THE DEADLY DOOWOP
By Charles Deemer
Chapters 30-39
30/
Hangovers attract phone calls.
As bad mornings went, this was a
gem, and I
was lying with a pillow over my head while the phone rang.
And
rang. And rang.
I threw
the pillow across the room. The phone
kept ringing. I
reached for
it.
"Yeah?"
"I
don't know what you have in mind, Mr. Trevorak-", Ruth began.
"Wait," I said.
"Wait, wait a minute."
"I
will not wait."
"I've
got to make yellow water."
It was
the truth but it didn't set me free.
She was still on the
line when I
got back.
"So what's the problem?," I asked.
"You leave my little brother alone, or I'm going to the
police."
"I
don't know what you're talking about."
"You most certainly do. He
told me all about Sidney Sullivan, the
big record
producer. You should know better. You stick out in a
crowd, Mr.
Trevorak. So does your car. As soon as he mentioned a fat
man with
freckles, I knew it had to be you."
I
wasn't about to admit that she had a point.
"L.A.'s big enough for two fat men with freckles," I grumbled.
"I
don't know what you're up to but I want you to stop. If you
invade the
privacy of this family again, I'm going straight to the
police."
She
hung up then, just like in the movies.
I showered and got
dressed. While the coffee
perked, I stared at a blank page in my
journal
before saying to hell with it. Then I
put together a mental
outline of
my day.
First,
I phoned Jeff Berger.
"As a matter of fact, I have heard of the RCA," he said. "Why do
you
ask?"
"Do you belong?"
"No, I don't. They're a
little too fanatical for me."
"How fanatical?"
"They worry too much about Satan and not enough about our
children."
"They sponsored the meeting," I said.
"No,
that's not quite accurate. I heard that
they passed around
fliers with
their logo on it but the meeting actually grew out of our
neighborhood concerns. What is
this about, Mr. Trevorak? I thought
you'd be
calling with news about Harriet."
"I'm working on it," I said.
"I
should hope so."
"Do you know anyone who belongs to the RCA?"
"Not closely."
"Do you think there might be a connection between the RCA and the
rat
murders?"
"Are you serious? What
could they possibly have in common?"
"Just shooting in the dark."
"I
don't see what any of this has to do with finding Harriet."
"I'll be back to you soon," I said and hung up.
I
poured another cup of coffee and resisted the temptation to spike
it with
Jameson's. Hair of the dog had a way of
delaying the recovery,
not
assisting it. What I needed was a chore
that didn't take too much
thought,
like finding a clergyman's costume for Dad.
Hours
later, Butch was pouring me a cup of coffee and shaking his
head,
laughing. I'd spent most of the morning
making the rounds of
costume
shops, looking for the outfit.
Apparently it was easier to
dress up as a gorilla than as a
preacher. I'd finally found the
costume at
a shop on the outskirts of Watts, and so stopped by Butch's
with the
true excuse that I was in the area.
"I've been trying to tell you," said Butch, "never under-
estimate
the
emotions that can surface over racial matters." I'd been telling
him about
the Regiment for Christian Authority.
"Man, racial hatred is
at the very
root of this country. You got an
education, didn't you
ever read
history? Not just racial hatred of
Negroes - Indians,
Chinese,
just look at the facts, man. Indians are savages and nigger
music comes
from the devil - ain't no difference, man, the same
mentality
comes up with that shit."
"I've been wondering why Dan would
scribble RCA next to the names
of the
victims."
"And what did you come up with?"
"Maybe each victim was a member of the RCA."
"And what's the significance of that?"
"I'm not sure."
"You're sure worrying a lot about these rat murders."
"Too many coincidences connect them to what I've been working
on."
"You want more coffee?"
"I'd better let you get back to work."
The
huge canvas was nearing completion, and I knew that Butch
hadn't
really welcomed my unannounced visit.
"You can sit and watch if you want," Butch said.
"I'd better get to the office."
I
phoned in first. Dad answered the
phone.
"That deejay wants to see you right away," he said.
"Dan?"
"Right. He said to meet him
at his apartment, the sooner the
better."
"Thanks."
"Everything okay?"
"Fine. I've got your
costume, I'll be by later to have you try it
on."
"Oh my God, I did agree to that, didn't I?"
"You want to back out?"
"Not necessarily."
"See you after I see Dan."
I drove
to South City, wondering what was up.
Maybe Dan had more
to tell me
about why he'd scribbled RCA next to the rat victims.
When I
knocked on the door, I discovered it was unlocked. I pushed
it open the
rest of the way and stepped inside.
Dan was
on the divan and looked very dead. He'd
been shot in the
chest at
close range, and a small caliber pistol was on the floor
beside
him. The suggestion was suicide, of
course, but somehow the
setup
didn't ring true. Who ever shot
themselves in the chest?
Dan
didn't have a phone, so I'd have to call the police from the
pay phone
down the street. First I wanted to find
out something.
