I motioned for Rhonda to follow me back inside my office, helped myself to another shot of rye to steady my nerves after listening to this debacle, and handed her McCullen’s check with instructions to deposit it in my Wells Fargo bank account immediately. I had little confidence that bird was going to be around much longer and didn’t want to get stiffed if he didn’t make it.
“Your intercom was on the whole time, Matthew. I heard the entire conversation,” she said, perching her shapely behind on the edge of my desk. “McCullen’s in real trouble for screwing DeCosta’s dame, isn’t he?”
“It’s a disaster, sweetheart, if his story’s even straight. Couldn’t be worse. You know the mob; they usually take a pretty dim view of anyone nailing their women, unless that person has a bigger hammer. Then, they make an exception, but not as a rule.” I didn’t elaborate more, glancing sideways at her rear comfortably mashing a couple of freshly typed reports on the desk top. She caught my drift and ignored it.
“If I can’t get this resolved quickly, there’s going to be hell to pay for McCullen, and I don’t intend to be caught in the middle of it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to start by dropping by the Blue Parrot and inquire about this DeCosta dame or whoever she was. I’ve got to see if I can find her fast and have a discrete conversation with her before McCullen gets discovered. I’m sure she’s being watched, though, and that’s a problem. It’s a long shot that she’s even there, or anybody will admit seeing her. Maybe, it would be better if you went along with me. We’d be less conspicuous as a couple, and I might be able to connect with her without drawing any suspicion.”
“I’m okay with that, Matthew. We have a vague description of her from his conversation that I overheard. I’m sure we’ll be able to recognize her if she’s there again.”
“Thanks, sweetheart. I’m sure we will, but we won’t have to worry about a description. He left this newspaper clipping with her photo, or so he thinks,” I said, fishing the tossed rag out of the waste paper basket beside my desk and stuffing the picture page into my coat pocket. “You don’t need to change either. You couldn’t look more attractive than you are.”
She grinned at my compliments like a stripper with a fist full of tips and slid off the desk to get her purse from her office desk drawer.
I was already getting used to having this cutie around and noticed she’d said “we’d recognize ,” including herself in the business. Maybe Tex was right!
We piled into the Roadmaster, and I fishtailed onto Hollywood Boulevard, anxious to resolve this mess I decided to change course with the dough and personally deposited McCullen’s check at my bank a few blocks away on the corner of Wilshire and Highland. Afterwards, I walked next door to a drug store and bought another pack of smokes. What I really needed next was a couple more shots of booze at one of the neighborhood saloons to cool me out. But not wanting to waste any more time, I headed south instead, straight towards the Blue Parrot Inn.
Traffic was still light, and the feeble mist was attempting to lift, trying to clear away the sticky cobwebs draped over the city streets. I thought about my check, sitting there waiting to clear McCullen’s bank and worried that it might not make it in time. Then shoved the idea on the back burner and tried to think of something more pleasant.
I clicked on the radio, leaning close to Rhonda, brushing her shoulder. I couldn’t help inhaling her perfumed body and asked, “See if you can find a station with some music on it, doll. Anything but soap operas, okay? I hate those sappy shows. They’re probably all plugging up the airwaves right now anyway, with their midday spiel to housewives.”
She smiled, spun the dial, and instantly found The Andrews Sisters harmonizing “Near You.” She glanced over at me and grinned at how easy it was. I nodded at her choice, and she smiled back, satisfied with her quick selection, as she began singing along with the familiar tune.
Listening to her musical voice filling the car was soothing to the ear. And watching her puckered lips mimicking the lyrics was just the right antidote for the doldrums that were already creeping into my subconscious. I exhaled a sigh of relief and tried to feel better.
For some reason, an optimistic thought ran through my cabeza, and I felt like celebrating. Maybe, this McCullen disaster wouldn’t be such a mess after all, as were most of my cases. Maybe, it would clear itself up sooner than I expected. But on that score, I would be wrong, almost dead wrong. I just didn’t know it at the time.
I popped open the wind wing, reached for my new deck of Luckies, and offered one to Rhonda. She took the pack and tapped out two instead. Depressing the dash board lighter, she lit both and handed me one with a red-lipped grin. I had to shake my head. What a cutie pie she was. I took a drag and blew a column of smoke out the open window. I noticed it tasted a little sweet and sticky on the end. It tasted like her. She noticed the red smear on my lip and laughed. I checked the rearview mirror, ran my tongue over my lips, and smiled back, making a mental note to clear off the tasty grease paint before entering The Blue Parrot watering hole.
