Front Page Fatale: The First Ida Bly Thriller

by Daniel Fox

  George’s hunch – Herbert was scared. He wasn’t facing typical robbers that thought they were more clever than they actually were, the type to cry during an interrogation. These guys had drawn blood, might be willing to do it again.

  George leaned around the corner of the wood fence for the umpteenth-plus-one time. Somebody passed by the window, George didn’t know which of the suspects, not from this angle, but there was definitely somebody up there.

  He heard a car door closed super-quiet behind him. Herbert was out of the car and on his feet. Finally. Herbert pulled a shotgun from his back seat, loaded it up. Took a deep breath. Nodded to George and the uniforms further down the street – go.

  The uniforms moved to block off the street. A quiet Tuesday morning, respectable folk at work or taking care of the kids – not much traffic to block. Not much chance of passers-by taking damage. A good time to take down killers.

  Herbert led George to the side-stairs that led directly up to the second-floor apartment. They planted their feet to the sides of the stairs, less likely to make the wood creak than in the center of the steps. The wood still groaned under George’s two-fifty-plus pounds.

  Herbert stopped just shy of the door. Patted his front pocket for the warrant. Shifted his gun to the crook of his elbow so he could double-palm sweat off his forehead. Raised his hand to bang on the door.

  Two shots cracked through the door, splintering the wood, for sure would have killed off Herbert if he hadn’t paused beside the door instead of in front of it. Shouts from the uniforms on the street as back-up swarmed in.

  George: “Kick it in! Kick it in!”

  Herbert just stood there, in shock, eyes popped out, staring at the two holes in the wood of the door, the shots that should have killed him. Doing absolutely nothing.

  George shoved him aside. A third shot punched through the air where Herbert had been standing.

  George lowered his shoulder. One good heavy charge at the door broke the chain lock. The shooter was just inside, looking surprised, he probably hadn’t expected a bear in a cheap brown suit to come through his front door that morning. George ran straight through him, his weight versus the skinny redneck’s hundred-fifty pounds making this a no-contest. George flattened him, kicked his head once, twice, then kicked the punk’s revolver into the corner.

  He turned his gun on the second guy in the corner, caught with his gun disassembled on the poker table for cleaning. He put his hands up.

  “Down! Get down now!”

  Suspect Two complied, no problem here boss.

  Herbert finally made it through the door.

  Noises from one of the back rooms. Suspect Three up to something.

  George pointed at the two he had taken care of. “Watch them.” He waited for Herbert to nod and level his shotgun at the two, then pounded for the back room.

  A bedroom. Yellow mattress, twisted musty sheets. Cheesecake pictures taped crooked to the wallpaper. The window was open, curtains blowing in. George checked the corners, then went to the window. Looked out.

  Suspect Three was on the ground below, clutching his ankle, twisting in pain. He took a bad landing dropping from the window. It didn’t stop him from levelling a forty-five and popping off a shot at George’s head. George jerked back, feeling window-frame splinters pinging off of his cheek.

  George saw red. He charged out of the bedroom, through the main room, ignoring Herbert asking where was he going, was he just leaving him here alone?

  Thundered down the stairs, his weight threatening to pull them right out of the wall. Around the house to the bedroom-side.

  Suspect Three was across the yard, clambering over the wood fence despite his mucked-up ankle, dropping out of sight on the other side. Quick, a limber little monkey.

  George declined the invitation to climb, lowered his shoulder, and plowed right through the fence, all bulldozer. Stumbled, kept his feet.

  Suspect Three spun in surprise. He raised his gun. George was faster and grabbed his wrist, snapping it back, breaking bones with a squeeze.

  The suspect dropped to his knees, screaming in pain. George could have slapped handcuffs on him there, it was over. But the little shit-kicker had almost shot his head off when George had been dumb enough to stick it out a window.

  He kicked the punk in the balls, then in the ribs, hard enough to make loud snaps. Stomped a foot down on his face, the guy’s nose popping and squirting blood out in a fan like a crushed tomato.

