Los Angeles Stories (16 page)

The Chrysler pulled into the parking lot behind the Dan­Dee shoe factory at Third and Broadway. Downtown Santa Monica was deserted except for a few cars parked around the back door of the Embers cocktail lounge, a popular spot on Third Street. George parked the Olds and watched the little man in the hat get out of the Chrysler and go in to the bar. Next door to the Embers was The Huddle coffee shop. A man on a tail job has got to have coffee, George thought, got to have it. A man better stay on the job, Ned told him. Patty­ melt with fries sure would go good. Locate your man, call it in. The patty­ melt won out, like always. George locked up the Olds and walked in through the back entrance. The place was cheerful and kaleido­scopic: gold metal-flake lamps shaped like beehives, flashy linoleum tiles that sparkled, and blond waitresses in orange shorts. George sat at the counter and one came right over. “Double patty melt, double fries, coffee, apple pie. Double pie,” he told her. They had one of the little counter­top jukeboxes. George hit Patty Page:
If you like the taste of
a lobster stew, served by a window with an ocean
view, you're sure to fall in love with Old Cape
Cod.
The waitress came by with more coffee. “Looks like you really enjoyed your patty melt,” she said.

George felt good after his meal and ready for some detective work. He checked his watch: 11:00 p.m. Out in the parking lot, the fog was coming in and the Chrysler hadn't moved. He was unlocking the Olds when he heard a soft sound behind his right ear, something like a whisper. If George had been a real detective instead of an overweight bill collector, he'd have recognized it for sure. But as it was, he just crumpled to the pavement and sat there with one hand on the door handle and the other on the wet ground, the back of his head sapped wide open. His brain popped a fuse and he died in about two minutes.

Herb reached the corner of Third and Broadway at eleven thirty. He'd walked the five miles from the canals to downtown Santa Monica and he was getting tired. He decided to catch the number 7 bus, up Pico Boulevard. Herb liked how the fog made the lights glow and sputter, especially the Dan­-Dee shoe factory sign. It was a fancy neon affair with pink letters and little pink shoes that seemed to be walking forward along the side of the building. He sat on the wet bus bench and watched the shoes until the bus came.

A dark blue Ford sedan pulled up in front the next morning. Herb saw it, and he knew just who it was. He turned off the water and stopped the flow to the plants. Herb had installed a system of half­ pipes set into the ground that ran throughout the yard. When the water was turned on at the outdoor sink in the back, the open drain fed the pipes and the water was carried to the tomatoes, the onions, the chives, the lettuces, the squash, the eggplants, and the lemon tree. Herb could water the whole yard in a few minutes. He walked out to the front and stood on the porch and waited.

“Morning, gentlemen.”

“Herbert Saunders?”

“Check.”

“Yes or no.”

“That's my name.”

“All right. You work for Ned Hillael.”

“Yes.”

“Doing what?”

“Mechanic work.”

“Regular employee?”

“Freelance.”

“A ‘freelance' colored man.”

“That's how it is.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Mr. Hillael?”

“I'm waiting.”

“On the lot yesterday.”

“What'd you do there?”

“I picked up a car.”

“Just tell it.”

“I did the work here and drove it back.”

“Then what?”

“I walked home.”

“Then what?”

“Ate dinner with my neighbor.”

“Where's he now?”

“She.”

“Let's go there.” Andrena was hanging clothes out.

“You know this man?”

“My neighbor.”

“See him last night?”

“We had our dinner.”

“What time was that?”

“Sunset time. We played the radio.”

“What radio?”

“Hunter Hancock.”

“Don't leave town.”

“Say, just a minute.” The second man hadn't asked any ques­tions, but now he had a look. “Are you ‘Atomic Bomb' Saunders?”

“I was.”

“My kid brother had your records. He liked that spade music. He was killed in the war.”

“Sorry to hear it. So was mine.”

“Don't leave town.”

The two policemen left in their Ford. “A spade and a Mex woman?” said the younger officer, shaking his head.

“I live in South Gate, we keep it clean. Those two don't know nothing.”

Andrena and Herb sat for a moment. “Thanks,” Herb said. “De nada, amigo,” Andena said. Talking to the police was nerve racking but driving always calmed him down, so he got the Muntz Jet out of the garage. Scrubby jumped in the passenger seat, ready for the road.

