I spotted Dale’s Diner, a little hash-house just off Atlantic Avenue atSeventh Street., and eagerly hung a left, bumping across the embedded trolley tracks. My brain, as well as my stomach, must have been low on fuel. I wasn’t paying attention and just missed getting clipped by one of the bulky Long Beach cable cars. My heart kicked up a notch when it passed close enough to touch. Clanging only a warning, it continued charging blindly along toward the beach like a blind folded six-ton stampeding elephant. A load of happy tourists and sweaty shoppers clinging to the overhead hand straps were oblivious to my close call.
I jerked the steering wheel over sharply and careened into the diner’s postage stamp- sized gravel lot. After sliding to a stop between a dented Ford pickup truck and a faded blue Hudson sedan, I sat there for a few minutes, replaying the close call in my mind. I wondered how in the hell I could have missed seeing that behemoth in the road and exhaled a sigh of relief that nothing had happened. After settling down, I thought again about getting something tasty for lunch inside.
I rolled up the windows and squeezed out cautiously, without bumping my door into the adjacent crate, and hoped the other owners would do the same when they left. I didn’t have much confidence they would, but went inside anyway and said good bye to my dent-free chariot.
What was once a proud five-star dining experience on the Southern Pacific railroad line, the old car now sat propped up on a bed of cinder blocks disguised by a makeshift boarder skirt. It now occupied one end of a downtown Long Beach dusty parking lot and converted to a twenty-four hour eatery that had seen better days. It was sporting a broken neon sign inside a dirty front window advertising the dump like an over the hill boxer with a perpetual black eye, that would spend his declining career mostly on the canvas. I’d eaten there once or twice before without getting sick, so decided the risk was minimal. I’d tackle it one more time.
Except for the owners of the two jalopies outside and a couple of walk-ins, the narrow diner was almost empty. I slid into a tight booth next to one of the windows and tried to visualize my heap outside through the hand -splotched window. It was still there, undisturbed.
I retrieved the one-page menu stuffed beside the mini table top juke box and selected the hot pastrami on rye with sour kraut and a cup of java. I didn’t have to wait long to get noticed. I easily caught the attention of a bored waitress fussing with some condiments on the counter, and she hustled over, anxious to be more useful. She was a green-eyed cutie pie with a pouty angel’s face, somewhere in her early twenties chewing gum and impatiently tapping her pencil on a small yellow pad. She was wearing a small homemade name tag pinned to her white blouse that said “Candy” written in neat bold capitals with smudged ink. Her forearms were decorated with several tattoos of cartoon characters I’d seen in the funny papers, suggesting a childish and “tough as nails” seamier side of life. Hers also backed up with a slightly sassy attitude for extra confidence. The kid’s captivating smile of square white even teeth on a sassy little face would melt the heart of any Hollywood casting agent. She just needed to be discovered, but this was no Schwab’s in Hollywood. What a waste the kid was in this Long Beach dump. Her mop of bubble gum pink dyed hair was chopped off short and clean but left fluffy and shaggy. A style you’d want to ruffle with both hands. Cutie stuffed it under an oversized white bow with the edges peeking out like feathers escaping from an overstuffed pillow. She reminded me of a full-sized kewpie doll in a short skirt and waitress apron getup that you couldn’t resist squeezing.
She flashed me a non-stop persuasive smile, snapping her gum anxiously in time to some nervous rhythm playing in her head, anxious to speed up my order. I told her what I wanted, but she attempted to talk me into a couple of fresh, just-caught off the Long Beach pier today, fish tacos with homemade salsa. No dice on the harbor fish, at least not today. I knew what usually floated by my boat in the marina, and it never looked edible. When that failed, she pushed a combination plate of greasy home- cut fries and a cheeseburger with the works, apparently another staple at Dale’s, she said, working the gum overtime and popping a blown bubble. I almost fell for the greasy burger but held firm and insisted on a pastrami sandwich with a side of sauerkraut. She scribbled down my choice shaking her head in disappointment, and stuffed the pencil behind her ear, almost convincing me I’d made a mistake.
I tossed the menu aside and watched her sashshay over to the counter to collect the coffee pot. You couldn’t help notice her suggestive walk. This doll already knew how to throw a mean curve you couldn’t catch without trouble. She fumbled around with a tray of freshly washed cups stacked next to the cash register and finally made a selection. I’d find out soon enough that the one she’d drawn contained a small chip and a lip stick smudge, maybe hers. She didn’t seem to notice, and I didn’t mention it. I let her retreat back to the kitchen area to place my order and just wiped it off instead. The Java was predictably harsh and too hot to drink. I let it cool down for a few minutes and then blew off the head of rising steam and took another sip. It wasn’t any better the second time around and still too hot to drink. I grimaced, set it aside, and lit a Lucky to dull my taste buds.