  It took another minute and a half for a uniform to find them. The blood drained from his face as he saw the state of the runner. “Jesus, what happened to him?”

  George wiped his face with his sleeve. “Fell climbing out of the window.”

  ***

  Back to Headquarters. Herbert said he’d handle all the paperwork, which suited George just fine. He had enough to do working two-man cases on his own.

  “Schuttman, a word.”

  Assistant Chief Theodore Pointe himself, starched uniform and all, beckoned George to come with him. George fell in line beside the A.C. sneaking glances down at himself, checking to see if there was any blood on his cuffs or shirtfront.

  They took the stairs two at a time. Pointe made them look easy, he was almost graceful, unexpected from a guy in his fifties. George did his best not to huff and puff when they reached the top.

  “Is this about the collar?”

  “You mean the state of the suspect now under guard? Yes, I heard. I understand he took a shot at you.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And he is legally of age?”

  “Sir?”

  “He’s officially an adult?”

  “Oh. Yes sir. Thirty, I think.”

  “Then it’s high time that he learned that there are consequences to the choices he makes. No, this is about our absent friend, Detective Wally Clemp.”

  Pointe ushered him into his office, past his receptionist, into his inner office. He pointed at the seat across from the desk, inviting George to sit.

  Pointe leaned against the edge of his desk, crossed his arms. “Clemp is a good case man.”

  “Yes sir, he is.”

  “When I see talent, I try to nurture it. Protect it. Sometimes such protection is as much from the person who wields said talent as it is from outside forces. I was willing to overlook Detective Clemp’s drinking binges and his dalliances with prostitutes. I believe redheads are a particular favourite of his, are they not?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.”

  “I appreciate you trying to cover for him, son. I admire loyalty. But loyalty is something to be earned, not bestowed. Whatever loyalty Detective Clemp has earned from us has been used up by his three-week unwarranted and unlicensed absence. It’s time we cut bait.”

  “Let me try to find him, sir.”

  “You haven’t already?”

  “I’ve called around. But I haven’t had time to really dig into it. Not for real.”

  “Because you’ve been doing the work of two men. Which, while appreciated, is neither healthy or fruitful for you, for the department, or for our city as a whole.”

  “Sir, you’re right, Clemp... he...”

  “Is a sinner.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “But like you say, he’s a hell- he’s a great case man. And he’s had his problems but he’s never left me holding the bag before, not once.”

  “You suspect that something has happened to him rather than him happening to us?”

  “I think it’s a possibility, sir. And I think he’s worth the effort it would take to find out. I’ll work it on my own time.”

  “Do you have any time left with your current workload?”

  “I’ll make it.”

  Pointe rubbed his chin. Nodded. “Fine. I’ll give you one week to find something substantive on our missing member. Shell out your less-pressing case files to the others, as much as they’re willing to take. One week, Sergeant, and one week only.
Off you go.”

  George stood, made for the door. “Yes sir, thank you sir.”

  “Oh, and Sergeant? Report only to me. I don’t want anyone in Professional Standards catching wind of any of this. They’ll show Detective Clemp absolutely no mercy, and they might spray you with the same shot.”

  “I understand.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The Los Angeles Clarion was born in 1880 in an effort by its first owners to wow readers with news about the Panama Canal and praise those who made James A. Garfield President.

  The newsroom was high-ceiling-ed with pipes exposed, brick pillars whitewashed but otherwise un-decorated. A cloud of cigarette smoke was literal, it could be seen hanging wispy and yellow over the cigarette-burned desks arranged in rows and columns.

  Copy-boys and girls sprinted from one desk to another, taking reporters’ work to the editor’s office for a once-over. The copy-boys dressed flashy, hoping to get noticed and assigned some real writing work. The copy-girls, most still teenagers, some up to the ripe old age of twenty-two, dressed demurely and danced around sweaty palms trying to grope their calves or backsides.

