THE DEADLY DOOWOP
By Charles Deemer
Chapters 40-48
40/
I
logged in the current Don Juan and drove to an address in Malibu
to begin
the stakeout. His name was Armstrong
Whittier, with two T's,
and he
wrote screenplays. He got a pretty
penny for them by the looks
of his
beach house. I parked across the
street, facing the entrance
driveway
from about half a block away, and began waiting.
I'd
brought along things to do. First I had
dinner, which was
three Bob's
Big Boy Hamburgers and a vanilla malt.
I also brought
along my
script-in-progress. It seemed like
months since I'd worked on
it. I munched on a bag of Fritos while reading
what I had so far. To
my
surprise, I liked it. It was bizarre,
even a little grotesque,
which was
just about how I felt about most things.
I began writing
after an
hour or so and got up to the discovery scene where the
assistant
to the proud mortician discovers that the corpse has an
erection.
CHARLES: It's
remarkable, isn't it?
NECK: What is?
CHARLES: The whole
idea of it. I mean, one doesn't think
of such
a thing happened to the President.
At least, I never have. As average
as he was, I still put him up on a pedestal. Can you imagine the
President going to the can with the Sunday sports page on the morning
after? Stinking up the place
something awful? He always seemed above
all that. Even though I knew he
was average.
NECK: If you ask
me, he's one of a kind. Let's give him
the
flowers and move him out.
CHARLES: I can't
imagine him being impotent. It must've
just
happened with his wife.
NECK: The flowers.
(CHARLES approaches the casket with the bouquet.)
CHARLES: Well, old
sport, we have to hide your glory from the
public.
(He playfully flicks the hidden erection and JONES
immediately sits
up, grabbing his crotch in pain.)
JONES:
aaarrrggghhh!
CHARLES: Be
Jesus! (falling to his knees): Hallowed-be-thy-
name-thy-kingdom-come-thy-will-be-done-- . . .
JONES: Stop
praying! I've not risen from the
dead. I'm quite
alive.
NECK: I was led to
believe . . . I myself prepared the body . . .
JONES: It wasn't
me.
NECK: I would've
sworn it was.
JONES: That's
because I'm so average I look like everyone else.
How do you think I got elected President? Everyone thought they were
voting for themselves.
NECK: But the lines
outside, Mr. President. Dr. Alberts
pronounced you dead. It was in
the papers. The public is waiting
outside to view the body.
JONES: Don't worry,
they'll get their body. Just give me a
minute. Why on earth did you do
that?
CHARLES: I did it
without thinking. I was overcome that
even the
President, even the corpse of the President--
NECK: Imbecile!
JONES: It doesn't matter now. Only, gentlemen, I'm afraid you're
going to have to be sworn to secrecy about this.
NECK: I'm a man of
ethics, Mr. President.
JONES: How much?
NECK: Half a million?
JONES: Split between the two of you. No bargaining. Remember, I'm
still Commander-in-Chief.
NECK (to Charles): Seventy-thirty?
CHARLES: Sixty-forty.
NECK: Sold.
I wrote
for over an hour, setting the script against the steering
wheel and
facing the house, so that the movement of a car would be in
my
periphery of vision. Whittier's
neighbors were coming home from
work but no
Armstrong Whittier yet.
By
evening I was getting restless. Most of
the job of staking out
someone was
like this, boring waiting, U.S. Army all the way. But it
did give me
time to work. And to think.
Ruth
was now the key to everything, more mysterious to me than
ever. She was bright, I thought. She was calculating. In retrospect,
maybe she
even had Dan under her thumb. She
certainly had Albertson
under her
thumb. I regretted flying home, leaving
Ruth up there alone
with
Fitzgerald. Her mother said she was too
soft to kill but I wasn't
so sure.
Evening
darkened into night and still no Armstrong Whittier. He
was
single. It was his alleged lover's
husband who was paying the
agency to
snoop on him. With the husband out of
town on business, Hank
figured
Whittier would bring the married lady home to frolic in the
beach
house. Well, clearly they were doing
something else first.
By ten
o'clock I was restless as hell and by eleven I was having
trouble
staying awake. I reached for the
thermos of coffee and was
pouring a
cup when someone knocked on the car window.
I jumped,
spilling
coffee onto the bulge of my stomach and letting out a yelp of
pain. I turned to the window just as the door
opened. I was
face-to-face with Butch.
"Christ, you scared me," I said.
"Slide over."
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Just slide over."
I moved
over and Butch sat in the driver's seat.
He closed the
door.
"You got more of that coffee?," he asked.
"How'd you know I was here?"
"Hank told me you were on a stakeout but wouldn't fork over the
address. I had to fast talk your
old man. He's a soft touch."
I
poured coffee and gave him a cup, saying, "You can begin
explaining
yourself any time."
