

 

    asked about that time.  How that man get any sleep, is what I wants to

 

    know!  He doing it to young and old, black and white, goddamn that man

 

    chases trem!"

 

        "Dan was here with the woman with bangs?"

 

        "They only left a little while ago."

 

        "They left together?"

 

        "Took off in his car together."

 

        Dan and Ruth?  Now we were getting somewhere.  I thanked Tank for

 

    the information, bought an over-priced coke and left.

 

        The smog was beginning to thicken.  I decided to drive to

 

    Foothills.  I wanted to talk to Joan.  And to Jeff Berger.  And to

 

    Harriet.  And most of all to Dan and Ruth, though this would have to

 

    wait.  The point was, it was over-kill time.  It was time to kick rocks

 

    wherever I found them.  Somewhere in the avalanche of information,

 

    pieces of the puzzle were going to fall into place.  They had to.  A

 

    dead man writes no plays.

 

 

    21/

           

        I walked from the market back to the station parking lot.  On the

 

    corner diagonally across the street was a phone booth, and in it was

 

    the secretary at the front desk.  Her back was to me.

 

        I crossed the street and waited for her to hang up.  She must have

 

    sensed my presence because she suddenly turned and, seeing me, hung up

 

    and quickly moved out of the booth.  I grabbed her.

 

        "I'll yell rape 'less you let go!," she threatened.

 

        "I just want to talk."

 

        "I don't know nothin' 'bout Dan.  Besides, I got to get back to

 

    work."

 

        "You can get away long enough to make a phone call.  Why didn't you

 

    make it at your desk?"

 

        "I'm on my break, okay?  I was callin' my boyfriend."

 

        "Then why suddenly hang up when you saw me?"

 

        "It was private.  We're havin' problems."

 

        "So am I."

 

        "Looky here, Mr. Taylor gonna be lookin' for me if'n I don't get

 

    right back."

 

        "What time do you get off?"

 

        When she didn't reply, I said, "Five?"

 

        She nodded.

 

        "I'll be waiting for you out front," I said.  "We'll go somewhere

 

    and talk.  Drinks on me."

 

        "I told you, I don't know nothin' 'bout Dan."

 

        "Then you don't even have to earn your drinks."

 

        She trotted across the street and back into the building.  In her

 

    tight pink dress and what I now figured must be a shiny black wig, she

 

    looked more like a hooker than a secretary.  I didn't know if she'd be

 

    outside at five or not.  I tried to picture her and Dan taking lunch

 

    together and couldn't.  Maybe I was forcing my tastes on him and he

 

    didn't mind sleazy at all.

 

       Driving to Foothills, I listened to Hot Wire Wally on the radio:

 

       The response to KRB's doo-wop contest has been phenomenal! Yes,

 

    indeedy!  And you still have time to register your group for the

 

    opening round of competition next week.  Hot Wire will be giving you

 

    all the details right after this new side by The Clovers, and oh what a

 

    fine tune this be!  It's The Clovers answer to the big hit by Clyde

 

    McPhatter and the Drifters, you know the one I mean - Money Honey!

 

    Yes, indeedy!  Well, as far as The Clovers are concerned . . . Your

 

    Cash Ain't Nothin' But Trash!

 

        As I drove the detours over the ubiquitous construction, my mind

 

    played with scenarios in a way that was not unlike the thought

 

    processes that preceded writing a play.  Why would anyone want to kill

 

    me?  Because I was threatening them.  What was I doing to threaten

 

    anyone?  What was I doing, period?  I was investigating Dan.  Then was

 

    I close to discovering something about Dan that was dangerous to

 

    someone?  He had had an affair with Flo, who had been murdered.  Was

 

    this the connection?  Or did it have something to do with Dan's

 

    possible connection between the rat murders and a music conspiracy?  Or

 

    perhaps about the possibility that he was, in fact, a Negro?  Or was

 

    he?

 

        The connection between Dan and Flo Albertson was most haunting.

 

    She, after all, had been murdered.  And I was supposed to have been.

 

        The questions came easily.  Perhaps too easily, too many questions

 

    and none with answers.  Was I just being paranoid?  Dad, for a fact,

 

    had put some mean characters behind bars during his time with the LAPD.

 

    Surely one might seek revenge when he was released.

 

 

        I pulled into Joan's driveway.  As soon as I was out of the car,

 

    Jeff Berger was calling to me.

 

        "We're all over here," he said.

 

        There appeared to be a neighborhood meeting going on in the den.

 

    Besides Jeff were his wife, Joan and a half-dozen others I didn't know.

 

    And sitting in the corner, looking like a trapped animal, was Harriet.

 

    Her face was swollen from crying.  She wasn't even chewing gum.

 

        Jeff introduced me.  All were neighbors except a pretty woman in

 

    matching red peddle-pushers and blouse, who was Jeff's daughter and

 

    Harriet's mother, Candy.  She sat on a pillow on the floor, beside an

 

    ashtray filled with cigarettes.

 

        After the introductions, Jeff said, "As I said, Red is a private

 

    investigator.  Joan hired him concerning another matter, and I hired

 

    him to try and get Harriet back before Candy and I decided to take the

 

    matter into our own hands."

 

       He shot me a glance of reprimand, as if I had broken a pledge. I

 

    grinned back.

 

        "Then how can he help us now?," a woman asked.  I'd already

 

    forgotten her name.  Like all the other women in the room, she wore too

 

    much makeup and was overdressed.

 

        "We don't know that he can," said Jeff.

 

        I didn't like this sudden scrutiny and said, "Look, I came by

 

    looking for Ruth.  Joan, is she next door?"

 

        "Ruth is no longer in my employ," she replied.

 

        I wondered why not but this wasn't the time or place to find out.

 

        "Let me tell you our situation," said Jeff, "and you can tell us if

 

    you can be of service."

 

        I nodded.  I wanted to get Joan alone after the meeting and find

 

    out about Ruth.

 

        "We need proof that Dan raped Harriet," said Jeff.

 

        Harriet started crying.  Her mother used a half-smoked cigarette to

 

    light another, and for a moment she held a live cigarette in each hand,

 

    before stabbing out the older.

 

        "The girl says that's what happened?," I asked.  I didn't look at

 

    Harriet.  She was miserable enough.

 

        "Of course she denies it," Candy blurted out.  She stared at me as

 

    if the question had come from an idiot.

 

        I said, "Proof that will hold up in court is hard to come by. This

 

    is true even when the victim is cooperative."

 

        "My idea," said Jeff, "is that we send her back as a decoy."

 

        "I'm not sure I follow."

 

        "We let her go back to Dan.  With you, or someone, following, of

 

    course, so proper evidence can be gathered.  She'd also be wired."

 

        The Peeping Tom Patrol had had some strange gigs but this would be

 

    one of the strangest.  Jeff was beaming at the possibility of using his

 

    own granddaughter as a decoy.  I figured he'd been watching too much

 

    Dragnet on television.

 

        "This thing is much bigger than just Harriet, believe me," Jeff

 

    went on.  "It's what he's doing to teenagers with that music. I'm sure

 

    the poor girl is not the only victim.  That's why we have to catch him

 

    in the act.  Evidence that will hold up in court, like you say.

 

    Harriet can be a hero."

 

        Jeff tried to look sympathetically at Harriet but this only

 

    increased the heaving motion of her sobs.

 

        I tried to picture Dan as a molester of teenage girls.  I

 

    remembered the nudist magazines, all the happy young girls playing

 

    volleyball with their smeared genitals.  Still, the fit wasn't easy,

 

    there was something about Dan that kept me giving him the benefit of

 

    the doubt.

 

        "Tell him more about the music," Joan said.

 

        "I've talked about this before," Jeff said.  "What it amounts to is

 

    brain-washing, right on the public airways.  We aim to put a stop to

 

    it."

 

        Another version of the music conspiracy.

 

        "It's filth," said Joan.

 

        "Negro music?," I asked.

 

        Jeff quickly said, "Not all of it, mind you.  But increasingly,

 

    particularly with songs aimed at the teenage market, the white teenage

 

    market, Negro songs are displaying a sensuality and vulgarity that far

 

    exceeds common decency.  And again, these songs are being played on the

 

    public airways."

 

        "And Dan is guilty because he plays those records?"

 

        "Teenagers worship the deejays on KRB.  I'm not saying all of them

 

    take advantage of the situation - but, yes, I think Dan has. But it's

 

    the music that is at the root of the problem because it's the music

 

    that defines the aura of sensuality that lets this happen in the first

 

    place."

 

        Everyone was looking at me, waiting for a response.

 

        "Couple questions," I said.

 

        "Surely," said Jeff.

 

        "Back to Dan.  Where's the evidence that he raped the girl?"

 

        Jeff gave me his smug grin of superiority and said, "Well, I'd love

 

    to be wrong, of course.  But that wouldn't change the issue here."

 

        I looked at Harriet.  I hated her being there, shaking in her sobs,

 

    her arms wrapped around her body in a vain effort to control herself,

 

    to comfort herself.

 

        "Will Harriet cooperate?," I asked softly.

 

        "Yes," Candy said, blowing smoke.  I was glad Harriet didn't see

 

    the look on her face when she said it.

 

        "Since you've been investigating Dan anyway," said Jeff, "I thought

 

    you'd be the logical one to get the evidence we need."

 

        My gut feeling was that they were all crazy.  But I also knew that

 

    a man can get in trouble when his gut feelings fail, and this worried

 

    me.

 

        "When do we start?," I said.

 

        Jeff turned to Candy.  Miracle of miracles, she stabbed out her

 

    cigarette without lighting another.

 

        "When do you want to start?," Candy asked her father.

 

        "I think the sooner, the better," he said.

 

        For a terrible moment, Harriet became the focus of the room. She

 

    looked in no shape to cooperate as a decoy.

 

        Jeff said, "But I think we'd better play it by ear for a few days.

 

    Obviously Harriet's in shock at what happened."

 

        Candy got to her feet and, like trained seals, everyone stood up.

 

    There were hand-shakes and goodbyes and even two or three hugs, but the

 

    mood was properly somber.  I told Joan I wanted to talk to her, and she

 

    waited behind as the others left.  I noted that Candy left without her

 

    daughter, who apparently was staying with the grandparents.

 

        "I'd like to talk to Harriet sometime," I told Jeff.

 

        "No time like the present."

 

        I couldn't do that to her.  The poor girl needed privacy above all

 

    else.

 

        "Maybe tomorrow," I said.

 

        Jeff walked Joan and me to the side door.  Edna stayed behind with

 

    Harriet, sitting across the den from her.  Edna hadn't said a word the

 

    whole time.  She looked like a woman who should be knitting, who was

 

    lost without a pile of yarn in her lap.  Across the room, Harriet was

 

    still sobbing softly, her arms wrapped around herself.  At least the

 

    heaving and shaking were gone, she seemed a little more relaxed now

 

    that her tormentors had disappeared.

 

 

 

    22/

           

        We were having an early cocktail hour.  We were sitting in stuffed

 

    chairs on opposite sides of the den, toasting martinis at one another

 

    as if we didn't have a care in the world.

 

        "Cheers," said Joan.

 

        She drank.  I didn't.

 

        I said, "Let's cut the crap."

 

        "Pardon me?"

 

        "Do you think Dan could rape a teenager?"

 

        "That's just Jeff being melodramatic."

 

        "You went along," I reminded her.

 

        "Because he's right about the music part.  It's a real problem, and

 

    Dan's involved.  Apparently he loves that filth."

 

        She got up to make another drink, saying, "You ready?"

 

        I hadn't even touched mine yet.  I shook my head.

 

        "No, I don't think Dan molested the girl," she said at the liquor

 

    cabinet.  Apparently she, too, had a propensity for giving Dan the

 

    benefit of the doubt.

 

        "If you think Dan is innocent," I said, "why didn't you speak up

 

    over there?"

 

        "I'm hardly of a mind to defend him."

 

        She brought the fresh martini and sat down again.

 

        "The girl was put through a hell of a lot," I said.

 

        "That's not my concern."

 

        She sipped.  She lifted the tooth pick out of the glass and took

 

    the olive.

 

        "Mr. Trevorak," she said, "let me remind you that I'm the one who's

 

    the victim here.  My husband has betrayed me.  Not with Harriet, I

 

    assume.  With my own housekeeper.  With a Negro.  Do you have any idea

 

    how devastating that is?"

 

        "Is that why you fired Ruth?"

 

        "Jesus."  She glared at me before continuing.  "What do you think?"

 

        "I'm not sure he's having an affair, let alone with Ruth."

 

        "Well, I am.  He called her here."

 

        "When?"

 

        "Yesterday.  I was taking a bath, so Ruth probably thought it was

 

    safe to talk.  I heard her and picked up the extension in the bedroom.

 

    When I confronted her later, she denied everything, of course.  But I

 

    heard enough."

 

        Dan had phoned Ruth, and later Tank had seen them together. My

 

    first hunch may have been right, after all.

 

        "I don't know if your husband is having an affair with Ruth or

 

    not," I said.  "But he had an affair with Flo Albertson."

 

        She turned on the glare again.

 

        "Dan told you so?," she finally asked.

 

        "Yes."

 

        "Then why didn't you tell me before?  What am I paying you for?"

 

        She got up and hurried to mix a new drink.

 

        "I've been trying to make sense out of it," I explained from across

 

    the room.

 

        "I repeat, what am I paying you for, Mr. Trevorak?"

 

        "First, to find out if your husband has any Negroes in the closet.

 

    I should know in a few days.  Second, if he's having an affair.  He

 

    was.  With Flo Albertson.  And maybe now with Ruth."

 

        She mixed me a drink as well and brought it to me.  When she was

 

    back in her chair, she said, "Perhaps Dan is a Negro, after all."

 

        "It's possible," I admitted.  "We'll know soon."

 

        "I can't believe he'd call Ruth here.  That's reckless enough to

 

    suggest . . ."

 

        When she didn't finish, I said, "Passion?"

 

        "Something like that."

 

        The word seemed to sadden her, like the memory of a feeling she

 

    once experienced herself.

 

        "There might be other reasons for them to communicate," I said.

 

        "Are you keeping something else from me?"

 

        "I don't have answers yet.  Just some very intriguing questions."

 

        She sipped her drink, thinking.  Then she asked, "Could Dan have

 

    murdered Flo?"

 

        "My gut feeling is that he didn't but I've been wrong before. What

 

    do you think?"

 

        Instead of replying, she finished her drink in one gulp and stood

 

    up.  The way she looked at me, I got the idea it was time for me to go.

 

        "Flo was a Negro, Ruth is a Negro," she said.  "The humiliation is

 

    the same."

 

        She went to the bar again.  I used the armrest and struggled up out

 

    of the stuffed chair, leaving a swooshing sound beneath me.

 

        "No more for me," I said.

 

        She turned and said, "You don't understand one goddamn thing about

 

    what I'm going through, do you?  Have you ever been married, Mr.

 

    Trevorak?"

 

        "You used to call me Red."

 

        "I don't feel like calling you Red.  I see how you look at me. You

 

    think I'm, I don't know what, some kind of rich bitch, I suppose.  You

 

    don't have an ounce of sympathy in your bones."

 

        "It's not my job to give you sympathy."

 

        "Good day, Mr. Trevorak."

 

        "To answer an old question," I said, "you're paying me to get facts

 

    and proof.  Which you're getting as quickly as I can deliver them.  You

 

    want to terminate the contract, fine."

 

        I heard her say Jesus under her breath as I turned to leave. Before

 

    I reached the doorway, she said, "Just a minute.  Red. Please."

 

        I thought she was going to cry, which surprised me.

 

        "I've been very upset," she said softly.  "I know you're doing your

 

    job.  Please continue to do so."

 

        "You sure?"

 

        "Yes."

 

        "Dan mentioned the possibility of divorce."

 

        She tried to smile.  "I sure am finding out a lot today.  I should

 

    give you martinis more often."

 

        "Everything will be in my report," I said.  "It's not our policy to

 

    spell out every little detail along the way."

 

        "I see.  Well, I've never hired a detective before.  I'm allowed a

 

    few mistakes."

 

        Amazingly enough, I found myself almost feeling sorry for her. I

 

    didn't particularly like her, but I had to admit that she was getting

 

    her share of pain without deserving much of it.  She was married to a

 

    weirdo.

 

        "I'll be talking to Ruth," I said.

 

        "Do whatever you think best."

 

        "I may be able to wrap everything up by the end of the week."

 

        She smiled and gave me a farewell toast.

 

 

        I got back to South City by four, just in time to find the

 

    secretary coming out of the station.  I got out and surprised her at

 

    the corner.

 

        "A little early, aren't we?"

 

        "I'll yell for the police," she said.

 

        "I have a witness who saw you with Dan," I said, stretching the

 

    truth.  "Who happens to be a suspect for murder.  Which means the

 

    police would love to talk to you.  Shall we yell for them together?"

 

        It worked, and I could see she was frightened.

 

        "Is there somewhere we can talk?," I asked.

 

        "There's a bar down the street."

 

        "Lead the way."

 

        "You still buyin'?"

 

        "A man of honor."

 

        We started down the street.  Along the way she said, "We gonna get

 

    stared at.  Honkies-, I mean white folks, they don't never come into

 

    this place."

 

        "Then we're making history," I said.

 

        "You tryin' to be funny?"

 

        "Beats taking the world seriously."

 

        We continued down the street in silence.

 

 

 

 

    23/

           

        The bar was called The Texas Playhouse, and it was the darkest bar

 

    I'd ever entered.  As soon as the door closed behind us, I couldn't see

 

    a thing.  Loud music came from a distant jukebox and under it I heard

 

    the buzz of customers - but only for a moment, because suddenly the

 

    buzzing stopped and just as suddenly I was nervous, standing still in

 

    utter darkness and hearing only the jukebox.  A male voice was moaning,

 

    Let's get it while the gettin' is good, a chorus followed with, so good

 

    so good so good, and I could feel the sweat of fear forming on my brow.

 

        The secretary, who had entered first, had wandered ahead and my

 

    mouth opened to call to her.  Then I realized I didn't know her name.

 

        As if on cue, her voice came out of the darkness, "You comin' or

 

    what?"

 

        I took a tentative step in the direction of the secretary's voice.

 

    The buzz of customers picked up immediately, as if the secretary's

 

    question and my subsequent movement amounted to passing a test.  I

 

    remembered that she'd said white people didn't come in here.

 

        "Come on," she said again, impatiently.

 

        I kept moving slowly forward in the direction of her voice. When I

 

    bumped into a body, I mumbled an apology.  Suddenly an arm touched me,

 

    and I jumped.