  The most striking feature was the noise. The cacophony. Shouts for the copy-boys and girls. Phones ringing. Radio news chattering from the corner. And typewriters. Dozens of typewriters constantly hammering words into submission.

  Ida’s home.

  Her Skid Row ambulance story had already made a hubbub on the front page. Lots of hand-wringing from muckity-mucks at City Hall. Next up – the competence of beat police when it came to medical emergencies. She typed up her story pitch, cranked it out of her typewriter, called for a copy-girl. She didn’t bother reading it over, she knew it was a solid pitch.

  Darlene or Irene or whatever-her-name-was the copy-girl arrived, took the copy. Copper hair, good figure – Ida caught multiple sets of eyes taking in the girl’s backside as she bent down to accept the pages.

  The eyes shifted. A group was forming over by the hallway. There was the boss-man, editor Clifford Young, shaking hands with some beanpole-skinny guy. More of the men joined them, patting the back of the stranger, lots of laughs... Jesus, the guys were lining up to shake this guy’s hand.

  “Who’s that?”

  Darlene or Irene looked over. “Bob Tree.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Bob Tree.”

  “You already said that.”

  “Bob ‘Maddog’ Tree?”

  Ida shook her head.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Sure, I’m known for my impish ways.”

  Probably-Darlene rolled her eyes. “He just got back from overseas. He’s the guy who took out a Jap pillbox all by himself after getting all shot to pieces.”

  “Shot to pieces? He looks alright to me.”

  Darlene looked over. “Doesn’t he though? How do you not know about him? Everybody knows about him.”

  Ida shrugged. “I work local. So what’re we doing here, we doing a piece on him?”

  “No ma’am. He’s gonna work here. He was a reporter here before he joined the marines. Kinda worked your beat I guess – city feature stuff, crime stuff. I think. He was before my time.”

  Ida looked over at Darlene’s young-and-perky everything. “Honey, breakfast was before your time.”

  The crowd was there. They’d been moving through the newsroom, Cliff acting like a proud dad introducing his golden-boy pseudo-son to everyone. Ida stood, stuck out her hand to shake with the war-hero.

  “Ida Bly. Features.” Emphasis on the features part of it. As in, features are mine and always will be mine until the end of days.

  Bob the Mad Dog looked her in the eye and seemed to hear the message just fine. He nodded at her facial scar. “That’s a real shame there honey.”

  Then he was moving on. Being worshipped by Darlene and the others.

  Ida sank back into her seat and turned that side of her face away from the crowd.

  ***

  Bob Tree, the Mad Dog of Betio, was in the men’s john at the Clarion, clutching the sink and shaking.

  Just too many people. All of them wanting to shake his hand, pat his back, be acknowledged by the hero, suffocating him. Wanting to outdo each other, be the guy who became buddies with the Mad Dog, claim a higher spot on the list of his friends.

  At least the woman hadn’t glad-handed him. There had been disdain on her face. It had actually been a refreshing sight.

  The last five minutes he’d had to concentrate to keep from screaming and swinging haymakers. Cliffy had finally broken it all up by calling for the staff meeting. He’d begged off, saying he needed to make a pit stop, and thank God nobody had been in the bathroom to see him dissolve into a sweaty mess.

  The doc had told him to concentrate on outward things. There were eight sinks in here. Five stalls. Five urinals. A checker-board floor. Smelled like pine-scented cleaner. Spots on the mirror from where someone maybe brushed their teeth.

  One crybaby war hero.

  Deep breaths. He splashed water on his face, combed out his hair. He looked halfway decent. Still pale as hell, but nobody knew what a guy who had been shot up and lived was supposed to look like, so he’d pass as normal. Probably. Close enough for government work anyway.

  He pushed through the door before he could start thinking about it too much and made his way past the rows of desks to one of the conference rooms where Cliffy already had the editorial meeting underway.

  Cliffy was reading from notes he had made on torn scraps of paper. He had always done that. Even back before the war when the two of them were coming up together, Cliff was making notes on the backs of napkins, birthday cards, even dollar bills. Bob had asked him why he didn’t get a notepad like every other normal reporter, Cliffy had pulled a notebook out of his bag and said he always forgot to use it.

