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