Butch
sipped the coffee. "Not bad for
stale java, man."
"It almost keeps me awake. So
did you find out who slashed Carla's
tires or
what?"
"That's all you do on a stakeout, is sit here and drink
coffee? I
see you've
also been eating Big Boys."
Wrappers were all over the front seat.
I said, "The action doesn't
begin til
my subject gets home. Now what the hell
is this about?"
"We got to talk, man."
"Christ, Butch, come on, man.
I'm worried sick about getting Carla
involved in
all this. If you know something, tell
me."
"It's not about Carla."
"Shit. Well, what the hell
is it then?"
"You find Ruth up there?"
I gave
him a summary of my trip. I didn't tell
him about the image
of
Fitzgerald in the pickup.
"Then
she's still in Oregon," Butch said.
"As far as I know."
Butch
put a hand on my shoulder.
"Listen, Red, I want you to trust me on what I'm about to ask.
We've been
good buddies for a few years now. This
is real important."
"What's real important?"
"I
want you to keep away from Ruth."
"What for?"
"Because I'm asking you to.
And we're buddies."
"That's it? You're not
giving me a reason?"
"Because we're buddies.
Don't ask questions, just do it for me."
"Come on, man."
After
an awkward silence Butch said, "Okay, man, we'll do it your
way. I've got a gig with intelligence."
"You mean, the Army?"
"No,
but I got it through my Army background in ASA. The gig sort
of dropped
in my lap."
"What's it about?"
"You know I can't tell you, man.
Shit, I shouldn't even be here
talking to
you."
"Why are you?"
"Because you're a good buddy. And you're getting too close to
ending up
right in the middle of everything. You
know, you're too
inquisitive
for your own good."
I said,
"Your gig has something to do with Ruth, doesn't it?"
He nodded and said, "Yep."
"Tell me more."
"When she gets back to town, avoid her like the plague."
"Does this involve the rat murders, too?"
"I've told you all I can tell you.
Just stay away from Ruth.
Promise
me?"
"Does this have anything to do with the music conspiracy?"
"Promise me, man."
"Ruth and Dan were half-brother and sister. You probably already
know
that."
"Don't do this to me, Red.
Just do what you're supposed to be
doing,
sitting out here and drinking coffee or whatever. Forget about
Ruth and
Dan and doo-wop and the whole ball of wax.
Will you do that
for
me?"
I
poured more coffee for us. We sipped in
silence for a while but
my mind was
racing.
Finally
Butch said, "I know it's hard, man, you're one inquisitive
asshole. Just do it for me
because I'm your friend."
"Do you know who tried to kill me?"
"No," Butch said.
"If you do, Butch, goddamn it--"
"I
don't, Red. That's the truth."
"The same one who slashed Carla's tires."
"Probably. Will you stay
away from Ruth?"
"If I do as you say, the suspense is going to drive me nuts."
"I
know."
"So how close are you to putting everything together?"
"Pretty damn close. But it
may get ugly. I don't want to find you
in the
middle when the shit hits the fan."
"It's already been ugly."
"You ain't seen nothing yet,
man."
"What are you, working for the FBI or something?"
Butch
shrugged.
"You're a goddamn spy," I said. "Still."
"When this is done, man, we'll party and I'll tell you
everything."
"Promise?"
"Word of fucking honor, baby."
He
squeezed my arm, then playfully patted me on the cheek.
"I
got to split before my guilty conscience gets into second gear,"
he said.
He
opened the door and slid out, and I moved back behind the
steering
wheel.
"How the hell do you get your car out of here without waking up the
neighborhood?," he asked, grinning.
"You'll notice I parked pointing down hill. I coast."
"Later,
Red."
He
disappeared down the street, walking into the night.
So
Butch was back into intelligence work.
And he was investigating
Ruth. How in hell was I supposed to keep my end of
the bargain when
curiosity
was killing me?
At
least I didn't get a chance to dwell on it.
Shortly after Butch
left, a
Cadillac pulled into Armstrong Whittier's driveway. I got the
camera and
went to the house, keeping in the shadows and moving
quickly. I found the bedroom window facing the ocean.
Whittier and the
adulterous
wife were undressing. Both looked like
they'd had too much
to
drink. I began snapping pictures but
nothing was really going on,
both
slipped into bed without as much as a goodnight kiss. It wasn't
what you'd
call a hot, sexy night, and in no time Armstrong Whittier
was snoring
away and the adulterous wife was turning out the light.
The heat of
this affair had cooled considerably: I
could have been
snapping
pictures of a happily married couple.
41/
Tues, 22 June 54:
Depressed. Lethargic. Not about the play,
actually got some more writing done on it last night - but Butch is
working for intelligence, the FBI, some damn thing, and wants me to lay
low. So why am I depressed? Because I feel stupid and in the way. If
I'm so close to something hot that Butch has to come out of hiding to
warn me to keep away, well, how come I don't know where the hell I am
or what is going on? Ruth
apparently is at the center of something
big, maybe even the rat murders?