I went
into the bedroom. The suitcase in which
I'd found the
clippings
had been emptied onto the bed, and the clippings were gone.
The
nudist magazines were still in the chest of drawers but I'd
chosen a
bad time to find them. I was still
holding one when two
policemen
barged into the bedroom with pistols drawn, telling me I was
under
arrest.
31/
Lt.
Grimes was young and ambitious. He was
blond and had rugged
Tab-Hunter-in-the-Marines good looks.
In the movies it would've gone
this
way: Grimes wanted a promotion and I
was the fall guy who was
going to
help him get it. In reality, I'd been
caught in the wrong
place at
the wrong time and Grimes wanted to know why.
Naturally I
had no
choice but to sit there and listen to him until Dad arrived,
whom I'd
phoned instead of a lawyer.
"What do you think, Trevorak?," Grimes rambled on, "you
get special
treatment
cause your old man was on the force? I
never met the man, by
the
way. His reputation followed him but I
don't know the guy from
Adam,
okay? In other words, you get no
Brownie points. All I know is,
we get a
call that there's been a fight at a certain address and the
boys find
you there, looking at naked girls with a corpse in the front
room. And all I hear from you is that you're a
p.i. working on a case.
You say
you're working for the corpse's wife but won't say more, it's
privileged
information. Well, hot shot, I'll drag the lady down here if
I have to
and straighten this shit out. You
understand me? I suggest
you be a
little more cooperative. And what do
you expect your old man
to
accomplish down here? He become a
lawyer all of a sudden? You need
a lawyer, hot
shot. Real bad."
We were
in a small interrogation room, and I was facing the door
and
window. It could've been worse. I could've been sitting under a
single bare
lightbulb, like in the movies.
I saw
Dad coming down the hallway with his old buddy,
Capt. Hammond.
I must have smiled because suddenly Grimes was
bellowing,
"What the fuck's so goddamn funny, Trevorak?" I shrugged.
"I've
had it with you, wise ass. You
understand me?"
Then
Capt. Hammond came through the doorway, saying, "I'll take
over,
lieutenant."
Grimes
started to say something but didn't.
The
captain said, "This is Hank Trevorak, who used to be one of
us."
Dad and
Grimes shook hands.
"You can go," Hammond told Grimes.
The
lieutenant gave me a good glare before walking out. As curtain
gestures
go, it wasn't bad.
"Long time," said the captain, offering his hand. I was delighted
to shake
it.
Dad
said, "I told the captain here as much about the case you're on
as I could
remember. He probably has questions he
wants to ask you."
"Just a few," said Capt. Hammond.
He
wanted to know why I'd been in the apartment, and I told him
that Dan
had left me a message to meet him there.
I also told him I
had no idea
what the meeting was about, unless Dan had more to tell me
about his
background, which was the case I'd been working on. I didn't
mention the
RCA. Yes, I planned to phone the police
myself, I'd just
arrived
when the officers barged in. No, I had
not killed Dan. I told
the captain
that my prints wouldn't be on the pistol.
Then did I think
it was
suicide? I lied that it sure looked
that way to me.
Now
that Grimes was gone, there was nothing to it, and Dad and I
were back
on the street within half an hour.
"Give me a lift to my car?," I asked Dad.
"I'll buy you a beer first."
He
wanted to hear what was really going on, I knew, but he didn't
want to
drink close to the station for fear of running into some old
colleagues. We drove toward
South City and then found a tavern.
Over
drinks I told Dad everything I knew, which wasn't much. It
didn't look
like suicide to me.
"You said he was unstable," Dad said.
"He was. But the setup just
didn't look right. You ever hear of
anyone
shooting themselves in the chest?"
"It can happen," said Dad.
"I
have a gut feeling it wasn't suicide."
I was
running on pure instinct, as always.
Someone wanted me at
Dan's just
before the police arrived, probably because they were stupid
enough, or
desperate enough, to think this would be enough to make me a
suspect. Or was I being too
paranoid? Maybe it wasn't a setup. Maybe
it was a
coincidence, that Dan really had wanted to talk to me. But
about what? Our last meeting hadn't suggested sudden cooperation.
After a
beer, we were ready to go. In South
City I thanked Dad for
putting in
a good word for me with the captain.
"If it wasn't suicide," said Dad, "do you think it's wise
to go
through
with the preacher charade?"
"I
hadn't made a connection between the two."
"One never knows."
"Let me think about it."
"I
don't have cold feet, understand. I
just think we should be
careful."
"You're right."
He
nodded, and I watched him drive away.
Then I drove Bad- Ass to
Caviar's
Market.
I found
Tank behind the counter, reading a comic book.
"Well, I be damn glad you innocent," he said. "I didn't think you
do a cold
thing like that."
"You know who was up there with him?"
