by Bill Bernico
On the evening of the shooting, they had come over and more of the same happened. They took turns slapping the old man, laughing at how easy it was to get him to bend to their will. Calvert told the detectives that they came after him again and were going to slap him around and he kept backing up, away from them. Calvert backed all the way into his bedroom, where he kept his loaded shotgun. He told them that he had backed up far enough, that this was his bedroom, and not to come in. Derek Mobley just laughed and pulled a switchblade from somewhere behind him. He flicked the blade open and came after Calvert. Calvert picked up the shotgun and shot Mobley in the stomach, knocking him clear out of the bedroom.
Cooper and Burns had eventually learned that the two detectives took Calvert’s story to the District Attorney, who refused to press charges against him. It was ruled a justifiable homicide and the old man was set free. Dennis Mobley was sentenced to one year in prison for his part in the assault on the old man. His brother got a pine box for his troubles.
Four months had passed and that summer turned out to be a real scorcher. Temperatures hovered in the upper nineties for eight days in a row before they dipped down to eighty-seven. Monday morning it started to drizzle but ended within thirty minutes. By noon the temperatures were back into the nineties again.
I was riding a patrol car with Officer Jerry Burns when the call came over the radio. The dispatcher reported a holdup at a bar on Fountain Avenue near Cahuenga. The two of us sped toward the area, our red light and siren slicing effortlessly through the traffic. When we pulled up to the curb we noticed six or seven people on the sidewalk, their noses pressed to the window, looking into the bar.
“All right,” Officer Burns said, “break it up. Come on, move on.” The crowd disbursed and the two of us walked into the bar, our service revolvers drawn. I quickly scanned the room before stepping all the way in. The bar was empty except for the bartender, who was standing behind the bar, handcuffed to a metal wall partition.
Burns and I holstered our weapons and walked up to the bar. “What happened here?” Burns said.
The bartender, a man named Mike Kwasnewski, who owned the bar, stood there, sweating buckets. He had one handcuff snapped onto one of his wrists while the other had been fastened to the metal wall partition in the men’s bathroom. “Two guys held me up,” Mike said. “They cuffed me to the stall in the men’s room and then came out here and cleaned out the cash register. They told me not to move or say a word until after they’d gone.”
“What did you do?” I said.
Mike held out the cuffed wrist, which was red and raw. “When I heard ‘em leave, I threw myself against the stall and ripped the screws out of the wall,” he told us. “I was able to drag this damned thing out here and get to the phone. That’s when I called you guys.”
“What did they look like?” I said. “Can you describe them?”
Mike looked down at his cuffed wrist and then up at the two cops. “You wanna get me out of these things,” he said, rattling the cuff’s chain against the metal partition.
Burns reached for his handcuff key. “Oh, yeah,” he told Mike. “Sorry.” Burns removed the cuff from Mike’s wrist and left the other end dangling from the metal wall. “Don’t touch the other cuff,” Burns said. “They might have left prints.”
“So,” I repeated, “what did these two look like?”
Mike thought for a moment. “Well,” he said, “like I said, there was two of ‘em. The bigger one was about six-one or six-two, maybe two hundred thirty pounds. The smaller guy, if you can call him that, was only an inch or two shorter than the first guy. But he was fat. I’ll bet he went two-sixty.”
“What about their hair?” I said. “What color hair did the big guy have?”
“Brown,” Mike said. “He had a haircut like they give you in the army. You know, shaved down to the bone. The other guy had red hair, parted in the middle, like Cagney.”
“Did you see their eyes?” I asked.
“Both of ‘em had blue eyes,” Mike said. “I remember that much.”
I questioned Mike for another ten minutes and then closed my notebook. “I think we have enough to go on for now,” I told Mike.
Burns pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to hold onto the other end of the cuff while he unlocked it from the metal wall. He wrapped the cuffs up in his handkerchief and dropped them in his pocket. Burns and I grabbed the metal wall partition and carried it back to the men’s room and leaned it against the wall.
“Can you come down to the precinct and look at some mug books, Mike?” I said.
“I’ve already lost too much money,” Mike said. “If I don’t open up and start selling some beer, I won’t be able to pay my rent. Can we do this another time?”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” I said. “But the more time that goes by, the farther away those two could get and then you might never get your money back.”
Mike thought about it for a moment and then checked the time on the wall clock over the bar. “I guess I could stay closed for another hour,” he said. “Let’s go and get this over with.”
We drove Mike downtown and laid out the mug shot book and told him to see if he recognized anyone in there. Mike paged through two books without any luck. Halfway through the third book, he stopped and jabbed his finger down on one of the mug shots. “That’s one of ‘em,” he said. “I’d know that ugly puss anywhere.”
I looked over Mike’s shoulder and then turned to Burns. “Terry Riley,” I said. “You can bet the second guy will turn out to be Elmer Rufin.”
I turned the pages to the one with Rufin’s picture on it and laid the book open in front of Mike again. “See anyone on these two pages you recognize?” I said.
Mike scanned the photos and stopped on Elmer Rufin’s mug shot. “That’s the other one,” he said. “The one with the red hair.”