I took La Brea south for several miles. We drove through a seedy section of the Inglewood factory area containing McCullen’s company buried somewhere in the background and shot past the airport in Hawthorne. I swung a hard right toward the Pacific on Rosecrans and slowed down to a crawl for another few blocks towards the beach.
The Blue Parrot Restaurant appeared on our left through the light mist, accompanied in the distance by the all too familiar sound of crashing surf and salt air. It was pungent enough to clear your brain and your sinuses. The unmistakable smell of fishy seaweed and kelp was as overpowering as a laundry basket full of old socks. But, the rolling ocean waves in the distance were upstaging the scene like a hand full of nature’s glistening industrial diamonds.
The parking lot was beginning to fill up with a lunch crowd. I slid my heap into a convenient spot close to the front entrance. With the morning fog now almost lifted, I didn’t have to run the wipers to clear away the moisture that was still clinging to the windshield. I’d just let it sit there and evaporate on its own.
A smart-ass parking valet breathlessly ran over with a wise crack about self-parking and stuck his palm out anyway as a reward for his lecture. I told him his tip would come later, and maybe without a fat lip if my car was in the same shape, I’d left it. He backed up fast and looked worried. I grinned, slipped him two bits to ease the pain from my heat, and ushered Rhonda inside for a look-see.
With her red- lipped smile, sunkissed blonde hair, and knock-out figure in that skin-tight sweater and those hip-hugging dark leather pants, she attracted more than our share of attention. We were shown a comfortable black leather booth in the lounge, on the side I’d requested. Maybe bringing this “flashing neon” along wasn’t such a smart idea after all. I’d find out soon enough.
I ordered a couple of extra-dry martinis from the waitress. She was a sun- streaked brunette kewpie doll with a short shaggy hairstyle, big brown saucer eyes, and bubbling breasts bursting out of a low- cut costume. It was probably too skimpy for the lunch crowd, but she flashed me a come-on smile as well, clinching the sale. The whole package was guaranteed to pry a few extra bucks out of your wallet anytime, and I was a sucker as usual.
Rhonda and I tapped our glasses together, a toast to something, took a couple of quiet sips, and I fired up a couple of Luckies for both of us. Then I slid out of the booth and decided I’d ask around about the cupcake in McCullen’s photo. No takers from either the bartender or anyone else working in this watering hole. They were either lying and didn’t recognize this dish or too afraid to tell me the truth. I decided to try my luck on the other side in the restaurant.
I knew this was probably going to be a long shot anyway and wasn’t easily discouraged. This was familiar territory. There were always lots of dead ends and blind alleys to chase in.
I went back to the booth and joined Rhonda. We knocked off our martinis, thinking in silence. I was about to order another round before asking several others that had just drifted in when a noisy commotion outside sounding like emergency vehicles on the roll drew my attention.
Rhonda gave me one of those looks reading my mind that said, “This place is going to be hotter than we anticipated.”
I slid out of the booth and decided to investigate the cause of the sirens. As I cracked open the front door to the lounge, an invasion of squad cars descended in the direction of the Parrot Inn down the street like a swarm of locusts attacking a wheat field. They lit up the overcast with their roof deck racks flashing brighter than a Grumman’s Theater Premier and, at the same time, producing clouds of dust as they jammed on their brakes, sliding to an emergency stop in the gravel parking lot. Putting on a major performance for the sidewalk gawkers was mandatory for these showboats, as they all piled out simultaneously looking official in their dark uniforms and over-armed enough for a hostile siege from outer space.
Rhonda followed me outside to investigate. I watched a coroner’s meat wagon with several men pull up behind the patrol cars. They hesitated, exiting at first, as if taking a deep breath, reluctant to join the ruckus, then decided there’d be no more stalling and joined the cavalcade already inside.
“This isn’t exactly the situation I was expecting around here,” I said to her over my shoulder. “I’ll have to find out if this has any connection to our reason for being here in the first place. I hope not, but who knows.”
We quick-stepped the block in less time than it takes to down a couple jiggers of 90 proof George Dickel whisky and merged into the sideshow clustered out front of the Inn.
“Better hang back, baby, with the rest of the crowd, until I take a look-see.”
She was clearly disappointed but did as I asked, anxiously peering over the heads of the others. I stepped forward to see who was in charge of this barn burner. I spotted Captain Tucker “Tank” Sherman, a big bulldog of a guy. He was the grumpy middle-aged South Los Angeles homicide detective, bull dozing his way towards the uniforms covering the entryway to the Inn.
