Golden Throat

by James P. Alsphert

  “That was great kid,” I said, completely immersed in my fantasy.

  “What was great?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Your song. I—I was visualizing you up there on a stage singing that tune and people—well, hell, people loved you!”

  “You really believe in me, don’t you?” She came over and sat on my lap, putting an arm around my neck. Then she kissed me so I’d remember what the previous night had been about. “What—what if I fall in love with you, Cable? Then where will I be?”

  “You’ll be in love…and maybe a little bit in trouble with a cantankerous cop who doesn’t know which end is up when it comes to his heart.”

  “I suspected that. What does it take to operate on your heart. I always wanted to be a love surgeon.”

  “Well, I think you’ve already made the first incision. I can feel my—my heart…bleeding a little…is that a good sign, doc?”

  “You bet.” She put her arms around my neck. “And when I sing, I’ll sing to you, Cable. But are you sure I’m good enough for that audition?”

  “I’ve got a good ear, babe. All I needed was a few notes warbled as we danced last night. That’s quality, kid. I mean, you’ve got a genuine golden throat. I can call a guy I know who works for a record label—I think it’s Brunswick. Maybe we can make a few recordings through him and get some play time on the radio.”

  She held me tight. “God, I know I adore you already. I just never had anyone really believe in me. Yeah, men told me all kinds of things, promises, promises, you know, so they could screw me—but not Cable Denning—nope, he’s the real thing—and he screwed me anyway.”

  We both laughed. “Well, I’m just honest, that’s all. So, we’ve got you covered as a nightclub performer, a recording artist and radio singer. What other brass ring do you want to grab while we’re on the subject?”

  “I know this sounds strange, maybe, but I’ve always wanted to have a screen test. I mean, nothing serious, just to see me projected up there on the silver screen when they play back the audition.”

  “Hell, why not? I went to East High with Norman Weitzer, who is now a major talent scout for a new picture company they’re forming. I think it’s called ‘RKO’ or something like that. Norman knows David Sarnoff, who’s head guy for the mother company back in New York, Radio Corporation of America. They want to get on the bandwagon of new talking pictures. The buzz is that Warner Brothers is gonna launch something big in a few months.”

  “Talking pictures? That means singing movies, doesn’t it? If they’re any good and not some passing fad.”

  “I’ve got this great gut feeling sound movies are gonna come in like gang busters and stick around.”

  “And just how does a flatfooted policeman know all this stuff?” she ribbed me. “Aren’t you supposed to keep your mind on your beat?”

  “Honey, this police force is so corrupt that there isn’t a pie they don’t have their fingers in, including influence with Louis B. Mayer, Jack Warner and some of those starlets who make a producer’s comfy couch all the more comfy, if you get my drift.”

  “Oh, I get your drift. And speaking of which, last time I checked in with my memory, you said you were a policeman—do you ever go to work?”

  “Yeah, I got the nightshift with Mario tonight. I’ve got to skedaddle pretty soon. Mario and I start at eight and maybe we can pop in to The Bella Notte and talk to Affonso Amadore.”

  Honey came up to me and whispered in my ear. “Thank you, for believing in me. Officer Denning…any chance of you coming by after your nightshift?”

  “What’s your phone number—can I call you?”

  “NOrmandy 6851. I hear they have new dial phones now. I still have to crank mine from the wall.”

  “Ain’t we getting modern and all?” I laughed. “The Police department is changing over pretty fast. But in the patrol car we still have to get out and use a cop phone—or run into a building for a phone booth.”

  Saying good-bye that morning was like tearing off a piece of your skin and hanging it out to dry. We were attached. It hurt. I don’t know why, but the dame had found a way into me and I wanted her to stay there. “I had a wonderful time last night, Cable. You’re a wonderful lover—powerful and yet gentle. Just as I imagined you would be with me.”

  “Yeah, well that’s because I was on my best behavior—wait until the caveman in me comes out to play and drags you hair-first into the bedroom,” I grinned.

  “Oh, yeah? I think I’ll be ready for this caveman,” she said, grabbing my crotch and squeezing gently. “Please…call me.”

