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."