 

        "You don' have to be nervous," she said.  "We be sittin'
right here."

 

        So good so good so good the chorus sang on the jukebox, as she

 

    pulled me to a table.  I felt the chair with my leg and sat down.  I

 

    was beginning to see shapes in the dark bar.

 

        "We want a bottle of champagne," she told a waitress who had come

 

    to our table.  The woman made a sound of surprise and moved away.

 

        Shapes came into relief as my eyes adjusted to the dark. Across the

 

    table, the secretary was grinning at me.

 

        "I'm Brenda," she said.

 

        "Red Trevorak."

 

        "I know.  You gave me your card, remember?"

 

        "It's so dark in here," I said.

 

        "We darkies, so what do you expect?"

 

        Laughter filled the bar.  Apparently everyone was listening to us.

 

        The waitress came with the champagne and two water glasses. The

 

    bill was fifteen dollars, which was outrageous but which I paid without

 

    making a fuss.  I felt out of place and nervous, not knowing enough of

 

    what the Romans do to follow suit.

 

        I leaned over the table and said softly, "This isn't very conducive

 

    to a frank discussion."

 

        "You want more privacy?"

 

        "That's the general idea."

 

        "Come on, we get a table way in back," said Brenda.  "But no funny

 

    business, understand?  I got friends in here."

 

        She had made her point but just to be sure I got it, she said

 

    loudly, "Do I have friends in here?"

 

        From all around the bar, voices rose in exclamation of friendship,

 

    followed by great laughter.  I had the vague feeling that I was a

 

    guinea pig without really knowing what the joke was about.

 

        We got up and moved to a table in a back corner of the bar. It was

 

    more private, though the bar still buzzed noisily and the jukebox still

 

    played loudly, work with me, Annie, ah-oom ah-oom . . .

 

        "Tell me about Dan," I said after we were seated.

 

        "I don't know all that much about him."

 

        "The guy who runs Caviar's Market, Tank, has seen you two in there

 

    together."

 

        "You know Tank?"

 

        I nodded.

 

        "I never been in there with Dan 'cept maybe to buy pop at lunch or

 

    some damn thing."

 

        "Then you must have an opinion about him," I said.

 

        Brenda shrugged and said, "Well, he's a little nutty, to tell the

 

    truth."

 

        "In what way?"

 

        "I don't know.  He just act strange sometime."

 

        She helped herself to the bottle and poured more champagne into the

 

    water glass.

 

        "You gonna buy another one of these?," she asked.

 

        "You have expensive tastes."

 

        "What you expect?  You said you were buyin'."

 

        "But I was hoping I'd find out something for my investment."

 

        "Well, I told you he acts strange," said Brenda.  "I love

 

    champagne.  You don't want to know about anything else besides Dan?"

 

        As a matter of fact, I did.  "Tell me about the singing contest," I

 

    said.

 

        "We gettin' another bottle?"

 

        I nodded, and she called out the order.  I heard someone whistle,

 

    as if to say, She's got a live one this time.

 

        "The contest," I prompted.

 

        "Well, it's a doo-wop contest.  Different groups are singin' and

 

    everything."

 

        "What does the winner get?"

 

        "They gonna make a record.  The station is makin' it on their own

 

    label."

 

        "And after that what happens?"

 

        "What do you mean?"

 

        "Does the record get played on the radio or what?"

 

        "'Course it get played.  Why else they make it?"

 

        "And will a white group record a cover record?"

 

        Before she answered, the bottle of champagne arrived.  No new water

 

    glasses, just the bubbly.  I went along with the highway robbery again,

 

    which earned me a big grin from the waitress.

 

        An idea was forming in my mind.  I said, "The winning group cuts a

 

    record, right?"

 

        She nodded, filling her glass with champagne.

 

        "How many groups are entering the contest?," I asked.

 

        "A whole damn bunch," she said.  "There's doo-wop groups all over

 

    the place."

 

        "Are all the songs taped or anything?"

 

        "'Course they tape them.  How they listen to them later and decide

 

    a winner if they don't tape 'em?"

 

        "Then the station is going to have a whole lot of songs on its

 

    hands, right?"

 

        She shrugged, not following me.

 

        "And from what I understand, most of these songs are written by the

 

    kids themselves," I said.

 

        She drank.

 

        "So the station could sell these songs to bigger record companies,

 

    couldn't they?"

 

        "Is that all you want to know?," she laughed.  "Shit, why didn't

 

    you say so in the first place.  'Course they gonna sell everything they

 

    can, how else they make money?"

 

        "You know that's what the station plans to do?"

 

        "I type the letters myself," said Brenda.

 

        Now we were getting somewhere.  I filled her glass.

 

        "I'd like to ask another favor of you," I said.

 

        "What favor?"

 

        "I'd like to see some of those letters you're talking about.  You

 

    keep carbons of everything, don't you?"

 

        "What the hell kind of secretary doesn't keep carbons," she said,

 

    giggling.  She was beginning to feel the champagne.

 

        "Can you get me some carbons to look at?"

 

        She turned suspicious.  "What's this got to do with Dan?"

 

        It was time to think on my feet.  I said, "Let me put it this way.

 

    Dan may be trying to swindle the station.  I think he's trying to steal

 

    those songs himself, for his own record label.  I'm trying to stop

 

    him."

 

        "Why you think that?," Brenda asked.

 

        "I'm a private investigator, as you know.  I've been hired by the

 

    owner of the station."

 

        I was assuming she didn't know who owned the station, and I was

 

    right.  Brenda said, "The owner hire you to investigate Dan?"

 

        "Right.  And to find out about the big record companies interested

 

    in the songs.  That's why I need to look at some letters.  Unless it's

 

    too late," I added gravely.

 

        I filled her glass again, saying, "Or maybe you can't picture Dan

 

    being a crook."

 

        "I can sure picture him being a crook."

 

        "Then you'll help me?"

 

        "What you want me to do, bring the letters in here?"

 

        "That would work."

 

        "How many you need?"

 

        "Only a few.  Enough to give me an idea what's going on, how the

 

    deal is coming down."

 

        "What if I took them during my lunch break and you read them then?"

 

        "Perfect.  How about tomorrow?"

 

        "Another bottle of champagne now - and two more tomorrow on credit,

 

    so I can drink them after work."

 

        "That sounds expensive just to read some letters."

 

        "Why don't you go to Buzz for them letters anyway?"

 

        "Well," I said, thinking on my feet again, "I shouldn't tell you

 

    but he's also under suspicion."

 

        She considered this and repeated, "Three bottles, and I'll bring

 

    the whole file at lunch tomorrow."

 

        "How about in the parking lot," I said.  "It's pretty dark to read

 

    in here."

 

        "I ain't gonna be seen in no parking lot.  Bring a damn flashlight

 

    or something.  How can you be a detective without a flashlight?"

 

        "I'll bring a flashlight," I said.  "Then it's a deal?"

 

        "I get one bottle now."

 

        "You got it."

 

        She offered a hand across the table and we shook on it.  I put

 

    another fifteen dollars on the table.

 

        "It's a pleasure working with you," I said.  "Don't drink it all in

 

    one place."

 

        As I headed for the door, I heard Brenda yell, "Hey, you all, we

 

    gonna get down and party!"  Shouts and laughter filled the bar. The

 

    jukebox sang, way you wear those dresses, sun come shinin' through.  I

 

    opened the door and stepped forward and was slapped in the face with

 

    sudden, blinding sunlight.

 

 

 

    24/

           

        I walked up the street toward Bad-Ass, squinting through the late

 

    afternoon smog.  Since I was in South City, I might as well stop by

 

    Ruth's.  I was attacking the jigsaw puzzle by working at one end, then

 

    running around the table to work at the other.  You hoped that somehow

 

    the two sides would come together to a clean fit in the middle.

 

        The construction workers were busy.  A din of digging, scraping,

 

    crushing machinery rose from the deep gully behind the house as I

 

    walked to the front porch.

 

        Despite the noise, I could make out doo-wop singing through the

 

    screen door.  I knocked loudly on the door.

 

        At my third knock, the singing stopped.  One of the teenage boys in

 

    the singing group came to the door.

 

        "Hi, is Ruth home?," I asked.

 

        "She ain't here."

 

        I wondered if this was her brother, the one fascinated by the

 

    history of rats.  One way to find out.

 

        "Are you her brother?"

 

        He offered a tentative nod.

 

        "Well," I smiled, "you're the one I'm actually looking for. I'm

 

    with, ah, Doo-Wop Records."

 

        It was Hurricane Hugh McElhenny all the way now, trying to hit the

 

    holes wherever they appeared.  The boy surely remembered me but, what

 

    the hell, he probably didn't know who I was or what I did.  I saw

 

    quickly that the ploy was working.

 

        The boy's eyes brightened, and I went on.

 

        "You must be, ah . . ."

 

        "I'm Artie," he said.  "I'm her brother."

 

        He looked like a good enough kid, maybe thirteen, with closely

 

    cropped hair and skin darker than Ruth's.  He was in the teenage

 

    uniform of the day, jeans and sneakers and a heliotrope T-shirt.

 

        "Then you have the singing group," I said.

 

        "Artie and the Rainbows."

 

        "Beautiful.  Can I come in?"

 

        "You with a record company?"

 

        "Doo-Wop Records," I repeated.

 

        He moved aside.  As soon as I stepped through the door, he was

 

    running into the living room, and I followed.

 

        A spontaneous buzz of excitement stopped as I entered the room.

 

    The eyes of four teenage boys were on me, and though they were all

 

    slightly built and looking more in wonder than in suspicion, I felt

 

    like Hurricane Hugh facing four beefy linebackers eager to crush him to

 

    the turf.

 

        "Well," I began, "I'm glad I caught you at home.  I thought I was

 

    going to have to negotiate through your sister."

 

        "Her and mom are shopping," said Artie.

 

        I nodded and smiled.

 

        "Well, then," I said, "let's get to the point.  I'm Sidney Sullivan

 

    with Doo-Wop Records.  We heard about the contest at KRB and are very

 

    interested in making connections with the better groups that come out

 

    of the competition.  We'll be putting out some records ourselves."

 

        "You heard about us?," one of the boys asked with excitement.

 

        "Word on the street gets around."

 

        They were looking at me with wide eyes.  I put out my hand and

 

    stepped forward.

 

        "You can call me Sidney," I said and went from boy to boy, shaking

 

    hands.

 

        The others were named Mike, Jerry and Jackie Love.  Only the

 

    latter, the tallest of the quartet, gave his last name, announcing it

 

    like a manifesto, Jackie LOVE.  A vague attempt at a moustache roamed

 

    across his upper lip.

 

        "Nice to meet you all," I said.  "I've already talked to Artie's

 

    mother, of course, and his sister, but I thought I'd come by to make

 

    contact again.  Didn't mean to interrupt your rehearsal."

 

        "We're done," Artie said quickly.

 

        I looked at my watch.

 

        "Well, I do have a bit of time to kill.  Tell you what.  I was

 

    going to get something to eat before an appointment I have - how about

 

    your leader come along and I can tell you what kind of material we're

 

    after, things like that.  Are you the leader, Artie?"

 

        I figured he was by the name of the group.

 

        "I guess so," the boy said.

 

        "Would you have a little time?"

 

        The way the other boys looked at him, if he didn't his ass was

 

    grass.

 

        "Yeah, I guess so," he said.

 

        "Good.  Shall we?"

 

        Artie suggested a chain burger joint a few miles outside the city

 

    limits.  My cash was almost down to change after splurging on the

 

    champagne but the burgers were cheap.  We ordered two with fries and

 

    cherry cokes and took our trays to a table.

 

        I was winging it all the way.  Improv, an actor would call it.  I

 

    hated it when an actor forgot my own lines and started improvising but

 

    in this case I didn't even have a script to forget.

 

        "I wonder if I might speak frankly with you, Artie," I said.

 

        Artie nodded, his mouth full.  The way he was putting down the

 

    burger, it had been a while.

 

        "We've heard a rumor that Teenbird, the record company the station

 

    is starting, isn't on the square.  You know anything about that?"

 

        He shook his head, chewing.

 

        "Well, I'll level with you.  We heard that the whole purpose of the

 

    contest is to market the songs they tape elsewhere, to a bigger label.

 

    More established groups, white groups mainly, will then record the

 

    songs.  Of course, that's something that's beginning to happen

 

    throughout the industry.  I'm sure you know all about it."

 

        He nodded but didn't seem to have the slightest interest in what I

 

    was saying.

 

        "Be careful, is what I'm saying.  Are you going to enter the

 

    contest with your own material?"

 

        "We write our own songs," he said.

 

        "Then don't sign your rights away."

 

        I was talking about a scam I wasn't even sure existed.  But the

 

    puzzle was beginning to go together this way:  there was a trend of

 

    white singing groups making versions of Negro doo-wop songs.  The radio

 

    station planned to take advantage of this trend by collecting songs of

 

    Negro teenagers, which they then could sell to larger record companies.

 

    I wondered how much money there was in all this.  It seemed like a lot

 

    of trouble to go to for peanuts.

 

        "In fact," I continued, "if Teenbird makes you an offer, come to me

 

    first.  I may be able to give you a better deal."

 

        "How do I find you?," Artie asked.

 

        Good question.

 

        I said, "I know where you live, so I'll keep in touch, how's that?"

 

        "How you know my sister?"

 

        I grinned and said, "Hey, you don't know how famous you guys are

 

    out on the street.  I always try to contact the parents and relatives

 

    first."

 

        "How many records you gonna make?"

 

        "We're still studying the market."

 

        His hamburger was gone, and I knew he'd accept another.  At

 

    nineteen cents each, I could keep him there a little longer, I figured.

 

    When I made the offer, he nodded enthusiastically.

 

       As he began the second burger, I said, "This is my first time in

 

    L.A.  I was shocked to hear about these rat murders.  How long have

 

    they been going on?"

 

        He looked at me and shrugged.  I wasn't sure what to make of it.

 

        "You have heard about the rat murders, haven't you?  I know boys

 

    your age don't really read the paper."

 

        He shook his head, yes, and popped another bite into his mouth,

 

    chasing it with cherry coke.  While chewing he said, "I'm doing a

 

    school report on rats."

 

        "Oh?"

 

        "My teacher said if you afraid of something, learn about it."

 

        "Smart teacher," I said.

 

        Artie changed the subject without missing a beat, asking, "When you

 

    gonna cut a record?"

 

        "We're still working out the details.  So how's the school report

 

    on rats coming?  Sounds interesting."

 

        He shrugged.  A school report, that was it, and though I had no

 

    reason to believe there was more to it than this, in my gut I felt I

 

    was only hearing the tip of the iceberg.

 

        Artie finished the hamburger and said, "I better get back home so

 

    we can practice."

 

        I dropped him off and turned Bad-Ass for home.  Two blocks later I

 

    saw Ruth and her mother halfway down the block of a cross-street.  Each

 

    carried a large sack of groceries, and it would have been the

 

    gentlemanly thing to do to give them a lift. But Sidney Sullivan didn't

 

    think that was a good idea.  I didn't think Ruth saw Bad-Ass go through

 

    the intersection, so I let them continue on alone.

 

        On a whim I parked across the street from Tank's pink Cadillac,

 

    which was still parked in the same place.  I wondered if he ever drove

 

    it.

 

        I walked around to the stairway and was knocking on Dan's door when

 

    Tank shouted at me from the bottom of the stairs.

 

        "He's not home, man!  Took off maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago."

 

        I came down the stairs.

 

        "He looked like he was in an awful hurry," said Tank.

 

        "You know where he was going?"

 

        "No way."

 

        "Well, thanks," I said and started away.

 

        Tank grabbed my arm.

 

        "Looky here, man," he said.  "Seems to me I'm doing a lot of shit

 

    work in your behalf."

 

        "I appreciate it."

 

        "I mean, you usually have to pay someone for all this snooping,

 

    right?  I'm beginning to think you a cop or something."

 

        If I'd've had it, I would have slipped him a dollar on the
spot.

 

    Instead I gave him my you've got to be out of your mind look and

 

    started away again.

 

        "I heard the way you buy champagne for information," he said to my

 

    back.

 

        Not even two hours later and the news was all over the

 

    neighborhood.  I kept walking.

 

        Tank followed me, saying, "You a mark for every hustling jiveass

 

    pussy in the neighborhood, man.  I hates to see you throw your money

 

    away that way, especially when I'm trying to help you myself.  I don't

 

    think you know who your real friend is, man. They say you was just

 

    throwing money at Brenda at that Texas Playhouse, and for what, I be

 

    asking?  I begin to feel unappreciated, man.  And you in trouble

 

    besides, when her boyfriend finds out about you, man, you be in deep

 

    fucking shit!"

 

        I reached Bad-Ass and got in.  As I started the engine with a

 

    smoke-filled roar, I could see that Tank's lips were still moving.

 

    Bad-Ass and I paid our blue-smoked pittance to the smog and laid rubber

 

    getting the hell out of there.

 

 

 

 

    25/

           

        I didn't expect to find anyone still at the office but Dad was

 

    there and he tossed me the paper before I had a chance to tell him he

 

    should be home in bed.

 

        "They arrested a suspect!," he announced.

 

        I hadn't seen a paper all day.  The front page headline read Rat

 

    Murders Suspect Arrested.

 

        Before I read more, Dad said, "He's the husband of that woman who

 

    was killed.  The one you talked to."

 

        I found the name in the first paragraph, just like a journalism

 

    class said it should be, Gregory Albertson.

 

        Dad continued, "They say that-"

 

        "Would you let me read it, for Christ's sake?," I shot back. Then I

 

    put down the paper.

 

        "I'm sorry, Dad.  This is just a goddamn shock."

 

        "No, you're right, I should let you read it for yourself."

 

        I let him sulk at his desk as I read the article.  The LAPD thought

 

    they had a strong case but were not releasing the evidence while the

 

    investigation continued.  Albertson had been arrested at the airport,

 

    on his way to a small town in southern Oregon.

 

        When I put down the paper again, Dad said, "So what do you think?"

 

        "I'm not sure."

 

        "You ever meet the guy?"

 

        I hadn't told him about the motel confrontation and didn't want to

 

    get into it right now.  I wanted to be in a dark corner of a bar, alone

 

    with Jameson's, letting the mind dwell on all this.

 

        "Shouldn't you be in bed?," I asked, eager to change the subject.

 

        "I feel fine, feel great."

 

        "Don't overdue it."

 

        "I got a good lead, too," he said.

 

        "What do you mean?"