“You’re sure?” I said.
“Sure as anyone can be,” Mike said.
“Thanks, Mike,” I said. “Officer Burns will drive you back to your bar. All right if we send a couple of detectives to talk to you later?”
“Sure,” Mike said, and pointed to the still open book of mug shots. “You know those guys?”
“We’ve had dealing with them before,” I said. “They shouldn’t be too hard to find. We’ll let you know if we recover your money.”
Officer Burns dropped Mike at his bar and returned to the precinct. I was just finishing the paperwork and looked up at Burns. “Don’t get comfortable,” I said. “We’ve got to go out on another call.”
“Us?” Burns said. “Are you telling me there’s no one already on the street who’s closer?”
“There may be,” I said, “but the lieutenant asked me to handle this one personally.”
“And what’s with the plain clothes?” Burns said, gesturing toward the clothes I was wearing. “Are we detectives all of a sudden?”
I gestured toward the coat rack. “Slip into those pants and that shirt,” I told Burns. “I’ll explain on the way.”
We drove south to Santa Monica Boulevard and turned east towards Gower. As we drove, I turned to Burns and said, “Of all the shit assignments, this one takes the cake.”
“Why?” Burns said. “What’s it all about?”
“Normally, I’d just ignore this whole thing,” I said. “I mean, the guy is technically breaking the law, if you want to go strictly by the book, but come on.”
“Who is it?” Burns said. “And what law is he breaking?”
“He owns a bar on Santa Monica,” I said. “The guy’s a friend of mine and that’s why the lieutenant thought it would be better if I handled this one. Some other bar owner called in a complaint about seeing an ad in the paper for the bar we’re going to. He told the lieutenant that the ad says they’re giving away free chicken dinners.”
“Yeah,” Burns said. “And are they forcing the patrons at gunpoint to accept the free dinners? I don’t get it. What law’s being broken?”
Burns pulled his service revolver out of its holster, snapped open the cylinder, spun it and snapped it closed again.
“What are you doing, Burns?” I said.
Burns stuck his revolver back in his holster. “Just wanted to make sure I didn’t walk into a dangerous situation like this with an empty gun. It could get nasty.”
“Don’t be a smart ass,” I said. “I don’t like this any better than you do, but if we ignore it and another complaint comes in, the lieutenant and the captain will have our asses in a sling. And leave that thing in the car when we go in. The lieutenant told us to go out there and just walk in and have a drink, don’t ask for any meals, but just see if somebody comes up and offers us a meal. He said we should take it and eat the meal and then make the arrest.”
“Is this for real?” Burns said. “You’re right, this is a shitty assignment.”
We pulled the unmarked patrol car to the curb and got out. Burns and I walked into the tavern, took two seats at the bar and ordered two beers. A young waitress came up to the two and said, “Would you two like to have some chicken?”
I turned to her and said, “Well, how much does it cost?”
“Nothing,” the waitress said, “it’s free.”
I turned to Burns and nodded. Burns nodded back. I turned to the waitress. “Sure,” I told her. “We’ll both have some.”
A moment later the waitress returned with two plates of chicken and said, “I don’t have a table right now, the place is packed, but I can put it on the bar and you can start eating. As soon as I get a table free, I’ll call you over.”
I told the girl that that would be fine. She brought two orders of chicken and potatoes and coleslaw. We hadn’t finished half our meal when the waitress returned and told us that she has a table available. She led the two of us over to the table and set our plates in front of us again. When Burns and I had cleaned our plates, the waitress returned and asked us if we would like some more chicken.
“I patted my stomach and said, “No thank you, but can you tell the owner I’d like to talk to him, please?”
The waitress looked puzzled. “Was everything all right?” she said.
I waved her off. “Everything was excellent,” I said. “I know him and just wanted to talk to him for a minute.”
The waitress heaved a sigh of relief. “I’ll send him right over,” she said.
A few seconds later the manager, a friend of mine named Barry Franklin, stopped at our table. He smiled when he recognized me. “As I live and breathe,” Barry said. “If it isn’t Daniel P Hollister in the flesh. What brings you here?”
I stood and shook Barry’s hand and leaned in close so he could whisper. “Is there someplace we could talk, Barry?” I said in a low tone.
“Sure,” Barry said, a question creeping onto his face. “Follow me.” Barry led the two of us into the kitchen and then turned to me. “What’s the problem, Dan?”
“Barry,” I said, gesturing toward Burns. “This is my partner, Jerry Burns. I don’t know quite how to say this, but my lieutenant received a complaint about you giving away the free chicken dinners.”
“Well, that’s my loss and nobody else’s business,” Barry said.
“I wish it were that easy,” I said. “Fact is that there’s still a law on the books against giving away anything but snack foods like cheese and crackers and whatnot. I know, it’s a shitty law, but if I don’t enforce it, I’ll be out looking for a new job. I hope you understand, Barry.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Dan?” Barry said. “You’re here to arrest me?”
“I’m afraid so, Barry,” I said. “I’m really sorry, but you see the bind I’m in here?”