"You asking the same thing the cops ask. Man, those stairs are
around to
the side, I ain't got no x-ray vision to see who be tramping
up and down
the stairs all day. I didn't see shit,
and I didn't hear
shit, and I
don't know shit."
"You seen the lady with the bangs lately?"
"Yeah, she came in and got two cokes this morning."
"What time?"
"Shit, I don't know. Nine
in the a.m., maybe."
What
time had Ruth called me? Somewhere
around nine, I thought.
I
thanked Tank and stood outside on the corner, alongside the pink
Cadillac,
planning my next move. I got into
Bad-Ass and gave the
neighborhood more blue smoke than it needed.
As I
approached Ruth's house, I saw that Artie, Jackie Love and
Harriet
were sitting on the front porch.
Unfortunately they saw me,
too, and
took off, heading behind the house. I
swung Bad- Ass to the
curb, got
out and took off after them.
A big
man like myself is no match for teenagers.
I made it as far
as the big
gully, where I stood on the edge and watched them scamper
down a path
into the noisy, dusty center of freeway construction. I'd
only run
about forty or fifty yards but was perspiring and breathing
heavily.
I
turned to find myself face-to-face with Ruth.
"I
was just going to look for you," I said.
"You stay away from my brother," she said. "I'll call the police,
I mean
it."
"That's pretty funny since they'll be wanting to talk to you,
too."
"What do you mean?"
"I
have a witness that you were at Dan's this morning. Which makes
you one of
the last ones to have seen him alive."
Ruth
inhaled a quick audible breath before stepping forward to grab
me, as if
to hold herself up from falling in a faint.
If she was
acting, it
was a hell of a job. I helped her back
to the house and sat
her on the
sofa.
She
began weeping. She wouldn't stop,
though she seemed to be
trying to
stop, her sobs more inhaled than exhaled as she held both
hands over
her face. It was either a great
performance or the moving
truth, I
wasn't sure which.
Apparently we were alone in the house.
After a while, as the
sobbing
finally began to subside, I said, "When the police get enough
pieces
together, they're going to want to talk to you."
She
managed to say, "Yes."
"Is there anything you want to tell me first?"
"I-- . . . I just can't believe it."
"You saw him this morning, right?"
She
nodded.
"He give any indication that something was wrong?"
"You were the only trouble we had," she said.
I
didn't believe this. I thought her
performance was slipping.
"Did he say he wanted to see me?"
"Why would he want to see you?
He wanted you to leave him alone."
"You're sure?"
"Mr. Trevorak, we both just wanted to be left alone. That's the
truth."
"Did Dan get you involved in the music conspiracy?"
She
started to say something but stopped.
Damn it. I had a gut
feeling I
was getting close to something.
I said,
"I'm easier to talk to than the police."
"I'm not sure that's true," she said softly.
"To
them, you're a suspect."
"They think I killed Dan?"
"It's a possibility they'll be looking at, once they connect you
two."
"You had more to do with it than I did!"
The
change in her manner was instantaneous.
It was frightening to
watch.
"You're the one snooping around about the music." She got to her
feet. "No one was paying any attention to Dan
before you came around.
I had him
settled again. He was calmed down
again. Then you show up
and get him
all excited about this conspiracy stuff-"
She
rushed out of the room. I followed in
time to see her slam the
bathroom
door behind her. I could hear her
bawling in there.
I
waited in the living room. Maybe I
should have phoned the police
right then
but I didn't. Then I regretted not
calling them because she
came back
into the room sporting a small caliber pistol.
22-calibre, I
guessed.
"Get out of my house," she hissed.
"On my way."
"As far as I'm concerned, you killed Dan."
I moved
slowly toward the door. She looked
unstable, even crazed,
there was
no telling how little it would take for her trigger finger to
twitch. I didn't think this was
an Oscar performance, I thought she
meant it.
"Get out!"
I
stepped quickly to the door and out, half-expecting to feel a jab
of pain in
my back, to hear the echo of pain in my ear.
As soon as I
reached the
porch, I started running.
I got
into Bad-Ass, planning to lay rubber getting the hell out of
there. That's what Sam Spade would've done. But Bad-Ass wouldn't
start. It was embarrassing. Not the first time, not the second.
Fortunately, Ruth had stayed in the house.
When I
finally got the engine going, I drove off in a cloud of blue
smoke with
something less than Hollywood daring-do.
But what the hell.
The style
may have stunk but fashion is the first refuge of a
scoundrel,
and I was still very much alive.
32/
After a
restless night, I went to the office early the next
morning. But not early
enough. Hank was there, alone, and by
the way
he shook
his head as I entered, I knew it was lecture time.
But I
made him work at it. I went to my desk,
where I saw a note
in Hank's
handwriting that Hot Wire Wally had called.
I shuffled
through
papers, trying to look busy, as Hank told me how incompetent I
was.
