Chicago Boogie Woogie

by Gregory C. Randall

  Alfano smiled.

  She read the thought on his face and scowled. “You had your chance last night, Detective. After the wine, I crawled into bed and read for a while. I turned out the light about midnight.”

  “You didn’t get any phone calls? Can anyone verify that you were at the apartment?”

  “Of course not. I told you I don’t have a phone in my apartment. Not having a phone is cheaper. I use the one in the hallway. And I saw none of the other tenants. Why the third degree?”

  The waitress dropped the plates of bacon and eggs in front of Gloria and Alfano. The toast arrived a minute later.

  “Really, Detective, what’s going on? I’m getting a little spooked.”

  Alfano took a sip of his coffee. It was strong, tasted good. “Last night, Mr. Melnik was murdered.”

  Alfano watched as the news sank in. He had dropped this bomb many times over the years. He looked for the reactions, trying to see behind the eyes of a loved one, a suspect, even the killer. The real killer often just stared, most probably reliving the moment, the act; for some, the pleasure of it. Others screamed, especially the women. Some denied it, declared it wasn’t true. Some wanted the particulars: when, how, did he have a suspect? In Gloria’s case, he watched her face turn ashen white, her eyes glaze over, and then she fainted face-first into her bacon and eggs.

  As the waitress helped Gloria to the ladies’ room to recover from the egg on her face, Alfano talked with David, the driver, who had come looking to see what was taking so long. Alfano told him what had happened and asked him a few of the same questions. David, who lived with two roommates in West Hollywood, said that he’d spent the evening prior at his apartment and his roommates helped him wash the limo. All were hopeful actors. One even had an extra spot in King Kong.

  “Who told you to pick up Gloria so early before coming here?” Alfano asked.

  “She did,” David said. “She called last night around ten thirty. I said sure, then hung up. So, you’re telling me that little round shit is dead? Wow! I expected him to drop dead from a heart attack long before somebody knocked him off. How’d he die?”

  “I don’t know,” Alfano lied. “I heard it through a friend on the police force. You know, it’s all hush-hush.”

  “Does it have anything to do with the death of Miss Hill?” David asked. “When I heard she was killed, I was shocked, she being a nice person and all. Things have been in an uproar since Mr. Melnick and the others returned from their tour. Go, go, go, tight schedules and all. That’s why Gloria was in such a rush.”

  “Who told you about Kitty Hill?”

  “It was Adam. He told me—when I drove him home from the studio on Tuesday—that he saw her dead, all laid out at the coroner’s. Were you the detective he was talking about?”

  “Maybe,” Alfano said.

  “Well, it really hit him hard. He was close to Kitty, and I think she liked him.”

  “Did she have a lot of friends?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I drove her a couple of times to parties in the Valley and up in the hills. Actors’ and actresses’ places, fancy parties. I was never asked to stay. I would just drop her off and come back three or four hours later. She was great, always gave me something extra. She said once, ‘Been there, kid, I understand.’ You can ask Gloria about her. When Gloria came to LA, she stayed a few weeks with Kitty before she got her own place. They were friends.”

  “Thanks. Where did Kitty live?”

  “A small courtyard apartment off Wilshire in Beverly Hills.”

  Gloria rejoined them at the table. She looked only slightly worse for wear.

  “Sorry about that,” she said to Alfano. “It was a shock to hear that Mr. Melnik was dead, murdered. I’m still shaking. Do the police know who did it?”

  “I really don’t know,” Alfano said. “I only just learned of it myself. So, are we going to the studio?”

  “Really, you want to go after what happened? Why?” Gloria said.

  “I need to see what it’s like to make a movie.”

  “I don’t know, Detective,” Gloria said. “The whole studio might shut down. Without Mr. Melnik, I just don’t know.”

  “Gloria, they have J.J. running the show now that Kitty’s not here,” David said. “He’s a son of a bitch, but there’s too much money already in this thing. If anyone will keep this going, it’s Jorge Jones.”

  “And he’s what, exactly?”