While waiting, I glanced around at the four characters, silently concentrating on their meals. Two withslicked-back hair eating at the counter appeared to be workers from across Ocean Boulevard at the Pike Amusement Park. One guy was wearing a uniform that advertised the Cyclone Racer, a rollercoaster ride on rickety wooden scaffolding that was a high-risk gamble by any insurance statistics you’d dare to read. Another wore a war surplus brown leather bomber jacket with Wall of Death printed on the back. That numbskull was a motorcycle daredevil that rode at top speeds around and around inside a gigantic woodenbarrel-shaped tub inhaling exhaust fumes until he couldn’t stand up. He didn’t look too bright from where I was sitting, but after a few dizzy spins in his washing machine, I guess it would be enough to scramble anyone’s brain. The other two, stashed at the far end in a booth by themselves, must have been the drivers of the crates flanking my Buick. All in all, it was a rough crowd. At least they had enough sense not to eat the junk they served at the concession stands on the midway across the street.
I took a chance on another sip of coffee and only partially scalded my tongue. Glancing over at the Wurlitzer juke box sitting in one corner, I was thankful it was still silent. I wasn’t in the mood for some jumpy numbers and didn’t find anything amusing with the cornball faded wall signs plastered around the room with the cute slogans: Help keep Long Beach clean, please wipe your feet before leaving- Courteous service is available on request- Tip us or Die of Thirst. They were far from hilarious, as the owner of this hash house must have thought.
My meal finally arrived. Maybe a little sooner than I expected. It was hot, and I was hungry. I polished off the pastrami sandwich, which was actually corned beef, but when you’re hungry, who the hell cares. It was also a little tough but still edible. I would have liked a beer, which they didn’t serve. I settled for a road tar refill instead.
After finishing, I tossed my napkin aside and lit another smoke. I called over the doll with the pink mop and asked her if she’d ever seen either the Ava look-a-like in my folded newspaper clipping or the blonde from my description with the possible name of Gina. At first, she hesitated. I shoved a fin in her direction to grease the wheels. She stuffed it inside her uniform pocket out of sight, glanced over her shoulder around the room, and quietly began to remember. She drew a blank on the brunette but opened up about a platinum blonde.
“Mister, if there’s one thing around this beach and amusement park, it’s blondes. All shades, whatever you want, and whatever the bottle color says. Say, what’s this about anyway? You a cop?”
“Why? Don’t like cops?”
“They can get kind of rough, you know? You ain’t a cop, are yah?”
“I’ve had a few run-ins with some tough ones myself, kid,” I said, brushing off the question. “They can be a pain where the sun don’t shine.”
“Yeah, You’re right there, mister.” She paused, thinking about it, fingering the fin in her pocket, then working up a little conspiratorial grin, like we were now mutual pals. She glanced over her shoulder again at the crumb in the leather jacket with his back still turned and continued in a lowered voice again. “You got more to go on?”
I mentioned the ankle bracelet. She gazed vacantly over my shoulder for a few seconds, tapping her pencil on the order pad. Lights flickered upstairs.
“Yeah, I did see one.” She turned on a warm smile, and hearing this news, so did I. I reached for another Lucky and let her continue without interrupting her train of thought.
“A platinum- haired blonde wearing one a few weeks ago came in here. First time I seen her she was with my friend Chester. Then she was kind of trashy. Yellow stringy hair, chipped nail polish, thrift shop clothes— you know, try’n to be pretty but, not much class. He told me she worked somewhere over at the Pike. I think her names yeah, that’s it, Gina … or something. Then, I don’t see her for a while with him, and he says he dumped her. But I ain’t so sure about that. Then she shows up again with another guy, and now she’s all fancy. You know, all dolled up… real flashy; expensive clothes, hair dyed real nice, perfume strong enough to smell across the street, lips a bright and shiny red you could see in the dark, new high heeled shoes, matching purse- the works. That’s when she was wearing one of them small gold ankle chains with plenty of sparklers surrounding it. She kept dangling her leg off the counter stool like they was maybe real diamonds or something special to look at.
“You couldn’t miss it. I wished I had one too, when I seen hers, but thought … oh, what the hell, they was just paste anyway.”
I didn’t want to spoil the kid’s illusion, but the diamonds were the real McCoy, if they were on the same ankle bracelet given by McCullen.
“She was act’n kind of stuck up too, like she was now too good to be eat’n in our hash house. She tried to act like a lady, but she wolfed down her food like she hadn’t eaten a solid meal in a month, just like I seen her do before. They didn’t talk much either, just kinda whispered secret like, to each other. She had plenty of dough in her purse though. When they finished eat’n, she pulled out a stack of double sawbucks thicker than a phone book, paid and left a fat tip for me. With that kind of loose dough, I think she must have been hook’n somewhere around here, probably at the Pike, the beach hotels, or maybe had connections with some high rollers in some of the private gambling joints in L.A.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Cuz, I just said, she used to come in here once in a while with that other one over there,” she said, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder at the loser sitting at the counter shoveling in his meal with his back to us advertising The Wall of Death on his jacket. “He’s usually broker than a beach panhandler. I should know; I usually stake him to a free meal here once in a while … like today.