"You're not paid to solve the rat murders, if that's what you're up
to,"
he said. "I don't care if Dad is
trying to solve them or not,
he's more
or less retired, and you're on the payroll to work for the
agency, in
case you've forgotten. And I run the
shop. You work for
me. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"You read the paper?," I asked.
"Of course. Your deejay is
dead. What I'm telling you is, that's
no concern of yours. I have a stakeout for you. Tomorrow or the next
day."
I
wanted to call Hot Wire but not from the office, with Hank
hovering
around my desk like a hungry vulture. I
picked up the note
and headed
for the door.
"Where do you think you're going?," Hank asked.
"Out."
"I
want to brief you on the stakeout."
"It can wait."
"It cannot wait!"
"Look, I've got something I've got to do, okay? I'll do
your
fucking stakeout tomorrow or the next day, just like you want,
just like I
always do. Get off my back."
Outside, I went to the nearest pay phone and dialed the number on
the
note. Wally answered and we arranged to
meet in an hour at The Oar
House.
I drove
there straight-away and chased Jameson's with black coffee.
I had a
little buzz on by the time Wally arrived.
He was in a suit and
carried a
brief case, looking more like an insurance salesman than
someone who
screamed on the radio, We fire, we sizzle!
"Thank you for returning my call so promptly," he said,
sitting
down.
"Terrible thing that happened," I said.
"What thing is that?"
He
looked serious.
"You mean, you don't know?," I said.
"Apparently not."
"It's on the front page of the morning paper," I said.
"I'm generally too busy to pay attention to the news. What
happened?"
"I
thought that's why you wanted to talk to me.
Your colleague,
Dan, was
murdered yesterday."
He
studied me, then said, "You're not serious."
"Read the morning paper for yourself."
"I'm, well, at a loss for words.
Was it his wife?"
I wondered why this possibility
occurred to him so readily. Did he
know more
about the marriage than I did?
"Perhaps," I said, playing it safe. "What do you think?"
"Well, there were serious marital problems."
"Dan
told you about them?"
"A
bit. He was a loner. I barely knew him, really. Never saw him
away from
the studio."
"Then you didn't know he'd taken an apartment down the street from
the
station?"
"No. But it doesn't
surprise me. Nothing about that man
surprises
me. He's the reason I wanted to talk to
you. Only what I have to say
is
irrelevant now."
"Maybe yes, maybe no.
What's on your mind?"
"When I learned that you were investigating Dan--"
"How did you learn that?"
"Talk in the office. I
think Brenda, the secretary, told me.
Anyway, I
have reason to believe that he is, or was, the rat murderer."
I
pursed my lips and waited for him to go on.
Wally
put the briefcase on the table, unsnapped it and took out
some
papers. There were some business cards
stuck neatly in a little
pocket, and
he took one out and handed it to me.
The
Regiment for Christian Authority was blazoned across the top of
the small
card. Under it, I read Wallace Filmore,
Vice- Pastor.
"We've been concerned about the influence of Negro music on popular
music
listened to by our Anglo-Saxon American teenagers. We've managed
to
infiltrate the industry to a degree, to learn first-hand what has
been going
on."
"What's this got to do with Dan?"
"I
suspected him from the beginning. He's
a fanatic about the
devil's
music. I suspect he has Negro blood in
his veins himself. Or
did. We've been watching him for months, you
see. Here, look at the
evidence
for yourself."
He
handed me a sheet of paper. On it were
the names of the rat
murder
victims. Minus Flo Albertson.
"This list is in Dan's handwriting," Wally said. "I found it in
his desk
several weeks ago, when some of these people were still
alive."
"You're telling me he had a list of victims?"
"I
think that's what this list suggests."
"But the victims usually were killed in Lovers' Lane," I said.
"We think a woman was working with him. We have a suspect, a Negro
woman who
lives near the station."
Ruth, I
assumed.
I said, "Why didn't you take this
to the police?"
"When I learned you were investigating Dan, I thought I should talk
to you
first."
This
didn't sound right to me. I asked,
"Was Dan on to you?"
"I
don't think so. We barely had dealings
with one another."
"Any ideas who wanted him dead?"
"Out of the music business, yes, because we did. But dead, no."
"What exactly bothers you about the devil's music?," I asked.
"Are you serious?"
"Afraid so."
"Have you listened to songs like Work With Me, Annie, Mr. Trevorak?
And its
sequel, Annie Had A Baby. Or Big Ten
Inch? One Mint Julep?
These songs
are explicitly sexual, explicitly pornographic. If you'd
heard them,
you'd know exactly what I was talking about.
And we fear
music is
only the beginning. Once the work of
the devil controls the
popular
music industry, what's next? We think the Mafia may be
involved,
or an organization as large and as underground. This music
breeds
pornography, prostitution, drugs, gambling, every sin you can
name, Mr.
