Chicago Boogie Woogie

by Gregory C. Randall

  “Yes, ma’am, will do.” The valet walked with her to the arched entry. She slipped him a bill; with the bill was a small glassine envelope filled with something white. Alfano wished he hadn’t seen the not-so-secret transfer.

  A man in an odd-looking uniform stood at the door and opened it for them.

  “Good evening, Miss Durant. Pleasant evening.”

  “Yes, Louis, very pleasant. The usual crowd tonight?”

  Durant looked at Alfano, smiled. Alfano’s thought was it was like that cat in Alice in Wonderland, knowing and mischievous. He wondered if he’d passed the grin test.

  After they elbowed their way through the crowd at the door, a middle-aged tuxedoed man with a thin mustache, thick eyebrows, and even thicker head of black hair met them.

  “Full house, John?”

  “We will have a good evening, Miss Durant. Please follow me.”

  Holding two massive menu cards, John maneuvered through the tight aisles between the tables. Durant followed closely; Alfano took her six. Their objective was a booth in the far corner that overlooked the smoke-filled room. The din made conversation, and eavesdropping, difficult. As hard as he tried, Alfano could not help but stargaze. He saw three faces he knew from films but couldn’t remember their names. But he did recognize Dick Powell and Joan Blondell.

  Durant stopped abruptly; Alfano rear-ended her. She turned and looked up into his eyes, then took her finger and pushed up his chin. “Stop being a tourist, Tony. These are normal people having a good time. So, close your mouth.”

  At the booth, Durant slid in first, Alfano to her right. She exchanged a few pleasantries with John. The maître d’ took their drink orders and left the menus.

  “Just people in this new industry enjoying themselves,” Durant said as she removed her gloves and placed them on her yellow lacquered handbag.

  “It reminds me more of a fraternity party, where Daddy picks up the bills,” Alfano said. “But I’m not here to judge.”

  “Lover, we are all here to judge.”

  Two men walked up to the table. Alfano recognized the smaller of the two; it was Will Rogers. His companion was taller and dressed in the most outlandish all-white cowboy outfit that Alfano had ever seen.

  “Damn, Detective, you do get around,” Rogers said. “Twice in one day. I’d think you were following me.” He stuck his hand out to Alfano, who half stood in the gap between the table and the booth and accepted the handshake. “And with Miss Maxime Durant. What do they teach in Chicago? You’re here less than two days and you have one of Hollywood’s biggest stars on your arm.” He nodded at the actress. “Miss Durant.”

  “Will, be kind,” Durant said. “Detective Alfano is a friend and my guest.”

  “Well, collecting police officers would have been the last thing I’d have expected from you, Maxime,” the overdressed cowboy said. “Changing tastes?”

  “Detective, this rude man is Tom Mix,” Durant said. “I enjoyed him more when he did silent films.”

  “Mr. Mix,” Alfano said. He half stood again, reached across the table to shake the man’s hand.

  “Los Angeles Police, Detective?” Mix asked.

  “No, Chicago.”

  “Seems both of us are a long way from home,” said Mix. “Pleasure to meet you, Detective. Miss Durant, as always, a pleasure.”

  “How do you know Will Rogers?” Durant asked as the two cowboys walked away from the table. They waved at a few gushing patrons seated at nearby tables.

  “We met earlier this afternoon at his club,” Alfano told Durant. “I still have another murder to solve.”

  “Kitty, yes. I forgot.” Durant lit a cigarette.

  “Miss Durant, I find that hard to believe. I don’t think you forget anything. There are similarities between Melnik’s death and Hill’s—I’m sorting them out.” He looked across the room at the two famous cowboys. “It seems you can’t go anywhere in this town without tripping over a real or pretend actor or actress. I’m a big fan of Mix’s. I’ve enjoyed his serials. Maybe I should have had them both sign my menu, something to remember this evening.”

  “I was hoping for more memories than two cowboys at the table,” Durant murmured.

  Alfano put his hand on his thigh to deflect her fingers.

  Their drinks arrived.

  “So, prime rib, Yorkshire pudding, and . . .”