I left her alone up in Oregon, pissed
at her father. Jesus, what a
dumb move! Trevorak, are you really cut
out for this kind of work? Let's face it, Sam Spade you ain't.
I awoke
late and puttered around the apartment, making an effort to
clean the
place up. A Brownie McGhee and Sonny
Terry record blared
loud enough
to distract my head from going over Butch's visit last
night. He knew much more than I did about what was
going on and
somehow
that depressed me.
By the
time I got to the office, Hank was climbing the walls. He
yelled at
me all the way to the darkroom, where I shut the door in his
face. When I emerged an hour later, he started
yelling at me all over
again. Fortunately Dad had shown up while I was in
there, which gave
me a
buffer.
"I'm just getting sick and tired of waiting on Red all the
time,"
Hank told
Dad.
"I'm sorry," I said, "I'm doing the best I can. I already told
you, I
didn't get anything worth much anyway."
"They're in bed together," Hank said, looking at the
photographs
I'd given
him. "That proves something."
"I
thought you preferred the more sordid touches," I said.
Dad
said, "Okay, boys, that's enough."
Hank
put the photos in his briefcase without another word and left,
presumably
to show the evidence to our client.
"Walter Moran was picked up," Dad said as soon as Hank was
gone.
I tried
to place the name. I'd heard it
before.
"The ex-con who took a shot at me," Dad reminded me. "He
confessed."
"He's the one who took a shot at us?"
"Not us. At me. And he said he'll do it again the next time
he
gets
out. I told you he was a mean
bastard."
Then I
wasn't the target after all. One would
have thought the
news would
be elating but this, too, was depressing.
No one had taken
a shot at
me but someone had slashed Carla's tires.
I was feeling
stupider
all the time. And yet Butch said I was
close to finding out
something.
"What's the matter?," Dad asked.
I
looked at him and managed to smile. An
actor all the way.
"Don't let Hank get you down.
You know what a perfectionist he is.
Play by the
rules or not at all. You get things
done your way, I know
that. Sometimes you find out more by bending the
rules a little."
Maybe
and maybe not.
Dad
said, "Have you put anything together about that woman's father
owning the
radio station?"
I didn't want to get into it. I didn't want to let Dad know that
Butch was
working in intelligence again and knew a hell of a lot more
than we
did.
"No, I haven't," I finally said.
"Well, it'll come, don't worry.
Take your mind off the whole mess
for a
couple days." He started limping
toward the door. "I'm going
down to the
station."
"To see Walter Moran?"
Dad
turned and grinned. "Just so he
can see for himself that he
was close
but no cigar."
I sat
at my desk for almost an hour after Dad left, staring into
space and
wondering what to do next. Before the
sudden trip to Oregon,
Hot Wire
Wally had quit and Brenda had agreed to talk to me again.
Seeing Brenda was not the same thing as
trailing Ruth, who probably was
still in
Oregon anyway. Or was she? What the hell did I know?
I left
the office and drove to South City. I
was passing Caviar's
Market on
my way to the radio station when I passed Tank, who was
outside
polishing the pink Caddy. I pulled
Bad-Ass to the curb.
"Well, looky here, it's the missing detective hisself," Tank
said
as I
approached. "If you want
information from me, man, you way past
too
late. I could've helped you before but
now, man, it's all over,
you know
what I mean? They done figured out that
deejay be the rat
murderer
hisself."
"Is that what you think?"
"None of my business."
He went
back to polishing. I stood there
watching him, wondering
why the
hell I was standing there. Finally I
turned and walked back to
Bad-Ass.
A few
minutes later I was dialing the radio station from the corner
telephone
booth.
"KRB," Brenda said, answering the phone.
"This is Red Trevorak."
There
was a pause.
"Can I buy you lunch at the Texas Playhouse?"
After
another pause, she said, tentatively, "What about that
champagne?"
"And champagne, too."
"I
can't drink too much at lunch. A bottle
for lunch and two
bottles for
after work."
"Sold."
I hung
up and stepped out of the phone booth.
Jackie Love was
waiting for
me at Bad-Ass.
"Harriet wants to talk to you," he said.
"Good, I'd like to talk to her, too."
"You ain't gonna turn her in to the police, are you?"
"No."
"You promise?"
"I
promise," I said.
He
opened the passenger door and got into the car. I slipped
behind the
wheel, cranked up the usual pollution and pulled slowly from
the curb.
"Where to?," I asked.
"It ain't far."
He
directed me to an abandoned building in the neighborhood. The
front
windows were boarded over with plywood but in the rear a door had
been broken
open. We walked across the dying lawn,
stepping over
garbage and
empty wine bottles. I noticed several
hypodermic needles
in the
browning grass. I followed Jackie Love
into the dank interior
of the
building.
