Los Angeles Stories (20 page)

Occupation?

Real estate broker.

Address?

3162 Ocean Park Boulevard.

Is this your gun?

I gave the gun to a friend. We met in a bar.

What bar?

The Los Amigos.

What do you do there?

I go there to meet friends.

You go to the bar to meet men to perform obscene acts?

Larry said he needed a gun.

Did you engage in lewd acts with Larry?

We had some drinks, we went to his place.

Where was that?

In Venice, on Mildred.

Did you give him the gun there?

Yes.

Did you perform obscene acts with the gun?

He wanted to use the gun to scare a friend.

What did you do then?

We left the apartment, we went to the beach.

At night, you went to the beach at night?

Yes. We left the gun in his place. When we got back, it was gone.

When was this?

About two weeks ago.

Where was this?

It's called the Edwin apartments. On Mildred.

All right, Bill. I like you for pandering and soliciting, the murder of Ned Hillael, and the murder of George Gresham. I also like you for the break ­in at the Douglas Aircraft Business office, and that interests me. I don't care about the fag stuff, that's for the newspapers. I look for motive. Point number one: Hillael was weak and you knew he'd crack eventually and expose this scheme of yours to defraud employees of Douglas Aircraft.

We questioned a waiter from the Los Amigos. He
stated that Hillael was there on the night he was
shot, in the company of a blond woman. The waiter
said he was definitely a straight john, not a regular.
I suggest that the blond woman was employed by you
to steer Hillael to the Los Amigos bar. She set
him up, and you followed him out to the parking
lot and shot him as he sat in his car.
No signs of a struggle, he knew his assailant. The
radio was on. That was a nice touch, Bill.

I didn't kill anybody. You can't prove a thing. I don't know any blond woman. The gun was stolen, like I said. I didn't steal the documents. Ned Hillael's man Lonny Tipton stole the documents.

What's this Tipton look like?

I don't know. I never saw him.

We got an anonymous tip about that. We checked
it out. Douglas shows a “Lon Tipton,” machinist, discharged six
months ago. We got him on the Teletype, but he's
gone, no forwarding, no police record. Nothing there, in my
opinion. Ned Hillael had a colored man working for him.
We checked him out. He has a weird background. Used
to be a singer of jive music, recorded some so­-called
subversive material. Nothing for us there, this is non­political. There's
no “Larry” living at the Edwin Apart­ments on Mildred, we
checked the place out. Old Jews on pensions and one
Cuban who says he's a retired barber. What we got
is Bill O'Leary. Now, let's back up a little. Point
number two: Ned Hillael hired George Gresham to spy on
you because he thought you were going to double­ cross him.
I suggest that Gresham threatened you with exposure, so you
sapped him down in the parking lot behind the Embers.

You got no evidence, no proof, nothing.

A transient on the beach in Venice found a gun and turned it in. A .32 short ­barrel, registered to Mary Miller at 3162 Ocean Park Boulevard. Your secretary, your office. The lab found prints all over it, two sets. One is yours, the other is not on file. They found blood, Gresham's blood type, and that's good enough for me. You killed both men in their cars. They're going to call you “The Car­hop Killer.” I like it already. See, Bill, they just gassed Caryl Chessman up at Quentin. The room's all yours.

Lonnie walked into the Airport Equity office for the last time at about four o'clock the next afternoon. Mary was sitting at her desk, crying.

“What's wrong?” Lonnie asked.

“Mr. O'Leary's in jail.”

“What for?”

“They're saying he killed somebody.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. What happens now?”

“Did you talk to him?”

“He said, go right ahead, like it was nothing. He says it's all a mistake and he'll be back soon.”

Maybe in twenty years, maybe never, Lonnie thought. She went into Bill's office and sat behind his desk. There was a large notepad headed, “From the office of William O'Leary.” She tossed it into the wastebasket.

“I don't like this job anymore,” Mary wailed from the front room. “I need a drink.” She left the office.

Lonnie went to a filing cabinet. She pulled out the folder marked “Titles/Deeds.”

She used Bill's typewriter to make out two title transfer forms, for 334 and 336 Sixteenth Street. The forms stated that the legal ownership of the two properties was being transferred to Andrena Ruelas and Herbert Saunders, respectively, and that Airport Equity Home Loans was acting with power of attorney for the current owner, listed as one Nedwin Hillael, of Santa Monica. Lonnie typed steadily for about one hour, then she took the new titles, along with Mary's notary kit, and went next door to the Skywatcher's. “I Fall To Pieces” was playing on the jukebox. Patsy Cline was a favorite with the daytime drinkers on Ocean Park Boulevard.

Mary was sitting in a booth. Lonnie put the paperwork down in front of her. “Sign these papers and put your notary stamp on them. Now.”