Trevorak. The music is background to it
all. Why, look what
the
communistic Supreme Court decided last month, decreeing to mix the
races in
our public schools. Where will it
end?"
I tried
to imagine Jackie Love and Harriet, cuddled together
listening
to doo-wop, being victims of a plot by the Mafia and a
communistic
Supreme Court. It didn't wash.
I
handed him the sheet of paper and said, "I think you should give
this to the
police."
"Of course. And what did
you learn about Dan, Mr. Trevorak?"
"That he was a loner, like you say."
"And
a dangerous man."
He
closed the briefcase. We both stood up.
"Don't you go on the air today?," I asked.
"My day off. Have you heard
my show?"
"Sure have."
"I'm quite the actor, aren't I?
Dan was a good role model. He was
a fanatic
about the devil's music."
He
offered his hand and I shook it. I
watched him go, then ordered
another
Jameson's.
I drove
to Carla's but she wasn't home, which surprised me. I hung
around her
apartment most of the day, expecting her to return but she
never
did. I didn't get anything done, not
even a nap. I tried
working on
the play for a while but my mind was too full of new facts
and
confused theories to concentrate.
Around four I gave up on Carla
and drove
home to Venice.
At home
I was no more constructive then I'd been at Carla's. My
mind kept
coming back to Dan. Lovin' Dan the
Sixty-Minute Man. The rat
murderer. Could it be?
And
what about Ruth? She owned a
smart-caliber weapon, I'd learned
that. She had a relationship with Dan that wasn't
clear to me yet.
But then
Gregory had admitted killing his wife, according to his
lawyer.
Then who set up the murder to look like the rat murders?
I made
an egg salad sandwich for dinner and called Carla. No one
answered. I stared at the script
of my new play for an hour before
throwing it
aside, without a word of new dialogue.
I went to bed but
couldn't
get to sleep.
Sometime after midnight, I couldn't stand it any more. I got up,
dressed and
drove back to Carla's. But she still
wasn't home. What
the hell
was going on? I tried to picture Carla
in bed with someone
else,
staying over at a new boyfriend's, and the possibility hung in
the pit of
my stomach like indigestion.
I
climbed into her bed. Sometime before
sunrise I managed to doze
off into a
restless sleep. Sometime later my mind
finally shut itself
off and
slipped into beautiful silence.
33/
I awoke
and looked at my watch.
Ten-thirty. I was still alone in
the bed.
I got
up, dressed and looked in Carla's refrigerator. Some bacon,
no eggs, no
bread there or in the cupboard. I
scrounged until I found
a pencil
and paper, then wrote her a note:
You had a visitor!
Me. Sorry to miss you. You're keeping new
hours or what? I'll phone later
today. Red.
It
wasn't like Carla to spend a night away, not even at my place.
She was
territorial, liked to be where she made the house rules. I was
worried
about her.
As soon
as I walked into the office, Dad held up the morning paper
so I could
see the large headline: Murdered DJ
linked to rat murders.
I wondered
if Wally had taken his evidence to the police after leaving
me.
"Read it and tell me what you think," Dad said. He tossed me the
paper.
There
was no mention of Wally. The police had
been investigating
Dan on
their own, the story said, and were close to making an arrest
when he was
murdered. They could not reveal any
more information at
this
time. Gregory Albertson, who had
confessed to killing his wife
but claimed
self-defense, had been released on bail.
I went
to Dad's desk with the paper and pulled up a chair. Hank
wasn't in
the office yet, which meant Dad and I could bullshit as long
as we
wanted.
Dad
said, "So what do you think?"
I told
him about my meeting with Wally, the list of victims in
Dan's
handwriting and the activities of the Regiment for Christian
Authority. There was no mention
of RCA in the story either.
"I
wish to hell I knew what their evidence was," said Dad. "Maybe
I'll have
lunch with Hammond and pick his brain."
"Good idea."
"Maybe the guy went to the police
and made a deal to keep out of
the
limelight."
"Maybe."
"Or maybe there's no link to the music at all."
"I
think there is," I said.
"Am I still going to the station to play preacher?"
"It's worth a try."
"When do you want to do it?"
The
minister's costume was in Bad-Ass' trunk.
"What's wrong with this afternoon?," I said.
I went
outside and returned with the costume, and Dad tried it on.
He looked
wonderful. He could've passed for
Spencer Tracy in the movie
about Boy's
Town. We were still gloating over his
appearance when Hank
walked in.
"A
little early for Halloween, isn't it?," he said.
I didn't want Hank to know what was
going on and tried to let Dad
know as
much by my expression. But he was
already a step ahead
of me.
"What do you think, son?," he asked Hank. "I'm auditioning for a
commercial."
It was
off the top, and it was beautiful. I
didn't realize Dad had
so much
acting talent.
"What the hell are you talking about?," said Hank.
"A
friend of mine works in an agency, thought I'd be perfect. So
what do you
think? Maybe this is the beginning of a
whole new career."