"Artie?," he called.
"That you, Jackie?," Artie called back.
"I
got the detective," Jackie said.
I heard
quick whispering, suggesting that my visit was a surprise,
and then
Artie and Harriet emerged from a dark room into the rear
entrance
way, where Jackie and I waited near the open doorway.
"Hello," I said.
"You ain't no record producer,"
said Artie. "You're a
detective."
"Yes, I am."
Harriet
popped her gum.
I said,
"I understand Harriet wants to talk to me."
Harriet
turned to Artie, who said, "You going to call the police?"
"No police."
Artie
led the way outside, back into the brightness of the day.
The usual
din of construction was rising out of the distant gully of
progress. Artie plopped down
onto the brown grass behind the building,
Jackie and
Harriet sat down together, and I stood looking down at them.
I felt like
we were meeting in a garbage dump.
Besides, the trouble
with
sitting on the ground at my weight was that eventually you had to
get back up
again.
I
noticed that Jackie and Harriet were holding hands.
"Why'd somebody kill Lovin' Dan?," Artie asked.
"That's a good question," I said.
"He ain't no rat murderer."
"I
agree."
"My
sister said you were investigating Lovin' Dan."
"It was concerning a marital problem," I said. I wondered who
Artie's
father was and how much he knew about the relationship between
his sister
and his favorite deejay.
Jackie
Love, as if to bring the discussion on target, said,
"Harriet's got no place to stay.
She been having to stay here."
"I
saw a rat," Harriet said, softly, and she tightened her grip on
Jackie's
hand.
"She says she wants to live with her grandfather," Jackie
said.
"Is that right, Harriet?"
The
girl popped her gum before saying, with the same soft voice,
"I'm
still going to see Jackie."
"The thing is," Jackie Love said, "her grandfather
supposed to be
more
liberal than her mother. If she lives
with him, then we can still
see each
other."
I
didn't think Jeff Berger was that liberal and was surprised that
Harriet
thought so.
"You've been living on the streets?," I asked.
"She been staying in the building," Jackie said.
Artie
added, "The rats scare her."
For a
moment everyone was quiet under the distant din of
construction and the near rhythm of Harriet's gum and the surrounding
garbage. I said, "What do
you want me to do?"
"See if she can stay with her grandfather," Jackie said.
"Harriet, why don't I drive you there right now? We can talk to
him
together."
Harriet
shot a quick glance to Jackie, then leaned to him and
whispered
something in his ear. As they
conferred, I remembered the
appointment
with Brenda. What the hell, I'd have to
reschedule once
again. The priority of the moment was to get
Harriet off the streets.
Artie
said, "You lied once, maybe you're lying again."
"I
had my reasons for doing what I did," I said. "I don't want you
boys to be
cheated by the radio station."
"How they going to cheat us?"
"I'm not sure. My advice is
not to sign anything. If they ask you
to sign
something, I'll take you to a lawyer."
"I
been to the station before," said Artie.
"They don't look like
cheaters to
me."
"Just protect yourself," I replied. "And my advice to you,
Harriet, is
to come back to Foothills with me, and we'll see what kind
of
arrangement we can make with your grandfather.
You can't spend
another
night here."
"Maybe
she can stay with us," Artie said.
"It'd be better if you go home before they call the police," I
told
Harriet.
"I
won't stop seeing Jackie," she said.
"I'm sure they can't stop you."
Jackie
and Harriet exchanged whispers, and then Jackie got to his
feet,
reached down and pulled up Harriet.
Artie bounded up in a single
motion, and
I tried to remember if I had ever been that lithe and
athletic. No way.
"If they're mean," said Jackie, "she'll just run away
again."
"We'll try to convince them of that," I said.
We all
walked to Bad-Ass, where Jackie opened the door for Harriet.
Harriet
threw her arms around him before getting in, while Artie and I
looked on
awkwardly. Or at least I felt awkward.
And a little guilty,
because I
wasn't at all sure but that I was leading Harriet into her
prison,
even if it was of her own family's design.
But I didn't know
what else
to do: she certainly couldn't continue
to live on the
streets.
In the
rearview mirror I saw that Jackie and Artie were watching us
until
Bad-Ass turned the corner. Harriet was
silent as we maneuvered
the string
of detours to the Pasadena Freeway, where we had a straight
shot to
east county. I turned on KRB to fill
the silence, and
Harriet's
gum began to pick up the rhythm of the music.
The radio
said, Yah, yah-yah yah-yah . . .
42/
As we
approached her grandfather's house, Harriet said, "I won't go
in unless
they let me see Jackie."
"You want me to talk to him first?"
"Yes."
I
parked Bad-Ass along the curb in front of the house. Walking to
the front
door, I noticed a strange car in Joan's driveway. I stepped
onto the
porch and rang the doorbell.