“That other crumb that picked Blondie up here one night for dinner? She must have started screwing him instead of Chester cuz she dropped Chester like a hot fry’n pan afterwards, and I never saw either one of them other two again. Too good for us at Dale’s, I guess.”
“I doubt that. Maybe more to it than you know about, sweetheart.”
“That other guy, he works over on Pine Avenue in one of them tattoo shops. He looked more like a pimp or gambler than a needle pusher. That’s the funny part. I mean him too— new suit, snappy tie, new hat, shined shoes. You know the type, like he was work’n the angles instead in some saloon, gambling or something crooked.”
“Think she got the dough from him?”
“Certainly not from a geek like him.”
I think she was wrong on that count, but let her continue with her theory.
“I think she even paid for both dinners then, too. Typical of the pimps I know, always take’n, never give’n.”
“Good observation, kid. Don’t fall for it.”
“You know, lately, I been see’n some new customers eat’n here, carry’n bigger rolls than I ever seen before. Don’t get it. Big tips, though. Can’t complain.”
Maybe something there too, maybe not… otherwise, I’d hit a bonanza with this kid. She was actually a smart cookie. I needed as much information as I could get out of her before she ran out of steam or got sidetracked. I worked up my best smile and sweetened the pot with another fin to keep her talking. This one she shoved inside, down the front of her bra. I wondered where she’d hide the next one if offered.
“Where, sweetheart? On Pine? What’s this shop called? Got his name?”
“I know most of the tattoo artist’s around here, as you can see from my arms,” she said, proudly showing me as if I hadn’t noticed before. “That guy’s new in town, I hear. Don’t know his name for certain. Maybe Fred or Jake, I don’t know. I think he just started at Archie’s Tattoo Shop over on Pine, as I said before.”
“Could it have been Frank?”
“Yeah, maybe. I dunno,” she said, scratching her head under her bow with the pencil point and glancing around nervously.
“What’s he look like, sweetheart?” I asked, sensing she was about to lose interest in my third degree. I’d have to work faster before the well ran dry.
“Nobody special. Kind of short and weasely. You know; pinched face, narrow beady little eyes, kind of yellowish teeth like he don’t like to brush, dark Bryl creemed hair combed straight back, ugh!” She shivered a little. “Just thinking gives me the creeps.”
“Not bad, kid. You got more?”
“Not sure of his name as I said, but noticed he’s got a funny tat, like a flag or something on the back of one of his hands and some other crazy designs on his arms. I didn’t pay much attention to them.”
“Think he was a sailor?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“He was too pale for a sailor and looked weak. I go out with lots of sailors off the ships in San Pedro. Mostly bigger guys with good tans, like you.” She smiled. “They know how to spend their dough and treat a lady right. They always pick up the tab at a restaurant too. Not that guy, he was as pale as a ghost, like I said, and she paid. I don’t think he’s broke, maybe just stingy and must have spent a lot of the time indoors, you know?”
“Like maybe in jail?”
“Could be.”
“You’re alright, kid. You should be a detective. You’re smart and observant.”
“Thanks, but I hate cops, remember?”
“Yeah, I do. Maybe you’d like a private investigator, better?” I grinned.
She’d guessed already and said, “Yeah … maybe I would,” and grinned back.
“Thanks for the know-how, sweetheart. You’ve been a big help. I’ll be back sometime,” I said and slid out.
She smiled again at my compliments and was about to continue when the greaseball in the leather jacket looked over his shoulder and snapped his fingers, signaling for a coffee refill or something else and pronto. She shut down our conversation and drifted off in his direction to see what the punk wanted.
I’d wrung out more than what I’d expected from this kewpie doll anyway and tossed another generous tip on the table covering my bill and her extra information. I grabbed my hat from the seat and decided to shove off. It was time to follow up on what I’d just learned. Shanghai Ruby’s would have to wait.
I yanked the door open and, glancing back, caught another sweet smile from Candy before she disappeared behind the counter. I thought about some of the so-called Hollywood phonies that without their shoe lifts, false teeth, and wigs had nothing on that kid.
But I didn’t like what I was hearing or seeing. The punk in the leather jacket wasn’t too happy about something with little Candy. From where I was standing, it looked like he was starting to get rough. I didn’t think it was a complaint about his meal either. His hand was squeezing her tightly around the forearm, and she was having trouble pulling away. Their voices were argumentative and getting louder.
I changed my mind, stepped back inside, and swung the door closed. I decided it wasn’t time to leave after all. At least not right then, anyway.