Hank
stared at Dad and then at me. He didn't
know what to think.
Hank
moved to his desk, saying, "At least you two can relax about
the rat
murders now. They found their man - or
at least his corpse."
Dad
said, "Red, can I bribe you into giving me a lift to the TV
station? I'd feel conspicuous,
driving all dressed up like this."
If was
flimsy but it worked.
I said,
"Sure thing."
"Don't
forget the stakeout," Hank told me.
"Probably tomorrow
night. I need to fill you in before then."
"Whenever," I said.
We
left. Dad said he wanted to drop by a
few of his old haunts
before
going to KRB, for the fun of it. I
helped him wire up and then
we went our
separate ways, with plans to meet back at the office around
five. I hoped Dad didn't get too reckless having
fun with the costume.
I didn't
think Buzz Taylor would assault a uniformed member of the
California
Council of Churches, but I thought Dad should be on his
toes.
Driving
to Foothills, I listened to KRB. Not
one mention was made
of Dan's
death. Someone called Ronny the Rocker
was taking Lovin'
Dan's
shift, and the program went on as if nothing out of the ordinary
had
happened. The doo-wop contest was
beginning next week.
I found
Joan next door, where Jeff and Edna were chaperoning her
wake, if
that's what it was. She was already
pretty high by the time I
got there
just past noon. I took iced tea with
the others, while Joan
drank
martinis and babbled.
"Is life strange or is life strange? You live with a man for five
years and
don't know the first thing about him.
Hell, you play bridge
with
someone every week who turns out to be a Negro! I'll tell you,
I've had
enough surprises this summer to last a lifetime. I need no
more
surprises in my life. No
surprises."
And so it went. She would be giggling one moment, then look like
she was
ready to burst into tears. I had to
admit, she'd had one hell
of a
summer.
When
Joan excused herself to the bathroom, Jeff said, "We need to
talk. Can you hold down the fort?," he asked
his wife.
Edna
nodded, though she didn't look too happy about being stuck
alone with
Joan.
Jeff
led the way outside. We climbed down
the ladder into his bomb
shelter. It wasn't much larger
than my studio apartment and smelled
like dirt.
"I'll have her done before winter," Jeff said, seeing my
curiosity.
A concrete
floor was in but not the walls, which were canvas. It was
cool down
there, and I figured that even if the Russians never
attacked, a
place like this would be a decent investment just to escape
from the
smog.
There
was no place to sit. We stood facing
one another.
"Find out anything about Harriet?," he asked.
"She's got a boyfriend."
"Really?"
"A
Negro boy."
"I
was afraid of that, to tell the truth.
It doesn't really
surprise
me, considering how much Harriet listens to their music."
"You
brought me down here to talk about Harriet?"
"No. I'm worried about
Joan. The way she's reacted to the news
about
Dan. Not his murder, the other."
"The police say they have evidence."
"I
think Joan knows more than she's telling."
I
waited for more.
"That fellow who talked at the meeting, the deejay, Wallace Filmore
I believe
his name was. He paid her a visit last
night. Very late,
almost
midnight. He stayed over an hour. I was only up because I
haven't
been able to sleep. I don't know what
to do about Harriet."
He took
a deep breath.
"Anyway," he went on, "I thought it was something you
should know
about. It struck me as a very strange time to
visit. And the way
Joanie is
carrying on now . . . well, maybe it's nothing. Maybe he was
offering
his sympathies."
"At midnight?"
"That's what I was thinking."
I said,
"I appreciate the information."
"Harriet really has a Negro boyfriend?"
"Yes."
"If we went to the police, that fact would come out, wouldn't it?
It'd be in
the newspaper."
"Perhaps."
He led
the way, and we climbed back up into the day.
In the den,
Joan was
babbling away.
"Joan," I interrupted, "can I talk to you next
door?"
It had
taken a full twenty minutes to get her to move to her own
house. Jeff Berger helped me, then departed as Joan
started mixing a
martini at
the liquor cabinet in the den. He had
touched my shoulder
passing by,
as if to say, Good luck.
I
wanted to get to it before Joan passed out.
"Tell me about your midnight visitor," I said.
She
looked at me and laughed.
"Mr. Trevorak, do I owe you any money?"
"No."
"Then since you're no longer in my employ, we have nothing to talk
about, do
we? You know where the door is."
"Midnight's a little late for company. I didn't know you knew
Wallace
Filmore that well."
She
glared at me.
"Who told you?"
"I
happened to be in the neighborhood."
"It had to be Jeff."
"I
was on a stakeout in the neighborhood," I lied, "and passed by
just in
time to see him arrive."
"A
stakeout?"
"Your neighbors aren't immune to adultery."
In her
drunken state, this was enough to disorient her. She forgot
that she
didn't want to talk about it.
"He woke me up, as a matter of fact," she said. "It took me
forever to
get rid of him."