Barry Franklin held his wrists out in front of me. “Take me away,” he said. “But I gotta tell you, I got a bad back so I won’t be any good at breaking up rocks with a sledge hammer.”
“Come on, Barry,” I said. “I don’t like this any more than you do, and cuffs won’t be necessary. We just have to take you to the precinct and book you. You can be back here in forty-five minutes after you post bail.”
“Bail?” Barry said. “How much is that going to be?”
“Probably just fifty bucks or so,” I told him. “You’ll get it back after your court appearance. The judge will probably just give you a fine to pay and let it go at that. I’ll even see if I can put in a word for you and get the whole thing dropped with a promise not to do it again.”
The three of us drove back to the precinct where I filled out the paperwork, collected Barry’s bail money and then drove him back to the bar again. Before he pulled away, I turned to my friend and said, “Please, Barry, just stop giving away the chicken dinners and we won’t have any more trouble. Okay?”
Barry promised that he would stop giving away free chicken dinners, I shook his hand and apologized again for having to carry out the arrest.
The following Friday another complaint call came into the station and once again the lieutenant gave the assignment to me and Burns. This time we arrived in our uniforms and asked to see the owner. The waitress sent him over and Barry greeted us with a smile and a handshake.
“Dan,” Barry said in a cheerful voice. “Come on in. Have a set, both of you. Would you like a couple of chicken dinners?”
I looked sideways at my friend. “Really?” I said. “How much?”
“One cent,” Barry said. “I gotta tell you, Dan, when you came last week and arrested me, I was pretty pissed, but as it turns out, you did me a favor. I asked around and some people figured that if we were giving chicken dinners away, that there must be something wrong with them and some people stayed away. But let me tell you, if people have to pay at least something for it, then they consider it a bargain, so I just advertised the same chicken dinner for one cent and just look at the place. It’s packed even more than it was last week. And you know what? The real money is in the drinks. We probably have a hundred people in here right now and we only have seating for thirty. The ones who are waiting for a table are spending money at the bar and I’m cleaning up. Thanks, buddy.”
I had to smile at the way things turned out for my friend. “It’s all part of the service,” I said, and saluted Barry Franklin before I left the bar and returned to the precinct, whistling all the way back.
It was late fall of 1944 when I got an assignment from the lieutenant that changed my attitude about patrolling residences when the homeowners were out of town. I was patrolling the Beverly Hills area with Officer Matt Cooper one night. We had a list of four residences to check after dark. All four couples had called the precinct to let us know that they’d be on vacation and that they wanted officers to patrol the neighborhood and to especially check their doors and windows while they were away. We did this routinely for five nights in a row. On the sixth night we pulled into the driveway of a house in the six hundred block of Foothill Road and got out to have a look around.
The front of the house sported a semi-circle horseshoe driveway and an immaculately trimmed lawn with intricately shaped hedges against the house. I checked the front doorknob while Cooper went around to the back door, checking windows as he went. The front door was locked, as were the windows facing the street. When I came around to the back of the house, Officer Cooper had just finished checking the last of the rear windows. He moved over to the back door and twisted the knob. It turned freely and he quickly looked up at me. We had checked this house five nights in a row and it had been locked. The people who lived here weren’t due home for another two days.
We both drew our .38 revolvers and quietly stepped into the kitchen. Our
flashlights lit up our path as we made our way through the house. To my left was a door leading to the basement. To my right was a long hallway with doors on either side of it. Officer Cooper was four steps ahead of me as we tiptoed down the hall. As he shined his flashlight into one of the rooms on the left, I could see over his shoulder that the door on the right at the far end of the hall was opening.
I shined my flashlight down the hall and found myself looking at five dogs that came charging toward us, with a large German Shepherd leading the pack. I turned and ran as fast as I could. Cooper was a few steps behind me. I made it to the basement door and quickly opened it, stepped around it and closed it again, with Cooper still on the other side in the kitchen.
Officer Cooper jumped up on top of the cupboard, trying hard to keep his hands and feet out of reach of the dogs’ snarling, snapping jaws. He spotted a chandelier hanging from the kitchen ceiling and for a brief moment entertained thoughts of trying to jump from the countertop to the light fixture. He stood up on the countertop and reached his hands out. If he jumped, he thought, he could make it. But what if the chandelier didn’t hold his weight and he crashed to the kitchen floor on it? If the fall didn’t hurt him, the dogs most surely would have.
Before he had a chance to think any more about jumping, the kitchen light came on and a man with a revolver stood there, pointing his gun at Officer Cooper. He called the dogs off and herded them back into the bedroom before returning to the kitchen. By now I had come back out from behind the basement door to find Officer Cooper with his hand over his heart. He was sweating and breathing hard by the time he stepped back down onto the kitchen floor.
The man looked at the two of us but hadn’t lowered his gun. “I almost shot you,” he said, looking at Officer Cooper. “What are you two doing in here?”
I rested my hand on the revolver in my holster and looked at the man. “Lay the gun down on the counter,” I said.