The Cadillac motor purred, steady and deep. In a car as lightweight as the Muntz, it was the bomb. They drove east on Pico Boulevard: a pink Muntz, a black man, and a white dog like an old rag mop.

“Ned's lot is closed up tight, the Gresham Building is closed up tight,” Herb said to the dog. “Ned's gone and George is off somewhere. George knows I made that delivery last night. George had the canal man staked out, but he's no stake­out man. Ned is doing some busi­ness with the canal man, but he's not rough, he just sells bad cars. Truth is, Ned and George are a couple of squares from Santa Monica, the little city of squares.” Scrubby sat straight up in the seat, fur blown back, eyes fixed dead ahead, listening to the steady rhythm of Herb's voice as he thought out loud. “What do the cops want with Ned? You can rob the working man blind, they don't care about that. ‘Don't leave town,' the standard line. I'm not going anywhere, I like it here in square town. It's pretty easy on a man. I got an agreement with Andrena. She's going to bury me in her backyard, and I'll do the same for her, whoever goes first. Woodlawn Cemetery is strictly for white folks. No fun allowed, no barbecues, no Hunter Hancock. Lucky for us we got a little something put by under the mattress, right, Scrubby?”

“Ralph!” Scrubby agreed.

Tuesday morning was foggy and cool down by the pier, but Ned Hillael was starting to sweat. His hands were clammy, and the steering wheel was getting damp. His mind was starting to wander to more pleasant things, like the luxury of his Cadillac's air conditioning, new this year. Cadillac, the standard of the world.

“Hey, you listening to me? Doesn't this interest you?” Lonny Tipton was sitting in the passenger seat, his .38 resting on his knee.

“Definitely, Lonny, most emphatically.”

“The money just went up. My knees hurt on account of your shit car.”

“Right, and you are going to get your money, I'm happy to say.”

“What about a doctor, you said you knew the right one for me. That was the deal.”

“You are going to be taken care of 110 percent.”

“See, a guy tailed me last night. He picked me up down in the canals and tailed me over to Santa Monica. A big fat guy. Tell me what you know about that, Ned.”

“Nothing, not a thing. That Chrysler is clean and sharp, I checked it out personally.”

“You are the one that knows where I been at, and the fat guy knew right where I was at. Was that a little something of yours, Ned? Friend of yours? Don't you trust me?”

“My partner and I are very happy with your work. What if I say, same time next Tuesday? The money, the doctor?”

“What if I use this gun right now? Gut ­shoot, that's what I'm thinking about. I'm gonna do it slow, nice and slow. Here, and here . . . you want to listen to the radio while you bleed to death in the Cadillac?”

“My word is my bond.”

“I'm not feeling so good, I don't like being followed. You get me a doctor, or you are going to need a doctor worse than me.”

“I'll be calling you, we've got definite business. I'm known as a pretty big man in Santa Monica.”

“Big, legitimate man. How would a big, legitimate man like you feel about two slugs in the belly? Just a teeny little push?”

Lonny got out of the car and walked down the hill to the pier.

The fog was burning off and it was going to be a nice spring day in Santa Monica. Breezy, about sixty-five degrees, light chop, good visibility. From where he was parked up on Ocean Avenue, Ned could see the KTLA broadcasting truck. Ten or twelve cars were lined up diagonally, and the television announcer was getting started with the broadcast, which consisted of selling used cars on live TV. The announcer had a way of introducing each car in the animated style of a talk­-show host. The cars tended to be flashy and bright colored
,
the kind celebrities might drive. Ned gave the finger to the TV crew. “Bastards! Trying to undercut a local man, jacking down the price on television, like I don't have expenses!” he shouted.

Ned drove up Ocean Park Boulevard and parked in front of the Airport Center on the corner of Eighteenth Street, across from the Douglas plant. It was a new arcade­-style complex of offices and shops catering to the needs of the working man: doctors, dentists, lawyers, and the office of Airport Equity Home Loans, upstairs in the back. “I want to see Bill O'Leary,” Ned told the receptionist.

“Mr. O'Leary is in the field all day, sir.”