 

        "On who took a pot shot at me."

 

        Dad explained that a con named Walter Moran was out after fifteen

 

    years on a murder rap.  Dad's testimony had been crucial in putting him

 

    away.  Moran had been released in Texas, where he'd purchased a train

 

    ticket to Los Angeles and had not been heard of since.

 

        "He was a mean bastard," Dad said.

 

        I still thought the bullet had been meant for me but didn't want to

 

    get into that either.

 

        I said, "Maybe you need protection."

 

        "I already called Andy at the precinct, and he's alerting

 

    everybody."

 

        I wasn't worried about Dad's safety.  I was sure the bullet had

 

    been meant for me.  Through a process more unconscious than rational, I

 

    was becoming a believer in the music conspiracy theory, which somehow

 

    was tied up with the rat murders.  Too many coincidences had surfaced.

 

    And in my gut I didn't believe that Gregory Albertson was the rat

 

    murderer, which meant that someone was framing him.

 

        I got up from my desk and said, "I'm history.  See you in the

 

    morning."

 

        "You know what?," Dad said.

 

        "What?"

 

        "I think they got the wrong man.  I still think it's a hooker and

 

    the woman you talked to was set up with the same m.o.  Maybe he did it

 

    himself.  Maybe he killed his wife but I don't think he killed the

 

    others."

 

        "You tell your friends at the precinct?"

 

        "I'll give them time to go over him first."

 

        I had to smile.  Dad, in his way, had never left the force.

 

        "Don't get yourself all worked up," I said.  "You need lots of

 

    rest."

 

        "That's what your mother used to say."

 

        I smiled, turned and left.

 

 

        Carla opened the door.  She looked surprised to see me.

 

        "I can't believe you actually knocked," she said.

 

        "I wasn't sure how welcome I'd be.  I need a refuge."

 

        She hesitated a moment, then stepped aside to let me in.

 

        I'd picked up a copy of the paper and told her the news.  I told

 

    her what happened at the motel, how Ruth and Gregory appeared to be

 

    having an affair, about the music conspiracy and what I'd learned from

 

    Brenda, the radio station's secretary, about Dan and about Artie's

 

    school paper on rats.  It was a long rambling monologue that found its

 

    way as it went along, and when I was done we had managed to kill off

 

    two bottles of Diego red.

 

        Carla was wonderful.  She shut up during the whole long story, and

 

    when I was done she let me spend the night.

 

 

        The room was dark.  I lay awake in bed, thinking I heard something

 

    I shouldn't be hearing, a sound apart from the usual vibrations of

 

    Carla's apartment.  I could hear her breathing heavily beside me but I

 

    sensed another presence in the room, an intruder.

 

        Which meant that the intruder was practically in my lap because

 

    Carla's studio was small.  The couch pulled out into a bed, which was

 

    only a few steps from the door.  I tried to take a deep breath without

 

    moving or making a sound.  My instincts told me to do something and do

 

    it quick.

 

        I slowly reached for the lamp on the table at the head of the bed.

 

    As I turned it on, my leg shot out, hoping to find the floor but

 

    hitting the coffee table instead, overturning it.  I hit the floor with

 

    a thud as the room filled with light.  There was no one else there.

 

        "What the fuck are you doing?," said Carla, sitting up and

 

    squinting.

 

        I struggled to my feet.  I felt myself shaking.

 

        "Sorry," I mumbled.

 

        "You having a nightmare or something?"

 

        "I guess so."

 

        "You okay now?"

 

        "I don't know.  Maybe I'd better go home."

 

        "You sure?"

 

        "My nerves are shot.  I think I'll take a drive and go home."

 

        "If you think that's best.  Give me a kiss."

 

 

        At home I couldn't sleep either.  My own studio was even smaller

 

    than Carla's and tonight it felt oppressive.

 

        The Jameson's was gone, and there were only two beers in the

 

    refrigerator.  When they were gone, I got the hell out of there.

 

        Bad-Ass drove me to South City.  I didn't remember telling the

 

    beast to take me there.  I was parked across from the steps leading up

 

    to Dan's apartment.  The porch light was off but, though it was past

 

    midnight, there were lights on inside.  Below, Caviar's Market was

 

    dark.  I took a deep breath and got out of the car.

 

        The neighborhood was ominously silent, in dark reprieve from the

 

    usual clamor of construction.  I went up the stairs as quietly as I

 

    could.  I put my ear to the door but heard nothing.

 

        I stood in front of the door, wondering what to do.  Wondering what

 

    had brought me there in the first place, except restlessness and a bad

 

    dream.

 

        "Are you looking for me?"

 

        It was Dan, standing with Ruth at the bottom of the stairs.

 

        I waited as they came up.  Dan unlocked the door, and we went in.

 

    No one spoke until we were seated around the formica table off the

 

    kitchen.

 

        Ruth said, "They arrested Gregory this afternoon."

 

        "I read about it," I said.

 

        "So that should answer one of your questions."

 

        "Should it?"

 

        "You were working on the rat murders," she said.

 

        "It doesn't upset you that Gregory was arrested?"

 

        She paused before saying, "Of course it upsets me."

 

        She didn't look or sound upset to me, not even now when her facial

 

    muscles tightened.  One would have thought that having a serial killer

 

    for a lover was no big deal.

 

        I said, "Maybe he's not guilty."

 

        "Of course he's guilty," said Ruth.  Such loyalty.  "The police

 

    said they have strong evidence."

 

        "We'll see."

 

        "Don't you think he's guilty?," Dan asked softly.

 

        "Of course he's guilty," Ruth repeated.  She stared at Dan until he

 

    looked down at the table.  Then she looked at me.  "You have no reason

 

    to keep snooping around here, do you?"

 

        "Have I been snooping around?"

 

        She just stared at me.

 

        "May I ask a question?," I said.

 

        "I already know what it is," said Ruth.  "No, we're not sleeping

 

    together.  No, we've never had an affair, and the only reason we got

 

    together was to compare notes about you, who seem determined to make

 

    our lives as miserable as possible."

 

        It was time to level with Dan.

 

        I said, "I'm beginning to understand what you were talking about,

 

    Dan.  About the music conspiracy.  Brenda's going to show me the

 

    Teenbird file."

 

        He looked quickly up.

 

        "You talked to Brenda?"

 

        I nodded.

 

        "I could've shown you the file," he said.

 

        Without missing a beat, I said, "Somebody tried to kill me."

 

        I looked quickly from Dan to Ruth and back again, trying to measure

 

    the meaning of their reaction.  They didn't give me much to work with.

 

        I went on.  "In the parking lot after an Angels game.  Which means

 

    somebody has been following me.  Why?, I ask myself.  Because I'm

 

    snooping around where I shouldn't be.  But the only snooping I'm doing

 

    is about you, Dan.  So where does that leave me?"

 

        "I don't even own a gun," he said.

 

        "I'm not accusing you."

 

        After a silence I said, "I've been thinking there might be a

 

    connection between the conspiracy and the rat murders."

 

        Before Dan could reply, Ruth quickly put in, "But they've found

 

    their man."

 

        I looked straight at Dan and said, "Do you think they found their

 

    man?"  Dan stared at the table.  "Why did you write RCA by the victims'

 

    names?  Is RCA the record company?"

 

        "Of course it's a record company," said Ruth.

 

        Dan looked quickly at Ruth, then back down to the table.  I was

 

    sure he felt inhibited with Ruth sitting beside him.  I decided I'd do

 

    better to get him one-on-one.  Ruth was shrewd and fickle, too, with

 

    her quick turning against Gregory.

 

        I stood up.

 

        "Anyway, I think you're on to something," I told the top of Dan's

 

    head.

 

        He looked up without saying anything.  He seemed to be deciding if

 

    I meant this or not.

 

        "Well," I said, "I don't want to keep you two up."

 

        "Mr. Trevorak," said Ruth, "is it too much to ask that you leave us

 

    alone?"

 

        I smiled and got the hell out of there.

 

        She was standing on the porch, watching me, as I got into Bad- Ass.

 

    I resisted the urge to wave.  I knew that I wasn't done with her yet,

 

    and I knew that she knew that I knew.

 

 

 

 

    26/

           

        The phone was ringing.  I was in bed listening to it, only half

 

    awake, still partially emerged in a vague dream in which phone calls

 

    came from New York theater producers.  I rolled over and reached for

 

    the phone and knocked it to the floor.

 

        It was ringing again soon enough.  Sitting on the edge of the bed,

 

    with enough belly resting on my thighs that I could have set the phone

 

    on it, I picked up the receiver.

 

        "Hello?"

 

        "Mr. Trevorak?"

 

        "This is Trevorak."

 

        My free arm rested on my belly.  Somewhere under there were the

 

    family jewels.

 

        "My name's Judson Bailey, Mr. Trevorak.  I'm an attorney

 

    representing Gregory Albertson.  I was wondering if you have time to

 

    stop by my office this afternoon."

 

        Why would Albertson's lawyer want to see me?

 

        I said, "Have to be after two.  What's up?"

 

        "I'd rather not discuss the matter on the phone."

 

        "Tell me where and I'll be there as close to two as I can."

 

        As soon as he hung up, I called the office.

 

        "How nice for you to call," Hank said sarcastically.  "Does this

 

    mean you might be in today?"

 

        Christ, it wasn't even eleven yet.

 

        I said, "I love you, too.  Is Dad there?"

 

        Dad was quickly on the line.

 

        "What's up, son?"

 

        "You going to be in all morning?"

 

        "What's left of it."

 

        I paused, then decided he hadn't meant anything by it.

 

        "How about this afternoon?  I have something to talk to you about."

 

        "If I'm not here, I'll be at home."

 

        "I have appointments at noon and two.  I'll check in after that."

 

        I pulled Bad-Ass into the parking lot beside the Texas Playhouse.

 

    This time I was prepared for the jolt of darkness inside and waited in

 

    the open doorway, squinting for bearings before letting the door swing

 

    closed behind me.

 

        Brenda was at the same table in back.  With her was a Negro man

 

    wearing dark glasses and a sporty hat with a small feather in its band.

 

    His sportcoat was bright red.  He made me nervous.

 

        "I didn't think you was coming," said Brenda.

 

        I was only fifteen minutes late.

 

        "You got the file?," I asked.

 

        The dark glasses stared at me as she brought out the file from a

 

    large purse.  I remembered that I hadn't brought in my flashlight.

 

        "Can I read these in my car outside?," I asked.

 

        "You still owe me champagne."

 

        I turned around to look for the waitress, and Brenda said, "I can't

 

    drink til after work.  You can just give me the money."

 

        I hadn't stopped at the bank either.

 

        "Can I write you a check?," I asked.

 

        "This check gonna bounce?"

 

        "A good check.  Or if there's a Bank of Cal around here, I can get

 

    you cash."

 

        "A check, if it don't bounce."

 

        "My checkbook's in the glove compartment.  Can we go outside?"

 

        "Albert will go with you," she said.

 

        I tried smiling at Albert.  The dark glasses didn't move.

 

        "Shall we?," I said, getting up.  I held out my hand for the file

 

    but she gave it to Albert.  He followed me outside.

 

        I slid in behind the wheel and Albert rode shotgun.  The file was

 

    in his lap.  Finally I said, "The agreement is, I get to read the

 

    letters in the file."

 

        He handed it to me.  In daylight, I saw that he had an athlete's

 

    body, a weight lifter's body, that under the bright sportcoat were

 

    muscles carved out of black marble.  Here was a body a sane man didn't

 

    mess with.

 

        I opened the file.  That's when I felt something pressing against

 

    my ribs and looked down to see the barrel of a pistol.

 

        "We gonna go for a ride," said Albert.

 

        "You're the boss," I said.

 

        The remark would have been cute coming from Sam Spade but my own

 

    voice was shaking.

 

 

        Buzz Taylor leaned back in his chair and said, "Mr. Trevorak, I

 

    want to explain myself as clearly as possible."

 

        We were alone in his office at the station.  Albert the Shades had

 

    delivered me and left.  Now I sat across the desk from Taylor,

 

    wondering when the preface would end and the explanation begin.

 

        "Yesterday," he continued, "you come barging in here with a

 

    cock-and-bull story about investigating Dan Davies, while in reality--"

 

        "I am investi--"

 

        "--let me finish, please.  While in reality you came here to try

 

    and bribe our secretary into showing you private business

 

    correspondence.  Fortunately, Brenda is a very loyal employee.  She

 

    came to me immediately.  Now what I want to know, Mr. Trevorak, is who

 

    hired you to snoop into our files?  Who's interested in our business

 

    here?"

 

        I looked at him as sincerely as possible, trying to appear

 

    surprised.  He didn't buy it.

 

        "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.  You met

 

    Albert, who delivered you.  Albert has a way of getting information

 

    from people who don't want to cooperate.  Do you understand me, Mr.

 

    Trevorak?"

 

        "I get the drift."

 

        "Do I have to get him?"

 

        "Mr. Taylor, I'm employed by Dan Davies' wife.  You can phone her

 

    and find out for yourself."

 

        "I'm sure you've covered your tracks."

 

        He took a cigar from a box on the desk.  He lit up and blew smoke

 

    at me.

 

        "Once again, Mr. Trevorak," he said, "I'm asking you who hired you

 

    to snoop through our files?"

 

        When I didn't immediately reply, he stood up, saying, "I told

 

    Albert to wait outside."

 

        "That won't be necessary," I said.  I cleared my throat.  "I wanted

 

    to see the correspondence because I'm trying to make sense out of a

 

    theory Dan has about a music conspiracy.  It may have something to do

 

    with other things I'm working on."

 

        "What conspiracy?  And what other things?"

 

        "Someone tried to kill me, Mr. Taylor.  Now I'm wondering if it

 

    wasn't your goon Albert.  I think the police would be interested in

 

    talking to him."

 

        I could see he was weighing the bluff, so I added more before he

 

    made up his mind.

 

        "My Dad got wounded instead of me.  He's a former cop himself. If

 

    you want to call central precinct to check this out, please do. I know

 

    the number by heart.  Lots of cops there are friends of the family."

 

        He put his cigar into an ashtray and got up from the desk. He was

 

    thinking, deciding on his next move.

 

        Finally he said, "It's the Regiment for Christian Authority, isn't

 

    it?"

 

        I hadn't the slightest idea what he was talking about but

 

    definitely wanted to find out.

 

        "I'm working for Dan's wife," I said.  "And for myself, to find out

 

    who tried to kill me.  I think I was getting close to finding out about

 

    the conspiracy."

 

        "The conspiracy is a term the Regiment uses," said Taylor.

 

        "I'm afraid I haven't heard about the Regiment."

 

        "I doubt that.  But for the record, they believe there's a

 

    conspiracy to lead American youth into sin by selling them the Devil's

 

    music.  Something like that.  I always thought they were more blow than

 

    go -- but if they've hired you to snoop around in our files . . . have

 

    they, Mr. Trevorak?"

 

        Devil's music.  If Taylor was telling me the truth, this was a

 

    different conspiracy than Dan's -- in fact, almost the mirror image of

 

    his.

 

        I said, "I don't know anything about them.  I didn't even know they

 

    existed until now."

 

        He got up and moved to the doorway.  He opened the door and said,

 

    "Albert."

 

        Before Albert entered, I was on my feet, trying to do the

 

    improvisational act of my life.

 

        "Okay," I said, "you win.  I do have a client interested in your

 

    business affairs."

 

        Albert filled the doorway, and I raised my hands to chest level in

 

    a suggestion of surrender.

 

        "I represent the California Council of Churches," I continued.

 

    "They're not as fanatical as the Regiment but they also are concerned

 

    about these new developments in music for teenagers.  They hired me to

 

    find out what was going on."

 

        Albert took a step toward me but was stopped by Taylor.

 

        Taylor said, "You tell the Council of Churches that station KRB has

 

    nothing to be ashamed of.  We are engaged in an open and legitimate

 

    business venture to record and promote local musical talent.  And if

 

    it's not the Council you're working for, tell whoever writes your

 

    checks the same thing.  If I catch you snooping around here again, or

 

    harassing my employees, Mr. Trevorak, I'll refer your indiscretions to

 

    Albert here.  Do I make myself clear?"

 

        I nodded.  I could've used a good curtain line but my mind was

 

    distracted by Albert, who looked disappointed that he couldn't tear me

 

    apart on the spot.

 

        "Get the hell out of here," said Taylor.

 

        I took two steps toward the doorway and stopped.

 

        "Albert," said Taylor, and Albert moved aside.  I got the hell out

 

    of there.

 

        No one was at the front desk.  Outside I looked at my watch. Just

 

    enough time to navigate the detours and make the appointment with

 

    Gregory Albertson's lawyer.

 

        Bad-Ass needed gas.  I filled the tank and wrote a check. While the

 

    gas jockey was doing his job, I walked to the phone booth and looked

 

    for an address and phone number for The Regiment for Christian

 

    Authority.  No listing.

 

        I was starving and stopped in transit long enough to get three

 

    Bob's Big Boys to go.  I was in the middle of the last burger when it

 

    occurred to me that RCA might stand for the Regiment for Christian

 

    Authority.  I let out a whoop and leaned on Bad-Ass' horn.

 

 

 

 

 

    27/

           

        "We want to hire you, Mr. Trevorak."

 

        Judson Bailey looked the part.  Gray hair, a trimmed Errol Flynn

 

    moustache, an athletic build, wearing a black suit and vest. He even

 

    had his suit coat on.  He wasn't even perspiring.  Smog probably didn't

 

    bother him either.

 

        His office was in the heart of downtown L.A., up on the twentieth

 

    floor of a skyscraper.  He got a great view of the smog from up there.

 

    Great view of the distant chaos of freeway construction.  The office

 

    probably cost him a bundle.

 

        "I'm not sure what you want to hire me for," I said.

 

        "Mr. Albertson is not the rat murderer.  Which means someone is

 

    trying to frame him.  He did, by the way, kill his wife."

 

        "He admits it?"

 

        "It was an accident.  He panicked and left the house.  Whoever came

 

    in behind him set the scene to look like the rat murderer. And left

 

    clues that would lead directly to my client."

 

        I asked, "What clues?"

 

        "Before I reveal that information, I'd like to be sure that we're

 

    in the same camp.  Is it time to discuss your fee?"

 

        I gave him our usual rates, and he tried to hide a satisfied smug

 

    that they were less than he expected.  If Albertson hadn't admitted to

 

    killing his wife, I'm not sure I'd have taken the case. I wanted to

 

    know who had set it up to look like a rat murder.

