THE DEADLY DOOWOP

By Charles Deemer

 

Chapters 10-19

 

 

    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.