"I
didn't know you knew him."
"Well, I do."
"How well?"
"Christ," she mumbled. She swallowed her drink and started
building
another.
"Did you know he's a member of the Regiment for Christian
Authority?"
"Of course I do. I admire
him for it."
"Are you a member?"
I was
shooting from the hip, and her reply surprised me.
"As a matter of fact, I recently joined. I admire me, too."
She
raised the glass, almost losing her balance.
She grabbed the
liquor
cabinet, steadied herself and finished building the new drink.
I took
another wild shot. "Joan, are you
and Wally having an
affair?"
She
sipped the fresh drink.
I said,
"How long has it been going on?"
No
answer.
"Did
Dan know about it?"
Joan
laughed and said, "You think you're so damn smart, don't you?"
She
took her drink across the room to the large windows looking out
on the back
yard. It looked like a golf course back
there, immaculate
diachondra
bordered by tall firs.
Joan
said, "I never understood why he left the radio station in
Pasadena. He played such lovely
music. Dinner music. Of course, I
didn't
realize he was a sick man." She
turned to me. "That Negro music
is like a
disease, Mr. Trevorak. Look what it did
to Dan. Imagine
what it
must be doing to poor Harriet. And
innocent kids like her."
She
started moving toward me, slowly, and I readied myself to grab
her if she lost
her balance.
"Have you found Jesus Christ, Mr. Trevorak?," she asked.
She
reached out for the back of the divan for support.
I said,
"I'd like to talk to you when you're sober."
"I'm sober enough."
I
didn't buy it. I left her staggering
toward the liquor cabinet
and got the
hell out of there.
I
managed to get into Bad-Ass without being intercepted by Jeff
Berger. Cruising out of the
foothills, I wondered how much of Joan's
babbling to take seriously and how much was
liquor talking. They say
you tell
the truth under the influence but I'd met too many drunken
liars along
the way.
In the
small business district I stopped at a pay phone and dialed
the station to see if Hot Wire was in. I recognized Brenda's voice,
and she
told me Hot Wire Wally didn't work there any more. I wanted to
know why.
"This is Red Trevorak," I said. "Remember me?"
There
was a silence.
"You ready for some more
champagne?"
"I
don't know," she said cautiously.
"No hard feelings about the last time," I said. "I shouldn't have
asked you
to remove the file."
Again
no reply. I added, "The way I figure
it, you were just doing
your job by
telling the boss. No hard
feelings."
"What you want?," she asked.
"Just to ask you a few more questions."
"Maybe I got questions to ask you myself."
"Well, good, maybe we can have an actual conversation. How about
the Texas
Playhouse after you get off?"
"Okay."
"Four?"
"Five."
"You got it," I said.
I
called the office for Dad. When Hank
answered the phone, I hung
up and
called Dad at home. No answer. I hoped he wasn't drinking too
much,
showing off the minister's costumes in his various hangouts. I
also hoped
he hadn't gone to the station yet. Before he did, I wanted
to find out
why Wally had left and whether it meant Buzz Taylor might
not respect
a clergyman after all.
I
phoned the office again.
"Tell Dad we cancel til tomorrow," I said.
"What the hell's going on between you two?," Hank asked.
"He'll
understand the message."
"Where the hell are you?
I've got to brief you on the stakeout."
"Don't worry, I'll be there eventually."
"Sometimes I think I'm the only goddamn one who works here,"
Hank
said.
"You
are."
I hung
up. It wasn't the nice thing to do, but
I couldn't believe
that if
worse came to worse Hank couldn't put in the stakeout time
himself. As a last resort, he
could hire one of the other gofers who
sometimes
worked for us. As long as Dad was
interested in what I was
up to, I
figured I could get away with just about anything. And almost
anything
beat the boredom of the Peeping Tom Patrol.
I had
some time to kill, and Gregory Albertson was free on bail. I
decided to
pay a visit to his lawyer.
34/
Judson
Bailey clearly was upset. From his desk
he saw me talking
to his
secretary and rushed forward to invite me behind the closed door
of his
office.
"I've been trying to reach
you," he said. "I need you to
go to
Oregon."
My
shock at this request must have shown, for he immediately added,
"I did
hire you, didn't I?"
"Yes, but the police think they have their man. And Albertson just
got out on
bail, didn't he?"
"That's the problem. Mr.
Albertson has broken the conditions of
bail by
leaving the state. I want you to get
him back here as soon as
you
can."
"Oregon's a big state."
I
thought it was. I'd never been to
Oregon. I'd never known
anyone who
had been to Oregon. It was up north
somewhere.
Bailey
said, "I had to frighten his mother to death to find out
that he'd
left. His destination is a little north
just over the
border. Here's an address I
found in his room. Of course, she
didn't
want to let
me search it but once she realized how much trouble he
could be
in, she gave in."