 

        The clues were nothing to shake a stick at.  The police had

 

    Albertson's prints, which would be in the house anyway, and a button

 

    that apparently had been torn off a suit coat, presumably during a

 

    struggle.  Anyone could've gone to the closet, ripped off a button,

 

    dropped it by the body and walked off with the coat. There was an

 

    unfinished glass of bourbon, with Albertson's prints all over it.  Only

 

    a stupid man would have left it, and I didn't think Albertson was

 

    stupid.

 

        Albertson's story, as Judson Bailey told it, was that when he

 

    returned to the house to pick up the rest of his clothes, his wife was

 

    very drunk.  She kept swinging at him, he kept dodging. Finally, out of

 

    drunken frustration, she came at him with a small caliber pistol which

 

    was kept in the bedroom, which Albertson himself had given her for

 

    protection on a happier occasion.  They wrestled for the weapon, it

 

    went off and Flo fell to the floor. Albertson panicked, thinking no one

 

    would believe that it was an accident.  He took the pistol and left,

 

    later throwing the weapon into a garbage dispenser somewhere in

 

    Pasadena, he couldn't recall where.  He was very upset, then and still.

 

        Unfortunately, it wasn't a story the cops would be ready to

 

    believe, especially with so much pressure on them to find a suspect for

 

    the rat murders.  It was the same caliber weapon.  The installment of

 

    the history of rats was there.  I thought Albertson was in real

 

    trouble.

 

        "When can I speak to him?," I asked.

 

        "I'm not sure you can or have to.  We want you to find out who

 

    framed him."

 

        I said, "I'll give it a shot."

 

        "I suggest you start with Dan Davies."

 

        "Really?  Why?"

 

        "He might have been having an affair with the woman.  I understand

 

    you've been investigating him anyway."

 

        "I'll check it out," I said.

 

 

        The office was deserted but Dad had left a note on my desk to phone

 

    him at home.  It was time to run the emerging truth by him, to convince

 

    him that he wasn't the intended victim of the parking lot ambush.  I

 

    didn't like him worrying that he was.  I also had an idea about how he

 

    could help me find out more about the music conspiracy.

 

        There was also a note to call Joan.  Since Dad might be napping,

 

    and hopefully was, I pushed him to the back burner.

 

        "I was just leaving," Joan said after I called.  "I'm going to a

 

    meeting I thought you might be interested in."

 

        The meeting was being held at a church in Pasadena.  A deejay was

 

    going to speak on decaying values in the popular music industry.

 

        "He's the one who comes on the radio after Dan," Joan said.

 

        Hot Wire Wally, usually.

 

        "I have to go," Joan continued.  "Can you make it?  It starts at

 

    five but I expect they'll be lots of discussion afterwards."

 

 

        The church was Modern Medieval and covered with enough ivy to look

 

    more like a college administration building than a church.  The

 

    denomination was Baptist.  A marque outside announced a stirring Sunday

 

    sermon, "Sin on the Air Waves!"  The lettering was in black and the

 

    exclamation point in red.

 

        Maybe a hundred people were seated inside, many more than I

 

    expected.  I was late and the speaker, who I presumed was Hot Wire

 

    Wally, was already taking questions from the audience.

 

        I found Joan.  Seated next to her was Jeff Berger and beside him

 

    Edna, his wife.  Women outnumbered men by almost ten to one. But it

 

    wasn't a great place to go looking for a hot date, there was too much

 

    anger and solemnity in the air.

 

        A woman in purple peddle-pushers and matching poka-dot blouse stood

 

    up to ask, "Mr. Filmore, I appreciate the fact that you've had the

 

    courage to come off the air and talk to us today--"

 

        The question was interrupted by a burst of spontaneous applause.

 

        "but!--," the woman continued loudly, "how can you possibly

 

    continue to work at a radio station that plays such obscene records?"

 

        Hot Wire Wally, if that's who it was, smiled to let us know that

 

    the question wasn't difficult to answer.

 

        "If I didn't have the job I do," he said, "then I wouldn't be able

 

    to come here to urge you all to take action.  Think of me as an ally

 

    behind enemy lines."

 

        There was more thunderous applause and another half-hour of

 

    questions before it was over.  I listened attentively but still wasn't

 

    convinced, on the meeting's evidence alone, that there was a musical

 

    conspiracy to ruin the morals of youth.  I got the idea that a bunch of

 

    housewives were bored and needed a cause.  Maybe I was being unfair.

 

    I'd come late, perhaps I'd missed the real evidence.  I'd heard some

 

    risque songs at the Texas Playhouse, if not often on KRB, but I didn't

 

    think they'd drive kids to do anything that kids wouldn't be doing

 

    anyway.  The first time I played doctor with a girl, Gene Autry was on

 

    the radio.

 

        The deejay was replaced by an elderly woman in black, who announced

 

    that another meeting would be held next week.  Then I joined others to

 

    move forward toward the pulpit, hoping to meet the speaker.  I saw Joan

 

    and Jeff ahead of me and elbowed my way through the crowd, using my

 

    size as intimidation, until I was just behind them.

 

        "I made it," I said.

 

        "Good, good," said Jeff Berger.

 

        We continued to move forward until we reached the pulpit, where

 

    Joan and Jeff quickly shook the speaker's hand, offered words of

 

    congratulation and admiration, and followed the sweep of the crowd to a

 

    side exit.  I asked Joan to wait for me outside before the force of the

 

    crowd pushed me face-to-face with the deejay.

 

        "Hot Wire Wally?," I asked.

 

        He nodded.  I fought the bodies crowding behind me and took out my

 

    wallet, handing him a card.

 

        "I'm Red Trevorak, a private investigator.  Can you give me a call

 

    tomorrow?  I'd like to ask you some questions about Dan Davies."

 

        "You've been snooping around at the station," he said softly.

 

        I grinned and nodded, as the force of the crowd began to sweep

 

    around me like ocean around a great rock.

 

        "I'll be in the office by nine," I said, moving without choice

 

    toward the side exit.

 

        There are advantages to having a car that everyone recognizes: I

 

    found Joan and Jeff waiting for me in the parking lot, standing beside

 

    Bad-Ass.  Edna was some distance way, talking with a group of women.

 

        "Harriet's gone again," said Jeff right off.

 

        He did most of the talking but I hardly listened, I'd heard it all

 

    before.  Moreover, my attention was drawn to a spot across the parking

 

    lot, where a Negro teenage boy was peeking at us from behind a '50

 

    Ford.  He looked vaguely familiar.

 

        "We want to look for her at Dan's apartment," said Jeff.  "We need

 

    you to tell us where it is.  Perhaps you'd like to come along."

 

        "I don't think I'd be any help," I said, looking away from the boy

 

    across the lot.  "But sure, I can tell you how to get there."

 

        "I asked Joanie to come," said Jeff, "in case Dan is there. He

 

    might be less aggressive with her there."

 

        Or more aggressive.

 

        Jeff said, "And, of course, she may witness first hand something

 

    she can use in the divorce suit."

 

        "And if Harriet isn't there?," I said.

 

        Jeff's look told me he didn't appreciate the question.

 

        I said to Joan, "I wanted to talk to you about Gregory Albertson's

 

    arrest."

 

       "The poor man," she said.

 

       "Listen, maybe I will follow you to Dan's.  I have to stop for some

 

    gas first, don't do anything until I get there.  I should be right

 

    behind you."

 

        I scribbled directions, and for the moment this satisfied them.  I

 

    waited until they were gone before walking toward the boy behind the

 

    Ford.  He didn't run but he didn't come out from behind the car either.

 

    Maybe he thought he was invisible.

 

        When I was close enough to recognize that he was one of the boys in

 

    Artie's singing group, I said, "You want to talk to me, son?"

 

        He came around the rear end of the Ford.

 

        "You're in Artie's group," I said.  "I'm sorry, I forget your

 

    name."

 

        "Jackie Love."

 

        "Of course.  What can I do for you?"

 

        He shrugged before asking, quietly, "You really a record producer?"

 

        "Yes, I am," I lied.

 

        But he wasn't there to ask me that.  He couldn't have known that I

 

    would be there.

 

        "What's on your mind, Jackie?," I tried again.

 

        When he didn't reply, I said, "How about a burger and coke? I'm

 

    starving myself."

 

        He nodded.

 

        I said, "Come on, we can go in my car."

 

        He didn't say anything until we pulled into the parking lot at

 

    Bob's Big Boy.  Then he said, "I never been to Pasadena before."

 

 

 

 

 

    28/

           

        Jackie Love was nervous, and it took me a moment to realize that he

 

    felt out of place in Pasadena.  It was more than a strange city, it was

 

    the fact that he was the only Negro on the streets or in the

 

    restaurant.  That's when I suggested we order our food to go.

 

        He'd taken the bus from South City, as it turned out, so I offered

 

    him a ride back.  Unlike other passengers, he didn't mind talking in a

 

    car.  In fact, as soon as we left Pasadena, he began to open up.

 

        "What brought you to Pasadena, Jackie?," I asked.  Bad-Ass was in

 

    the slow lane of the Pasadena Freeway.  I didn't know if the boy had

 

    anything to tell me but I planned to take my time until I found out.

 

        Jackie Love took a crumpled piece of paper out of a jeans pocket,

 

    saying, "I found this."

 

        He held a flier toward me.  I saw that it announced the meeting at

 

    the church.  Two things were curious about it:  Wallace Filmore was

 

    identified as the deejay without reference to Hot Wire Wally or KRB;

 

    and at the bottom of the flier was a large logo, a sponsor's logo,

 

    reading RCA.

 

        "Where'd you get this?," I asked.

 

        "It was just blowin' down the street."

 

        "And you came to Pasadena to check it out?"

 

        "I guess so."

 

        I didn't believe him.  Something else was on his mind.

 

        We drove several miles in silence before I asked on a whim,

 

    "Jackie, do you know where Harriet might be?  She ran away from home

 

    again."

 

        "I don't know where she is."

 

        Bingo.  He'd answered too quickly and too, well, painfully. Not

 

    only did he know Harriet, he might also know where she was.

 

        "Actually," I went on, "I was going to check to see if she's at

 

    Lovin' Dan's apartment."  I decided to go the whole hog and added,

 

    "Some people think he may have, well, raped her."

 

        He looked at me with wide eyes, which turned away when our gazes

 

    met.

 

        "Do you think Dan raped her?"

 

        "He ain't no rapist."

 

        "I don't think so either.  That's why I want to help him."

 

        "You helpin' Lovin' Dan?"

 

        "Hey, we're practically in the same business."

 

        After another silence I asked, "I bet you know lots of the

 

    deejays."

 

        No bite.

 

        "Do you know Hot Wire Wally?"

 

        I'd struck another nerve.  Mention of Harriet and Hot Wire could

 

    put him on edge.

 

        "That's what surprised me about the meeting," I went on, "Hot Wire

 

    getting up there and saying all that crap about doo-wop."

 

        "What you mean?"

 

        "How it's the devil's music and all.  Or didn't you know that
Hot

 

    Wire's real name is Wallace Filmore?  He was the featured speaker at

 

    the meeting.  Talk about being a hypocrite."

 

        Jackie seemed to be digesting this.  After a moment he said, "You

 

    think it's the devil's music?"

 

        I passed the buck.  "What do you think?"

 

        "My daddy thinks so."

 

        Something in the boy's tone told me to tread carefully now.

 

        "Oh?," I prompted.

 

        "He's a preacher."

 

        "Really?"

 

        "Doo-wop ain't no devil's music," the boy spurted out.  "It's just

 

    singing, man.  People are always singing.  It got nothing to do with

 

    the devil.  I even heard him sing in the shower, and he says music is

 

    from the devil."

 

        I didn't reply.

 

        "You lookin' for Harriet?," the boy asked after a silence.

 

        "That's right."

 

        "She ain't at Lovin' Dan's.  He got nothin' to do with it."

 

        "Do you know where she is, Jackie?"

 

        He stared out the window without replying.

 

        "I've met Harriet's mother," I said.  "No wonder she keeps running

 

    away from home."

 

        When he turned to look at me, I went on.

 

        "I mean, I don't blame her, with a mother like that.  I bet her

 

    dad's just as bad."

 

        "She ain't go no dad," said Jackie.  "He's dead."

 

        I asked, as gently as possible, "Is Harriet your girlfriend,

 

    Jackie?"

 

        It was another wild guess but it hit home.  I gave him time to tell

 

    me the story his way.  We were off the freeway and running the detours

 

    by the time he started.

 

        "She got no place to stay," he finally said.

 

        "Is that why she's crashing at Lovin' Dan's?"

 

        "It's just temporary, til I find her something else.  He didn't

 

    rape her or nothin' like that."

 

        His voice, though, sounded worried.

 

        "Is she there now?," I asked.

 

        "I thought she be at that meetin', they make her talk shit or

 

    something."

 

        So that was it.  Harriet was his girlfriend.  She'd been dragged

 

    off, out of Dan's apartment.  When he heard about the meeting regarding

 

    the music, he put two and two together and took a bus to Pasadena,

 

    going there for the first time in his life, in some vague but

 

    well-meaning attempt to find her.  Maybe he thought he could rescue

 

    her.

 

        "She may have gone back to Dan's," I said.

 

        But if this were true, Jeff and Joan might get to her first.

 

        "Maybe," said Jackie Love.

 

        "Her grandfather's looking for her, too, Jackie," I said. "He's

 

    probably at Dan's right now."

 

        "What's her grandfather got to do with it?"

 

        "It's a little complicated."

 

        "She ain't goin' home," said Jackie Love.

 

        We were silent the rest of the way to South City.  When we were a

 

    few blocks from Dan's apartment, I pulled Bad-Ass to the curb.

 

        "I'm letting you off here, okay?," I said.  "I think your presence

 

    will upset the grandfather."

 

        "She ain't at Dan's," the boy said.  As I pulled away, I wondered

 

    if he knew something I didn't.

 

        I found Jeff's car parked across the street from Dan's. Remarkably

 

    enough, considering how late I was, they were still in the car, waiting

 

    for me.  Jeff and Joan sat in the front seat, Edna in the back.  Edna

 

    still looked like someone who'd forgotten her knitting.

 

        I pulled behind them, got out and walked to the driver's window.

 

        "We were almost ready to go up without you," said Jeff.

 

        Somehow I doubted it.  Jeff and Joan looked frightened, strangers

 

    in a Negro neighborhood just the way Jackie Love had been a fearful

 

    stranger in Pasadena.  I figured Joan must be especially upset,

 

    comparing the run-down neighborhood that was Dan's new home to the

 

    glitzy Foothills he'd abandoned.

 

        "Shall we go up?," I asked.

 

        I led the way, followed by Jeff, then Joan.  Edna stayed behind,

 

    missing her knitting.

 

        At the top of the stairs we could hear music playing inside. I

 

    knocked loudly on the door.

 

        It took a moment for Dan to answer.  He looked like he hadn't had

 

    any sleep since the last time I saw him.

 

        Before I could say anything, Jeff barged into the room, shouting

 

    Harriet's name and heading for the bedroom.  Dan went after him,

 

    followed quickly by myself.

 

        When Jeff was satisfied that Harriet wasn't in the bedroom, we

 

    returned to the living room, where Joan was standing in visible shock.

 

    The neighborhood must have been bad enough for her to take, a small

 

    apartment furnished in Seedy Motel was the icing on the cake.

 

        "Where is she?," Jeff demanded.

 

        "You have no right to barge in here," said Dan.

 

        Joan turned and moved quickly toward the door.  Good riddance, I

 

    thought, until she stopped at the doorway and turned.  At first I

 

    thought she was going to say something.  She looked like she was

 

    getting ready to throw up.

 

        I moved forward, saying, "Why don't you wait in the car?"

 

        She nodded, turned again, and was gone.

 

        Dan watched her go.  But the old melancholy wasn't there, he looked

 

    angry as hell.

 

        "I won't ask you again," said Jeff.

 

        "Look," said Dan, "you dragged her away once, you don't think she'd

 

    come back, do you?  I don't know where she is."

 

        I believed him but for the record, and Jeff's benefit, said, "Dan,

 

    if you know where the girl is, it'd be best to say so now before the

 

    cops get involved."

 

        "I have no idea where she is."

 

        "I didn't check under the bed," said Jeff, and he was gone to do

 

    this very thing.

 

        I moved close to Dan.  "I talked to Jackie Love," I said softly.

 

    "I think he knows where she is."

 

        "What's going on?," he asked.

 

        "Do you know where she is?"

 

        "For God's sake, no."

 

        I saw Jeff coming back and said quickly, "We'll talk later," then

 

    moved across the room.

 

        Jeff entered with a roar.  "I'm not finished with you, understand?

 

    I'm not letting you get away with this."

 

        He moved to the doorway and I followed without turning back to Dan.

 

        In the car, Joan was crying.

 

        Jeff said, "That's it.  I'm going straight to the police."

 

        "Give me a day or two to work on it," I said.  "I have a couple

 

    ideas where she may be."

 

        "Where?"

 

        When I didn't reply, Jeff said, "All right.  Two days."

 

        He got in and started the car.  I leaned down to talk through the

 

    open window, across Jeff's lap to Joan.

 

        "You take it easy, okay?  I'll give you a call."

 

        She nodded, sobbing.  I couldn't believe that I was actually

 

    feeling sorry for her.

 

 

 

 

 

    29/

           

        I was back in Dan's apartment.

 

        "I just want to be left alone," he said softly.

 

        "It's a little late for that."

 

        "Why did you have to bring Joan here?"

 

        "You got it wrong, Dan," I said.  "I came with them.  This was all

 

    their idea."

 

        A doo-wop song was playing on the phonograph, a mushy ballad, and

 

    somehow it evoked images of Harriet and Jackie Love together, dancing,

 

    making out, cuddling together against a hostile world.

 

        "What do you want from me?," Dan asked.  There was desperation in

 

    his voice, and I wondered if the desperation was associated with guilt.

 

        "How's this for starters: tell me about the Regiment for Christian

 

    Authority.  The RCA."

 

        "So you finally found out about them."

 

        "They think doo-wop is the devil's music."

 

        "They're fanatics."

 

        "Why did you scribble RCA next to the rat murder victims?" When he

 

    didn't reply, I said, "Are the victims members of the RCA?"

 

        "No," he quickly said.  Perhaps too quickly.

 

        "If they were, and if they thought doo-wop is the devil's music,

 

    then a doo-wop fanatic might have reason to kill them. Does that make

 

    sense?"

 

        "No, it doesn't, and I think you should leave.  It's bad enough you

 

    dragged Joan up here.  You had no reason to do that."

