Chicago Boogie Woogie

by Gregory C. Randall

  “You as much said you know who the owner is,” Alfano said.

  “I want to be absolutely sure, Detective. This is a sensitive matter.”

  “Why sensitive?”

  “Please give me a minute, then you decide.”

  The jeweler walked behind a low partition in the back of the store. It was situated so that someone sitting could see the entry, but the desk surface was hidden from view of anyone in the outer room. Laykin took a key from his pocket and unlocked the top right-hand drawer; he then removed a thick ledger and brought it to the counter. He paged through the handwritten entries, then stopped and ran his finger down one of the columns.

  “Yes, here it is. It was purchased last December, two weeks before Christmas. A Mr. Wells Barker paid cash for the watch.”

  “Wells Barker? That’s the name?” Alfano said.

  “Yes, Wells Barker. He also had it engraved with the logo and date. We have added this logo to other items as well as a silver presentation cup last year.”

  “I know the logo is from the Will Rogers Polo Club,” Alfano said, not hiding his impatience.

  You were expecting another name, Detective?”

  “Frankly, yes.”

  “And that name was?” Laykin asked.

  “Not important. Do you have an address for Mr. Barker?”

  “Of course.” Laykin looked at Tuttle, who coughed. “However, I do not believe that Mr. Barker was the final recipient of the watch,” the jeweler said.

  “How so?” Alfano asked.

  “When Mr. Barker returned to pick up the watch, he was not alone. The actor Adam Roberts was with him. He is well known, you know. Mr. Barker made a big scene of securing the watch to Mr. Roberts’s wrist. It was quite touching. Then they left together.”

  Alfano put his hand out to take the watch.

  “If you don’t mind, Detective,” Laykin said. “Let me place this in a felt pouch. I wouldn’t want it scratched. Just give me a minute.”

  As the store owner walked away, Tuttle leaned in. “That make sense?”

  “Yeah, to a point. I don’t know who Wells Barker is, but he knows Roberts and I’ll hazard a guess they got something going on between them.”

  “There’s a lot of that going on north of Wilshire Boulevard,” Tuttle said.

  Alfano sighed. He felt peckish. First the early morning call, the overbearing movie director, and now this unexpected turn with the watch. “Is there someplace good to eat near here?” he asked Tuttle.

  “The Chateau Marmont hotel is five minutes away. Food’s okay, the bar is great,” Tuttle said.

  Shortly, they pulled to the curb near the hotel. David said, “I’ll wait here.”

  “No, join us,” Alfano said.

  After Tuttle showed his badge to the waif of a girl at the reception desk, they were herded through the crowded bar to a corner table. The windows were open, the heat drifted in and out, the view was up and down Sunset Boulevard.

  “Three bourbons, Canadian Club if you got it,” Tuttle said.

  “Sir, liquor is still restricted,” the young woman said.

  “Look in the back, let me know what you find,” Tuttle added, then opened his jacket; his badge flashed in the sunlight.

  Two minutes later, the waitress returned with a bottle and glasses.

  “It’s nice to know the local customs,” Alfano said.

  “To crime—it never pays,” Tuttle said, lifting his glass.

  Alfano looked at a confused David Baine. “Yeah, cops breaking the law. Go figure,” he said.

  “No,” David said. “It’s not that. I’m interested in what we were doing at the jewelry store. Did it have something to do with Mr. Melnik’s murder?”

  “No. It has to do with a crime I’m working on in Chicago. A woman was killed, Kitty Hill. You knew her, didn’t you?”

  David paused for a moment and took a sip. “Sure did. She was nice, always treated me swell. Even got me a few acting gigs, nothing special but enough to put a page in my resume. I was knocked flat when I heard she was dead—murdered was the rumor.”

  “It wasn’t a rumor,” Alfano said. “Two slugs to the chest, just like Melnik. Now I’m wondering if these two murders may be connected. Detective Tuttle is handling Mr. Melnik’s killing. I’m trying to piece together Kitty Hill’s.”