Tank, as was the only name he’d let anyone use since he peaked in his high school football days. He was a bulky giant built like a pro-wrestler gone to seed with a head like a watermelon, big hands like catcher’s mitts, and an oversized torso. He was now stretching out a cheap dark blue suit coat and probably one belt notch away from splitting his pants. He was overweight, sweating profusely and puffing on a huge Corona. Shouting orders to the cops and the curious bystanders, as we approached, I noticed he was quite impressed with his own overbearing effect on everyone and enjoyed hogging the limelight.
He saw me out of the corner of his eye as I rushed forward and couldn’t help commenting sarcastically as I jammed on the brakes, “Well now, look who’s here, it’s our “Famous Shamus to the Stars. What brings you down here, Thornton … slumming?”
He stuck out his paw, and we gave each other a test of strength. He grimaced with a tighter clench on his stogie as I turned up the heat on this big lug, no stranger myself, to the weight room at the Melrose Gym.
“Not a bad grip for an old man, Sherman,” I said, smiling and ignoring his smart-ass remark. “What gives? Maybe it’s right down my alley,” I added, hoping I was wrong.
He volunteered an explanation without more wise cracks. “A maid at the inn reported to the manager that she’d discovered the body of a dead woman. It looks like a neck tie party for some bimbo. She must have been here a while. She’s stiff as a board.”
“I’d like to take a look. Any objections?”
He hesitated for a second, “No… I guess not. I sure as hell don’t need you here, but I guess I owe you one anyway for helping my brother-in-law with that gang of bank robbers and killers over in San Pedro last year.”
On that, he was more than right. I masterminded the whole trap for a gang of losers. His brother-in-law, Foster Berringer, and his goon squad with the Long Beach P.D. also helped me split the reward money. He’d taken most of the credit and was a civic hero, but I wasn’t worried as my pals had come out on top as predicted, and I wasn’t griping about my expanded bank account.
Rhonda became antsy and didn’t want to be left in the background with the other city riff-raff. She managed to side slip the cops holding back the gawkers and drifted silently up beside me while I was talking to Sherman. He couldn’t help admiring this dazzling number’s tight assets in spite of the seriousness of the crime scene. He also couldn’t resist inquiring with a sly grin who this dish was and her connection to me, especially after she put her arm through mine and flashed him a smile brighter than a beach bonfire weenie roast.
I introduced Tank to her as my new secretary and assistant, which were two stretchers, but fit the occasion, and he seemed to buy it. He gave me a quizzical look after taking in her linked arm routine, but like all the others, he was immediately overwhelmed by her beauty. After double- checking her figure several more times, he shook his head and gave up trying to work it out. Then, failing to relight his cold stogie, he grumbled something incoherent under his breath and motioned for us to follow him inside.
I smiled as she relaxed her grip on my arm and thought, maybe this babe was going to work out after all.
The faux Mexican hacienda- styled inn was once ritzy and expensive. It was now gloomy and depressing. The rundown lobby consisted of drab beat-up furnishings, droopy potted plants, and yesterday’s decorations. We followed Sherman as he plowed forward in the direction of the suite of rooms with the body of the murdered woman. The place was crawling with cops, posted everywhere acting busy but seemingly confused by the crime scene. Most were just taking up space, trying to look official and cast inquiring glances as we paraded by, escorted like dignitaries with their boss leading the way.
The self-service elevator past the now empty lobby desk had an out -of-order sign pasted on one of the scuffed up and broken doors sitting ajar. We took the stairs to the second floor and down a darkened hallway. I thought I’d remembered this place correctly when McCullen first mentioned it, but it had gone down the drain in the last few years, no doubt from overuse by the quickie in and out nightly trade. Like the lobby, the once lavish oriental carpets were now visibly worn and dilapidated, and the walls were plastered with washed-out tattered mural wallpaper with scenes of old Mexico in what used to be vibrant shades of orange, reds and yellow. The hallway was equally dim from several low wattage overhead light bulbs, and the whole place had an odor of mold, urine, and decay. Flashy and upscale, as I’d remembered it, had been rapidly over taken by dingy and seedy.
Rhonda and I looked at each other, and she read my mind again before I said, “What the hell was McCullen thinking when he brought that dame to this dump? He must have been really smashed.”
As we neared the murder victim’s room, I hoped it wasn’t going to be connected to my client. After seeing the rest of this dump, I had a premonition that wouldn’t be promising.
A couple of uniforms were flanking the doorway protecting the crime scene. The coroner was already on site. He and his staff were confirming the cause of death. The rest of the homicide dicks were already tripping over each other, snapping photos and trying to collect evidence before it was obliterated by the look-e-loos.