 

        "Like I said, it was their idea.  In South City, the consensus is

 

    that you've taken Harriet to bed."

 

        "That's vulgar."

 

        "Yes, it is."

 

        "If you believe that, get the hell out of here."

 

        "I didn't say I believed it."

 

        He moved to the phonograph to turn over the record.  The flip side

 

    was uptempo and happy.

 

        "Change of subject, Dan.  Okay?  Before you kick me out?"

 

        He shrugged and moved across the room, plopping down on one end of

 

    the worn divan.

 

        "You didn't seem all that convinced that Gregory Albertson is the

 

    rat murderer," I said.

 

        "Of course, he isn't.  Jesus.  Ruth just said that for your

 

    benefit."

 

        "She doesn't believe it either?"

 

        "She said it so you'd leave us alone.  Can't you understand that

 

    all we want is privacy?"

 

        "We?"

 

        He was glaring at me again.

 

        "I know," I said, "you and Ruth aren't lovers."

 

        "You're right, it's time for me to kick you out."

 

        "I was hoping you'd play me the dirty stuff."

 

        "What dirty stuff?"

 

        "The records.  The ones that have the Regiment for Christian

 

    Authority so upset."

 

        "Some other time," he said sarcastically.

 

        "I heard a fragment of one at The Texas Playhouse."

 

        "You went into The Texas Playhouse?"

 

        At least someone in the neighborhood hadn't heard about it.

 

        I said, "The chorus kept repeating, work with me, Annie, over and

 

    over.  I got the idea working meant screwing."

 

        "It's a song by The Midnighters," he said, getting up. "It's time

 

    for you to go."

 

        "Does working mean screwing?"

 

        "Out," he said.

 

        I started toward the door, saying, "If it does, is this something

 

    for teenagers to be listening to?"

 

        "Goodbye, Mr. Trevorak."

 

        "Why did you scribble RCA beside the names of the victims? How is

 

    the RCA connected to the rat murders?"

 

        "I was not referring to the Regiment, and I'm saying goodbye."

 

        "It might be easier to talk to me than the police," I said. "Think

 

    about it."

 

        He stood on the porch, watching me descend the stairs.  He waited

 

    until I was pulling away from the curb in Bad-Ass before turning to go

 

    back inside.

 

        I drove to the nearest pay phone and called Dad.   He liked my idea

 

    of coming over with pizza and beer.

 

 

        After dinner we sat in lawn chairs in the patio behind the family

 

    home in Santa Monica.  The sea breezes had blown away the smog, and the

 

    freeway construction happening elsewhere hadn't invaded much of the

 

    coastline yet.

 

        Dad hadn't moved out after mother died, which had surprised me.  It

 

    had been her house in every way, her presence had dictated the feel and

 

    rhythm of living in it, but three years later Dad was still here and

 

    the house had changed accordingly, clutter and male odors replacing

 

    mother's sweet tidiness.  A year ago mother's clothes were still in the

 

    closet, and if Hank and I hadn't convinced Dad to give them to the Good

 

    Will, they might still be there.

 

        I was there to ask a favor and when the time seemed right, I began

 

    the slow approach to asking it.

 

        "You ever listen to rhythm-and-blues?," I asked Dad.

 

        "To what?"

 

        I explained about Negro music and the doo-wop ballads teenagers

 

    were listening to, about the growing market and the growing controversy

 

    over the music, about how white singing groups were covering records by

 

    Negro entertainers.

 

        "You seem to know a lot about it," said Dad.

 

        "I may know too much.  Dad, that bullet wasn't meant for you, it

 

    was meant for me.  Someone doesn't like me snooping around about the

 

    music."

 

        "You didn't tell me you thought it was meant for you."

 

        "I'm telling you now."

 

        "I think you're wrong.  Walter Moran is out, I found that out for a

 

    fact, and this is something right up his alley."

 

        "There's more," I said.

 

        I told him about being fetched at gunpoint by Buzz Taylor. I told

 

    him about the Regiment for Christian Authority and their meetings, that

 

    this was probably the RCA Dan had scribbled on the clippings, not the

 

    initials of the record company.

 

        "The guy is your basic schitzo," I said.  "On the radio, he's an

 

    entirely different personality.  Vibrant, full of energy. In person

 

    he's paranoid and melancholy."

 

        "Are you telling me he's the rat murderer?"

 

        "It's a possibility.  He's a doo-wop fanatic, and the RCA calls it

 

    the devil's music."

 

        "If you think so," said Dad, "maybe you'd better talk to the

 

    police."

 

        "They'll be talking to him soon enough.  He was having an affair

 

    with Flo Albertson."

 

        Dad whistled. "Now that may be something."

 

        "Somehow the rat murders and the music are mixed together," I said.

 

    "But I don't know if Dan's the guy or not.  He's definitely weird but,

 

    I don't know, I just have a gut feeling he's not the one.  He's too

 

    disorganized or something, to pull off something like the rat murders.

 

    Hell, I don't know what I think."

 

        "Wouldn't hurt to let the police know about him.  In case they miss

 

    the connection with the lady."

 

        "I still have more prying around to do.  I was hoping you could

 

    help me."

 

        "Help you how?"

 

        "How would you like to impersonate a minister?"

 

        "Do what?"

 

        "You're a ham at heart," I said.  "I'm a playwright, I should know.

 

    How would you like to play a member of the California Council of

 

    Churches and pay a visit to the radio station?"

 

        "Wired?"

 

        "Of course, wired.  I still have questions to ask, direct

 

    questions, and I'm persona non gratis.  Besides, I can't image Buzz

 

    Taylor waving a gun at a clergyman."

 

        Dad chuckled, which was a good sign.

 

        "What do you say?"

 

        "Ask me when I'm sober."

 

        "I'm asking you now."

 

        "Sounds interesting, I'll say that."

 

        "Say yes now, and I'll give you an escape clause."

 

        "When do you want me to do this?"

 

        "Next day or two."

 

        "Your old man a clergyman!"

 

        "Chance of a lifetime," I said.

 

        "If your mother could see me now."

 

        We both sipped from our bottles of Falstaff.

 

        "Where do you come up with this stuff?," Dad asked.

 

        "It's my real profession."

 

        "You put crazy stuff like this in your plays?"

 

        "Now and again."

 

        "A phony clergyman!"

 

        "Do we have a deal?"

 

        "You're catching me in a weak moment."

 

        "You have an escape clause."

 

        He laughed and shook his head.  Then he raised a shot glass in one

 

    hand and the bottle of beer in another.

 

        "Then what the hell," he said.

 

        We clinked bottles and drank.

 

 

 

    30/

           

        Hangovers attract phone calls.  As bad mornings went, this was a

 

    gem, and I was lying with a pillow over my head while the phone rang.

 

    And rang.  And rang.

 

        I threw the pillow across the room.  The phone kept ringing. I

 

    reached for it.

 

        "Yeah?"

 

        "I don't know what you have in mind, Mr. Trevorak-", Ruth began.

 

        "Wait," I said.  "Wait, wait a minute."

 

        "I will not wait."

 

        "I've got to make yellow water."

 

        It was the truth but it didn't set me free.  She was still on the

 

    line when I got back.

 

        "So what's the problem?," I asked.

 

        "You leave my little brother alone, or I'm going to the police."

 

        "I don't know what you're talking about."

 

        "You most certainly do.  He told me all about Sidney Sullivan, the

 

    big record producer.  You should know better.  You stick out in a

 

    crowd, Mr. Trevorak.  So does your car.  As soon as he mentioned a fat

 

    man with freckles, I knew it had to be you."

 

        I wasn't about to admit that she had a point.

 

        "L.A.'s big enough for two fat men with freckles," I grumbled.

 

        "I don't know what you're up to but I want you to stop.  If you

 

    invade the privacy of this family again, I'm going straight to the

 

    police."

 

        She hung up then, just like in the movies.  I showered and got

 

    dressed.  While the coffee perked, I stared at a blank page in my

 

    journal before saying to hell with it.  Then I put together a mental

 

    outline of my day.

 

        First, I phoned Jeff Berger.

 

        "As a matter of fact, I have heard of the RCA," he said.  "Why do

 

    you ask?"

 

        "Do you belong?"

 

        "No, I don't.  They're a little too fanatical for me."

 

        "How fanatical?"

 

        "They worry too much about Satan and not enough about our

 

    children."

 

        "They sponsored the meeting," I said.

 

        "No, that's not quite accurate.  I heard that they passed around

 

    fliers with their logo on it but the meeting actually grew out of our

 

    neighborhood concerns.  What is this about, Mr. Trevorak?  I thought

 

    you'd be calling with news about Harriet."

 

        "I'm working on it," I said.

 

        "I should hope so."

 

        "Do you know anyone who belongs to the RCA?"

 

        "Not closely."

 

        "Do you think there might be a connection between the RCA and the

 

    rat murders?"

 

        "Are you serious?  What could they possibly have in common?"

 

        "Just shooting in the dark."

 

        "I don't see what any of this has to do with finding Harriet."

 

        "I'll be back to you soon," I said and hung up.

 

        I poured another cup of coffee and resisted the temptation to spike

 

    it with Jameson's.  Hair of the dog had a way of delaying the recovery,

 

    not assisting it.  What I needed was a chore that didn't take too much

 

    thought, like finding a clergyman's costume for Dad.

 

 

        Hours later, Butch was pouring me a cup of coffee and shaking his

 

    head, laughing.  I'd spent most of the morning making the rounds of

 

    costume shops, looking for the outfit.   Apparently it was easier to

 

    dress up as a gorilla than as a preacher.  I'd finally found the

 

    costume at a shop on the outskirts of Watts, and so stopped by Butch's

 

    with the true excuse that I was in the area.

 

        "I've been trying to tell you," said Butch, "never under- estimate

 

    the emotions that can surface over racial matters."  I'd been telling

 

    him about the Regiment for Christian Authority.  "Man, racial hatred is

 

    at the very root of this country.  You got an education, didn't you

 

    ever read history?  Not just racial hatred of Negroes - Indians,

 

    Chinese, just look at the facts, man. Indians are savages and nigger

 

    music comes from the devil - ain't no difference, man, the same

 

    mentality comes up with that shit."

 

        "I've been wondering why Dan would scribble RCA next to the names

 

    of the victims."

 

        "And what did you come up with?"

 

        "Maybe each victim was a member of the RCA."

 

        "And what's the significance of that?"

 

        "I'm not sure."

 

        "You're sure worrying a lot about these rat murders."

 

        "Too many coincidences connect them to what I've been working on."

 

        "You want more coffee?"

 

        "I'd better let you get back to work."

 

        The huge canvas was nearing completion, and I knew that Butch

 

    hadn't really welcomed my unannounced visit.

 

        "You can sit and watch if you want," Butch said.

 

        "I'd better get to the office."

 

        I phoned in first.  Dad answered the phone.

 

        "That deejay wants to see you right away," he said.

 

        "Dan?"

 

        "Right.  He said to meet him at his apartment, the sooner the

 

    better."

 

        "Thanks."

 

        "Everything okay?"

 

        "Fine.  I've got your costume, I'll be by later to have you try it

 

    on."

 

        "Oh my God, I did agree to that, didn't I?"

 

        "You want to back out?"

 

        "Not necessarily."

 

        "See you after I see Dan."

 

        I drove to South City, wondering what was up.  Maybe Dan had more

 

    to tell me about why he'd scribbled RCA next to the rat victims.

 

        When I knocked on the door, I discovered it was unlocked.  I pushed

 

    it open the rest of the way and stepped inside.

 

        Dan was on the divan and looked very dead.  He'd been shot in the

 

    chest at close range, and a small caliber pistol was on the floor

 

    beside him.  The suggestion was suicide, of course, but somehow the

 

    setup didn't ring true.  Who ever shot themselves in the chest?

 

        Dan didn't have a phone, so I'd have to call the police from the

 

    pay phone down the street.  First I wanted to find out something.

 

        I went into the bedroom.  The suitcase in which I'd found the

 

    clippings had been emptied onto the bed, and the clippings were gone.

 

        The nudist magazines were still in the chest of drawers but I'd

 

    chosen a bad time to find them.  I was still holding one when two

 

    policemen barged into the bedroom with pistols drawn, telling me I was

 

    under arrest.

 

 

 

    31/

           

        Lt. Grimes was young and ambitious.  He was blond and had rugged

 

    Tab-Hunter-in-the-Marines good looks.  In the movies it would've gone

 

    this way:  Grimes wanted a promotion and I was the fall guy who was

 

    going to help him get it.  In reality, I'd been caught in the wrong

 

    place at the wrong time and Grimes wanted to know why.   Naturally I

 

    had no choice but to sit there and listen to him until Dad arrived,

 

    whom I'd phoned instead of a lawyer.

 

        "What do you think, Trevorak?," Grimes rambled on, "you get special

 

    treatment cause your old man was on the force?  I never met the man, by

 

    the way.  His reputation followed him but I don't know the guy from

 

    Adam, okay?  In other words, you get no Brownie points.  All I know is,

 

    we get a call that there's been a fight at a certain address and the

 

    boys find you there, looking at naked girls with a corpse in the front

 

    room.  And all I hear from you is that you're a p.i. working on a case.

 

    You say you're working for the corpse's wife but won't say more, it's

 

    privileged information. Well, hot shot, I'll drag the lady down here if

 

    I have to and straighten this shit out.  You understand me?  I suggest

 

    you be a little more cooperative.  And what do you expect your old man

 

    to accomplish down here?  He become a lawyer all of a sudden?  You need

 

    a lawyer, hot shot.  Real bad."

 

        We were in a small interrogation room, and I was facing the door

 

    and window.  It could've been worse.  I could've been sitting under a

 

    single bare lightbulb, like in the movies.

 

        I saw Dad coming down the hallway with his old buddy,

 

    Capt.  Hammond.  I must have smiled because suddenly Grimes was

 

    bellowing, "What the fuck's so goddamn funny, Trevorak?"  I shrugged.

 

    "I've had it with you, wise ass.  You understand me?"

 

        Then Capt. Hammond came through the doorway, saying, "I'll take

 

    over, lieutenant."

 

        Grimes started to say something but didn't.

 

        The captain said, "This is Hank Trevorak, who used to be one of

 

    us."

 

        Dad and Grimes shook hands.

 

        "You can go," Hammond told Grimes.

 

        The lieutenant gave me a good glare before walking out.  As curtain

 

    gestures go, it wasn't bad.

 

        "Long time," said the captain, offering his hand.  I was delighted

 

    to shake it.

 

        Dad said, "I told the captain here as much about the case you're on

 

    as I could remember.  He probably has questions he wants to ask you."

 

        "Just a few," said Capt. Hammond.

 

        He wanted to know why I'd been in the apartment, and I told him

 

    that Dan had left me a message to meet him there.  I also told him I

 

    had no idea what the meeting was about, unless Dan had more to tell me

 

    about his background, which was the case I'd been working on.  I didn't

 

    mention the RCA.  Yes, I planned to phone the police myself, I'd just

 

    arrived when the officers barged in.  No, I had not killed Dan.  I told

 

    the captain that my prints wouldn't be on the pistol.  Then did I think

 

    it was suicide?  I lied that it sure looked that way to me.

 

        Now that Grimes was gone, there was nothing to it, and Dad and I

 

    were back on the street within half an hour.

 

        "Give me a lift to my car?," I asked Dad.

 

        "I'll buy you a beer first."

 

        He wanted to hear what was really going on, I knew, but he didn't

 

    want to drink close to the station for fear of running into some old

 

    colleagues.  We drove toward South City and then found a tavern.

 

        Over drinks I told Dad everything I knew, which wasn't much. It

 

    didn't look like suicide to me.

 

        "You said he was unstable," Dad said.

 

        "He was.  But the setup just didn't look right.  You ever hear of

 

    anyone shooting themselves in the chest?"

 

        "It can happen," said Dad.

 

        "I have a gut feeling it wasn't suicide."

 

        I was running on pure instinct, as always.  Someone wanted me at

 

    Dan's just before the police arrived, probably because they were stupid

 

    enough, or desperate enough, to think this would be enough to make me a

 

    suspect.  Or was I being too paranoid?  Maybe it wasn't a setup.  Maybe

 

    it was a coincidence, that Dan really had wanted to talk to me.  But

 

    about what?  Our last meeting hadn't suggested sudden cooperation.

 

        After a beer, we were ready to go.  In South City I thanked Dad for

 

    putting in a good word for me with the captain.

 

        "If it wasn't suicide," said Dad, "do you think it's wise to go

 

    through with the preacher charade?"

 

        "I hadn't made a connection between the two."

 

        "One never knows."

 

        "Let me think about it."

 

        "I don't have cold feet, understand.  I just think we should be

 

    careful."

 

        "You're right."

 

        He nodded, and I watched him drive away.  Then I drove Bad- Ass to

 

    Caviar's Market.

 

        I found Tank behind the counter, reading a comic book.

 

        "Well, I be damn glad you innocent," he said.  "I didn't think you

 

    do a cold thing like that."

 

        "You know who was up there with him?"

 

        "You asking the same thing the cops ask.  Man, those stairs are

 

    around to the side, I ain't got no x-ray vision to see who be tramping

 

    up and down the stairs all day.  I didn't see shit, and I didn't hear

 

    shit, and I don't know shit."

 

        "You seen the lady with the bangs lately?"

 

        "Yeah, she came in and got two cokes this morning."

 

        "What time?"

 

        "Shit, I don't know.  Nine in the a.m., maybe."

 

        What time had Ruth called me?  Somewhere around nine, I thought.

 

        I thanked Tank and stood outside on the corner, alongside the pink

 

    Cadillac, planning my next move.  I got into Bad-Ass and gave the

 

    neighborhood more blue smoke than it needed.

 

       As I approached Ruth's house, I saw that Artie, Jackie Love and

 

    Harriet were sitting on the front porch.  Unfortunately they saw me,

 

    too, and took off, heading behind the house.  I swung Bad- Ass to the

 

    curb, got out and took off after them.

 

        A big man like myself is no match for teenagers.  I made it as far

 

    as the big gully, where I stood on the edge and watched them scamper

 

    down a path into the noisy, dusty center of freeway construction.  I'd

 

    only run about forty or fifty yards but was perspiring and breathing

 

    heavily.

 

        I turned to find myself face-to-face with Ruth.

 

        "I was just going to look for you," I said.

 

        "You stay away from my brother," she said.  "I'll call the police,

 

    I mean it."

 

        "That's pretty funny since they'll be wanting to talk to you, too."

 

        "What do you mean?"