  That night I met Mario at the downtown division and we picked out a patrol car. As with all of our fleet, it was a four-door black Model T Ford with a slightly modified engine, a canvas hooded top, chrome-trimmed radiator and shiny black spoke wheels.

  Mario greeted me as we got in. He was stocky and stood just over six feet, a couple of inches taller than I. He was blessed with that Mediterranean black wavy hair, intense dark-brown eyes, full lips and a great smile. He was always a bit more serious than I. He liked to play the game straight and stick to the rules. He detested the crooked police department that posed in the name of law and order. We both felt that things needed to change ever since we joined together in 1923. Mario was three years older than I was and had been dating an Italian beauty by the name of Rosalie Elena Vecchio. She was nuts about him and when we went slumming, it was hard for Mario not to tell her. But guys have to keep some secrets, and, after all, he was still a bachelor. But I had a feeling—not for long. Rosalie Elena was twenty-five and didn’t want to wait much longer to have kids, Mario told me. She had come from a family of eight and her mother had drilled into her that a woman’s place is that of a homemaker, wife and mother. Period.

  “Hey, you elusive Mic,” Mario said as he hit me on the shoulder. “What in the hell happened to you last night? I got stuck with this hot little number who talked my ear off, kind of like Rosalie Elena. I saw you leave—did you go home with that damn good looker?”

  “Yeah, you ghetto wop, doesn’t sound like me, does it?” I said as I started up the car. “I—I, uh, hate to admit it, Mario, but I think I got smitten last night. I can’t get the dame out of my head.”

  “Ha! Not you, Cable. I don’t believe it for a minute. You were saying the same about Amanda Baxter a couple of weeks ago. Nope, lover boy, I don’t believe you’ll ever settle down, not as long as you can get the fruit free without complications. Nah, you’re just not the type.”

  I thought for a minute. Maybe Mario was right. Maybe I was sucker for knockout dames who had fun personalities and were great in bed. But Honey Combes sure turned my head. In a few days maybe I’d ease up on the whole thing. “So, what do you believe in, partner? Ever since that day when we were kids and I beat the shit out of your little Italian butt, I’ve never really known what’s at the bottom of your well.”

  Mario mused a bit. “Well, it’s pretty simple. A good job, Rosalie Elena Vecchio, a couple of kids, good friends like you, pasta and vino when I get home from work, Sunday at the park and a comfortable cemetery plot when it’s all over.”

  I laughed. “Talk about simple, yeah! But what about other things—things like gods and angels, fairies and devils, planets and stars? And what about the murderous insanity that runs through humans? What about the worst violent acts we’ve seen that people do to each other? How do you explain that to your children?”

  “Hey, you Mic! Remember, I’m a Roman Catholic. God takes care of all that shit. I’ll stick up for the right thing and do what it takes to win. That’s why we’re cops, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I was thinking about how corrupt it was on either side of the thin blue line. As much as I loved Mario, I knew I couldn’t subscribe to religion, either. The same went for politics or the money rackets from Wall Street to Congress. I knew how crooked greed and temptation made people. In my line of work, I saw that people killed most often for mone
y, sex, power—or all three. Look at those two stiffs down at the morgue being baby sat by the crazy Dr. Sandor. They got bumped off because one gangster wanted the power and money of another gangster. So, bang! bang! you’re dead! The new kings of the mountain, the Dragna family, would last just until the next more violent gang came along to put them on ice for keeps.

  But deep inside there was always something niggling at me, something that knew there was more than this everyday crap of policing a city filled with morons, have-nots, the insulated wealthy, the entertainment industry’s meat factory of human product mostly based on looks and sex appeal, and the artificial bullshit radio and newspapers threw at you, hoping it would stick. Then there were union riots, ballgame crowds, drunks crashing college sorority parties and domestic violence.

  No, for me, there had to be something more. “You know, Mario old boy, I think I believe in things you can’t see, like fairies and guardian angels, invisible dimensions, that we have stuff in us that we don’t use—I mean stuff that could expand us, change our lives, make us grow to be more than the everyday crap we have to clean up after.”