He held
a sheet of paper across the desk, and I took it. I read an
address in
a town called Ashland.
"Is a name attached to this?," I asked.
"The address is all I have.
He flew to Medford, which apparently
is the
closest town to Ashland with an airport.
Can you leave this
afternoon?"
Without
waiting for an answer, he got up from behind the desk, as
if to wish
me bon voyage. I didn't budge.
"Mr. Bailey, you are not the only client I have. I'm tied up for a
couple of
days."
"But this is urgent."
"You have no idea why he flew to Oregon?"
"None whatever."
I
remembered something. Gregory Albertson
had been arrested at the
airport. He was getting ready to
board a plane for a small town in
Oregon. Curiosity was
threatening the cat again.
"He was on his way to Oregon when he was arrested," I said.
"Yes, but I don't know why.
And now he's breaking bail."
I could reschedule Brenda easily enough,
and I'd already left a
message for
Dad to delay the impersonation. Hank
had a stakeout, of
course, but
that only made a trip to Oregon more appealing. I could
get
somebody else to fill in for me with a couple of phonecalls.
"Let me see if I can reschedule a few things," I said.
"You can use my phone if you like.
I'll be in the library."
He left
the office through a side door. As soon
as he was gone, I
moved
behind the big executive desk and sat in the plush executive
chair. I swung my legs up onto the desk and dialed
the office. Hank
answered.
When I
told him I was going to Oregon, he had a fit.
"What
about the stakeout?," he asked after calming down.
"We got three or four guys who can do it and need the money. Call
Flanigan. I heard he's getting
divorced, so you know he's looking for
work. If he's busy, try Zink."
Hank started lecturing me about
responsibility and I interrupted
with,
"I shouldn't be gone long."
It felt
good to hang up on him.
I left
a message with Brenda, saying I had to work late, let's do a
raincheck
on champagne. I told her I'd call her
in a few days.
I
looked up travel agents in the yellow pages.
A sexy- sounding
voice at
San Gabriel Travel booked me on a flight to Medford at
seven-thirty that night. I made
reservations, with an open return
flight.
So this
was how fancy lawyers did it. Feet up
on the desk, pulling
the stops
that ran the world from your office phone.
I
walked through the side door into the library.
"I
leave at seven-thirty," I said.
"Excellent."
Bailey
pulled out his wallet.
"I
can put everything on the bill," I said.
"Let's call this a little bonus, to inspire you to get him back as
soon as
possible. Late tonight if you
can."
He handed me a hundred dollar bill.
I let
myself into Carla's apartment. I could
hear the shower
running. If we both could have
fit in there at the same time, I would
have
disrobed and surprised her. I
remembered the huge shower in the
Hearst
Castle, a Rube Goldberg affair with pipes in great spirals
shooting
water from every direction. There was a
shower that Carla and
I could
share. It was probably the only one in
the world big enough
for us to
share.
I found
a Falstaff in the refrigerator, opened it and waited at the
small table
off the kitchen.
I was
on my second beer when Carla came plodding into the room,
naked with
her hair wrapped in a towel.
"Where the hell have you been?,"
she asked right off.
"Didn't you get my note?"
"I
got it."
"I've been here, waiting for you."
She
took off the towel and started rubbing her head with it. As she
did, her large
breasts and belly shook.
"I've been in a fucking nightmare," she said.
"Good."
"What do you mean, good?"
"I
was afraid you might like the guy."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
She
stopped and looked at me. Then she took
two steps toward the
bed,
walking around in the pile of loose clothing, tossing pieces this
way and
that, picking out her wardrobe by throwing an occasional piece
onto the
bed. I could never understand how she
kept track of which
clothes
were clean and which dirty. All of them
were on the floor.
Her
wardrobe chosen, she started dressing.
I went to the
refrigerator and got another beer.
"You fucking floor me," said Carla.
"How so?"
"You think I was out on a date or something?"
"You didn't spend the night here."
"Through no fault of my own."
I could
tell she was angry, and I was sorry to have brought the
matter
up. We weren't engaged or anything, for
Christ's sake. But I
still
wanted to know where the hell she'd been.
"Butch came by late yesterday afternoon," she said. "He's got to
talk to you
right away."
I
wondered why he hadn't phoned the office.
At least, there had
been no
message to return his call.
"He seemed so upset I called the office myself later, to see if you
were
in. Your brother answered, and he
seemed as anxious to find you
as Butch."
"I
was here most of yesterday," I said.
"Too bad you weren't
home."
"Let me finish. Anyway,
something about Butch's manner kept
bugging me,
so I thought I'd go over and see what was going on. He
wasn't
home. When I went back to my car, the
tires were slashed."
"Are you kidding me?"
"All four of them. There
was a note on the windshield telling me
to mind my
own business. I mean, it was really
creepy! How would
anyone know
what I was there for? I was so upset I
called Shirley and
spent the
night with her."