 

        "I have a witness that you were at Dan's this morning.  Which makes

 

    you one of the last ones to have seen him alive."

 

        Ruth inhaled a quick audible breath before stepping forward to grab

 

    me, as if to hold herself up from falling in a faint.  If she was

 

    acting, it was a hell of a job.  I helped her back to the house and sat

 

    her on the sofa.

 

        She began weeping.  She wouldn't stop, though she seemed to be

 

    trying to stop, her sobs more inhaled than exhaled as she held both

 

    hands over her face.  It was either a great performance or the moving

 

    truth, I wasn't sure which.

 

       Apparently we were alone in the house.  After a while, as the

 

    sobbing finally began to subside, I said, "When the police get enough

 

    pieces together, they're going to want to talk to you."

 

        She managed to say, "Yes."

 

        "Is there anything you want to tell me first?"

 

        "I-- . . . I just can't believe it."

 

        "You saw him this morning, right?"

 

        She nodded.

 

        "He give any indication that something was wrong?"

 

        "You were the only trouble we had," she said.

 

        I didn't believe this.  I thought her performance was slipping.

 

        "Did he say he wanted to see me?"

 

        "Why would he want to see you?  He wanted you to leave him alone."

 

        "You're sure?"

 

        "Mr. Trevorak, we both just wanted to be left alone.  That's the

 

    truth."

 

        "Did Dan get you involved in the music conspiracy?"

 

        She started to say something but stopped.  Damn it.  I had a gut

 

    feeling I was getting close to something.

 

        I said, "I'm easier to talk to than the police."

 

        "I'm not sure that's true," she said softly.

 

        "To them, you're a suspect."

 

        "They think I killed Dan?"

 

        "It's a possibility they'll be looking at, once they connect you

 

    two."

 

        "You had more to do with it than I did!"

 

        The change in her manner was instantaneous.  It was frightening to

 

    watch.

 

        "You're the one snooping around about the music."  She got to her

 

    feet.  "No one was paying any attention to Dan before you came around.

 

    I had him settled again.  He was calmed down again.  Then you show up

 

    and get him all excited about this conspiracy stuff-"

 

        She rushed out of the room.  I followed in time to see her slam the

 

    bathroom door behind her.  I could hear her bawling in there.

 

        I waited in the living room.  Maybe I should have phoned the police

 

    right then but I didn't.  Then I regretted not calling them because she

 

    came back into the room sporting a small caliber pistol.  22-calibre, I

 

    guessed.

 

        "Get out of my house," she hissed.

 

        "On my way."

 

        "As far as I'm concerned, you killed Dan."

 

        I moved slowly toward the door.  She looked unstable, even crazed,

 

    there was no telling how little it would take for her trigger finger to

 

    twitch.  I didn't think this was an Oscar performance, I thought she

 

    meant it.

 

        "Get out!"

 

        I stepped quickly to the door and out, half-expecting to feel a jab

 

    of pain in my back, to hear the echo of pain in my ear.  As soon as I

 

    reached the porch, I started running.

 

        I got into Bad-Ass, planning to lay rubber getting the hell out of

 

    there.  That's what Sam Spade would've done.  But Bad-Ass wouldn't

 

    start.  It was embarrassing.  Not the first time, not the second.

 

    Fortunately, Ruth had stayed in the house.

 

        When I finally got the engine going, I drove off in a cloud of blue

 

    smoke with something less than Hollywood daring-do.  But what the hell.

 

    The style may have stunk but fashion is the first refuge of a

 

    scoundrel, and I was still very much alive.

 

 

    32/

           

        After a restless night, I went to the office early the next

 

    morning.  But not early enough.  Hank was there, alone, and by the way

 

    he shook his head as I entered, I knew it was lecture time.

 

        But I made him work at it.  I went to my desk, where I saw a note

 

    in Hank's handwriting that Hot Wire Wally had called.  I shuffled

 

    through papers, trying to look busy, as Hank told me how incompetent I

 

    was.

 

        "You're not paid to solve the rat murders, if that's what you're up

 

    to," he said.  "I don't care if Dad is trying to solve them or not,

 

    he's more or less retired, and you're on the payroll to work for the

 

    agency, in case you've forgotten.  And I run the shop.  You work for

 

    me.  Do you understand what I'm saying?"

 

        "You read the paper?," I asked.

 

        "Of course.  Your deejay is dead.  What I'm telling you is, that's

 

    no concern of yours.  I have a stakeout for you.  Tomorrow or the next

 

    day."

 

        I wanted to call Hot Wire but not from the office, with Hank

 

    hovering around my desk like a hungry vulture.  I picked up the note

 

    and headed for the door.

 

        "Where do you think you're going?," Hank asked.

 

        "Out."

 

        "I want to brief you on the stakeout."

 

        "It can wait."

 

        "It cannot wait!"

 

        "Look, I've got something I've got to do, okay?  I'll do

 

    your fucking stakeout tomorrow or the next day, just like you want,

 

    just like I always do.  Get off my back."

 

        Outside, I went to the nearest pay phone and dialed the number on

 

    the note.  Wally answered and we arranged to meet in an hour at The Oar

 

    House.

 

        I drove there straight-away and chased Jameson's with black coffee.

 

    I had a little buzz on by the time Wally arrived.  He was in a suit and

 

    carried a brief case, looking more like an insurance salesman than

 

    someone who screamed on the radio, We fire, we sizzle!

 

        "Thank you for returning my call so promptly," he said, sitting

 

    down.

 

        "Terrible thing that happened," I said.

 

        "What thing is that?"

 

        He looked serious.

 

        "You mean, you don't know?," I said.

 

        "Apparently not."

 

        "It's on the front page of the morning paper," I said.

 

        "I'm generally too busy to pay attention to the news.  What

 

    happened?"

 

        "I thought that's why you wanted to talk to me.  Your colleague,

 

    Dan, was murdered yesterday."

 

        He studied me, then said, "You're not serious."

 

        "Read the morning paper for yourself."

 

        "I'm, well, at a loss for words.  Was it his wife?"

 

        I wondered why this possibility occurred to him so readily.  Did he

 

    know more about the marriage than I did?

 

        "Perhaps," I said, playing it safe.  "What do you think?"

 

        "Well, there were serious marital problems."

 

        "Dan told you about them?"

 

        "A bit.  He was a loner.  I barely knew him, really.  Never saw him

 

    away from the studio."

 

        "Then you didn't know he'd taken an apartment down the street from

 

    the station?"

 

        "No.  But it doesn't surprise me.  Nothing about that man surprises

 

    me.  He's the reason I wanted to talk to you.  Only what I have to say

 

    is irrelevant now."

 

        "Maybe yes, maybe no.  What's on your mind?"

 

        "When I learned that you were investigating Dan--"

 

        "How did you learn that?"

 

        "Talk in the office.  I think Brenda, the secretary, told me.

 

    Anyway, I have reason to believe that he is, or was, the rat murderer."

 

        I pursed my lips and waited for him to go on.

 

        Wally put the briefcase on the table, unsnapped it and took out

 

    some papers.  There were some business cards stuck neatly in a little

 

    pocket, and he took one out and handed it to me.

 

        The Regiment for Christian Authority was blazoned across the top of

 

    the small card.  Under it, I read Wallace Filmore, Vice- Pastor.

 

        "We've been concerned about the influence of Negro music on popular

 

    music listened to by our Anglo-Saxon American teenagers.  We've managed

 

    to infiltrate the industry to a degree, to learn first-hand what has

 

    been going on."

 

        "What's this got to do with Dan?"

 

        "I suspected him from the beginning.  He's a fanatic about the

 

    devil's music.  I suspect he has Negro blood in his veins himself. Or

 

    did.  We've been watching him for months, you see.  Here, look at the

 

    evidence for yourself."

 

        He handed me a sheet of paper.  On it were the names of the rat

 

    murder victims.  Minus Flo Albertson.

 

        "This list is in Dan's handwriting," Wally said.  "I found it in

 

    his desk several weeks ago, when some of these people were still

 

    alive."

 

        "You're telling me he had a list of victims?"

 

        "I think that's what this list suggests."

 

        "But the victims usually were killed in Lovers' Lane," I said.

 

        "We think a woman was working with him.  We have a suspect, a Negro

 

    woman who lives near the station."

 

        Ruth, I assumed.

 

        I said, "Why didn't you take this to the police?"

 

        "When I learned you were investigating Dan, I thought I should talk

 

    to you first."

 

        This didn't sound right to me.  I asked, "Was Dan on to you?"

 

        "I don't think so.  We barely had dealings with one another."

 

        "Any ideas who wanted him dead?"

 

        "Out of the music business, yes, because we did.  But dead, no."

 

        "What exactly bothers you about the devil's music?," I asked.

 

        "Are you serious?"

 

        "Afraid so."

 

        "Have you listened to songs like Work With Me, Annie, Mr. Trevorak?

 

    And its sequel, Annie Had A Baby.  Or Big Ten Inch?  One Mint Julep?

 

    These songs are explicitly sexual, explicitly pornographic.  If you'd

 

    heard them, you'd know exactly what I was talking about.  And we fear

 

    music is only the beginning.  Once the work of the devil controls the

 

    popular music industry, what's next? We think the Mafia may be

 

    involved, or an organization as large and as underground.  This music

 

    breeds pornography, prostitution, drugs, gambling, every sin you can

 

    name, Mr. Trevorak.  The music is background to it all.  Why, look what

 

    the communistic Supreme Court decided last month, decreeing to mix the

 

    races in our public schools.  Where will it end?"

 

        I tried to imagine Jackie Love and Harriet, cuddled together

 

    listening to doo-wop, being victims of a plot by the Mafia and a

 

    communistic Supreme Court.  It didn't wash.

 

        I handed him the sheet of paper and said, "I think you should give

 

    this to the police."

 

        "Of course.  And what did you learn about Dan, Mr. Trevorak?"

 

        "That he was a loner, like you say."

 

        "And a dangerous man."

 

        He closed the briefcase.  We both stood up.

 

        "Don't you go on the air today?," I asked.

 

        "My day off.  Have you heard my show?"

 

        "Sure have."

 

        "I'm quite the actor, aren't I?  Dan was a good role model. He was

 

    a fanatic about the devil's music."

 

        He offered his hand and I shook it.  I watched him go, then ordered

 

    another Jameson's.

 

 

        I drove to Carla's but she wasn't home, which surprised me. I hung

 

    around her apartment most of the day, expecting her to return but she

 

    never did.  I didn't get anything done, not even a nap.  I tried

 

    working on the play for a while but my mind was too full of new facts

 

    and confused theories to concentrate.  Around four I gave up on Carla

 

    and drove home to Venice.

 

        At home I was no more constructive then I'd been at Carla's. My

 

    mind kept coming back to Dan.  Lovin' Dan the Sixty-Minute Man. The rat

 

    murderer.  Could it be?

 

        And what about Ruth?  She owned a smart-caliber weapon, I'd learned

 

    that.  She had a relationship with Dan that wasn't clear to me yet.

 

    But then Gregory had admitted killing his wife, according to his

 

    lawyer.  Then who set up the murder to look like the rat murders?

 

        I made an egg salad sandwich for dinner and called Carla.  No one

 

    answered.  I stared at the script of my new play for an hour before

 

    throwing it aside, without a word of new dialogue.  I went to bed but

 

    couldn't get to sleep.

 

        Sometime after midnight, I couldn't stand it any more.  I got up,

 

    dressed and drove back to Carla's.  But she still wasn't home.  What

 

    the hell was going on?  I tried to picture Carla in bed with someone

 

    else, staying over at a new boyfriend's, and the possibility hung in

 

    the pit of my stomach like indigestion.

 

        I climbed into her bed.  Sometime before sunrise I managed to doze

 

    off into a restless sleep.  Sometime later my mind finally shut itself

 

    off and slipped into beautiful silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

    33/

           

        I awoke and looked at my watch.  Ten-thirty.  I was still alone in

 

    the bed.

 

        I got up, dressed and looked in Carla's refrigerator.  Some bacon,

 

    no eggs, no bread there or in the cupboard.  I scrounged until I found

 

    a pencil and paper, then wrote her a note:

           

        You had a visitor!  Me.  Sorry to miss you.  You're keeping new

 

    hours or what?  I'll phone later today.  Red.

           

        It wasn't like Carla to spend a night away, not even at my place.

 

    She was territorial, liked to be where she made the house rules.  I was

 

    worried about her.

 

 

        As soon as I walked into the office, Dad held up the morning paper

 

    so I could see the large headline:  Murdered DJ linked to rat murders.

 

    I wondered if Wally had taken his evidence to the police after leaving

 

    me.

 

        "Read it and tell me what you think," Dad said.  He tossed me the

 

    paper.

 

        There was no mention of Wally.  The police had been investigating

 

    Dan on their own, the story said, and were close to making an arrest

 

    when he was murdered.  They could not reveal any more information at

 

    this time.  Gregory Albertson, who had confessed to killing his wife

 

    but claimed self-defense, had been released on bail.

 

        I went to Dad's desk with the paper and pulled up a chair. Hank

 

    wasn't in the office yet, which meant Dad and I could bullshit as long

 

    as we wanted.

 

        Dad said, "So what do you think?"

 

        I told him about my meeting with Wally, the list of victims in

 

    Dan's handwriting and the activities of the Regiment for Christian

 

    Authority.  There was no mention of RCA in the story either.

 

        "I wish to hell I knew what their evidence was," said Dad. "Maybe

 

    I'll have lunch with Hammond and pick his brain."

 

        "Good idea."

 

        "Maybe the guy went to the police and made a deal to keep out of

 

    the limelight."

 

        "Maybe."

 

        "Or maybe there's no link to the music at all."

 

        "I think there is," I said.

 

        "Am I still going to the station to play preacher?"

 

        "It's worth a try."

 

        "When do you want to do it?"

 

        The minister's costume was in Bad-Ass' trunk.

 

        "What's wrong with this afternoon?," I said.

 

        I went outside and returned with the costume, and Dad tried it on.

 

    He looked wonderful.  He could've passed for Spencer Tracy in the movie

 

    about Boy's Town.  We were still gloating over his appearance when Hank

 

    walked in.

 

        "A little early for Halloween, isn't it?," he said.

 

        I didn't want Hank to know what was going on and tried to let Dad

 

    know as much by my expression.  But he was already a step ahead
of me.

 

        "What do you think, son?," he asked Hank.  "I'm auditioning for a

 

    commercial."

 

        It was off the top, and it was beautiful.  I didn't realize Dad had

 

    so much acting talent.

 

        "What the hell are you talking about?," said Hank.

 

        "A friend of mine works in an agency, thought I'd be perfect. So

 

    what do you think?  Maybe this is the beginning of a whole new career."

 

        Hank stared at Dad and then at me.  He didn't know what to think.

 

        Hank moved to his desk, saying, "At least you two can relax about

 

    the rat murders now.  They found their man - or at least his corpse."

 

        Dad said, "Red, can I bribe you into giving me a lift to the TV

 

    station?  I'd feel conspicuous, driving all dressed up like this."

 

        If was flimsy but it worked.

 

        I said, "Sure thing."

 

        "Don't forget the stakeout," Hank told me.  "Probably tomorrow

 

    night.  I need to fill you in before then."

 

        "Whenever," I said.

 

        We left.  Dad said he wanted to drop by a few of his old haunts

 

    before going to KRB, for the fun of it.  I helped him wire up and then

 

    we went our separate ways, with plans to meet back at the office around

 

    five.  I hoped Dad didn't get too reckless having fun with the costume.

 

    I didn't think Buzz Taylor would assault a uniformed member of the

 

    California Council of Churches, but I thought Dad should be on his

 

    toes.

 

        Driving to Foothills, I listened to KRB.  Not one mention was made

 

    of Dan's death.  Someone called Ronny the Rocker was taking Lovin'

 

    Dan's shift, and the program went on as if nothing out of the ordinary

 

    had happened.  The doo-wop contest was beginning next week.

 

        I found Joan next door, where Jeff and Edna were chaperoning her

 

    wake, if that's what it was.  She was already pretty high by the time I

 

    got there just past noon.  I took iced tea with the others, while Joan

 

    drank martinis and babbled.

 

        "Is life strange or is life strange?  You live with a man for five

 

    years and don't know the first thing about him.  Hell, you play bridge

 

    with someone every week who turns out to be a Negro! I'll tell you,

 

    I've had enough surprises this summer to last a lifetime.  I need no

 

    more surprises in my life.  No surprises."

 

        And so it went.  She would be giggling one moment, then look like

 

    she was ready to burst into tears.  I had to admit, she'd had one hell

 

    of a summer.

 

        When Joan excused herself to the bathroom, Jeff said, "We need to

 

    talk.  Can you hold down the fort?," he asked his wife.

 

        Edna nodded, though she didn't look too happy about being stuck

 

    alone with Joan.

 

        Jeff led the way outside.  We climbed down the ladder into his bomb

 

    shelter.  It wasn't much larger than my studio apartment and smelled

 

    like dirt.

 

        "I'll have her done before winter," Jeff said, seeing my curiosity.

 

    A concrete floor was in but not the walls, which were canvas.  It was

 

    cool down there, and I figured that even if the Russians never

 

    attacked, a place like this would be a decent investment just to escape

 

    from the smog.

 

        There was no place to sit.  We stood facing one another.

 

        "Find out anything about Harriet?," he asked.

 

        "She's got a boyfriend."

 

        "Really?"

 

        "A Negro boy."

 

        "I was afraid of that, to tell the truth.  It doesn't really

 

    surprise me, considering how much Harriet listens to their music."

 

        "You brought me down here to talk about Harriet?"

 

        "No.  I'm worried about Joan.  The way she's reacted to the news

 

    about Dan.  Not his murder, the other."

 

        "The police say they have evidence."

 

        "I think Joan knows more than she's telling."

 

        I waited for more.

 

        "That fellow who talked at the meeting, the deejay, Wallace Filmore

 

    I believe his name was.  He paid her a visit last night. Very late,

 

    almost midnight.  He stayed over an hour.  I was only up because I

 

    haven't been able to sleep.  I don't know what to do about Harriet."

 

        He took a deep breath.

 

        "Anyway," he went on, "I thought it was something you should know

 

    about.  It struck me as a very strange time to visit.  And the way

 

    Joanie is carrying on now . . . well, maybe it's nothing. Maybe he was

 

    offering his sympathies."

 

        "At midnight?"

 

        "That's what I was thinking."

 

        I said, "I appreciate the information."

 

        "Harriet really has a Negro boyfriend?"

 

        "Yes."

