Los Angeles Stories (19 page)

“Where do you live?” Andrena asked.

“Upstairs at the merry­-go-­round, on the top floor. It's beautiful — the ocean, the birds, the people. It's like I have all these friends and they come to visit me every day. I love every day.”

“Me too.” Ray said. “I'm satisfied. No sense kickin'! Plus, you'd be surprised what you can find, cleaning up around here.” He went on with his sweeping. Herb, Andrena, and Scrubby walked with Mary Dee toward the promenade. She said good night and climbed the wooden stairs to her room in the carousel building. Scrubby fell asleep as soon as they got in the car. At eleven o'clock, the parking lot was empty except for cars belonging to tenants of the apartments along the board­walk. Pick­up trucks, mostly, and a few run­down pre­war models. “I think I see a Cadillac. I think I know that car,” Herb told Andrena. It looked sinister and out of place, like a shark in a goldfish pond. Herb looked inside the driver's window and then got back in the Muntz and drove up the hill to Ocean Avenue.

“That's Ned's car, for sure,” he said.

“What's he doing here?”

“Hiding out.”

“Maybe he has a novia, maybe it's Mary Dee.”

“Not our boy Ned. He doesn't like music, he told me so himself.”

It was a muggy night in Santa Monica, and Ned Hillael was having a nightmare. Hot weather gave him bad dreams, but this was worse than usual. There was an auditorium. Bill O'Leary was standing at a lectern speaking to a large crowd. “Santa Monica High School” was cast into the plaster molding around the proscenium arch above the stage. Men and women in business attire sat motionless in their seats, watching Bill. A cloth banner proclaimed “The William O'Leary Seminar: The Right Activity at the Wrong Time.” Bill looked strange. His eyes were black-­rimmed and his voice was deep and harsh. He waved his arms about in spastic motions and spoke in a zombie cadence, accompanied by organ music that was random and dissonant:

I know you're not sleeping, and you ain't going nowhere

You're watching television, and sitting in your chair

It's three o'clock in the morning, and there ain't no way out

So you better call this number, I'm the only friend you got

Yesterday they told you your little job is gone

How you going to tell your little wife at home?

She thinks everything is going to be all right

But she's over there asleep, and you're smoking cigarettes all night

You used to think you had the whole world swingin' by the tail

Now you'll be lucky if I can keep you out of jail

Just look who's swingin' now, what's that sound you hear?

Must be the wind, whistling past your ears

Saying, ‘Time, time, time is all you got. . . .'

The people began to get up out of their seats and spin around like tops, hollow-­eyed graduates of the Seminar for Lost Souls. Bill O'Leary stood on the stage, his eyes fixed on Ned. “Time, time, time is all you got,” he rasped as the organ music twisted itself around and around in a frenzy. Ned forced himself to wake up. He was soaking wet. “Goddamn Catholics and their goddamn organs,” he muttered. The clock said 11:30. He got dressed and walked down the stairs to the parking lot. The Cadillac was wet from the sea air. He thought he might head over to the Skywatcher's Lounge, but then he realized Charmaine would be there. “Bitch,” he muttered. He drove to Third Street and parked behind the Embers and went in through the back. The bartender greeted him. “Evening, Mr. Hillael, nice to see you. Whiskey sour?” The Embers was a nice place, not like the Sky­watcher's. It was air conditioned, and Ned began to relax. Just the heat, he told himself, and the strain of having to duck the police just because some of the cars didn't have good pink slips. He noticed a neat-­looking blond woman alone at the bar, a few stools down. She was wearing a light blue coat and white gloves. Sharp, my type, he thought. “So, how are you this evening?” Ned started right in.

“How am I?”

“As in, how about a drink?” asked Ned. He was feeling loose after being cooped up in the Carousel Apartments. “Hey Mac, two more, over here.” He steered the girl toward a booth in the back, amazed at how smooth and easy it was. “Now, I'm Ned, and you are who?”

“Judy.”

“Terrific.” The waitress brought drinks and set them down. “You're definitely new around here, that I know.”

“You're right, I'm new. This is a nice place.”

“It's very nice, and you are pretty nice yourself.” Suddenly, Ned liked his life, things were clicking. “So Judy, tell me all about you!”