  “Too strange, if you ask me. I liked them both. This town’s full of weird people, even to the point of being bizarre. Maybe it’s the money, but I think it’s a magnet for the just plain peculiar. People who can’t cut it where they grew up, loners, misfits, even deviants. Many find a place here that tolerates their behavior and proclivities. And, like magnets, they stick to each other.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Tuttle added. “When I left Chicago, me and the wife believed we left all that crap behind us. Not a chance. It was here in piles, and I’ve been shoveling it since. Job security, I guess.”

  Alfano clicked Tuttle’s glass.

  “May I ask then what you were doing at the jeweler’s?” David asked them. “It’s one of the high-end stores. They cater to a lot of movie stars, celebrities, even politicians.”

  “A watch was found at the Hill murder scene,” Alfano said. “The watch was purchased at that shop last Christmas.”

  “May I see it?” David asked.

  Alfano looked at Tuttle, who shrugged. He took the stiff black felt pouch from his coat pocket and removed the Cartier watch. He laid it on the felt bag.

  “Very nice. May I?” David said.

  “Sure, kid,” Alfano said.

  David picked up the watch and turned it over, then clicked the timepiece, which flipped the face. He looked at the inscription, then clicked it back. “I know someone who has a watch like this.”

  “Who is that?” Alfano asked.

  “Adam Roberts. He wears it on his right wrist. He is left-handed. He is quite proud of it; it was a gift.”

  “From who? Do you know?”

  David slipped the watch on his own wrist for a moment. “Nice, but too expensive for me. I’d be afraid of losing it. Roberts’s boyfriend gave it to him. His name is Wells Barker.”

  “So, Roberts really is a fag?” Tuttle said. “Really? Damn, the wife’s going to be very disappointed. Can’t wait to tell her.”

  “Not exactly,” David said. “As they say around here, Roberts drives on both sides of the road, and fast, and where he parks at night varies.”

  “I get it—weird analogy,” Alfano said.

  “The city of Los Angeles is an analogy,” David added.

  After lunch, they walked back to the limo.

  “All this is new along here, Tony,” Tuttle said. He pointed up and down the street and at a couple of the taller buildings. “Ten years ago, this was nothing. “Just a dirt and sand road that went to the beach. That’s why it was called Sunset Boulevard. For the last ten years, people up there in the Hollywood hills have been building houses on the sides of the cliffs and infilling the canyons. You can’t see it from here, but there’s a huge sign—me, I call it an eyesore—that reads in white letters and is lit up at night: HOLLYWOODLAND. All to sell lots. Soon all this will be packed in. And this boulevard is becoming a real problem for us—gambling joints, speaks, hookers, even dope fiends. Like me, the gangsters from Chicago like the weather here. They run a few of these operations.”

  “You really thought California was going to be different?” Alfano said as they climbed into the car.

  “One can wish,” Tuttle said. “David, drop me at the Beverly Hills city hall. I parked there.”

  “Yes, sir. Detective Alfano?”

  “Do you know where the Will Rogers Polo Club is?” Alfano asked.

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  CHAPTER 16

  After they left the Beverly Hills Police parking lot, David drove up into the hills above Santa Monica and pulled the limousine to a stop in front of the Will Rogers Polo Club. An attendant seeing the limo jogged to the rear door and opened it for Alfano. Whe
n the attendant did not recognize him, Alfano was asked, “May I help you, sir?”

  “Kid, just here to look around,” Alfano said. He held up his star to the attendant. “David, stay with the car. I’ll be right back.”

  The pungent aroma of horses, manure, and freshly cut grass hung in the warm air. Beyond the building, the steady pounding of horse hooves on sod filled the canyon. They had passed the polo field as they drove up to what they thought was the clubhouse. A dozen men dressed in white attire galloped back and forth on horseback.

  Alfano headed to the doors of the strangely shaped building where a weathered man, about fifty years old, stood just inside the wide opening. He was shorter than Alfano—a greyish mop of hair hung down his forehead. The face and the man were the most famous in America, and probably in the world.

  “I can spot the law from a country mile, even if they arrive in a limousine. May I help you, sir?” Will Rogers said.