  “Don’t get ahead of your horse, cowboy,” Durant said. “Are you closer to finding Kitty and Hines’s killer?”

  “You assume there is one killer, interesting,” Alfano said and took a sip of his Canadian Club.

  “The way you said there were similarities, I thought that was why you are here in LA—to catch the killer.”

  “I’m here because my boss, the mayor of Chicago, sent me here. Hines Melnik asked for my professional expertise to help on the film. Now I’ve got a dead studio mogul, a bump on the head, a grand tour of LA, a few decent meals, and a not-so-subtle proposition. I am beginning to feel more like a tourist or a john than a cop.”

  “Oh, poor boy.”

  Alfano jumped when she squeezed his left thigh again.

  “Stop that!”

  “Stop what?” she offered with a grin and sipped her martini.

  Dinner was delicious, probably the best prime rib that Alfano had had in years, maybe in his life. The liquor served was the real McCoy, and the wines, all Californian, were some of the best he’d tasted. To watch the celebrity table hopping and the high-quality liquor pouring, he’d forgotten for a moment that Prohibition was still officially the law of the land. After three days, he was beginning to suspect that California believed it was a country unto itself.

  “You were with Melnik a long time?” he asked Durant.

  “For my second tour. The first was three years. I was made an offer, left—it was an unmitigated failure. I went back to Hines. Four years is a long time in this business, so yes, it was a long time. When I came out from New York, I was twenty-six. I had my shit together better than most of the girls that arrive at the train station. These girls are lambs for the slaughter, twenty, twenty-one. Hell, I met one girl—she said she was nineteen—I knew for a fact she was really sixteen. By the time she was nineteen, she looked thirty: a dope addict, sexually abused, and one or two abortions behind her. They found her dead on a bench in the train station with a ticket back to Tulsa in her purse. This town is not kind to young women or men. There are predators everywhere. This city draws them like flies to a corpse.”

  “And Melnik, his place in all this?” Alfano asked.

  “I saw him as a mentor, though he did have his idiosyncrasies. He helped me. Got me into pictures, got me acting lessons, taught me poise, things I didn’t learn in Brooklyn. I did what I had to, and he put me together with some of the best leading men. I’ve done okay, but I watch everything that happens.”

  She moved as if to grab Alfano’s thigh again, laughed when he caught her by the wrist.

  “Hines was a doll,” she said. “We had a fling for a few years. The man wasn’t married, never was. He was from Poland, came to America as a kid, maybe eight or nine. I know his story—I’m half Jewish—Karpinski is Polish. We hit it off, then he started screwing around; he had the attention span of a gnat and the sexual appetite of a bull. The son of a bitch would screw anything, and I know for a fact he did. Anyway, he grew up in Boyle Heights, a Jewish enclave on the east side of downtown—it’s gone Mexican and black now. The Jews moved on to Hollywood and Beverly Hills, depending on whether you had money and how much. Melnik had a group of friends. Some drifted into crime and a lot of other unsavory things. The Jewish Mafia, he called them. Said he was lucky to get away. Some of his friends from the Heights are dead now. Others scattered, left town when things got hot. I think what goes on in Chicago is not much different than here.”

  “He got back into his old habits when the porn business took off?”

  “That’s not a bad guess, but I honestly don’t know, and I don’t know where he
got his money. There has to be a hundred film studios here in LA and in the San Fernando Valley.”

  “Why there?”

  “Rent is cheaper, more young girls, bodybuilding guys . . . it’s all about the ego and sunshine and films,” Durant said. “Everybody wants to be a star.”

  “Make-believe . . .”

  “Detective, to us, it’s real. It’s hard work, and one out of a thousand makes their bones. Most get fucked, literally and figuratively.”

  “So, Melnik was one of these predators, as you called them?”

  Durant looked genuinely thoughtful. “Yeah, but not as bad as some,” she said slowly. “There are some very bad people here, all dolled up, dressed to the nines, and they will do anything to protect their secrets. And they have the money to grease the skids. Here, like everywhere, it’s who you know and how much you have, not always what you know.”

  “Graft, corruption, police? That does sound like my hometown.”

  “Most hometowns have a little of it; big towns just have a lot more,” Durant said. She saw the waiter and pointed to her wineglass. He came over and filled it.