"Harriet's in the car," I said when Jeff Berger opened the
door.
"We
have to talk a minute."
He let
me in, and in the foyer I explained how she'd been living in
an
abandoned building filled with rats and was willing to come home if
she could
stay here rather than with her mother - and if she could
continue to
see her boyfriend, Jackie Love.
When I
was done Jeff said, "That's ridiculous."
"I
think she'll just run away again."
"Maybe she can stay with us for a while - but the other is
unthinkable."
"I'm just telling you what she wants," I said.
He went
back outside and started for the car. I
watched from the
porch as he
opened the door for Harriet and escorted her up the walk
and past me
into the house. As they passed, I heard
him saying,
"Everything's going to be fine." By the look that Harriet shot at me -
a cross
between uncertainty and fear, with a little wondering if I'd
double-crossed her thrown in - I doubted it. Frankly, I didn't expect
her to hang
around until the weekend.
I
walked next door. A new Negro maid
answered and asked me to wait
on the
porch while she let Joan know that I was here. After a few
moments she
let me in and led me into the den.
Joan
and Wally Filmore, alias Hot Wire Wally, were sitting on
opposite
sides of the divan. Coffee cups and a
plate of cookies were
on the
coffee table.
Joan
said, "That's all, Eunice," and waited until the maid left
before
adding, "Mr. Trevorak, I don't think we have anything to talk
about."
"Am I interrupting something?," I asked.
"As a matter of fact, you are," she said.
Wally
got to his feet. "Not really. Nice to see you again."
I shook
his hand, and Wally sat back down.
"Are we having a meeting of the Regiment?," I asked.
Wally
laughed. "Well, it's mainly a
social call but I confess to a
little shop
talk, too. Joan here is one of our new
recruits."
Joan
said, "Do you care to sit down, Mr. Trevorak - since
apparently
you plan to stay."
"No thanks." It wasn't
that I favored standing but that there
wasn't a
chair in the room I trusted under my weight, and they had the
divan to
themselves.
I said,
"I returned Harriet and thought I'd check in. The last
time we
talked you weren't very coherent."
"I'm sure I wasn't," she said.
"Your husband wasn't having an affair with Ruth. They're
half-brother and sister."
Her
countenance was as stark as marble.
After a moment she said,
"Why
are you telling me this?"
"It's what I was hired to find out. The common father is a white
man, who
was a record producer in Chicago. Dan
had no Negroes in the
closet but
he did have a Negro half-sister. That's
why they were
close."
"I
knew he had an affinity for Negroes," said Wally.
"He was obviously a very sick man," Joan added.
"Maybe, maybe not. I don't
think he was the rat murderer."
This wasn't really true. I was too confused to know what I
believed. The remark had just
come out.
"Of course he was," said Wally. "The Regiment's known this for
weeks. I showed you the evidence."
"Guess I'm an eternal skeptic."
Joan
said, "Mr. Trevorak, since I did hire you to find out my
husband's
background, I appreciate the information.
Is there anything
else?"
I
ignored the question and asked Wally, "What's the next step?"
"The next step?"
"In the Regiment's crusade against the devil's music."
"I'm not sure I like your tone of voice."
"Just curious what the forces of decency are up to."
"Our work is just beginning, I assure you. Our resolve to save the
nation is
stronger than ever."
"It's the nation now? I
thought it was just teenagers you were
saving."
He
flashed me a grin of superiority and said, "There are many
fronts in
the defense of Christian morality, sir.
We take the fight
wherever we
have to take it."
"But you're no longer at the station," I said. "Taylor must have
found out
you're in the Regiment."
"I
wasn't fired. I quit. I learned what I was there to find out,
and now my
energies are needed elsewhere."
"The station still plays doo-wop.
They're still having their
contest."
"Oh, we're doing very well on that particular front, thank you very
much." He turned to Joan
and said, "Perhaps you're right, and he's
overstayed
his welcome."
Joan
started to speak but I beat her with, "I know where the door
is. Just wanted to put the last period on the
case, ma'am. We do it
right at
Trevorak."
It
didn't even get the suggestion of a smile, and I could feel
their
stares on my back as I turned and showed myself the front door.
Walking
to Bad-Ass, I glanced over at the Berger house, trying to
imagine
what was going on in there. I wouldn't
bet against Harriet
being back
out of there before the sun set.
I
stopped for gas at the bottom of the hill.
While the gas jockey
was putting
in two dollars' worth, I went to the phone booth and looked
up some
unfinished business. I found the
address of Franklin Cowley,
one of the
rat murder victims.
43/
"I've never heard of the Regiment for Christian Authority."
Franklin
Cowley's widow was a pretty woman in her late thirties, whom I
had
interrupted in the middle of house cleaning.