“Well, find him in the field and tell him it's Ned Hillael, and I'm going to sit right here.” There was a large map of Santa Monica on the wall behind the receptionist with the Sunset Park development outlined in red: “Airport Equity is Airport Friendly.” Ned sat there, aware of his stomach trying to crawl out of his body backwards. “Where's the bathroom?” he asked the girl.

“Down the hall, right, then right again, third door on the left.”

Ned went left when he should have gone right. By the time he found the restroom, he was sick. He made it to a stall and threw up all his bacon and egg breakfast and part of his prime-rib dinner. He was hanging on to one of the sinks trying to clean up when Bill O'Leary walked in.

“Ned, where you been at, you look terrible.”

“Bill, I'm sick. Lonny Tipton is crazy, he's going to kill us.”

“Kill us? Well, I don't think that's quite right, Ned.”

“Yes it is, goddamn it. He wants money and doctors. This is all your doing, your idea. ‘Home equity foreclosures, real American money,' you kept saying. George Gresham's gone, I don't know where.”

“That was your mistake, Ned, not mine. First you told me you had Lonny Tipton under control, then you told me you didn't and you needed the detective to watch him, and then the detective wanted in. Now you tell me your man is out there going crazy. Your mess, you clean it up.”

Ned's mind was starting to work a little. “Oh no, Bill. You told me, ‘Find a Douglas man who wants something bad enough, and then make him get you the employee credit records.' If we don't get this doctor for him I definitely think he'll stop at nothing.”

“Not we, Ned. You. I'm a respected member of the Santa Monica business community. You are barely legal, a loan-­sharking used­ car dealer under a cloud of suspicion, so I hear. I'll deny all this, Ned. I never met him; don't even know what he looks like. Don't come here again. I get in touch with you.” Bill O'Leary turned and walked out of the restroom.

Ned wiped his face and stood there looking at his reflection in the mirror. Not good, he thought. The new suit from Desmond's looked terrible. He walked down the stairs and out to the sidewalk. His Cadillac sat waiting at the curb: emerald green­ and­ gold two-­tone, with green leather seats, factory air, and AM/­FM Wonder­Bar radio, both exciting new options. “Shmuck! Putz! Goddamn Irish pig!” he shouted. That made him feel a little better, but he knew it didn't solve anything, so he went next door to the Skywatcher's Lounge and sat at the bar.

“Ned, what'll it be?” said the bartender.

“Whiskey sour. And bring me the phone, I've got definite business.”

“Sure, Ned, sure,” said the bartender. Ned dialed and waited.

“Herb, Ned. Got a job for you. Never mind where I've been. I'll be at your house in twenty minutes.” A girl walked up and sat at the bar next to Ned. A big blond, on the heavy side.

“Well, Ned.”

“Charmaine.”

“Well, buy me something,” she said.

“Whiskey sour,” Ned called out to the bartender.

“I don't like whiskey sours,” said the blond. “Make it a Ramos gin fizz.”

“Ramos gin fizz, coming up,” said the bartender.

“Where you been at, Ned?”

“I been very busy, Charmaine, and I'm very busy right now.”

“Busy Ned, screwing the poor working man.”

“Maybe you ought to try it sometime.”

“Screwing?”

“Working.”

“You call it what you want, Neddy.”

Ned's eyes went from slack to hate in two seconds. “Don't call me Neddy,” he said through his teeth.

The girl slid off the stool and walked toward the restrooms in the back. “So don't call him Neddy,” she said over her shoulder. The bartender came over to Ned, wiping down the bar. “My opinion? One of these days that stool is gonna stick to her ass like a continental kit,” he said. Ned put some bills on the bar and walked out to the street. It was lunchtime on Ocean Park Boulevard. Workers in overalls and Red Wing boots were drifting across the street to the hamburger stands, and the office types in cheap suits were headed for the cocktail joints. “Don't call me Neddy,” Ned Hillael said again as he drove away in the Cadillac, a standout car in Sunset Park.

In the early part of the century they built wide front porches on little frame houses in poor districts, as if a working man was entitled to some relaxation and comfort. But Herb wasn't taking any comfort from his porch, not just now. Ned Hillael had been hiding out, and now he was on his way over. It sounded like a long-distance call for sure this time. The Cadillac pulled up in front. Ned got out and walked up the steps to the porch and sat down.