 

        "If we went to the police, that fact would come out, wouldn't it?

 

    It'd be in the newspaper."

 

        "Perhaps."

 

        He led the way, and we climbed back up into the day.  In the den,

 

    Joan was babbling away.

 

        "Joan," I interrupted, "can I talk to you next door?"

 

 

        It had taken a full twenty minutes to get her to move to her own

 

    house.  Jeff Berger helped me, then departed as Joan started mixing a

 

    martini at the liquor cabinet in the den.  He had touched my shoulder

 

    passing by, as if to say, Good luck.

 

        I wanted to get to it before Joan passed out.

 

        "Tell me about your midnight visitor," I said.

 

        She looked at me and laughed.

 

        "Mr. Trevorak, do I owe you any money?"

 

        "No."

 

        "Then since you're no longer in my employ, we have nothing to talk

 

    about, do we?  You know where the door is."

 

        "Midnight's a little late for company.  I didn't know you knew

 

    Wallace Filmore that well."

 

        She glared at me.

 

        "Who told you?"

 

        "I happened to be in the neighborhood."

 

        "It had to be Jeff."

 

        "I was on a stakeout in the neighborhood," I lied, "and passed by

 

    just in time to see him arrive."

 

        "A stakeout?"

 

        "Your neighbors aren't immune to adultery."

 

        In her drunken state, this was enough to disorient her.  She forgot

 

    that she didn't want to talk about it.

 

        "He woke me up, as a matter of fact," she said.  "It took me

 

    forever to get rid of him."

 

        "I didn't know you knew him."

 

        "Well, I do."

 

        "How well?"

 

        "Christ," she mumbled.  She swallowed her drink and started

 

    building another.

 

        "Did you know he's a member of the Regiment for Christian

 

    Authority?"

 

        "Of course I do.  I admire him for it."

 

        "Are you a member?"

 

        I was shooting from the hip, and her reply surprised me.

 

        "As a matter of fact, I recently joined.  I admire me, too."

 

        She raised the glass, almost losing her balance.  She grabbed the

 

    liquor cabinet, steadied herself and finished building the new drink.

 

        I took another wild shot.  "Joan, are you and Wally having an

 

    affair?"

 

        She sipped the fresh drink.

 

        I said, "How long has it been going on?"

 

        No answer.

 

        "Did Dan know about it?"

 

        Joan laughed and said, "You think you're so damn smart, don't you?"

 

        She took her drink across the room to the large windows looking out

 

    on the back yard.  It looked like a golf course back there, immaculate

 

    diachondra bordered by tall firs.

 

        Joan said, "I never understood why he left the radio station in

 

    Pasadena.  He played such lovely music.  Dinner music.  Of course, I

 

    didn't realize he was a sick man."  She turned to me. "That Negro music

 

    is like a disease, Mr. Trevorak.  Look what it did to Dan.  Imagine

 

    what it must be doing to poor Harriet.  And innocent kids like her."

 

        She started moving toward me, slowly, and I readied myself to grab

 

    her if she lost her balance.

 

        "Have you found Jesus Christ, Mr. Trevorak?," she asked.

 

        She reached out for the back of the divan for support.

 

        I said, "I'd like to talk to you when you're sober."

 

        "I'm sober enough."

 

        I didn't buy it.  I left her staggering toward the liquor cabinet

 

    and got the hell out of there.

 

        I managed to get into Bad-Ass without being intercepted by Jeff

 

    Berger.  Cruising out of the foothills, I wondered how much of Joan's

 

    babbling to take seriously and how much was liquor talking.  They say

 

    you tell the truth under the influence but I'd met too many drunken

 

    liars along the way.

 

        In the small business district I stopped at a pay phone and dialed

 

    the station to see if Hot Wire was in.  I recognized Brenda's voice,

 

    and she told me Hot Wire Wally didn't work there any more.  I wanted to

 

    know why.

 

        "This is Red Trevorak," I said.  "Remember me?"

 

        There was a silence.

 

        "You ready for some more champagne?"

 

        "I don't know," she said cautiously.

 

        "No hard feelings about the last time," I said.  "I shouldn't have

 

    asked you to remove the file."

 

        Again no reply.  I added, "The way I figure it, you were just doing

 

    your job by telling the boss.  No hard feelings."

 

        "What you want?," she asked.

 

        "Just to ask you a few more questions."

 

        "Maybe I got questions to ask you myself."

 

        "Well, good, maybe we can have an actual conversation.  How about

 

    the Texas Playhouse after you get off?"

 

        "Okay."

 

        "Four?"

 

        "Five."

 

        "You got it," I said.

 

        I called the office for Dad.  When Hank answered the phone, I hung

 

    up and called Dad at home.  No answer.  I hoped he wasn't drinking too

 

    much, showing off the minister's costumes in his various hangouts.  I

 

    also hoped he hadn't gone to the station yet. Before he did, I wanted

 

    to find out why Wally had left and whether it meant Buzz Taylor might

 

    not respect a clergyman after all.

 

        I phoned the office again.

 

        "Tell Dad we cancel til tomorrow," I said.

 

        "What the hell's going on between you two?," Hank asked.

 

        "He'll understand the message."

 

        "Where the hell are you?  I've got to brief you on the stakeout."

 

        "Don't worry, I'll be there eventually."

 

        "Sometimes I think I'm the only goddamn one who works here," Hank

 

    said.

 

        "You are."

 

        I hung up.  It wasn't the nice thing to do, but I couldn't believe

 

    that if worse came to worse Hank couldn't put in the stakeout time

 

    himself.  As a last resort, he could hire one of the other gofers who

 

    sometimes worked for us.  As long as Dad was interested in what I was

 

    up to, I figured I could get away with just about anything.  And almost

 

    anything beat the boredom of the Peeping Tom Patrol.

 

        I had some time to kill, and Gregory Albertson was free on bail.  I

 

    decided to pay a visit to his lawyer.

 

 

 

 

 

    34/

           

        Judson Bailey clearly was upset.  From his desk he saw me talking

 

    to his secretary and rushed forward to invite me behind the closed door

 

    of his office.

 

        "I've been trying to reach you," he said.  "I need you to go to

 

    Oregon."

 

        My shock at this request must have shown, for he immediately added,

 

    "I did hire you, didn't I?"

 

        "Yes, but the police think they have their man.  And Albertson just

 

    got out on bail, didn't he?"

 

        "That's the problem.  Mr. Albertson has broken the conditions of

 

    bail by leaving the state.  I want you to get him back here as soon as

 

    you can."

 

        "Oregon's a big state."

 

        I thought it was.  I'd never been to Oregon.  I'd never known

 

    anyone who had been to Oregon.  It was up north somewhere.

 

        Bailey said, "I had to frighten his mother to death to find out

 

    that he'd left.  His destination is a little north just over the

 

    border.  Here's an address I found in his room.  Of course, she didn't

 

    want to let me search it but once she realized how much trouble he

 

    could be in, she gave in."

 

        He held a sheet of paper across the desk, and I took it.  I read an

 

    address in a town called Ashland.

 

        "Is a name attached to this?," I asked.

 

        "The address is all I have.  He flew to Medford, which apparently

 

    is the closest town to Ashland with an airport.  Can you leave this

 

    afternoon?"

 

        Without waiting for an answer, he got up from behind the desk, as

 

    if to wish me bon voyage.  I didn't budge.

 

        "Mr. Bailey, you are not the only client I have.  I'm tied up for a

 

    couple of days."

 

        "But this is urgent."

 

        "You have no idea why he flew to Oregon?"

 

        "None whatever."

 

        I remembered something.  Gregory Albertson had been arrested at the

 

    airport.  He was getting ready to board a plane for a small town in

 

    Oregon.  Curiosity was threatening the cat again.

 

        "He was on his way to Oregon when he was arrested," I said.

 

        "Yes, but I don't know why.  And now he's breaking bail."

 

        I could reschedule Brenda easily enough, and I'd already left a

 

    message for Dad to delay the impersonation.  Hank had a stakeout, of

 

    course, but that only made a trip to Oregon more appealing.  I could

 

    get somebody else to fill in for me with a couple of phonecalls.

 

        "Let me see if I can reschedule a few things," I said.

 

        "You can use my phone if you like.  I'll be in the library."

 

        He left the office through a side door.  As soon as he was gone, I

 

    moved behind the big executive desk and sat in the plush executive

 

    chair.  I swung my legs up onto the desk and dialed the office.  Hank

 

    answered.

 

        When I told him I was going to Oregon, he had a fit.

 

        "What about the stakeout?," he asked after calming down.

 

        "We got three or four guys who can do it and need the money. Call

 

    Flanigan.  I heard he's getting divorced, so you know he's looking for

 

    work.  If he's busy, try Zink."

 

        Hank started lecturing me about responsibility and I interrupted

 

    with, "I shouldn't be gone long."

 

        It felt good to hang up on him.

 

        I left a message with Brenda, saying I had to work late, let's do a

 

    raincheck on champagne.  I told her I'd call her in a few days.

 

        I looked up travel agents in the yellow pages.  A sexy- sounding

 

    voice at San Gabriel Travel booked me on a flight to Medford at

 

    seven-thirty that night.  I made reservations, with an open return

 

    flight.

 

        So this was how fancy lawyers did it.  Feet up on the desk, pulling

 

    the stops that ran the world from your office phone.

 

        I walked through the side door into the library.

 

        "I leave at seven-thirty," I said.

 

        "Excellent."

 

        Bailey pulled out his wallet.

 

        "I can put everything on the bill," I said.

 

        "Let's call this a little bonus, to inspire you to get him back as

 

    soon as possible.  Late tonight if you can."

 

        He handed me a hundred dollar bill.

 

 

        I let myself into Carla's apartment.  I could hear the shower

 

    running.  If we both could have fit in there at the same time, I would

 

    have disrobed and surprised her.  I remembered the huge shower in the

 

    Hearst Castle, a Rube Goldberg affair with pipes in great spirals

 

    shooting water from every direction.  There was a shower that Carla and

 

    I could share.  It was probably the only one in the world big enough

 

    for us to share.

 

        I found a Falstaff in the refrigerator, opened it and waited at the

 

    small table off the kitchen.

 

        I was on my second beer when Carla came plodding into the room,

 

    naked with her hair wrapped in a towel.

 

        "Where the hell have you been?," she asked right off.

 

        "Didn't you get my note?"

 

        "I got it."

 

        "I've been here, waiting for you."

 

        She took off the towel and started rubbing her head with it. As she

 

    did, her large breasts and belly shook.

 

        "I've been in a fucking nightmare," she said.

 

        "Good."

 

        "What do you mean, good?"

 

        "I was afraid you might like the guy."

 

        "What the fuck are you talking about?"

 

        She stopped and looked at me.  Then she took two steps toward the

 

    bed, walking around in the pile of loose clothing, tossing pieces this

 

    way and that, picking out her wardrobe by throwing an occasional piece

 

    onto the bed.  I could never understand how she kept track of which

 

    clothes were clean and which dirty.  All of them were on the floor.

 

        Her wardrobe chosen, she started dressing.  I went to the

 

    refrigerator and got another beer.

 

        "You fucking floor me," said Carla.

 

        "How so?"

 

        "You think I was out on a date or something?"

 

        "You didn't spend the night here."

 

        "Through no fault of my own."

 

        I could tell she was angry, and I was sorry to have brought the

 

    matter up.  We weren't engaged or anything, for Christ's sake. But I

 

    still wanted to know where the hell she'd been.

 

        "Butch came by late yesterday afternoon," she said.  "He's got to

 

    talk to you right away."

 

        I wondered why he hadn't phoned the office.  At least, there had

 

    been no message to return his call.

 

        "He seemed so upset I called the office myself later, to see if you

 

    were in.  Your brother answered, and he seemed as anxious to find you

 

    as Butch."

 

        "I was here most of yesterday," I said.  "Too bad you weren't

 

    home."

 

        "Let me finish.  Anyway, something about Butch's manner kept

 

    bugging me, so I thought I'd go over and see what was going on. He

 

    wasn't home.  When I went back to my car, the tires were slashed."

 

        "Are you kidding me?"

 

        "All four of them.  There was a note on the windshield telling me

 

    to mind my own business.  I mean, it was really creepy!  How would

 

    anyone know what I was there for?  I was so upset I called Shirley and

 

    spent the night with her."

 

        "Do you have the note?"

 

        "Why would I save the note?"

 

        "So I could check the handwriting."

 

        "Red, what the hell's going on?"

 

        "I wish I knew."

 

        "Why would anybody slash my tires?"

 

        I didn't want to think about how someone knew that Carla was mine,

 

    that whatever they had against me applied to her as well. I got up and

 

    embraced her.

 

        "I'm scared," she said.

 

        "I am, too.  Think you can spend some time with Shirley while I'm

 

    gone?  I have to go to Oregon for a few days."

 

        "What's in Oregon?"

 

        "I'm not sure."

 

        "This all has something to do with that case you're working on,

 

    doesn't it?"

 

        "Probably.  I'd better see Butch before I go."

 

        I stood up to go.

 

        "I missed you," she said.

 

        "I missed you like hell last night."

 

        "I tried to get you at home.  I thought you were probably on a

 

    stakeout.  It didn't occur to me that you'd spend the night here."

 

        "At least I could smell you on the sheets a little."

 

        "Maybe we should go to bed before you go."

 

        "You just got dressed."

 

        But she didn't hear this, she was already stripping for bed.

 

 

        When Butch didn't answer his phone, I drove to South City. I had

 

    time to kill and talking to Ruth promised to be more interesting than

 

    talking to Brenda.

 

        Her mother answered the door.  She looked differently than I

 

    remembered her.  The bandanna was gone, and in place of her earlier

 

    bubbling good nature was a glare that would have melted the ice caps.

 

        "Is Ruth home?," I asked.

 

        "No, she isn't."

 

        "Do you know where she is?"

 

        "I wouldn't tell you, even if I knew."

 

        I wondered what had happened to change her mood.  Probably Ruth had

 

    told her about Stanley Sullivan.  Earlier she'd struck me as the

 

    carefree sort who was Every Man's favorite grandmother.  Now she was

 

    slamming the door in my face.

 

        At the pay phone near the radio station I tried Butch again. This

 

    time he answered.

 

        "Where the hell you been?," he wanted to know.

 

        "Hither and yon.  What's up?"

 

        "How about some pool tonight?  I got some things to talk to you

 

    about."

 

        "I need to talk to you, too, but I'm flying up to Oregon in a

    couple hours."

 

        "Where in Oregon?"

 

        "Small town called Ashland."

 

        There was a pause, and then Butch said, "What the hell are you

 

    going up there for?"

 

        "You read about Gregory Albertson getting out on bail?  He went to

 

    Oregon, and I'm supposed to bring him back."

 

        "Where are you now?"

 

        "South City."

 

        "Shit.  Get your ass over here as soon as you can."

 

        "I don't have time, man, I've got a flight to catch."

 

        "Fuck the flight."

 

        "Are you crazy?"

 

        "Trust me, man.  I found out a few things."

 

        "You know who slashed Carla's tires?"

 

        "I'd rather talk to you face to face.  Come by here, it won't take

 

    thirty minutes."

 

        "Why can't you tell me on the phone?"

 

        "I'll do a better job convincing you face to face."

 

        "I don't have time to come by, man.  If you know who did that to

 

    Carla, damn it, tell me."

 

        "Okay, the bar at the airport, I'll meet you there."

 

        "Come on, Butch.  What the hell's going on?"

 

        "Trust me, okay?"

 

        "I don't like somebody going after Carla, man."

 

        "The airport bar, okay?"

 

        I looked at my watch.

 

        "I'll come by your place but I can't stay longer than half an

 

    hour."

 

        "When you hear what I have to say, you'll change your mind."

 

        "I doubt it."

 

        "Just hear me out."

 

        Halfway to Watts, Bad-Ass blew a tire.  The whole circumference

 

    peeled off like a banana, and by the time I got the spare on, grunting

 

    and groaning with the frustration of a piss-poor mechanic, I was

 

    running late, and I just managed to get to the airport before the

 

    flight to Oregon took off without me.

 

 

 

 

    35/

           

          Commercial airlines aren't built for the convenience of 300-

 

    pound men but it was pleasant enough a flight under the circumstances.

 

    At least I had a mental distraction from the physical discomfort of

 

    feeling like I was wearing a suit several sizes too small:  the more I

 

    thought about someone harassing Carla, the less I liked it.

 

        When we landed in Medford, it was raining.  I hadn't brought an

 

    umbrella, not even a rain coat, and stepped off the plane to run under

 

    a downpour into the nearby terminal.

 

        I rented a car and asked directions to Ashland.  It was only about

 

    ten miles away.  Since I had a new car, I took my time.

 

        If Medford looked like any of hundreds of towns across America,

 

    with its army of billboards marching in all directions with proud news

 

    of growth and prosperity, Ashland was smaller and less ostentatious.

 

    Passing the city limits sign, I even began to worry that the town was

 

    too small to have a motel.  But it had several, and I pulled into one

 

    and got a room.

 

        A flier on the television set told me that a play festival was

 

    going on.  Three Shakespeare plays were being performed in rotation, an

 

    ambitious venture that struck me as extraordinary, since it was

 

    happening in a town smaller than my neighborhood in Venice.  I folded

 

    the flier and put it into a pocket, then left to find the address that

 

    Bailey had given me.

 

        Nothing in Ashland was far from anything else.  As it turned out, I

 

    could have walked to the address, which was only five or six blocks

 

    from the motel.  I parked the car and walked to the front porch.

 

    Seeing a new Chrysler in the driveway, I buttoned my shirt collar and

 

    pulled up my tie.

 

        The porch light was off but lights were on inside.  Before going to

 

    the door, I walked to a front window and peeked inside. Finding a sex

 

    orgy in progress would not have surprised me more than what I saw:

 

    Gregory and Ruth, who were talking to an old man, who presumably lived

 

    there.  Gregory appeared to be doing all of the talking.

 

        I stepped back from the window.  Then I went back to the car and

 

    parked it around the corner.

 

        They came out in less than an hour.  The Chrysler in the driveway

 

    belonged to them, a rental like my own, and when they pulled out of the

 

    driveway and started off, I was behind them.

 

        They pulled into a motel across the street from my own.  I turned

 

    into the lot of mine and parked, watching them go into their room.

 

        I looked at my watch.  It probably wasn't the old man's bedtime

 

    yet.  I moved the car in front of my room and locked it. I walked back

 

    to the old man's house.

