by J. L. Abramo
In 1937, preparations were being made for the filming of the seventeenth Chan movie. Warner Oland was beginning to be more a liability than an asset to the studio. He was demanding another salary increase and artistic control of the material. At the same time, the actor’s personal life was in turmoil. His wife had left him, he was drinking to excess and he seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The schedule was strenuous, the studio was knocking out at least three films each year to satisfy audience demand and Oland’s condition and temperament was threatening to bring the Chan money machine to a grinding halt. The studio put it to Reginald Masters in no uncertain terms, either solve the problem or we will find someone who can. Halfway into the shooting of Charlie Chan at Ringside, Oland walked off the set. He never returned. Charlie Chan in Honolulu was released in 1938 with Sidney Toler in the lead role. The actor would go on to portray Chan in twenty-one additional films in nine years and Reginald Masters earned a handsome raise in status and income. A decrease in foreign markets caused by the war led Fox to terminate the series in 1942. Reginald Masters brought Charlie Chan and Sidney Toler over to Monogram Pictures in exchange for a partnership in the small but growing film studio.
“So what happened to Warner Oland?” Jimmy asked.
“According to everything I’ve read, he went to Sweden and died in Stockholm,” said Vinnie. “Bronchial pneumonia.”
“So there is nothing to suggest he was knocked off,” Jimmy said.
“No. But there’s a lot to suggest he was locked out, strongly persuaded to take a hike,” Strings said. “As in seriously threatened.”
“Oh?”
“Here’s where it gets interesting. About this time, a New York gangster came out to Hollywood when things got too hot for him back East. Apparently he had friends out here; guys he grew up with in New York. Actors and what not. He and a partner named Moe Sedway infiltrated the extras union and started making big bucks extorting money from producers who needed the extras they controlled. They were also used by studio brass as problem solvers, settling disputes among actors, directors and producers when all else failed. This cat from New York was one scary character; it’s not hard to imagine he may have had something to do with Warner Oland’s sudden departure. Particularly since he wound up living in Oland’s Beverly Hills mansion after Oland split.”
“This mansion?” Jimmy said, pointing to the photograph in Homes of the Hollywood Stars.
“Yes, that mansion. So then I got to thinking if the Charlie Chan trail ended in Stockholm, maybe what Richards and Lenny Archer were looking into was the mansion itself. Or what happened there in 1947.”
“Which was?”
“The scary New York mobster was murdered in the living room, two shotgun blasts to the head.”
“Ouch. Did this scary character have a name?”
“Benjamin Siegelbaum.”
“As in Benjamin Bugsy Siegel?”
“That’s the one.”
“This can’t be about who killed Bugsy Siegel, who the fuck cares. All this happened in the thirties and forties, everyone involved must be long dead. Who lives here now?” asked Pigeon, tapping his finger on the photo.
“I don’t know, but it shouldn’t be very difficult to find out,” Vinnie said.
“This whole fucking thing leads nowhere,” Jimmy said, tossing the book to the sofa in disgust. “Son of a bitch.”
“What?”
“Look at this,” Jimmy said, remembering the print-out from the library, pulling it out of his pocket and handing it to Vinnie.
“What is this?”
“Two books Richards recently checked out.”
“The Birth of Las Vegas and Hollywood Meets the Mob,” Vinnie read. “There you go, Jimmy, this has Bugsy Siegel written all over it.”
“Do you think you can get your hands on these books, Vinnie? Look them over and see if anything jumps out.”
“Probably. Mom can go to the library or check a few of the large bookstores,” Vinnie said. “Didn’t you say you were going into Richards’ place tonight?”
“So?”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky and find the books there.”
“Maybe I’ll get real lucky and find his laptop.”
Angel Rivas had meandered aimlessly through downtown Santa Monica for hours, doing whatever she could to avoid being out in the open. She stopped in a number of retail stores, loitering for as long as she could, until a sales clerk asked to be of service one too many times or looked at her suspiciously. She had come across an apparel shop and purchased a sweat shirt and a pair of long pants, the weatherman having predicted an unseasonably cool mid-June evening. She had stopped into a fast food restaurant for a hamburger and then wished she hadn’t. She didn’t phone Maria; she felt her mother had betrayed her.
Angel walked into yet another retail shop, prepared to try the patience of yet another saleswoman. She gazed at a pair of Italian leather shoes she knew she could never afford. And it suddenly dawned on her. Over the course of the traumatic day, her fear had gradually turned into anger. She thought of Ricardo and the nightmare he had dropped her into, without warning. Telling her nothing beyond the fact they were taking a trip to Mexico with lots of cash to burn. Angel knew Ricardo’s money was dirty money, but she had no idea there were dirty cops involved and she would be running for her life from those entrusted to serve and protect. Fucking Ricky. Fucking Detective Raft. Angel decided she wanted those Italian shoes, and more.