  “The producer, the man behind everything. Some would say he was number one on the movie behind Mr. Melnik. Before J.J., that was Kitty’s job. Melnik picked him up from RKO. My guess, he offered him big bucks or a piece. You know the old saying: the show must go on. J.J. probably invented the term.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Alfano was surprised at how close the picture studio was to his hotel. The street traffic was light on Santa Monica Boulevard; in less than ten minutes, David piloted the limo into the studio driveway. A high sign arched over the entry read Sierra Films Productions. From the back seat, Alfano looked through the windshield at the sprawl of large warehouse buildings beyond the sign. A man in uniform stood at the gate and waved them in.

  “Good morning, Joe,” David said through the open car window.

  “Nothing good about it at all. It’s a circus.” Joe pointed to the driveway that split the alignment of buildings. “There’s police everywhere. I don’t know what’s happening—they never tell me anything.”

  David nodded in understanding but didn’t offer an explanation.

  “Park at the first open stall,” Joe said.

  David did as directed and pulled the limousine into the first open space. Across the driveway, a low, long building hugged the side of a much taller warehouse structure. Windows lined the front of the lower building. Hanging over the only door, a sign with neat lettering read Office, Sierra Films. Three patrolmen stood outside; each wore a different uniform.

  Wonderful—cross-jurisdictional issues, Alfano thought as he and his companions exited the car. To his surprise, Detective Gil Tuttle walked out of the office; behind him was the Beverly Hills detective, Dominic Suarez.

  “Why are you here?” Alfano said to Tuttle. “We are still a long way from LA.”

  “That’s my exact question for you,” Tuttle answered. “So, you first.”

  “I’m here because this is where I was supposed to be,” Alfano answered. “I was to start my work with Melnik this morning. I have a few days to kill, so to speak, and I thought I’d a least do what I was being paid to do—hang around and watch a movie being made. You?”

  “It appears that Sierra Films studio is in Los Angeles,” Tuttle said. “I’m now working with Detective Suarez on this case. That came down from city hall.”

  “He has a lot more resources than we do,” Suarez said.

  “You told the crew?” Alfano said.

  “Yes, it hasn’t hit the newspapers, yet, but it will,” Tuttle said. “Probably this afternoon. A reporter was sniffing around soon after you left last night. A high-profile murder like this will have every nose stuck to the front page. The mayor wants us ahead of this.”

  “Great, and I thought only Chicago had these problems.”

  “Yeah, so did I, until I got here,” Tuttle said. “We should be getting the preliminary autopsy report from Suarez’s guy by the end of the day.”

  “I’m going with massive gunshot wounds to the chest,” Alfano offered.

  Gloria gave a little squeak of a scream. David paled through his tan.

  “Probably; we need to confirm. It’s getting hot. Let’s go back inside. September and October are scorchers, Tony.”

  “Good to know. I’m beginning to think of buying a train ticket home.”

  A short angular man with a Latino complexion and thin black mustache burst out of the office door. He wore an open white shirt and a gaudy checkered sports jacket, a buff-colored straw boater set back on his head. A large gold chain wrapped his neck, and he carried a riding crop. Alfano was
sincerely bemused.

  “I need to get production going or lose the whole day,” Mr. Gold Chain stormed. He pointed to Gloria and David. “You two get off the lot. I’ll call you if I want you.” The man then turned to Tuttle and pointed at Alfano. “Who the hell is he? Another cop? He looks like one.” The guy was in constant motion, hands waving, cigarette ash flying.

  “I’ll tell you when you can start, Jones. I might have a few more questions,” Tuttle said. “This is Chicago detective Tony Alfano. He’s the guy Melnik wanted on-set to help coach Roberts. Isn’t that right, Tony?”

  “Yes, Gil, that’s the story.”

  “Well, shit. You finally arrived and blessed us with your fucking presence. You were supposed to be here at seven. It’s now fucking nine. Jesus Christ, the whole fucking day’s schedule is shot.”