“Nothing much to tell. I had a job up at Douglas in the accounting department, but I got laid off. I had an apartment on Thirty-fourth and Pearl Street, but I had to move. I live in Venice now.”

“What do you drive?”

“Oh, I can't afford a car, Ned. I take the bus everywhere.”

“Well, this is amazing, because I am in a very good position to help you. I have been working closely with Douglas people to help them in financial matters, such as cars.”

“Is that so?”

“Cars are a specialty of mine. We'll talk more about that later.” Ned looked up and saw Charmaine coming through the street door. She stopped at the bar and started talking loud to the bartender. Ned panicked. “Say, Judy, this place is getting on my nerves, let's us take a little ride.”

“Suits me, Ned.” She got up and followed him down the hall and through the back door to the parking lot. “Here's my Cadillac, right here. Now, let's just see.” Ned turned onto Broadway. “Now, let's see,” he said again. “There's a lot of nice places . . .”

“I know one. It's called the Los Amigos, in Venice. Ever been there, Ned?” the girl asked.

“The Los Amigos! Let's go!” Ned was a little light­ headed from the drinks and the narrow escape from Charmaine and the blond girl in the seat next to him. He drove down Nielson, through Ocean Park, and into Venice. “Turn right on Mildred, park in the back,” said the girl. The place was just a store­front on the boardwalk, with no sign or address. Not my style, Ned thought, but the girl had him by the arm, and he realized she was strong like an athlete. Inside the place was very dark and damp and thick with dancing bodies. There was a tiny stage and a four-­piece combo trying to play jazz. A man in a ruffled shirt was singing: “I get no kick from cocaine, but I get a kick—” “
Whoa!
” the crowd screamed on the bass drum accent — “Out of youuuu.” Ned was having trouble seeing in the dark. “It's all just men, I think,” he said. A waiter in a black leotard and lipstick came over. Bad acne showed through his make­up. “Now, tell Tonette what you want,” the waiter said with a lisp.

“Hi, Tonette. Whiskey sours,” Judy said.

“Honey, you are stepping out tonight.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Ned asked the girl.

“I've been here a few times.”

“I don't like this place,” said Ned.

“Why not? I do. For a girl on her own, it's friendly. Nobody bothers me, nobody even notices me.”

Ned wiped his face. “I'm getting nervous in here, it's too hot.” A voice made Ned jerk his head around because it sounded like Bill O'Leary. Peering through the dark, Ned saw Bill in the corner, in a booth. He was sitting with a younger man, and they were kissing and laughing and touching each other.

Ned ducked his head back down. “I got to get out of here,” he whispered urgently.

“Where do you want to go, Ned?” asked the girl.

“I got to get to my car, right now. Get me out of here.” The girl steered Ned through the crowd and out the door. His legs started to wobble and she had to work to hold him up. Once behind the wheel, Ned's eyes began to focus a little.

“That's the worst goddamn place I ever saw. A queer joint. The chairman of the Santa Monica Christian Business Men's Association is a dirty queer. ‘No Jews in breakfast meetings,' he tells me. Bastards! Goy shitheads!”

“You done?” the girl asked.

“What?” Ned turned sideways to the girl with a surprised look, as if he was seeing her for the first time.

“Forgot about me, Ned?” She had a gun now, a nasty little .32 snub nose in her gloved hand resting on her knee.

Suddenly, Ned didn't like his life so well. “What's that for? What do you want?”

“Nothing. I have everything I want. Look at me, Ned. Take a good look.”

“Look at what? I don't have any money.”

“I'm not Judy, I'm Lonnie. Look at me.” Ned tried to look. The light in the parking lot was bad and his head hurt from the Los Amigos. Things weren't making sense.

“Lonnie?”

“Doctor Mario did a good job. I can feel a pussy whenever I want. Mine. You lied to me, you jerked me around, you promised me money and cars. I could have died in that Studebaker, you ever think of that, Ned? Getting those files was not easy. O'Leary tried to put the cops on me for that job, but there isn't any Lonny Tipton anymore. I know all about you and O'Leary. Him, I don't like. I'm going to fix him good and you're going to help me do it.”

Ned's tongue felt like it was a mile wide. He could barely talk. “Help? How?”