  Mario laughed. “I never heard you talk like that before, Cable Denning, you adventuresome son-of-a-bitch. But in a way we’re the same, amico mio. The Catholic God is invisible, all-powerful, makes us grow by punishing evil and urges us to use the gifts He gave us to improve ourselves. So you see, we’re more alike than you might think, compadre.”

  The night went pretty smooth and as I was getting off duty, I found a phone booth and called NOrmandy 6851. “Hello…” a sleepy female voice answered at the other end.

  “Hey, kid, it’s me, Cable—you still want a sleeping partner?”

  “Cable! I didn’t think you’d call. But yes—except I’ve already slept a few hours—so we might have to fool around a little before I can fall asleep again with you.”

  “You’re pretty bold, little woman. You feel that safe with me?”

  There was a slight pause. “Yes…yes, Cable. Come to me.”

  By the time Mario and I got the patrol car back and signed out, it was getting on to seven a.m. I told my partner I was on my way to Honey Combes’ little bungalow and he raised his eyebrows again and shook his head. “I don’t know…it just doesn’t sound like my old womanizing pal Cable Denning.”

  “Yeah pal….I don’t know either?”

  By the time I was at her door it was around 8:30 a.m.. I was surprised to see a stranger at the door when it opened. “Oh…hello…you must be Mr. Denning. I’m Zelda. Honey’s taking a bath.”

  “Hi, Zelda. I’m Cable—just call me Cable.” Zelda was the spitting image of the stereotypical babe hidden behind thick glasses who walked around with the body of one of Rubens’ Three Graces. She led me to the kitchen and offered me a cup of coffee. All she had on was a thin bathrobe and her huge tits and nipples stood at attention like the Queen’s Guard. It was mildly distracting as I tried to make small talk and drink my coffee.

  “I—I, uh, understand you’re studying to be a botanist—and if so, what made you chose that subject as a career possibility?” I asked.

  “Easy. My Dad’s Franchard Blodgett, creator of the world’s largest strawberry. So, while he’s focusing in on huge commercial fruit, I’m developing the next giant house plant that will become the rage of suburbia, U.S.A. Right now Honey’s bedroom has been overtaken by a Monstera deliciosa, guaranteed to grow six feet high and four-feet wide.”

  “I’m impressed,” I said as Honey came into the room, also adorned with nothing more than a bathrobe.

  She came over and kissed me. “Good morning, Officer Denning. Are you hungry?” I didn’t answer, but just looked over that beautiful body of hers.

  “Uhhh…ha! I think I’d better get dressed for school,” Zelda Blodgett said and excused herself.

  “So? Am I the first thing on your menu this morning? From your glassy stare, it kind of looks that way.”

  I took a deep breath. “What more can I say? I’m a red-blooded, horny guy a lot of the time. I couldn’t get you out of my head all night while Mario and I were on patrol. Stupid, right? I’m usually not such a dummy, falling for a dame after one night of around-the-world in the sack.”

  “Is that how you see me? Around the world in a sack?”

  I laughed at her sense of humor. “Yeah, what else are babe’s good for?” I ribbed her. “You see, for me it’s babes, booze and Lucky Strikes—my big three, Miss Combes.”

  She came over and opened her robe right in front of me. “Here, buster, let’s let a boob suck on another couple of boobs.” She stuck those lovely, warm breasts up to my mouth. I licked them, fondled them and then started obeying the lady. The sucking response made her moan and she grabbed my hand and pulled me down the hall into her bedroom. Just before I lost all sense of reason, I got a glimpse of Zelda’s Monstera deliciosa, but for the moment I was more intensely focused on Honey’s labia majora.

  Irony of the Missing Capsule

  That evening as Mario and I readied for our nightshift, Sergeant O’Flaherty called us into his office. “You’re off the Ardizzone case. Don’t be goin’ back to pester Dr. Sandor, ya don’t wanna know who the little guy was—and don’t be askin’ any more questions—got it?”

  I looked at Mario. “That means everything’s resolved to the department’s satisfaction?”