  “Maybe you can, Mr. Rogers. I’m Tony Alfano, a detective with the Chicago Police Department. I’m investigating a murder. May I ask a few questions?”

  “I haven’t been in Chicago since June or July—had a polo tournament there. We took home the trophy. So, if this killing was during the last week or so, I got an alibi.” He laughed. “Anyway, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Detective. That driver of yours, he okay out there in the heat? Have him come in and sit.”

  Alfano waved to David. “Come into the shade while I talk with Mr. Rogers.”

  “Call me Will, everybody does.” The famous cowboy introduced himself to David.

  They walked into what Alfano thought was the Polo Club, which turned out to be a large barn; off to each side of the round central hub were stables and paddocks. A groom was leading two horses into the stable from the large pasture opposite the drive.

  “I can see you’re surprised; most are when they come up here. The horses are the most important part of this here rodeo. All the rest of the fall-de-ra we set up during the matches we do down at the house. We are country laid-back, you might say. What was it you wanted to ask me about?”

  “Do you know Adam Roberts? He’s an—”

  “Actor, sure do. He’s connected to Sierra Pictures. They asked me to work with them on a western. I said no, I have other contracts and obligations. This isn’t about the Hines Melnik murder, is it—the one in the afternoon paper? Now, that was a shock, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Tangentially,” Alfano said as he stepped over a pile of horse shit. “I’m working a Chicago killing connected to Melnik, but it was a couple of weeks back, a woman. She was his executive producer.”

  “And you came out here to follow it up?”

  “Not exactly. I’m here as an expert on police procedures, Chicago procedures. I’m supposed to be helping with a film.”

  Rogers threw back his head and laughed. “Nice ride, all the fun and no responsibility. My guess, you’re like a prize stallion. They just want to show you off, but you don’t get the privileges. What about Roberts?”

  “A watch was found at the scene; it’s been identified as his. It’s inscribed with the logo of your club. I’m just checking.”

  “May I see it?”

  Alfano took out the pouch and handed the watch to Rogers, who carefully looked it over.

  “Pretty thing, seen a few like this in Europe. They flick the face over so it don’t get broke when you play. I never coddle to such finery; a good pocket watch works just fine. Besides, who needs to know the time during a match? The logo, I don’t have control over that. Anybody can scratch that image on anything. It’s nice to know that Roberts likes it enough to put it on his watch.”

  “Is he a member?”

  “Yeah. He can ride well, too. If I remember, he’s from Fresno, a farm or ranch, not sure. But he can ride. He’s a three-goal player, average but durable, even tough. Seen him a take a fall or two; as I said, tough. He is a hit with the girls, tell you that. They love a man on a horse. I know that for a fact. Hope that helps, Detective. I’ve got to get down to the house to see a man about a horse.”

  “Yes, thanks, anything helps.”

  Another groom, leading a saddled horse, came out of the stables. He stopped near Rogers. Alfano watched Rogers mount so easily that one second he was standing, the next he was on the horse and waving goodbye.

  David walked over to Alfano, stopped, and began scraping something from his polished right shoe.

  “So, that’s Will Rogers. I thought he would be bigger,” David said.

  “Interesting guy. Big things often come in small packages.”

  Alfano asked if David knew where Kitty Hill lived.

  “Yes, sir. The apartment is about ten minutes from here, just off Wilshire Boulevard. Small and comfortable. She didn’t like the pretense of a big Beverly Hills house. She lived alone, so I don’t think anybody is there to open it up.”

  “I’ve got her key, or at least what I think is her key.”

  “How did you get that?” David said, then paused. “Of course, I get it.”

  They went back down to Sunset, then east to Kenter Avenue to San Vincente Boulevard, to Bundy Drive to Wilshire. Hill’s apartment was three houses south of Wilshire Boulevard on Brockton. David pulled to the curb in front of the one-story apartment complex.

  “Plain, I’ll say that,” Alfano said.

  “Kitty’s apartment is in the back. There’s parking off the alley.”

  “How many units?” Alfano said as he got out of the car.

  “Maybe six or eight. I never counted. She liked the quiet of the back.”

  “She own a car?”

  “I don’t know. Never saw her driving one, if she did.”