 

        He answered the door in his bathrobe.  He was thin, almost gaunt,

 

    but clearly had been handsome in his day.  He was carrying a glass of

 

    water, as if I'd interrupted some nighttime ritual of pill-taking.

 

        "Yes?," he asked.

 

        He was squinting at me, then turned on the porch light and said,

 

    "What do you want?"

 

        I was winging it, as usual.  I heard myself say, "I'm a friend of

 

    Ruth's."  Pretty gutsy lead, if I thought so myself.

 

        He looked at me suspiciously before saying, "Then look for her at

 

    her motel."

 

        "You mean she's in town?"

 

        He just stared at me.

 

        "I had no idea she was in town," I continued.  "I promised her I'd

 

    look you up when I was in town.  And now she's here herself. How about

 

    that?"

 

        "That doesn't sound like my daughter," he said.

 

        Bingo!

 

        I said, "May I come in?"

 

        He paused before nodding and moving aside, as if he were as curious

 

    about me as I was about him.  I stepped inside.

 

        "I have a little coffee left in the pot," he said.  Again, I got

 

    the idea the offer was more curiosity than hospitality.

 

        "Perfect."

 

        "Make yourself at home.  I won't be a minute."

 

        He hobbled off toward the kitchen as I took his advice and made

 

    myself at home in the living room.  It was a small house and a small

 

    living room.  What stood out immediately were the dozens of photographs

 

    on the wall.  They were of Negroes mostly, singing groups and musicians

 

    in publicity poses.  I wondered if the guy had been a press agent or

 

    what.

 

        I was still perusing the photos when he returned with the coffee.

 

    Handing me a mug, he asked, "Recognize any of them?"

 

        "Nat King Cole."

 

        It was a photograph of the trio, with a signature and salutation I

 

    couldn't make out.  It was the only photograph in the room I

 

    recognized.

 

        "I knew Nat very well," he said.

 

        "Really?"

 

        "Was in the business a long, long time, young fellow." Nostalgia

 

    seemed to be loosening him up a little.  "I knew them all."

 

        I was standing in front of a photograph of a man performing

 

    gyrations with a saxophone, his band seated behind him.  The pose was

 

    exaggerated, almost comic.

 

        "That's Louis Jordan, one of the best.  You've heard of him, of

 

    course."

 

        I nodded, remembering only that I'd heard the name somewhere. Maybe

 

    they played him on KRB.

 

        "I'm Clyde Fitzgerald," the man said, offering his hand.

 

        I switched the coffee mug to my left hand and accepted the

 

    handshake.

 

        "Of course."  Great acting, all the way.  If he wanted Clyde, he

 

    could have it.  I said, "I'm Samuel Spademon."

 

        "You're looking for Ruth?," he asked.

 

        "I'm surprised she's in town.  I was just passing through on

 

    business and thought I'd pay my respects.  As I said, Ruth would kill

 

    me if she knew I was this close and didn't stop by.  She talks of you

 

    often."

 

        "I don't believe that," he said.

 

        I wasn't sure what he meant.  I took a breather by studying another

 

    photograph.  Then I was winging it again, marveling at myself even as I

 

    piled it on.

 

        "Well, you're right," I began.  "Actually I'm here for more than

 

    paying respects.  I'm well aware of your reputation in the music

 

    industry, of course.  I'm thinking of going into a business venture

 

    relating to the music industry and, well, since I was in Medford on

 

    another matter, I couldn't resist coming by to see if you'd let me pick

 

    your brain."

 

        It was Oscar stuff, and I was on a roll.

 

        "Where are you from?," he asked.

 

        "Los Angeles."

 

        "Wouldn't know Peter Potter down there by chance?"

 

        Recognizing the name of the popular L.A. deejay, I said, "Been to a

 

    couple parties he was at, is all.  He wouldn't know me from Adam."

 

        "So you're here to pick my brain?  You could've chosen a more

 

    convenient time."

 

        "Oh, I'm sorry."  I glanced at my watch.  "I didn't realize how

 

    late it was.  I must be keeping you up."

 

        "At my age, sleep is important.  What are you doing for breakfast?"

 

        "Not a thing."

 

        "You know the hotel on Main Street?  Can't miss it.  How

 

    about seven-thirty?"

 

        "Perfect."

 

        "Where do you know Ruth from?"

 

        "She used to clean the office where I work."

 

        "She told you about me?"

 

        "Well, actually, she has mentioned you."

 

        "She hates me."

 

        "Yes, I got that idea."

 

        Without further word he walked me to the door and had the front

 

    porchlight off before I got to the steps.

 

        I started back to the motel.  Ruth hated her father but Albertson,

 

    who had not been mentioned, appeared to be doing all the talking.  Why

 

    were they there?

 

        As I reached the motel I glanced across the street and saw that the

 

    rented Chrysler was gone.  I walked over and entered the motel office.

 

        A woman with her hair in curlers was behind the desk watching

 

    wrestling on one of those old Hoffman Easy-Vision TV's, with the green

 

    screens.  She looked at me, popped her gum and said, "Want a room?"

 

        "I was wondering what happened to the couple in room seven," I

 

    said.  "I promised I'd come by tonight but they don't seem to be in."

 

        "Just went out for dinner," she said.  "The gentleman asked me to

 

    recommend a place, so I sent them to Medford.  Nothing in Ashland open

 

    this late."

 

        A clock on the wall read almost ten.  They went to bed early in

 

    Oregon.

 

        I thanked her and walked to my room.  From the window I could see

 

    the parking lot across the street, and so I moved two chairs near the

 

    window, one for me and one for a footrest, and began my own little

 

    stakeout.  The chair under me squeaked every time I squirmed or changed

 

    position.  Finally I got nervous that it would break under my weight

 

    and scooted the bed over against the window. I turned on the tube and

 

    watched an old movie with Hopalong Cassidy, sprawled out on the bed and

 

    wishing I had popcorn or at least a drink.  I hadn't noticed a bar in

 

    the whole goddamn town. They had Shakespeare but no bar.  Strange

 

    place.

 

        Sometime or other I dozed off.  When I awoke, it was almost

 

    midnight.  The Chrysler was parked across the street.

 

        I put on my shoes and crossed the street.  It was cool, downright

 

    chilly.  I hadn't brought along anything to keep the chill off.

 

        The curtains were closed but there was a soft light on inside, from

 

    the television, I guessed, since I could hear the tube's murmuring as

 

    well.  I took a deep breath and tapped on the door.

 

 

 

    36/

           

        "Who is it?"

 

        It was Gregory Albertson's voice.  I tried disguising my own.

 

        "Manager."

 

        As soon as the door cracked open, I pushed forward and entered the

 

    room.  Albertson, in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, stared at me with his

 

    mouth open.  Ruth wasn't there, unless she was in the bathroom.

 

        "Fancy meeting you here," I said.

 

        Albertson took a deep breath before speaking.  "Did my lawyer send

 

    you?  He told me he'd hired you."

 

        I nodded.  I was listening for noise in the bathroom but the TV was

 

    on too loud.

 

        "I'll be returning tomorrow morning," he said.  "So if you're here

 

    to get me, the trip is wasted."

 

        "Where's Ruth?"

 

        "What have you been doing, following us?"

 

        When I didn't reply, he said, "I got her a room in Medford."

 

        "You two have a spiff?"

 

        He looked at me as if the question surprised him.  Then he said, "I

 

    didn't invite her."

 

        There was a bottle of bourbon and a bucket of ice on the small

 

    desk.  He mixed himself a drink.

 

        "You sharing?," I asked.

 

        He thought about it a moment.  "I just have bourbon."

 

        "On the rocks."

 

        We took our drinks to the small table near the window and sat down.

 

    On the way, Albertson turned down the sound of the TV but left the

 

    picture on.

 

        "You want to tell me what you're doing up here?," I asked.

 

        "No, as a matter of fact, I don't."

 

        He smiled but there was no joy in it.

 

        "You and Ruth fly up together?"

 

        "As it turned out, we did.  Like I told you, she invited herself."

 

        "You had other plans?"

 

        He paused before saying, "She booked on the same flight.  I didn't

 

    have much choice."

 

        "Have you met her father before?"

 

        "How'd you know her father's up here?"

 

        "Part of my job."

 

        "I thought you were investigating Dan."

 

        "Wrong tense.  Had been investigating."

 

        He said, "Terrible thing to happen."

 

        "Any ideas who did it?"

 

        "Christ, no.  If he was the rat murderer like they say, well, who

 

    knows what mental illness he has or what class of people he hung around

 

    with.  I don't understand people like that."

 

        "And I still don't understand why you're here."

 

        "On business, how's that?"

 

        "What kind of business?"

 

        He went to the desk and brought the booze and ice back to

 

    the table.  He poured us refills.

 

        "If my lawyer hired you, you should be on my side," he said.

 

        "Maybe I am."

 

        He didn't look convinced.

 

        "Then why the third degree?"

 

        I said, "You were on your way to Oregon when you were arrested.

 

    Ruth's father used to be in the music business.  You tell me you're up

 

    here on business and that Ruth wasn't invited. Maybe you can understand

 

    why I'm confused."

 

        He shook his head and laughed.  "You guys never give up, do you?"

 

        "You and Ruth are lovers," I said.

 

        "Is that what you think?"

 

        "Why else did you take her to a motel?  You seem to be having a

 

    spiff like lovers."

 

        "We are not lovers," he said.  "I barely know the woman."

 

        "You know her father."

 

        "We share business interests."

 

        "Musical business interests?"

 

        "Yes."

 

        I gave him time to go on but he didn't bite.  I said, "I got the

 

    impression from Mr. Fitzgerald that he and Ruth don't get along."

 

        "Apparently not," said Albertson.

 

        "You have to qualify it?"

 

        "Mr. Trevorak, I barely know the woman.  I certainly had no idea

 

    that I was doing business with her father.  When she tried to pull her

 

    little . . ."

 

        He stopped and finished his drink.  He topped both our glasses

 

    again.

 

        I said, "You were saying she tried to pull something?"

 

        "I know my lawyer hired you, but I really don't feel like getting

 

    into this."

 

        "Who tried to frame you as the rat murderer?"

 

        "I believe that's why you were hired, Mr. Trevorak.  Why ask me?"

 

        "You didn't do that yourself?"

 

        "Of course not.  I wasn't composed enough to think of it. What

 

    happened was a terrible accident - and I ran."

 

        "You put your baby in a safe place," I said.  When he didn't

 

    respond, I added, "That's what you told me."

 

        "I don't know what happened to the baby.  It was there when I

 

    left."

 

        "You abandoned it?"

 

        "I don't think of it that way."

 

        I could tell he was getting angry at this new direction of the

 

    conversation.   I wanted him to believe I was in his camp, so to speak,

 

    hired by his lawyer and sympathetic to his story about killing his wife

 

    in self-defense.  I changed the subject.

 

        "I'd like to talk to Ruth," I said.

 

        "She's in no condition to talk to anyone tonight.  She drank like a

 

    fish through dinner and passed out as soon as she hit the bed."

 

        "And you two aren't lovers?," I asked.

 

        "We've never been lovers."

 

        "And you knew Fitzgerald and had a business arrangement with him,

 

    before you knew that Ruth was his daughter?"

 

        "Exactly."

 

        "A venture in the music industry."

 

        "It's getting late, Mr. Trevorak.  I haven't had a very pleasant

 

    day."

 

        "Fine," I said, standing up.  "What time is your flight tomorrow

 

    morning?"

 

        "A little after ten."

 

        "I'll come over at eight-thirty, and we'll pick up Ruth."

 

        "You can pick up Ruth.  I have nothing to say to her."

 

        I changed the subject again, asking, "How well did you know Dan

 

    Davies?"

 

        "Please, Mr. Trevorak, it's late."

 

        "I was wondering if you had any notions about who killed him."

 

        "With his kind, it could be anyone.  Goodnight, Mr. Trevorak."

 

        I left him staring down into his drink and went back to my room.

 

        I wanted to phone Carla but didn't know the number of her

 

    girlfriend.  I was worried about her, about getting her involved in all

 

    this.  When I called Butch to find out what was on his mind, he wasn't

 

    in.

 

        I tossed and turned for a long time before falling asleep, worrying

 

    about Carla and later thinking about what Albertson had told me, that

 

    he barely knew Ruth and certainly was not her lover, but yet was in

 

    business with her father.  I couldn't decide whether or not I believed

 

    him.

 

 

 

    37/

 

    Mon, 21 Jun 54:  in Oregon on a wild goose chase.  A town called

 

    Ashland is putting on three Shakespeare plays in repertoire.

 

    Unfortunately I won't have time to see any but this is worth checking

 

    out.  I haven't worked on my own play for what seems like ages.  Well,

 

    let's not dwell on that.  Let's write "over and out" instead.

 

        It was a spectacular morning.  The sky was cloudless and pale blue

 

    and seemed to vibrate with life.  Tall pine trees surrounded the motel.

 

    The air was crisp and invigorating.  I got the idea that no one worried

 

    about smog up here.

 

        I arrived at the hotel dining room fifteen minutes early and found

 

    Fitzgerald already at a table, reading the paper.  When I joined him he

 

    said, "Good, I like a man who's on time."

 

        I'd been rehearsing a confession all morning and tried it out

 

    without preface.

 

        "I have to level with you, Mr. Fitzgerald.  I'm not in the music

 

    business."

 

        He studied me before saying, "Who are you then?"

 

        "I'm a detective, sir."

 

        I showed him my identification.  Unlike most people, he read every

 

    word on my license.

 

        "What's this all about?," he asked.

 

        "I'm not quite sure.  Have you been following the rat murders in

 

    Los Angeles?"

 

        "Who can miss them?  It's the main thing selling papers these

 

    days."

 

        "I think there's a connection somehow between the murders and

 

    what's been happening in the music industry.  Only I don't know enough

 

    about how the industry works to put it all together."

 

        He said, "How do you know Ruth?"

 

        "She was the housekeeper for a woman who employed me to investigate

 

    her husband.  He was murdered, and I think he was killed because of a

 

    music conspiracy he overturned."

 

        Over breakfast I tried to explain it all to him but the more I

 

    rambled on, the more disjointed and ridiculous everything seemed.

 

    Fitzgerald listened silently, with little visible reaction.  When I was

 

    done, he shocked me by grinning.

 

        "You really get involved in your work, young fellow," he said. "I

 

    like a man with dedication like that."

 

        "You have any feelings about a music conspiracy?"

 

        "Let me tell you how the industry works, son.  During the

 

    depression, and before the war, when the big bands were starting up,

 

    everything was racially divided.  That's what Ella Mae, Ruth's mother,

 

    never understood.  She didn't think that was right.  She could sing as

 

    well as Peggy Lee, and she knew it, and I knew it. But she didn't have

 

    the freedom Peggy had, and we both knew that, too.  It finally drove

 

    Ella Mae out of the business.  Sure, it wasn't right, but that's the

 

    way it was, it's the way society wanted it, and you can't change

 

    society overnight.  That's what she never understood.  So if there's

 

    more mixing of musical style now, racially speaking, that's a good

 

    thing.  It's long overdue."

 

        "There seem to be two ways of looking at it," I said.  "The deejay

 

    who was killed thought white people were ruining Negro music by toning

 

    it down, taking the sensual energy out of it."

 

        "You haven't told me this deejay's name.  I still know people down

 

    there."

 

        "Dan Davies.  He called himself Lovin' Dan the Sixty-Minute Man on

 

    the air."

 

        Fitzgerald's jaw tightened for a moment, and I thought he was going

 

    to choke on his bacon.  Recovering, he said, "You said there were two

 

    ways of looking at it."

 

        "On the other hand, there's an organization called The Regiment for

 

    Christian Authority that sees Negro music as the work of the devil that

 

    is corrupting the morals of youth."

 

        He put the last bite of bacon into his mouth.  I could tell that

 

    something I'd said was bothering him and decided to go the whole hog.

 

        "Mr. Fitzgerald, I talked to Gregory Albertson last night."

 

        My hunch was right.  He looked more unsettled than ever.  I went

 

    on.

 

        "He says you two share a business venture.  Something to do with

 

    music."

 

        He glared at me.

 

        "Did Ruth send you here?"

 

        "No, sir."

 

        "She wants my money.  That's all she's ever wanted."

 

        He stood up.

 

        "She made her own bed, sir, and she can damn well sleep in it."

 

        I said, "Please sit down, Mr. Fitzgerald."

 

        "What do you really want from me?"

 

        "I'm trying to find out why the deejay was murdered."

 

        "I don't know a damn thing about that.  Good day."

 

        I watched him go.  He'd only eaten half his breakfast.

 

 

        Gregory Albertson was ready and waiting when I stopped by the motel

 

    room.  I half-expected him to have disappeared.  We exchanged automatic

 

    morning pleasantries before getting into our separate rental cars.  I

 

    followed him into Medford.

 

        I waited in the car while Gregory went to the door of the motel

 

    room.  He knocked.  And again.  I got out of the car.

 

        "She must still be sleeping," he said, knocking again.

 

        I tried the door.  It opened, and I led the way inside.   No Ruth.

 

    The motel key was on the bed.

 

        The lady at the front desk hadn't seen her leave.  She'd probably

 

    spent most of the morning looking in the mirror while she put on her

 

    makeup, which was overdone and almost grotesque.  I wondered if she was

 

    one of those smalltown women longing for the big city.  I wondered if

 

    she knew what heat and smog could do to so much mascara.

 

        When we were back at our cars, I said,  "Okay, what's going on?"

 

        "I have no idea."

 

        "Come on, we'll leave your car here."

 

        "Where are we going?"

 

        "Three guesses."

 

        I drove back to Ashland and to Fitzgerald's house.  I pulled into

 

    the driveway.

 

        "Come on," I told Albertson, getting out.

 

        But no one answered the door here either.  I peeked in the window

 

    and found no signs of life.

 

        Next door a woman in a robe came out and walked out to the mailbox

 

    on the street.  I met her on her way back.

 

        "Excuse me, we're looking for Clyde Fitzgerald."

 

        "He left fifteen, twenty minutes ago," she said.  She was the

 

    opposite of the clerk at the motel, scrubbed as clean as a baby, her

 

    skin clear and pale in the morning sun.  "Soon as the new cleaning lady

 

    arrived, they drove off."

 

        "Cleaning lady?"

 

        "A Negro woman."

 

        "I guess they got tired of waiting for us," I said.  "You wouldn't

 

    happen to know where they went?"

 

        "No, I don't.  To get cleaning supplies at the hardware, maybe.

 

    They drove off in Clyde's pick-up."

 

        Driving back to the motel, I said, "You're not telling me