  “I didn’t say that, Denning.”

  “May I ask what you did say, then, Sergeant?” I persisted.

  “Get outta here, now!” he shouted. Mario and I left with a feeling that something was wrong but there was nothing we could do about it.

  About mid-way through our shift we decided to play Rover Boys and sneaked into the County Morgue. As fully uniformed policemen we had no problem getting past the outer desk. But poking around and not being discovered by Sandor would be a challenge. We went into the records room and checked recent-deceased files with a flashlight. We found Ardizzone and learned he was released to a funeral home. That would be some funeral, I thought. Since there was no name, the little guy with the big teeth couldn’t be traced. By now the county had probably burned the body. Anything of substance at all was the golden throat hanging in Sandor’s suspension fluid in that strange, smelly room he called home.

  We made our way down the darkened hallways until we found the room. It was locked. Mario was an ace locksmith from his youth and soon he had clicked the door open. The flashlight revealed #1602-Blinthe was missing! My gut had told me that would be the case and that the corpse did have a name, Blinthe. Not an Italian after all.

  “Mario!” I whispered to my buddy. “Guess where we’re goin’ soon?”

  “Knowing you, I won’t even take a guess, Cable,” he whispered back.

  Luckily, we made our way out of the morgue safely and soon were parked by an all-night diner near 11th and Alvarado. “So this is the irony, Mario. That man with the golden-lined throat was housing a lot more than some fairy dust for the mob. I saw a larger than normal indentation in the lingual tonsil area, just behind where the tongue would be.”

  “You mean Blinthe or whoever he was had no tongue?” Mario asked, cutting his fork into a piece of apple pie.

  “No, I didn’t say that—but it’s brilliant, Mario! Maybe the guy didn’t have a tongue! Who bothered to check on our preliminary look-see?”

  “So who’s gonna tell you now? The dead don’t talk last time I inquired. And there’s probably no record of the poor cuss—especially if Sandor already cremated him down to ashes.”

  I thought quick. “Sandor. There’s no one else. We’ve gotta shake up the old doc.”

  “He’ll bitch to O’Flaherty—we might lose our jobs, Cable. Thanks, but no thanks. Why in the hell are you so curious about mob shit—especially when it comes to the dead ones?”

  “It’s more than that. Don’t you feel it? There’s a whole mystery behind this thing—and you know me, that’s what I love best—rooting out the weasels and getting
to the truth.’

  “You go back and talk to Sandor. I’m your pal, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, Cable. I’m gonna marry Rosalie Elena and live a straight and narrow life. I can’t be jeopardizing my future by running off on crazy adventures with you.”

  “Will you at least go to Ardizzone’s funeral with me?”

  “Why in the hell would you want to do that?”

  “Because I want to be seen. I want them to know I know.”

  “Shit, man, they’ll kill you. Sorry, Cable, I’m your pal for life, but some things I just can’t do. I gotta start thinkin’ about married life—and not just about myself—you know, kids and the whole shebang!”

  We left the morgue that night all right, but what we were learning about this whole thing was beginning to stink to high heaven—and then there’s all the things we didn’t know.

  Irony of the Bella Notte

  Affonso Amadore was a medium-sized man with a big sincere smile and a carefully waxed moustache. He loved opera and the Italian and Neopolitan songs best, but non-Italian Americans paid most of his bills, so he had learned to enjoy the American Popular Standard tune, sung by a handsome young fellow or a classy babe with a low-cut sequined gown accompanied by a small combo of four to six pieces.

  I was pleasantly surprised to discover Honey wasn’t nervous when the streetcar let us off on La Cienega. The Bella Notte stood ground level, was decorated in fancy chandeliers, deep-red flocked wallpaper and a nice-sized little stage with two fixed spotlights hanging from corners in the back of the room. I introduced Honey to Mr. Amadore and he courteously took her hand and kissed it. “Signorina, I’ma hoping thatta you sing-a as-a nice as-a you looka….eh?”

  “I hope so, too, Mr. Amadore,” Honey said. “Do you have an accompanist?”