“Well, there she is,” said Sherman, shoving the fedora back on his head and pointing at what was probably once a beautiful young woman, his soggy stogie dropping ashes on the carpet. He flipped back the sheet covering a hell of a shapely young platinum blonde in her early to middle twenties. She must have been damn attractive before her demise and still a real looker. Except now, she was just a stiffing corpse, lying on her back on an unmade bed in this rat-hole hotel in a crummy part of town.
The quick peek told me she was as naked as a burlesque dancer nearing the end of her act, but that’s where the similarity ended. This dish was wearing nothing more than a black G-string, except it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. This one was wrapped tightly around her neck.
She’d been left in a contorted, uncomfortable angle, legs apart hanging over the bed side, bare feet almost touching the floor. From the bruises on her face, she looked like she’d been roughed up first to make it easier for the killer. Her tongue was out and bloated, and her glazed eyes were bulging and staring blankly at the fly specked ceiling. It looked like she was still calling for help that wouldn’t come. From the other bruises on her body and the position of her arms grasping at her throat, she’d struggled for oxygen, but wasn’t strong enough to fight for it. She died trying.
It wasn’t a pretty sight and not for a weak stomach. I shot a quick glance at Rhonda. She was hanging back, trying to be brave, but not really wanting to take it all in either. I thought, this kid under the sheet was about the same age as Rhonda. She still had a long way to go in life. Getting snuffed out that early was another crime in itself. It shouldn’t have happened.
“Who is she, Tank…any idea?” I said, stepping forward for a closer inspection. I was trying to recognize this dish but decided to keep the news clipping photo in my pocket. Sherman had enough on his plate already, and I didn’t want him involved in my business, not just yet anyway.
“Don’t know. Room was registered to the usual Smith couple, so that’s no help. Apparently, nothing significant in here, no I.D., nothing. We’ll check out the usual, you know , labels in her clothes, dental records, finger prints for any prior arrests. Other than the thrashing, she didn’t have any other marks, scars, or tattoos. We’ll track her down, though, but it’s going to take a while.” He exhaled heavily, a sour expression creasing his mug, “Thornton, my desk has unsolved cases already piled higher than a hooker’s skirt. I didn’t need this mess to top it off either. This factory area is turning into a real shit hole.”
“Maybe you should retire, Tank.”
“Don’t tempt me, Thornton. What I really need right now is a strong drink. And don’t push me either.”
I ignored his comments. “Cause of death is obviously strangulation from the panties wrapped around her throat,” I said, getting back on track. “Raped?”
“Sweet Jesus, man, most are. The one’s turn’n tricks in alley’s or liv’n in flops are a sure bet. In this case, who knows? Probably, it looks like it. But we’ll find out soon enough.”
He paused to relight his drooping stogie, took a couple of quick puffs, and caught smoke in one eye as he shook out the match. Squinting from the sting, he continued with a slight cough, “When we autopsy.
“Yup, Thornton, she’s probably just another one of the usual bimbos that frequent these cash and carry flea bags and don’t give it away for free, either.
“She’ll make a few lousy bucks from some loser she picked up in one of the dive bars around the beach or one of these crumbs working in the factories around here. Then she’ll drift off somewhere else when it starts to get too hot from us cops rousting her and her johns.”
And I thought, “Yeah, she’d also probably get sick of paying off the bulls with their greasy hands taking turns grabbing her goods for free and their sticky fingers in her purse as well.”
“Motive’s maybe robbery, but I don’t think so,” he sighed at the lack of evidence, his buttoned suit coat stretching. “Her purse is missing, but she must have been entertaining somebody important from the few bits and crumbs left behind.” He motioned at the bedside stand. “Something else going on here. Maybe it was drugs. We’ll find out. Looks like something was left behind by mistake, if it was robbery though,” he said, not explaining and getting side tracked by one of the investigators tapping him on the shoulder for advice.
I turned to Rhonda, who wasn’t used to hearing this descriptive banter or seeing a murdered woman’s corpse, and noted that she was still holding it together, better than I’d expected. At first, she looked a little green but hadn’t fainted or thrown up. That was a good sign. Instead, she’d been observing the entire scene, not just the naked body. Stepping closer, she whispered over my shoulder, “Matthew, do you see what I see over there on the night stand?”
She nodded in the direction of the ash tray beside the headboard. I didn’t at first because I’d been concentrating on the naked body, so I eased over in that direction for a closer look at what she’d spotted.
“Looks like a few stubbed- out cigarette butts, some with a bright red lipstick stain and a half- smokedMaduro cigar with the same gold band smoked by my client, doesn’t it?” I whispered quietly as one of the lab boys stepped in front, cutting me off, and dumped all the contents, including an empty crushed Chesterfield cigarette package, into a couple of envelopes for evidence and analysis later.