"I'm sure I would've
remembered
if Franklin had mentioned them."
Mrs.
Cowley was wearing jeans and an old shirt that might have been
one of her
husband's. Its shirt-tail was out and
dropped all the way
to her
knees. She looked a little like an
over-grown bobby-soxer.
"Did he ever talk about the devil's music?," I asked.
She
looked puzzled and said, "Are you serious? What's the devil's
music."
"Music sung by Negroes."
"My husband and I are not like that," she said. Then she quickly
turned
away, as if catching her own use of the present tense. She was
still in
mourning, and I wasn't entirely comfortable asking her what I
had come to
find out.
"There's a theory that all the rat murder victims are somehow
connected
to Negro music," I said. "I'm
trying to find out if this is
true or
not."
"He never mentioned the devil's music." The use of the past tense
now seemed
to put her on solid emotional ground again.
She said, "Is
there
anything else I can help you with?"
"Your husband was a lawyer, is that right?"
"Yes. He also had some
business interests."
"What kind of business interests?"
"I
can't tell you exactly. I never meddled
in his business
affairs."
"Do
you have any idea why he was killed? Did
he make any enemies at
work or in
business?"
"He didn't have an enemy in the world, as far as I know. I think
it was an
accident. He was in the wrong place at
the wrong time.
Obviously
that deejay was mentally ill."
"What if the deejay didn't do
it?"
"You don't think he did?"
"I'm not sure."
"He wasn't with a woman, if that's what you mean. We had a very
happy
marriage. It wasn't like the papers
suggested at first."
"I
know," I said. "I'm just
suggesting the deejay may not be the
one."
"My God, then the man is still out there."
"Or the woman."
"What are you trying to tell me?"
"I'm not sure," I said.
"Do you know what doo-wop is?"
Her
expression changed drastically, as she tried to bring speech to
something
she remembered now, saying slowly, "Not exactly but I have
heard of
it, I remember Franklin saying something about doo-wop, I
think."
"What can you remember?"
"It was probably something he said at dinner. He was involved in
so many
things, I hardly paid them any mind.
But I know I've heard
that term
before. It must have been from Franklin."
"Did he have a desk at home?
Where he did business?"
"Yes."
"Can I look through it?"
"I
don't know if I can let you do that," she said. "The police
have looked
through it, of course, and didn't find a thing. You're not
really a
policeman. I just don't know."
"You can be there the whole while."
"Well, I suppose so, if you'll be quick."
The
desk was in the den, and my first glance told me that going
through it
would be like looking for a needle in the haystack.
Franklin
Cowley obviously believed in the maxim, empty desk, empty
mind,
because newspapers, magazines and correspondence were stacked all
over it.
"I've left it just the way it was," Mrs. Cowley said with a
trace
of
embarrassment.
I
started rooting through the stacks of material on the desk,
having no
idea what I was looking for. The first
thing to interest me
was a
newspaper clipping of the Supreme Court decision to integrate the
school
system. Seeing me pick it up, Mrs.
Cowley said, "My husband
believed it
was healthy for the races to mingle. Within limits, of
course."
By her
tone, I wondered if this was his qualification or hers. I
set aside
the clipping and dug down for more. A
moment later I found a
gem: a hand-written letter to Franklin Cowley
from Clyde Fitzgerald.
The letter
was dated May 18, 1954 and read:
Franklin, am enclosing clipping from today's front
page. I'm sure
you'll see it yourself, it's historic news. But this reinforces what
I've been saying, the entire society is merging and the audience for
Negro music is going to explode like an A-bomb and the people who are
going to make out are the people who establish themselves in the market
first. With my expertise and
your backing, along with the others, I
don't see how you can miss. I'll
be coming down for the contest and
see you then. Keep me posted on
the RCA deal. Clyde.
"Did he tell you about this letter?," I asked, handing Mrs.
Cowley
the sheet
of paper.
After
reading it, she said, "Perhaps. I
don't remember. Is it
special?"
"It suggests he and Clyde Fitzgerald
were in business together."
"I
can't place Mr. Fitzgerald but, yes, perhaps they were."
"Can I take this with me?"
"No, I can't let you do that."
"Promise me you won't destroy it."
"Of course I won't. Well,
not right away. Frankly I haven't been
able to
bring myself to face any of this. Maybe
I'll end up hiring
someone to
haul everything away. I'm just not
ready yet."
"Don't destroy this letter," I said, setting it on the desk.
"What's it mean?"
"When I find out, I'll let you know. Mrs. Cowley, you've been very
helpful. I appreciate it."
Driving
back to the office, my mind raced over new possibilities.
Keep me
posted on the RCA deal. Did Dan's RCA
notations refer to the
record
company after all? Or were Cowley and
Fitzgerald dealing
somehow
with the Regiment? It wasn't that I
knew any more than ever,
which was
damn little, but the connection between Cowley, a rat murder
victim, and
Fitzgerald, who owned KRB and was Ruth's father, presented
a whole new
family of connections and scenarios.