“You're going to sit here and die, that's how. This is O'Leary's gun. They call it a belly gun. I followed him and his little friend the other night. They played games with it over at the Edwin Apartments, and I watched them, I found out what Mr. Bill wants. Then they left and I went in and took the gun. Didn't you ever wonder what happened to me, Ned? Let me fill you in. I live in a crummy little room over at the Edwin, and I work for Bill O'Leary. How do you like me now? Look at the gun. This gun is dirty. Bill O'Leary is dirty, he's a nasty man. The gas room is all ready for Mr. Bill. Remember what I said before? Just a teeny little push. Adios, Ned.”

The gun snapped twice, low to Ned's beltline. At point­blank range, his upper body slammed back into the seat like a roller­ coaster. He gasped and clutched at his stomach with both hands. Lonnie turned on the big Wonder­Bar radio. She got out of the car and walked toward the beach. Ned sat there, unable to move, blood oozing from between his fingers. A radio announcer spoke softly, reverently: “Ladies and gentlemen, it's time once again for
Your Rosary Hour
.” “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .” the voices began. “Goddamn Catholics,” Ned whispered through his teeth. After a while, he passed out.

Herb was dreaming about his old friend, Johnny Ace. Johnny stood at the foot of the bed and turned his head from side to side, displaying the bullet hole in his temple. The piano intro from his hit, “Pledging My Love,” filled Herb's bedroom with its mournful sound. Johnny regarded Herb with sad eyes. “Tell me, Herb, why would a man with a number­-one record play Russian roulette with a loaded gun?”

Herb answered, “Johnny, I know you didn't do it. I'm sorry.”

“Herb,” the voice echoed, “I got a message from Ned. He says blonds have more fun.”

“Where's Ned, Johnny?” Herb asked, but Johnny was fading out.

“Good-bye, Herb, my telephone is ringin'. . . .” The plink-­plink-­plink­-plink of the piano drifted away.

Herb woke up. Scrubby was hiding under the bed and wouldn't come out. “It's all right,” he told her. “Johnny had to deliver a message. He's gone back now.”

Herb finished dressing and walked over to Andrena's. “Ned's dead and gone, can't be any doubt about it.”

“What now?” asked Andrena.

“Nothing to be done. Someone's gone and killed poor Ned, that's all. We'll just have to wait right here and see. But Johnny Ace brought me the news, and that only means one thing. Whatever they say about Ned, it's going to be dead wrong. The message was blonds have more fun.”

Andrena looked up from her sewing. “Is it true?”

It was Tuesday, and that meant that the Christian Business Men's Association of Santa Monica was having their monthly break­fast in the Moose Hall up on Ocean Park and Sixteenth. Chairman Bill O'Leary had just dismissed the meeting with a friendly reminder to register for his Investment Seminar that was getting underway very soon. A twenty-dollar package, lunch included. Exciting opportunities in home equity foreclosures, don't miss it. My colleague, Miss Judy Smith, will answer all your questions.

Two men had arrived toward the end of the breakfast. They sat in the back and declined the offer of pancakes and coffee. When the meeting broke up, they stood and waited by the door. Bill O'Leary came walking up the center aisle, back slapping and shaking hands and grinning like a Cheshire cat. He saw the two men, the policemen, which was what they were. “Mr. O'Leary, may we speak to you, sir?”

“I'm Bill O'Leary,” said Bill.

“I'm Detective Sergeant Donald McClure, and this is Detective Charles Stahl. Would you like to step this way, sir?”

“Step what way?” asked Bill, his Cheshire­-cat grin fading.

“Sir, we are here on police business.”

“Jellmen, what can I do for you, perhaps this is inconvenient.”

“I'm going to ask you to accompany us down to police headquarters.”

“I am the chairman of the Christian Business Men's Association of Santa Monica. I want to help in any way I can.”

“Mr. O'Leary, do you own a .32 caliber Smith and Wesson detective's special?”

“I'm a leader in this community, you realize.”

“William O'Leary, I'm placing you under arrest for the murder of Nedwin Hillael. Anything you say can and will be held against you. Put the cuffs on him, Chuck.”

State your full name.

William O'Leary.