Unfortunately for him, he’d just missed a match book packet that had somehow fallen on the floor under my shoe. When he turned, I quickly scooped it up , including a pawn ticket from Gold’s Pawn Shop in El Segundo barely visible on the rug under the edge of the bed. I dropped both in my pocket.
The match book cover read Shanghai Ruby’s with several numbers written on the inside flap. Another dump I was familiar with. It was a tough saloon converted from a warehouse, located off of Neptune Avenue in Wilmington, in the Port of L.A., a short drive from the Pike Amusement Park in Long Beach and other clip joints and bars flanking the waterfront wharfs. I’d been there before, tracking down bail jumpers and other losers. It was rough and seedy. Booze, music, dancing, and your choice of girls in skin- tight skirts, slit to the thigh in every size, shape, and color. Offering unlimited entertainment, comfort, and companionship to bolster the spirits of the homesick sailors and merchant marines that descended nightly from the docked ships in the harbor was the theme. After consuming enough overpriced booze, they were unable to say no to anything, which kept their pockets perpetually empty and the ships’ doctors in business afterwards.
Shanghai Ruby’s was owned by a dangerous but beautiful Chinese dame with a face and body to die for that ran her saloon like a fire breathing dragon. She used to run the action in another crummy dive up north, between San Francisco’s old Embarcadero district and Chinatown. She was almost a throwback to the old Barbary Coast days; ruthless, dishonest, and deadly, with a bad attitude to fill in the missing pieces, unless you knew her, which I did, and she liked you, which if you were lucky, she did as well. We were two of a kind, she often said. I didn’t know why . I wasn’t Chinese. The rumor that floated around was that some of the Tong thugs in the Chinese community were reorganizing their crime nets starting up north to take over all the brothels and other gambling operations, especially those that were profitable. Ruby was fair game for big payoffs. But, she apparently didn’t cooperate and decided instead to fold up shop, leave town and start over farther south, where the options were less fatal. I never believed it. She was too tough to push around and hired equally tough characters for protection.
Ruby’s hell hole usually smelled like trouble and now seemed to be calling out my name again. I’d check it out later and also trace that phone number on the match book if that’s what it was.
Rhonda edged up beside me and whispered again, “It’s not the same girl that McCullen described in his photograph, is it?”
“She doesn’t look any more like Ava Gardner than I do, sweetheart, but then her face is a little distorted from the thrashing she took. But, here’s another thing. This kid’s not a natural brunette either. Notice she’s a blonde up top, and also on her speed trap. Take another look,” I nodded toward the girl’s spread legs. Rhonda peeked closer and didn’t comment, just turned away looking uncomfortable. “Unless she was wearing wigs or McCullen was completely blotto and had his lights turned out when they tested the bed springs … it’s not his dish.”
The lab boys were fast but not thorough and making noise that signaled they were about to wrap up the scene. One quick glance around told me they thought they were finished and anxious to get back to their lunch breaks. Aside from the final dusting of prints, the place was pretty well cleaned out of any more signs of evidence. Except, something caught my eye they might have overlooked.
An unused Gideon Bible placed in all the hotel rooms for those that could read and were still worth salvaging sat conspicuously untouched on the edge of the night stand. As they were packing up their lab gear, I picked it up and nonchalantly thumbed through the pages. Stuffed inside, somewhere in the middle chapters, was a stack of crisp twenty-dollar bills pressed flatter than a bunch of freshly picked Daisy’s. And as an added gift, they were covered with a short cryptic note written on cheap stationery that read….
Gina-
Present for my baby.
Love, Frankie
I shot a quick glance out of the corner of my eye at the commotion preoccupied on the other side of the room, then casually slipped the dough and note, joining the pawn ticket and matches, into my side coat pocket and eased the book back into place.
I turned to Rhonda, who’d been starring in the direction of the body getting collected. I whispered it was time for us to blow. Before they hauled blondie off to the city morgue, I noticed one more piece of evidence that I wanted. It was also one I couldn’t obtain. Rhonda had noticed it too and stepped closer to give me a desperate jab in the ribs. There was nothing I could do and sent her only a silent grim frown.
Peeking out from below the half- covered naked body sheet was the only other thing the young woman was wearing. A diamond- encrusted gold bracelet dangling from her left ankle. It was sparkling in the seedy hotel room lights brighter than the flashing neon advertising a burlesque show.
And calling out loud and clear … another connection of my client to this murder.