  “Tony, this overexcited and insensitive piece of Mexican is Jorge Jones, the executive producer of State Street Killers,” Detective Suarez said. “His few friends call him J.J. He’s taken over for the unfortunate Mr. Hines Melnik. It seems that the time to mourn has either been put on hold or is over. Not sure which.”

  “We’ll mourn the poor bastard after we get this picture in the can,” Jones said. “If anyone would understand, it would be Hines. Why are you standing here, Alfano? I need you inside. Seems Roberts can’t find his prick with both hands in his pants. See Laurie K., first office left side. She’ll give you a script. Read it and let me know what you think—first twenty pages will do. I want your comments and answers in two hours. Then find Roberts and kick him in the ass. And go find Vlad. He’s the director; introduce yourself.”

  Gloria, still standing there watching the show, leaned in and said, “That’s Vladimir Nabinsky, just off the boat from Yugoslavia or some such place. We call him Vlad the Impaler. This is his second film in a month.”

  “Jones, I’m leaving tomorrow,” Alfano said. “I’m taking the train home. I can’t stand all this good weather and sunshine. The excitement is killing me.”

  “Like hell you are,” Jones said. “I read the agreement Melnik made with your boss, the mayor. I got you for two weeks, then you can go home to mommy. If you quit, you can pay for all your own expenses; in fact, I’ll sue you and Chicago if you jump on me.” With that, Jones snapped the crop on his palm, spun around, and walked back through the open office door.

  “He always like that?” Alfano asked.

  “That was him being a pussycat,” Gloria said. “When he really gets going, you look for a door. It’s the stuff of legends; they say the gorilla in King Kong was afraid of him.”

  Alfano said nothing.

  “David, can you drop me off?” Gloria asked.

  “Absolutely. Will you need a ride back to your hotel later, Detective Alfano?” David asked. “I can come back.”

  “What would be the best time?” Alfano said.

  “I’ll be outside the gate parked at the curb at six. J.J. should be through with you by then. Meet me there.”

  “Tony, I could give you a ride,” Tuttle said, “but I’m not sure where I’ll be at six. Take his offer.”

  Alfano nodded his assent.

  “You be careful with those guys in there,” Tuttle added. “There’s a lot of strange things going on. Don’t forget their idea of reality is a lot different than yours—and last night was round one. This will get a lot dirtier before it’s over.”

  ✥✥✥

  For the rest of the day, Alfano bounced back and forth from the studio office, where he read lines from the script, to sorties onto the set to review furniture placement, jargon, and police procedures. He quickly learned it was more about noise than substance. Roberts and Durant, who showed up on-set well after the local detectives left, were pleasant enough but didn’t volunteer anything about their whereabouts Thursday night. Their remarks were vague.

  Later, Alfano and the two actors sat to one side of the set as the crew moved furniture for the next scene.

  “Where were you two last night?” Alfano finally asked.

  “Detective Suarez came to my apartment early this morning. I told him everything I knew,” Durant said. “He told me not to talk with anyone. If I remember anything, I am supposed to contact him.” She held up a business card.

  “I talked to him here. Last night I was home with a friend,” Roberts said. “How did you enjoy the flight? We hit some turbulence over Arizona. Max got sick.” He smiled.

  “So did you, asshole.” Durant lit a cigarette and blew a cloud into the air.

  “The flight was way too long, Adam. The train’s more comfortable,” Alfano said.

  “And the Georgian Hotel is good? I’ve heard it’s nice,” Roberts said.

  “Yeah, for the few hours I’ve seen it, it’s okay. Last night was a long night.”

  “You were there, at Melnik’s house?” Durant asked.

  “Yes,” Alfano said, looking directly at her. She met his eyes briefly before looking away.

  “Did they find anything else in the house?” Durant asked as she knocked the ash off her cigarette.

  “A very dead body, a strange crime scene, the place lit up like Christmas,” Alfano said. “Mum’s the word, as we say in the detective business.”

  “We are the embodiment of discretion,” Roberts said.

  “You haven’t been discreet since you fell off that hay truck from Fresno,” Durant said. “Detective, I was asking about a rumor I heard, and mind you it is just a rumor, even though vicious and cruel. Now that Melnik’s dead, it can’t really hurt him.”

