THE DEADLY DOOWOP

By Charles Deemer

 

Chapters 20-29

 

 

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