The
radio said, Sha nah-nah-nah . . .
44/
The
phone was ringing as I entered the empty office. I got to it
just in
time. It was Judson Bailey.
"How soon can you get to my office?," he asked.
"What's up?"
"Gregory Albertson wants to tell you the truth about Ruth."
"I'll be right there."
Hanging
up, I found a note in Dad's handwriting that Carla had
called. I dialed his number at
home.
"She said she'd be at home now that you're back," Dad told me.
"She
sounded
anxious to see you."
"Thanks."
"Is everything all right?"
"I
think I'm beginning to put some of the pieces together," I said.
"I
meant between Carla and you. I think
she really likes you, son.
Those kind
are keepers."
"Yeah, things are great between us. Listen, I've got to run."
I cut
him off in mid-sentence and started to phone Carla. But no,
I didn't
need a temptation now, I knew she was all right, which was the
important
thing, and if she asked me to come over I'd have to turn her
down. I hung up and got the hell out of there.
We sat
around Judson Bailey's plush desk while Gregory Albertson
told me his
story.
"I
don't know what she told you but I'd never seen her before until
that night
in the bar. In retrospect it was clear
that she was there
to pick me
up. Of course, she arranged it to look
like I picked her
up. I thought she was a prostitute, frankly, but
the matter of price
never came
up. I assumed she was there to find a
man and liked me.
But I still
thought I was doing the picking up, not the other way
around.
"Anyway, when we left the bar, she suggested we park up in the
hills.
Why not? I thought. We started
making out as soon as we were
there and
right away is when it all started happening.
First I saw the
flash out
of the corner of my eye. She must've
noticed this because
suddenly
she was kissing me harder than ever, and holding on to me,
while I
kept my eyes open and saw more flash bulbs, and then just as
quickly she
had the door open and was out of there, running down the
road, and I
saw another figure, a man carrying the camera, and they got
into
another car and were out of there before I really knew what had
happened. It was all a set-up to
get pictures of me and Ruth making
out in my
car.
"Well, needless to say, I expected to hear from them and sure
enough she
called the next day. I still didn't
know she worked right
in my own
neighborhood. Not all that many people
in Foothills have
Negro
maids, actually, and we had a white lady ourselves. So I hadn't
placed her
or anything like that, and I had no idea who her partner
was. I still don't know.
"So anyway she called, said she had the photos, and would show them
to my wife
unless I cooperated. I laughed at
her. Flo and I already
were having
our problems, and the pregnancy just complicated
everything,
of course. Besides, Ruth wasn't the
first lady I'd picked
up in a
bar. My marriage was already on the
rocks, is the point,
though I
was willing to hang in for the child, or at least I was
telling
myself this, in the beginning anyway, before Flo gave birth to
a Negro.
"The thing is, it wasn't money or anything like that they wanted,
they wanted
me to get out of the record business.
Of course, I know
now that
Fitzgerald is Ruth's father and so I guess this was her way of
getting
back at him, trying to ruin his business venture, but at the
time it all
sounded very bizarre. It still does, to
tell the truth.
"Well, since I had nothing to lose, really, they had no leverage
and I
wouldn't cooperate. That's when Ruth
contacted me personally and
threatened
not only to go directly to my wife with the photos but to
send them
to my neighbors, my mother, the whole shot.
I might have
come
around, for the child's sake if nothing else, except that Flo
delivered
early, and then everything changed, of course, I found out
she was a
Negro herself - I mean, God, you can't believe what a shock
something
like that is. She was a goddamn social
climber, pretending
to be
white. I knew she'd changed after
marriage, it even occurred to
me that she
married me for my money, but not in a million years did I
expect
something like this. What a nightmare.
"So that's about it. Ruth
was trying to blackmail me."
Albertson let out a sigh, as if relieved to get this off his chest.
The trouble
was, I still wasn't able to put it all together.
"So Ruth picked you up, hoping to frame you into getting out of
business
with Fitzgerald?"
"Right."
"Tell me more about the business deal."
"We were cutting a deal with RCA to cover the best doo-wop songs
that came
out of the contest."
"But you don't know who her partner is."
"She wouldn't tell me."
"How did she know you and Fitzgerald were going into business
together?"
"I
have no idea."
"Fitzgerald has the expertise in the music industry. What did you
contribute?"
"Myself and the others had money.
We were founding Teenbird
Records,
first, as the vehicle to establish copyright over the
material. We also planned to buy some new radio
stations."
"Fitzgerald was the brains and you were the brawn."
"More or less, yes.
Fitzgerald made a good case that the industry
was
swinging in such a way that the white teenage market was the
future, and
that more and more white kids were listening to Negro
music."