  They went up the short walk to the opening that split the horseshoe-shaped complex, then through the interior courtyard to the far corner unit.

  “This is her apartment,” David said and stood to one side.

  “Did you come here often?”

  “No, just a few times. I drove her home after a couple of parties, had a drink or two with her. Then went home.” David stopped and turned to Alfano. “And we never got involved. I certainly thought about it though. She was sweet and fun, but honestly a little too old for me, and she never left an opening. I liked her, Detective; she was a good person. We were friends, nothing more.”

  “She was pretty,” Alfano added.

  “Don’t remind me of that.”

  Alfano took the key and unlocked the door.

  “Hey, you,” a woman’s voice, shrill like a parrot screaming for a cracker, cut through the courtyard and echoed off the one-story stucco. “What the hell are you doing there?”

  A full-figured woman in a housecoat the color of well-worn yellow socks was hurriedly bouncing across the thin strip of dried Bermuda grass in the central court. Her hair was up in rollers. Long pieces of masking tape held curled bangs in place across her forehead like bandages. Intermittently, the housecoat sprung open, revealing too much pasty skin. Her house slippers reminded Alfano of small, dead rodents.

  “Hey, what the hell you two doing at Miss Kitty’s apartment? You better have a damn good reason to be here or I’ll call the cops.”

  That’s when Alfano saw the two-foot-long black pipe she carried. He raised his star with his right hand and with his left pushed the door in as he turned to the woman who, thankfully, had good brakes.

  “Detective Alfano, police, ma’am. I’m looking into the death of Miss Kitty Hill. This is her apartment, isn’t it?”

  The woman, clenching the open top of her housecoat with her fingers, glared at the two men as she lowered the pipe so it pointed to the ground. “Can’t you just leave the dead alone? It’s a damn shame, sad as hell. At least it was in her hometown. She’d go on for hours about Chicago.”

  “Your name?” Alfano asked.

  “Candice Longacre. I own this complex. It’s the only thing of value my bastard husband left me when he died. That man either really loved me, or hated me, leaving me this piece o
f crap. Every day I’m reminded of him: something breaks, or clogs, or leaks. But it does pay enough to stay out of the poorhouse.” She adjusted her glasses and took a step toward him. She squinted, took in Alfano with a long perusal, then smiled. “You can call me Candy, honey.”

  Alfano took a deep breath. He heard David snicker under his breath.

  “If you don’t mind, I need to look around the apartment. Has anyone else been here, Miss Longacre?”

  “Oh, please, Detective, it’s Candy. And no, or at least for the last few days. Miss Hill had lots of friends come and go.” She finally seemed to notice David. “I remember you—you was one of them. But no one since . . . last Monday, when someone knocked on my door. He said he was from the studio where she worked. He said she died. Not much else, but he did mention Chicago. I asked him, how and where. He said he didn’t know, only that she was murdered. Kind of put me on edge, he did. But he had a key. He said he was here to officially inspect her place and make sure there wasn’t anything from where she worked. I know she was in pictures. So’s I said, sure.”

  “Such a trusting soul,” Alfano said.

  “How much did he pay you?” David said.

  “You’re an impertinent kid, how rude,” Candy said.

  “Never mind him. Did the guy give you a name? Can you describe him?” Alfano said. He was already reaching in his pocket as Candy held her hand out; the front of her robe sprung open a few inches. Alfano took a five from his roll of bills and handed it to her.

  “Of course, Detective. He was a short round man with a fancy-schmancy car, blue—robin’s-egg blue. Don’t know the type, but sleek and real modern like. His name was Miller or Mannik or something. I let him in; he spent no more than ten minutes. I stood around outside and waited. He left with a brown bag. I asked him what was in the bag, he opened it, I looked—just papers. He said thanks and then drove up to Wilshire and turned left.”

  “Damn, you are a trusting woman,” David said. “He could have stolen anything.”

  “Can you put a muzzle on your pet, Detective?”

  Alfano turned to David. “Be nice to the lady. Don’t bite her; she’s too tough, you might get sick.” Then back to Candy. “And he was the Monday guy?”