  A dapper man, late twenties, in a slick grey silk suit, brilliant white shirt, and French tie walked up to their table. It was, surprisingly, a face that Alfano knew.

  Durant smiled. The man leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Tony Alfano, this is John Roselli. He is involved with the film industry. In fact, John was the executive producer on Hines’s last two films.”

  Roselli extended his hand. “Mr. Alfano, a pleasure. And this is Frank DiSimone.” He indicated the man who had come up beside him. “Frank is an attorney I’m grooming for the future.”

  Alfano shook both men’s hands. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Roselli.”

  “Maxi, I’m so sorry about Hines; he was a great guy and friend,” Roselli said.

  “Thank you,” Durant said. She finished her wine quickly.

  “And you know Miss Durant through films?” Alfano asked.

  “Yes.”

  Alfano said nothing more; he kept looking at Roselli. He’d never directly dealt with Roselli—hopefully, Roselli hadn’t recognized him.

  “As always, Maxi, love you. And a pleasure, Mr. Alfano,” Roselli said.

  Alfano watched the two men walk away. They stopped twice at other tables and shook hands.

  Durant slipped on her gloves and slid out of the banquette. Alfano followed as she followed Roselli out.

  “Yes, Detective, it is a menagerie. Yet, here you are, sticking your nose everywhere, even meeting the most famous man in America. You’ve got balls, Detective, I’ll say that for you.”

  Alfano wanted to know where Durant got her balls. Outside, he watched Roselli climb into a buffed-out maroon Cadillac. He knew the man. Roselli—previously known as Filippo Sacco—was born in Lazio, Italy. Even at his young age, he was a close friend of Frank Nitti and Al Capone. Roselli had disappeared about eight years earlier from the Chicago scene. Once a mobster, always a mobster was Alfano’s creed. And once Capone’s friend, you ended up either rich or dead.

  CHAPTER 19

  Alfano stood at the window of his room looking out on the Pacific Ocean; the open window permitted the sounds and smells of the sea to wash through the room. He heard Sunday church bells. He took in a deep breath; the fogginess of his brain and his actions testified to the fact that he hadn’t had a decent sleep in three nights. The night had not gone the way he’d planned. He looked over at the bed. Maxime Durant Karpinski lay coiled like a kitten near where he’d slept. She didn’t snore; at least that was a blessing. He blew smoke out the open window, then crushed his cigarette. In the predawn light, the ocean was a grey blue; not a wave roiled the surface. In a few ways, it reminded him of Lake Michigan. A long purr came from the bed. He looked—she still slept. He lit another cigarette.

  He had never been one to overthink a situation, and this was one he was sure needed a lot of thinking. She was good, even adventurous. She hadn’t mentioned dinner or a quid pro quo. Liquor and a good-looking woman were forever Alfano’s great weaknesses. When combined, they became dangerous. The soft curve, the warmth, the afterglow—he would save the rest of his guilt for confession.

  Another purr. “What time is it?”

  “Seven thirty.”

  “I need more than five hours of sleep. Wake me at nine,” the kitten purred.

  “The phone call from J.J. said we need to be at the studio at nine.”

  “What phone call?”

  “The call at six this morning.”

  “So that’s who called,” Durant said.

  “Yes, it was J.J.,” Alfano said.

  “It’s Sunday. J.J. says a lot of things—fuck him. Crawl back into this bed and tell me I’m a bad girl, or at least try and convince me.”

  “Self-criticism is good for the soul.”

  She rolled over, her nude body slowly unwinding itself from the tight curl she’d been in. In the brighter light of day, Alfano was impressed. Maxime Durant was nicely assembled; he’d enjoyed the evening exploring the structure.

  “You look good in that light,” she said. “I like tall men.”

  “I’m a little above average.”

  “Sweetie, I’ve had average from both ends. Don’t cut yourself short.”

  “I’m not one for self-criticism,” Alfano said. He took a drag.

  “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Come back to bed.”

  “I’m buying breakfast. Go take a shower, get dressed. You need to get back to your apartment and change. Showing up in evening clothes at nine in the morning is not proper. You’ll make the hired help jealous.”