"Like doo-wop?"
"Right."
I
asked, "You mentioned there were others involved."
He
nodded.
"Does the name Franklin Cowley mean anything to you?"
Albertson shot a glance to his lawyer.
Bailey said, "What we're
trying to
do is find out who tried to frame you.
He needs to know
everything."
"I'd never met him but, yes, his name had come up as another
potential
backer for the venture."
"He was a rat murder victim," I said.
"I
know. The others were potential
investors as well. That's when
I began to
suspect Ruth was up to more than she let on."
"All the other victims were backers?"
"Their names had come up, anyway.
Fitzgerald was trying to put
together
and finance a major venture."
"How major?"
"National, eventually. Not
only the record label but Fitzgerald
planned to
buy other radio stations across the country, to set up a
network
that would specialize in the new music.
We'd make the product
and control
the distribution, so to speak."
"A
kind of doo-wop empire," I said.
"Something like that.
Fitzgerald's credentials in the industry are
stellar. From my perspective, it
was an investment. I don't really
care for
the music all that much. But then when
everything else
started
happening, potential investors being eliminated one by one -
well, I
began to fear for my own life."
I said,
"How well did you know Dan Davies?"
"Not very well at all. His
wife and Flo played bridge together but
we weren't
close or anything like that. I'd spoken
to him at a party
now and
again. To tell you the truth, I think
he married Joan for her
money. He seemed to come from a different, well,
class so to speak."
"He's Ruth's half-brother," I said.
"He's a Negro?"
"He's white. Fitzgerald is
his father, too."
Albertson started to say something and stopped.
"What is it?," Bailey asked.
"Only speculation."
"Put it on the table," said the lawyer.
"Then his motives could be similar to Ruth's, couldn't they? He
could've
been the guy with the camera, her partner.
And the police
have
already determined he was the rat murderer."
Bailey
said, "What do you think, Trevorak?"
"I
have one question. If Dan was the rat
murderer, if he was
working
with Ruth to frame backers of Teenbird Records, trying to ruin
the venture
to get even with their father or whatever - why didn't Dan
kill you as
well?"
"I've thought about that often," said Albertson. "I can't tell you
why."
"Maybe when Gregory wouldn't go along," said Bailey,
"they decided
they had to
play a tougher game than blackmail. You
were investigating
Dan. How stable was he?"
"Not very," I had to admit.
"There you go," said Bailey.
"Another question," I said.
"The day I looked you up, you picked
up Ruth and
drove to a motel. Why?"
"I'd already put together that the victims were potential backers
of
Teenbird, and I knew Ruth was involved in trying to blackmail us.
At that
point I didn't know if she was involved in the murders or not.
And then,
of course, someone had tried to link me with the same
murders. I had to find out for
myself what was going on."
"And what did you find out?"
"To tell the truth, I don't think she was involved in the
murders."
"Why not?"
Albertson
sighed heavily. He said, "You get
a gut feeling about
these
things. She's a very angry woman,
because of her father mainly,
but I don't
think she's capable of murder."
"Was it really an accident you went to Oregon together?"
"Yes, I was shocked to see we were booked on the same flight. I was
up to talk
to Fitzgerald about Teenbird. I wanted
out of the deal, and
we had
argued on the phone. I had to get it
settled. It wasn't the
money I'd already
put up as much as thinking my life was in danger."
"And why was Ruth going to see him?"
"I
think to get him to abandon Teenbird entirely."
I said,
"And maybe to tell him his son was dead."
"I
don't know. Maybe. She was too upset to be terribly coherent.
I didn't
know Dan was her half-brother until you told me."
"Was she upset enough to kill her father?," I asked.
"Someone killed Fitzgerald?"
"Not that I know of. I'm
just asking what if."
"No, I don't see it."
I hoped
he was right.
Judson
Bailey said, "There's still one problem."
"Only one?," I asked.
"Dan himself was killed."
"Ruth?," I wondered aloud.
I remembered Tank saying that she'd
been there
that morning.
"Maybe your gut feeling is wrong," Bailey told his client.
Albertson shrugged. "I
don't know if I know anything any more."
"Ruth would be worth talking to," Bailey told me.
I
didn't tell him how many times I'd already talked to her or that
Butch had
told me to stay away from her. I left
letting him think he
had given
me a hell of an idea. But it wasn't
until I was turning off
the Pasadena
Freeway that I made up my mind to drive to Watts and see
Butch,
rather than to South City and look for Ruth.
45/
I was
rehearsing my speech to Butch in my mind: Okay,
so you're
back into security work, on some kind of freelance gig or other, and
you've got a bead on something that involves Ruth. Well, listen, I've
found out a few new things about her myself, and I think you should
know about them if you don't already.
Like she was trying to blackmail
Gregory Albertson. Who is a
backer of Teenbird Records, which puts him