She possessed knowledge that had to be worth something to someone, and someone was going to pay.
“Can I show those to you in your size?” asked a female sales clerk, coming up behind her.
“Maybe soon,” Angel said, taking the address of Archer and Pigeon Investigation from her pocket and holding it out for the woman to see. “Can you tell me where this is?”
“It’s very close. Fourth is the next street up; there you’ll go right, a block and a half at most.”
Angel thanked her and headed out to Fourth Street.
Frank Raft had run from the funeral parlor out to the Beverly Hills Country Club. He felt like a fool, standing outside of the dining room dressed in a black suit and tie as men and women golfers done up in their expensive little golf outfits passed him by as if he were a fucking busboy. Raft had arranged to meet Jackson Masters and Masters was making him wait. Fuck this.
Finally, Masters appeared. He tapped Raft on the back and signaled for the detective to follow. They moved into a small private room.
“What the hell is going on, Frank, bodies are dropping like flies.”
“It’s all under control,” Raft said. “The whole mess will be cleaned up before the end of the weekend. All the loose ends are tied up.”
“How about the loose end named Angel Rivas, Frank? I read the newspapers, too.”
“She’s long gone; she’s running like a scared rabbit. Even if she turned up, the girl couldn’t say anything that anyone would believe. Worst came to worst, she could only lead them to me.”
“That’s exactly what worries me, Frank.”
“Well, then, I have a quick fix for your woes.”
“Oh?”
“You get me three hundred thousand dollars and I will disappear,” said Raft. “As in no one will ever find me.”
“That’s a lot of money, Frank.”
“Depends on who you are, Jackson,” Raft said. “I think the old man will consider it a small price to pay. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I suggest you ask him when he gets in tonight,” said Raft, “and let me know how it goes. Soon.”
“It’s not a smart idea to threaten him, Frank.”
“I haven’t had a smart idea in a long time, so I guess I’ll take my chances.”
“Where can I reach you?” asked Masters.
“I’ll call, tomorrow afternoon,” said Raft. “And don’t try anything cute, Masters, it wouldn’t pay. Three hundred grand is nothing compared to what
it will cost if you tried crossing me.”
“Call me tomorrow. Use a public phone.”
“How about treating me to dinner in that classy mess hall across the corridor?”
“I can’t, I need to get ready for the old man.”
“Nice golf shorts, Jack,” Raft said, turning to leave the room. “Give my best to your grandfather.”
BLUE GRAVEL
Jimmy had dropped Fran Stradivarius at the Main Branch of the Los Angeles Public Library before leaving the city.
“Thanks for pitching in, Fran.”
“I’m happy to help, Jimmy,” she said, “and happy you’re giving Vinnie something to keep him occupied. If I strike out here, I can check the bookstores. I’ll let you know how I make out.”
Pigeon drove back to Santa Monica. He decided to get dinner out of the way before hooking up with Nathan Archer, so his first stop was Meg’s Café.
“I was thinking about the Dennis Hopper movie,” Meg said when she brought the special to Jimmy’s table.
“What about it?”
“They feed in a taped video loop of the bus interior so Hopper won’t see the passengers leaving the bus.”
“Yes.”
“And when they change from live feed to tape, Hopper just happens to be in the bathroom and misses the switch.”
“Yes?”
“Good timing or poor writing?” asked Meg.
“Luck. Something I could use a little more of.”
“No luck with Vinnie Strings?”
“Vinnie did great. He chased Charlie Chan all the way to Stockholm.”
“And?” Meg asked, taking a seat.
“And then the guy died,” Jimmy said.
“Charlie Chan died in Sweden?”
“Warner Oland died there, the actor who played Chan in the thirties.”
“Didn’t more than one actor play Charlie Chan?”
“Yes, at least three, but it doesn’t get us anywhere. Vinnie thinks it may have something to do with the Beverly Hills mansion Oland lived in. I’m inclined to agree. I’m thinking Richards began researching Warner Oland or Chan for a book, ran across something more sensational and brought Lenny into it.”
“Exactly what Al Hall said to me at Richards’ funeral. Richards told Hall he was researching a Hollywood biography that led him to a story worthy of national headlines.”
“I’d love to get my hands on Richards’ laptop.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky,” Meg said, rising from the table. “Are you having dessert?”
“No, thanks, I need to meet someone at my apartment.”
“Big Saturday night date?” Meg asked.
“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “Breaking and entering.”
When Jimmy left Meg’s, he decided to make a quick stop at his office; wanting to check the phone answering machine in case Nate Archer had called to change plans again.
When he walked in he found the girl lying curled up on the Oriental rug in a fetal position, her back to the door.
“That can’t be very comfortable,” he said.
Angel quickly sat up and turned to Jimmy.
“Are you Pigeon?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“The door was unlocked.”
“I know,” Jimmy said. “I was testing a theory. Can I help you up?”