  Clifford: “Dillon, let’s get us some updated numbers on vet re-employment, yeah? Good. Ah, the illustrious Mister Tree. You ready to get back in the mix or do you need some more time to get settled?”

  “The devil finds work for idle hands. Throw me in Boss.”

  “Beautiful. So we poked the bear with our Skid Row feature. Made some real noise. You see it? Why don’t you use that famous face of yours to finally get a comment out of the Mayor who, for some reason, hasn’t been able to make time for us working-class slobs since the story broke.”

  Bob’s guts un-clenched, gave him relief. All he had to do was grab a comment. No head-butting, no probing, just in and out. Easy. “A comment you shall have.”

  Easy. Except maybe not so much to the Bly woman. Her head had jerked up at Bob’s assignment. Had she wanted it?

  “And Bly, couple inches on that big flower competition out by Echo Park.” Cliffy looked up from his notes. “Questions, comments, criticisms, or compliments?”

  Bob eyed Bly. She definitely had something to say but was holding it back.

  “Then get out of here.”

  Bob left the conference room with the others, waved bye as the group broke up, but stuck around just past the door, listening. He wanted to hear what Bly had to say.

  Ida: “Flower competition?”

  Cliffy: “I knew it.”

  Ida: “There are flower competitions?”

  Cliffy: “I knew this would be a thing.”

  Ida: “What do they do? Marigold hurdles? Daisies get in the ring, go seven rounds?”

  Bob smiled. Bly was a hoot.

  Cliffy: “Can you just-”

  Ida: “Why am I not the one going to the Mayor? Because that ‘real noise’ you mentioned that ‘we’ made? ‘We’ didn’t make it, I made it.”

  Cliff: “Bobby Tree is back.”

  Ida: “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  Cliffy: “Bobby is a bona fide war hero. Doors open to bona fide war heroes. Not to pushy girls. Things get said to war heroes. Things that won’t get said to you.”

  Ida: “It’s my story.”

  Cliffy: “No. It’s not. T
hat story is the property of the Los Angeles Clarion, long may it reign. And I am what? The Clarion’s esteemed and much beloved editor.”

  Ida: “Why does the new guy get-”

  Cliffy: “Because I said so! The boys are coming home, finally, praise be and many great hallelujahs. Get used to it.”

  Bob beat it, heading out for his car, not wanting to share an elevator down with Bly. Knowing that she probably already hated him.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Los Angeles Ladies’ Founders Organization held their flower show every summer. Bulbs would be planted six months prior so that when they sprang up they drew a picture – Van Gogh’s face, Edvard Munch’s The Scream, a whale. There were arrangement contests with the lucky winning ladies nabbing a cool one-hundred dollars for first prize. Cash was raised to send kids from poorer families to college. This year’s theme was “Dreaming Up Tomorrow” and the biggest flower picture was of a rocket-ship complete with flames belching out its backside. Ida was finding it impossible to give a single shit about any of it.

  She was being shown around the competition arrangements by... some lady she’d been introduced to, she had her name in her notes somewhere. The host-lady was waving her hands at one of the fat vases.

  “Remember how we mentioned combining the strong with the delicate? Well here is a simply marvellous example. Using the calla as a base one can see the exquisite fragility of the alstromeria springing forth, much like frustrated animals bursting free after a winter pent up in-”

  “Springing and bursting, you betcha.”

  “We judge not only on the balance but on how one tips that balance in one direction or another to achieve-”

  Ida spotted a scrum over on the other side of the competition exhibits. A whole load of ladies in tiny hats were grouped around one lady in particular.

  “Say, is that-”

  “The Mayor’s wife? Oh absolutely. Mrs Bowron volunteers as a judge every year. Perhaps you’d like to get a quote from her?”

  Ida checked to make sure the end of her pencil was sharp. “Yep.”

  Ida led the way.