“Wha—?” Mary was practically unconscious from drinking and crying. “Documens?”

“These documents.”

“Wassa hurry, wassa point? Wha' 'bout Misser O'Leary?” She began to cry again.

“I'm telling you now,” Lonnie said in a harsh whisper. “Bill won't be interested anymore, he's got other things to think about.” Mary signed the papers, but she wouldn't touch the notary stamp. Lonnie grabbed her wrist and forced her hand with the stamp in it down on the papers. Then she put the papers in a large manila envelope addressed to Herbert Saunders, and walked out onto the street.

Lonnie dropped the envelope in the blue mailbox on the corner and went back upstairs to the office. She replaced Mary's notary book and stamp in the drawer. She left by the back stairs, crossed the street, and caught the number 10 bus, eastbound for downtown Los Angeles.

Herb had Ned cremated at Malinow­ Silverman funeral directors, out on Fairfax, and took Ned's ashes home in a little jar with Hebrew writing on it. He tried putting it up on the mantle in his living room, but Scrubby wouldn't come in the room afterwards, so he took the jar down.

“What's the best thing to do here?” Herb asked Andrena.

“We always make a little shrine in the yard, with flowers,” she said. Andrena seemed to know how to go about it. She had Herb set up a five-­tiered brick pyramid, about four feet high, in a corner of the yard on his side. She decorated it with saints' pictures, an assortment of silver mila­gros, electric Christmas tree lights, pink geraniums, and a large plaster stature of the Virgen of Guadalupe. She placed Ned's urn behind the statue. Herb thought the shrine looked like a Mexican wedding cake.

The deed package arrived. Herb showed the papers to Andrena and explained what they meant. “This seems to be all legal and proper. Here's yours, and here's mine.”

“You keep mine for me,” Andrena told Herb. Herb went down to the corner and bought a bottle of champagne.

“It's Lonnie's way of saying gracias, I suppose,” Andrena said, when Herb finished telling her as much of the story as he knew or wanted to know. “Maybe we can be safe for a while, now.”

“For a while. Bill O'Leary had a plan to develop this neighbor­hood. The cops are saying he had something to do with poor Ned's getting killed, so he's out of the picture. But there's going to be others. Only thing is, most people with money wouldn't care to live next door to the cemetery.”

“Pero, it's muy tranquilo,” Andrena said.

A nice little corner in the city of squares, Herb thought. “Ned owned these places the whole time and never let on, never said a word.” They were sitting outside in Andrena's barbecue patio. Herb turned in his chair and raised his champagne glass to Ned's corner shrine. “Gone be all right, Ned. You can stay here with us. Definitely.”

1958

A
T TEN O'CLOCK
at night, the Sierra Highway was dead quiet. Mike Brown heard the car coming; he heard the motor working through straight pipes.
About a mile away
, he thought.
They got the cutout open, they think they're smart
. Mike dumped the day's load of cigarette butts and ashes out in the parking lot in front of the shop and stood there watching for the car to come around the bend just below the little run­down shopping center. The sound got louder.
They got a cam in it
, he thought.
Probably got a crummy J. C. Whitney cam, and they think they own the road
. Headlights swung around the corner. The car slowed and pulled up to the curb. Mike stood where he was, holding the empty Folgers coffee can. “Hey kid,” somebody hollered out. “Got a dollar? We're out of gas.”

“No.”

“Sure you do, you can get a dollar.” Mike walked up to the car, a purple '49 Ford convertible with lake pipes and Hollywood Spinner hubcaps. The rag­top was patched with gaffer's tape.
They cut the springs too low, they can't hold it in the road. Can't go past forty miles an hour with the springs cut like that
. Mike looked inside the front seat. There were two guys with a girl in between them. The girl was about Mike's age, with an unhappy look. The guy on the passenger side had his arm around her in a proprietary way and a quart bottle of Southern Comfort between his legs. The inside of the car smelled like whiskey. The driver said, “Listen, we got Lorrie Collins in here. Didn't you ever see the Collins Kids on television?”

Mike heard the gun shop door open behind him. “Who's that out there?” Dolly called out.

“They want a dollar, and there's a girl here,” Mike said over his shoulder. Dolly walked across the parking lot, his cane in one hand and a sawed­-off, double-­barrel twelve­-gauge shotgun in the other. He never left the gun shop at night without it.

Dolly stooped over to get a good look. “Well, boys, it's your choice,” he said. “You let her out and you get a dollar and go on your way. Or, I'm goin' to blow the doors off this vehicle, starting right here.” Dolly pointed at the passenger door with his cane. The driver leaned over. “Look, pops, we're just asking for a dollar so we can get down the road here to someplace where we can show Lorrie Collins a little bit of a good time. Go mind your own damn business.”