  “Vicious and cruel? And what rumor is that, Miss Durant?” Alfano answered.

  She leaned in. “The rumor is that Hines was into all sorts of kinky stuff, girls, guys, films. The rumor was that they would go to his house—”

  “I hate to break this up, but the next scene is ready. J.J. needs the both of you.”

  The man interrupting Durant was narrow—thin was too good a word; he was narrow like a board edgewise. He had a mop of unruly long black hair, thin wiry arms under a black silk shirt, his slacks hung like they covered two black sticks, and his shoes were two-toned, black and white. His accent was so thick, Alfano wanted him to repeat everything again, slowly, then write it down.

  “It’s the bedroom scene. Miss Durant, change into the negligee. Adam, you’re good. Alfano, I want you to watch this closely and tell me if it seems right.”

  “And what would I know about a bedroom scene, Mr. Nabinsky?” Alfano added. “We Americans do it the same as in Europe.”

  Nabinsky stared at Alfano as the remark was slowly disassembled and reassembled in the man’s narrow mind. “Oh, yes, of course. It’s that I want Roberts, in the roll of Detective Matt Long, to be . . . more detective-like, not her lover.”

  Alfano reconstructed the garbled words. “Mr. Nabinsky, we detectives, lovers or not, do it the same as normal humans.”

  Durant sniggered. “Oh, that’s not what I’ve heard. I demand proof.”

  “Just shut up, Maxime. Go change. I’ll meet you on the set.” Roberts got up from his chair, set his fedora, and walked to the opposite side of the warehouse where the bedroom scene had been set up.

  “He’s a little moody,” Alfano said to Durant.

  “Hines’s death hit him hard. They did a lot of films together. And the old sot made him rich. My guess, he’s wondering what’s going to happen to him now that the rabbi is dead.”

  “And you, I understand that you did a lot of work with Melnik, too.”

  “True, I did,” Durant said as she stood and started to unbutton the top of her shirt. “And you never answered my question.”

  “And that question was?”

  “Did you find Hines’s little porn studio where dark and steamy deeds were filmed? I understand he was one of the best. His . . . endeavors . . . were a constant and growing source of income for him and a few others.” By the end of the question and the comment, she’d reached the fourth button. Alfano was becoming impressed; she wore nothing un
der the shirt.

  “Best what?”

  “Silly boy, use your imagination.” She turned and walked away toward her dressing room. When she reached the door, the shirt slid off her shoulders.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Saturday noise from Sunset Boulevard was muffled by the jewelry store’s air-conditioning unit humming through the vents. Alfano stood at the glass counter at Laykin et Cie; for a hot afternoon, the showroom was surprisingly cool. Outside, the limousine sat at the curb; David leaned against the car smoking a cigarette. The man behind the counter stared intently at the gold watch in his hand, a jeweler’s loop held to his right eye. He methodically rotated the instrument as he examined the watch.

  “Of course, Detective, I know this watch well. It is a fine design, don’t you think? The Swiss can do magical things, especially Cartier. We are the only jewelers on the West Coast to carry this particular model. Many of our customers are movie folks. Innovative and elegant, this is a Swiss delight.”

  “Do you know who the owner of this specific watch is, Mr. Laykin?” Alfano said, tapping his fingers on the countertop.

  “Well, as I told your sergeant last week on the phone, I cannot give out such information. We need to keep these things private. So many of our items are given as gifts, gifts that are not necessarily—”

  “Look, I get it, privacy, special interests, possible personal embarrassment. Right now, I need a name. As my sergeant also said, that watch is an important piece of evidence in a murder, do you understand? I know who probably owns it; I just need confirmation.”

  “As I said, Detective—”

  “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Laykin,” Tuttle said. He was standing two steps behind Alfano. The detective badge secured to his vest flashed under the store’s lights. “How would you like some police security? I can have a squad car park right out front all day. Do you think that would help your customers feel safer? How would you like that?”

  Laykin quickly considered his options. “Let me check my records,” he said weakly.