“I can get up myself,” Angel said, rising to her feet. “But I could use another kind of help.”
“Sit,” Jimmy said, offering her the client chair as he moved to his own seat behind the desk. “What can I do for you?”
“I need someplace to hide and I need someone to get to my mother and pick up my things,” Angel said, settling into the chair. “If you can help me with that, I may be able to help you find out who killed your partner.”
“Are you Angel Rivas?”
“Good detective work.”
“What is it you know about my partner’s death?”
“I won’t say until I feel safe and I have enough money to disappear. My mother has the cash. I need someone to go get it for me. And no police.”
“That’s a hard bargain.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“You can stay at my apartment,” Jimmy said. “You’ll be safe there while I think it over.”
“If the police show up, I promise you I won’t say a thing about what I know,” Angel warned.
“I understand. Do you have anything to carry?”
“No.”
Jimmy looked over at the answering machine, happy to find there were no new messages.
“Let’s go then,” he said.
Pigeon was standing in front of his building when Nate Archer pulled up at nine. Jimmy had secured the girl in his apartment and didn’t want Angel to be alarmed in any way by Archer’s arrival. He decided he would wait until they were done at Richards’ place before telling Nate about Angel.
They parked the car on Ocean Avenue and casually moved toward the Richards house. The street was quiet. They were soon at the back entrance. Archer took out his set of lock picks and they were through the back door in seconds.
“That simple?” Jimmy said.
“That simple.”
They each pulled out small flashlights.
“How did you know there was no alarm?” Jimmy asked.
“I guessed the police screwed up the security if there was any,” said Nate. “What are you looking for?”
“A laptop computer, maybe a few library books.”
“Why don’t you start upstairs, I’ll look around down here. The quicker we get out the better.”
Jimmy agreed and he headed up the stairs. He found a bathroom, a bedroom and a second smaller room Richards used for a study. He was back downstairs in less than ten minutes. He found Archer in the front living room.
“Anything?” Nate asked.
“Nothing,” Jimmy said. “You?”
“Just this,” Archer said, moving his flashlight across the room at a heap of broken glass, a busted up metal frame and an upturned folding table. “It looks like Richards was just setting it up, no water or fish yet.”
“But an awful lot of that,” said Jimmy, slowly waving his light over the fish tank bedding spread out across the floor.
“Lenny was killed before Richards was killed, right?”
“Yes,” Jimmy said.
“And this mess must have been made while Richards was fighting for his life.”
“I would imagine.”
“Then whoever killed Richards was back at your office sometime after Lenny died and brought a little blue gravel along for the ride. Would the alleged drug related gunmen have had any reason to go back?”
“Not that I can think of, it wouldn’t be too smart.”
“How about a police officer or investigator?”
“The scenes were covered by two separate departments, SMPD was here and LASD was at our office,” Jimmy said.
“So maybe someone with the County Sheriff’s Department was here before getting to your office later that morning.”
“That’s a terrible thought,” Jimmy said. “Maybe Angel can shed some light on the subject.”
“Angel?”
“Let’s get out of here,” Pigeon said. “I’ll tell you about Angel on the way back to my place.”
“It’s late, maybe we ought to wait until the morning before we press the girl,” Nate said as they pulled up in front of Jimmy’s building. “She’s had a rough day; she’s probably still pretty spooked and very tired.”
“That’s a good idea,” Jimmy said.
“At the same time, if she has anything to tell us I’d like to hear it soon. I really need to get back home.”
“Work?”
“My wife is about to give birth to our first child.”
“No kidding.”
“Any day. Listen, Jimmy. We didn’t mean to shut you out of Lenny’s funeral arrangements; we put him to rest in San Diego Bay. It was something I felt Annie and I had to do alone, together.”
<
br /> “I understand,” Jimmy said. “I’ll call you at Lenny’s in the morning. We can try to decide what to do about Angel over breakfast.”
Jimmy stepped out of the car and stood watching Nathan drive off. Pigeon wondered how far Archer would be willing to go, how far he could be expected to go, if the going got hazardous.
When Jimmy entered the apartment he found Angel asleep on the sofa, the TV tuned to the Dodgers post game show. The Cubs had defeated LA and the Padres beat the Giants. A push, LA was still in first by three games.
Jimmy turned off the TV, covered Angel with a blanket, picked up Les Misérables and went to his bedroom to visit Early 19th Century France.
Jackson Masters greeted his grandfather coming off the concourse at LAX. The old man was returning to Los Angeles from a weeklong trip to New York visiting the family of an ancient ally. As they drove out to the Beverly Hills home, Jackson told the old man about the events of the last week. His grandfather listened carefully, not saying a word until they arrived at the large house. After the old man stepped out of the car, he insisted his grandson accompany him into the mansion. Jackson followed his grandfather. He was constantly impressed by the stamina and the self-confidence of the man. The old man had survived all of his notorious associates and he seemed determined to live forever.