  “You always this bitchy and commanding in the morning? That won’t work—only I can be bitchy and commanding in the morning. Besides, I have plenty of clothes at the studio. This isn’t the first time I’ve come in late or early, depending. Order coffee with a roll or something. I’ll be ready in a half hour.”

  She stood, stretched like a cat, smiled, licked her lips, and capered across the room to the toilet. The look Alfano gave her said he was reconsidering going back to bed. She smiled again and said, “Too late, lover. I’ve lost the mood.”

  ✥✥✥

  With Maxime driving, Alfano found himself traversing Santa Monica Boulevard yet again. It was a grand total of three and a half miles of nondescript one-story shops, diners, boarded-up buildings, homes, empty lots, and apartments. Some side streets were paved, others just sand. In some lots, tents were set up, many of which looked half-collapsed. Fires were burning, and small groups of men, women, and children huddled around pots that sat over the fires. The children were thin, drawn, and in rags; the parents were not much better. Except for the palm trees, it all reminded him of Cicero near the tracks on a good day.

  After an unhurried breakfast, they arrived at the studio on time at 9:15 am. Jorge Jones was not impressed.

  “You’re late,” he said to Alfano, who had followed Durant past J.J. and into the studio.

  “I’m a hired hand, not a babysitter,” Alfano said. “Besides, it’s Sunday—other than cops, who the hell works on Sunday?”

  “We are behind schedule. You kept my girl out. She’s your responsibility,” J.J. said.

  “What are you going to do, fire me?” Alfano saw the caterer’s table full of food and made a sharp right.

  “Today, Mr. Detective, being Sunday, we work a half day,” J.J. announced into a microphone at the retreating cop. “I wanted a full day, but Roberts has a polo match this afternoon. So, our ‘star’ is not available. You break any body part, and I’ll kill you—you hear me, Roberts?”

  “Thanks, J.J.!” Roberts yelled from across the studio.

  No shooting; the day was too short. Alfano spent the morning sitting at a large table in a windowless room off to one side of the studio. The room was near the main entry, giving him a view of who came and left. The director, script writers, and actors sat around the table preparing for th
e next week’s schedule. Three times Alfano offered suggestions about language, scene intent, and proper procedures. J.J. said they’d stick with the language but adjusted the scene (a shoot-out in an alley between Roberts’s character and a young tough) to show that Roberts shot back in self-defense. The original had the detective shooting first.

  “While I get the part about vengeance,” Alfano said, “don’t you think he’d wait until the bad guy tried to kill him first?”

  “Sometimes bad guys need killing, Tony,” Roberts said. “I get what you are saying, but this guy needed killing, bad.”

  “No one needs to be killed—not shot down in cold blood,” Alfano said, taken aback.

  “My experience says there are some that do,” Roberts answered.

  “Your experience? Really? Your whole ten years of Hollywood experience? In my twenty years of police work, I’ve met only one man who needed killing. Yet today, he’s still alive.”

  “And who’s that, Detective?” Durant said from the far end of the table.

  “Alphonse Capone.”

  “Come on, Detective, Capone wasn’t all that bad,” Roberts said. “I understand he helped a lot of people in his community. He was a folk hero, a Robin Hood kind of guy.”

  “More like the Sheriff of Nottingham. Al Capone was directly involved in or ordered the killing of over a hundred people. His thugs bombed bars, polling booths, and shot down citizens in the street. He personally beat his competitors to death with a baseball bat. He ordered dozens of shootings, including in restaurants full of patrons; he shot down competitors on public streets full of bystanders. And he was, I believe, directly involved with the machine gunning of seven of his rivals on Saint Valentine’s Day. I’m sure you heard about that one. Right now, the son of a bitch is sitting in a Georgia prison making shoes, while syphilis and gonorrhea eat him out from the inside. Serves the bastard right. The man was, is, and forever will be pure evil.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Durant said. “I’d have liked to meet him for a character study or something.”

  Alfano leaned forward and looked down the table to the pussycat. “He wasn’t very nice to the ladies, either. His brother ran the biggest bordello in Cook County.”