“What you want me to do, count three like they do in the movies?” Dolly brought the gun up, pulled the trigger and blew the front fender clean off the car. Out there on the empty highway, the shotgun reverberated like a field howitzer. The fender banged down on the sidewalk and lay there rocking back­ and­ forth. “You see the kick in this gun? I cain't always hold it steady, I cain't be sure!” Dolly said, waving the shotgun all around.

“Shit!” the driver shouted. “Get out, Johnny, get her out!” Johnny jumped out and pulled the girl with him. The Southern Comfort bottle rolled out and hit the curb. He scrambled back in and the Ford took off up the highway, sort of at an angle.
A sidewinder
. They went into the turn too fast and barely made it around the corner. You could hear the pipes echoing in the low hills as they went. The two­-lane highway got quiet again. “Let's get inside,” Dolly said. “Nobody's got any sense anymore.” Mike Brown picked the fender up off the sidewalk and followed Dolly and the girl back inside.
Thanks a lot, you crazy old man
.
They didn't know me before, but they do now
.

They walked through the clutter of tools and gun parts to the T-Bird lounge, a room in the back where Dolly did his drinking and porno­ reading. There was a cot, two chairs, and a small icebox with a “Get the US out of the UN” bumper sticker on the door. The girl sat down on the cot. Mike stood.

“I guess I have to thank you, sir,” the girl said. “I was getting pretty scared with those boys. We just kept on driving and driving. I have no idea where I am.”

“Terry and Johnny Poncey. What the hell is a young girl doing with trash like that?” Dolly opened a fresh pack of Pall Malls, the third one of the day.

Mike spoke up, “She's a singer, Dolly. From television, I think.”

“I met them at a party. They said they wanted to take me to where my brother was. I think they wanted to get me drunk.”

“Did they make you drink?”

“Do the police have to hear about this? The record company will have a fit. I'm supposed to be home in bed. They didn't hurt me.”

“Where's your folks, honey?” Dolly asked, trying to be nice.

“They're back visiting in Oklahoma. My brother and I are staying with friends.”

“Where's your friends now?”

“That's Joe and Rose Lee Maphis. Joe's out somewhere with my little brother, Larry.”

“Joe Maphis?”

“Yes.”

“Hell, I know Joe, I been knowin' him good. Call him, tell him to come and get you.”

The girl dialed and waited. “Mister B's. It's a dance club in Lancaster,” she told Dolly. Someone came on the line. Mike could hear the noise coming out of the receiver from where he was standing. “Hello, this is Lorrie Collins. Can I please speak to Joe Maphis?” She waited. “They're saying he's onstage with Larry now.” She handed Dolly the phone and he barked into the receiver, “You tell Joe to call Dolly Carney.” He read off the number twice and hung up.

“I got to lie down,” the girl said.

“Why shore,” said Dolly. “We'll wait for Cousin Joe to call.”

Dolly and Mike went up front. “Who's Joe Maphis?” Mike asked.

“The fastest guitar alive,” replied Dolly. “The fastest, not the best. I did some work on his guns in Bakersfield about ten years ago.”

“What about the girl,” Mike asked. “You going to keep her here?”

“Course not. Got to get her back to her people. Joe can take care of it.”

“I thought you might try and keep her here, like the other one.”

“You shut up about that.” The shop phone rang. Dolly picked it up. “Dolly's Guns and Swords. This is Dolly. Joe? It's me. You better get over here and get Lorrie Collins. I don't want any trouble, I'm livin' right. Sierra Highway, two miles below the Half­-Way Café. We'll be waiting.”

“You better get on home, Mike,” Dolly said. “You done enough for one day. Go on.” Mike got up and left the shop, closing the front door behind him.
You want me out of the way. You don't care where I go or who's around when I get there
. It was cold outside, the way the desert gets cold late at night. Mike buttoned up his Levi jacket and walked up the road in the direction the Ford had gone, but he didn't go far. He circled back around through the oak trees behind the shop and stood there watching. It was dark inside, but after a while Mike saw something move. He duck­walked up to the window without making a sound and looked in. The girl was asleep on the cot and Dolly was standing there looking down at her. He reached down and lifted the hem of her dress up a little. She stirred, and Dolly stopped lifting and waited. Then he lifted the dress up some more. He stood there looking at the sleeping girl's legs for a while, then he put the dress back down and walked out of the room and closed the door. Mike took a breath. He felt a little better about leaving the girl alone with Dolly Carney.

Mike Brown got off the school bus at 4:30 the next day. He bought a bag of fried donuts and walked across the parking lot to the gun shop. Dolly wasn't in front, but Mike could see he'd been working. There was a trigger-­receiver section from a Winchester .30­-.30 in the vise, and the engraving tools were out. Mike looked through the magnifying glass. In an area hardly bigger than a matchbox was a tiny world: trees, a foreground, and a big buck deer looking proud. Mike could see the idea was good. He'd heard Dolly mention about engraving like he knew all about it, and sometimes people would stop by to talk guns and ask Dolly for custom work, but the answer was always the same: “I'm just an old cowboy that cain't do it no more.” There were photographs on the wall above the workbench of Dolly as a younger man holding fancy guns and trophies, but he never did any real work in the shop except for light repairs and a sale once in a while. Mostly, Dolly drank T-­Bird and looked at pictures of guns and naked girls.

“Dolly,” Mike called out. Getting no reply, he went to the back and opened the door. Dolly was lying on the cot and he looked bad, worse than usual. Mike saw immediately that something had happened. Dolly's eyes were closed, and he didn't seem to be breathing.
He's dead
,
get used to it
. “Dolly,” he said again.

“I'm here.” Dolly opened his eyes.

“What's wrong?”

“Ticker blew. Too much excitement.”

“Where's Lorrie Collins?”

“Joe came, finally.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. It'll be all right after a while, or it won't.”

Mike thought he should say something positive. “You got a good start on that Winchester.”

“I felt like trying. Just cain't manage the line anymore.”

“Looks good to me, Dolly.”

“I'm gonna close my eyes and rest a while,” Dolly said. His breath was shallow and irregular. Mike dozed off, and when he woke up, Dolly was watching him. “If you're just going to sit there, light me one.”

“Maybe it's a good time to cut back,” Mike offered.

“Your point being what?”

Mike lit up a Pall Mall and passed it over. Dolly took a deep drag and started to talk. “Frank Pachmayr offered to sponsor me at gun shows and get me on the circuit. He offered to talk to Winchester about me. I told him I wasn't trying to get famous, I just wanted to get good, and that was enough. Frank said that's not the way it works. They want something and you got to show them you care about what that is. I said, I don't care what they think or want. After that, Frank called me a loser, but I never thought I was anything like a loser, even in prison. I always had a good time in life, right up until about two hours ago. Light me another one, will you? Why don't you eat something? Have a donut.”

A FORD RANCHERO
with its lights out pulled around back of Dolly's Guns and Swords, and two men stepped out. At that hour, there was no traffic out front and no lights on in the gun shop, which had been closed up since the death of Dolly Carney. The driver went to work on the back door. One minute later he had the lock picked and the door open. He switched on his chest-mounted flashlight and the two men commenced to tear up Dolly's T-Bird lounge. Not finding any­thing, they moved on to the front room. They started with the workbench, then moved to the shelves and the cardboard boxes. “Where the hell's it all at?” the driver said to the other man. A police car cruised by out on the road, and they ducked down behind the workbench. “There's shit in here that I want. It's got to be here.”

“Day late, Woof. Day late, dollar short,” the other man said with a chuckle in his pea­-gravel voice.

With Dolly gone, Mike Brown needed a new job. The owner of the donut shop saw an opportunity to cheat a high school kid out of the minimum wage. The niece had started working there, hoping to get into the business as a family member, but Uncle Ralph said, “I can't afford you no more, and that's it.” “Well, I'm not going back to the hot­ dog ­on ­a ­stick thing, I can't stand that,” she told him. “Aunt Louise won't like for you to fire me, and I need to earn some money.” Her aunt and uncle had a side business with a hot dog event trailer, and they traveled out on week­ends to rodeos and drag races and swap meets. “Why not let me manage the store, and you can stay out with the hot dog trailer. Mike Brown can work alongside me in here. What's wrong with that?” Uncle Ralph had to admit it was feasible. He preferred moving around to being stuck on Sierra Highway, no telling what a man might come across out there. He told Aunt Louise he had a great idea on how to revitalize their business affairs. Whatever Sheree wants, said Louise, who had no children of her own.

Mike asked for a tall locker at school instead of the square one he'd had for three years. Only one month left, why bother, the coach in charge of lockers wanted to know. “I got a job after school. I need to change clothes. My mom's sick and can't work,” Mike said. “Good for you, Brown,” said Coach Nunez. The high school adminis­tration knew about Mike Brown, knew the situation at home — father locked down somewhere, alcoholic mother, all that. His transcript read, “Scholastic aptitude: poor. Social skills: very poor.” The line about “expectations” was blank.

The problem was the big lockers were in plain view outside the showers, and there was something about locker rooms that made people get nosy. But it was better than trying to hide Dolly's stuff at home. You couldn't leave a thing like Dolly's pornographic Winchester lying around where people might stumble onto it.