“I guess so,” I said. “It's a sweet chariot. But somebody got off on his time, either the car dealer or the messenger, and it's been here too long. Look.” I pointed to the parking ticket on the windshield. “Well, shall we take our first ride in it, down to the City Hall to pay the fine and get right with God?”
We did.
Jack Webb
(1920– )
Given the social and political climates of the early 1950's, and the tendency in mystery and detective fiction in those days toward noncontroversial protagonists (Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer being a prominent exception), the launching of a series about a Jewish policeman and a Roman Catholic priest whose parish is located in a poor Hispanic neighborhood was a calculated risk for both author and publisher. Reader response to Detective Sergeant Sammy Golden and Father Joseph Shanley turned out to be quite favorable, however, though critical reaction was mixed. One reason for the duo's success was the gritty, semi–hard–boiled style employed by Jack Webb; another was inherent in the fact that he chose to downplay the religious and ethnic differences of his heroes, while focusing on their developing friendship and on the various good and evil characters who inhabit the Los Angeles barrio where both men work. Father Shanley is the much better drawn of the two; he and his Church of St. Anne parishioners come across realistically as both individuals and practicing Catholics. Golden's ethnic background is never explored and is referred to only in generalities. Whether this sketchiness was intentional is a matter of conjecture.
The series encompassed nine novels published over a twelve–year span, originating with The Big Sin (1952), in which Shanley and Golden meet and join forces to bring to justice the murderer of a Latina showgirl. The Brass Halo
(1957) has a moody jazz theme, a subject on which Webb was an expert and about which he wrote with such passion that his prose becomes almost lyrical at times. The last of the nine, The Gilded Witch (1963), concerns a sordid, Peyton Place–style roman à clef that precipitates several homicides among the St. Anne flock.
The creator of Father Shanley and Sammy Golden is not the same Jack Webb who starred in the TV series Dragnet and who wrote the mainstream police novel The Badge, despite some critical claims to the contrary (the entry on Webb in the first volume of Twentieth Century Crime and Mystery Writers, for instance). Nor were the two men related in any way. The mystery–writing Jack Webb was a technical writer who once worked for the San Diego Zoo and served in the army during World War II in the unusual capacity of trainer of a unit of carrier pigeons. His first novel, a Western as by Tex Grady, was published in 1952. He also wrote four crime novels as John Farr; two of these have zoo backgrounds (Don't Feed the Animals, 1955, and The Lady and the Snake, 1957). Under his own name, in addition to the nine Shanley–Golden mysteries, he published two nonseries suspense novels and more than a score of short stories. “And Start with a Blonde” is the only one of his shorter works to feature his detecting duo; despite flawed construction and a plot that is too easily resolved, it demonstrates the qualities of characterization and evocative mean–streets atmosphere that made the series popular and helped to pave the way for the religious and ethnically mixed teams (such as Barbara D'Amato's Figueroa and Bennis) who followed.
AND START WITH A BLONDE
FATHER SHANLEY AND SAMMY GOLDEN
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 1960
The first time Father Shanley saw the blonde, he shared the experience with every male parishioner over the age of fourteen and under seventy. It was true that her black dress was smart, and that the black bit of lace with little bows all caught like fish in a net was quite the proper hat for one of the more fashionable parishes, but she did not belong in St. Anne's. Not among the Marquezes, and Gonzalezes, the Alejandros and the Cervantes. Moreover, even though she sat quietly through the early Mass, she was that sort of woman who made the mere fact of her sex a most disturbing element.
The second time he saw the blonde, she was dead – remarkably and brutally dead. Nor was there any question of what the murder weapon had been. The shards of the tall, dark Scotch bottle were strewn on the cheap carpet from wall to wall and the reek of expensive whiskey filled the shabby room.
It was after midnight when Sergeant Golden reached the parish house beside the church of St. Anne. At nine o'clock, when Father had phoned Homicide from the dead woman's apartment, Sammy Golden had been down on SouthCenter on a case of little interest to anyone excepting the medical examiner. Lieutenant Adams had gone out on the priest's urgent call. He had been preceded by Officers Gault and Savage, whose radio car had been in the RoyalHeights area. The initial inquiry had been completed. Now, Sammy had come to St. Anne's because he was a friend, and also because Dan Adams had not been satisfied with Father's story.
Adams had said, “You know I don't doubt Father, Sammy, but ... it's just, well ...” He had paused and run distracted hands through his short–cropped red hair. “Hell, look at the facts. Forget it's Shanley for a minute. He says he's seen the girl once, in his church last Sunday, that when he spoke to her after the services, she didn't even answer him, yet when she called tonight, she knew all about him, refused to see him at the parish house in the morning and insisted that he come to the Vista del Sur Apartments right away.”
“Why?”
“Yeah, why?” Dan grinned briefly. “From the way Father spoke, I had the feeling that he didn't like the sound of it at all, that he actually was quite upset at going to that woman's apartment alone, and would have gotten out of it if she hadn't said that she had been told he was the one man she could trust, that if she ever needed him he would come.”
“Told by who?” Sammy demanded.
“Whom,” said Adams. “You go find out.”
So he had, and the light was on over the front door. Golden climbed from his car and opened the gate under the arbor overburdened with pale pink roses.
Father Shanley was at the door before he could ring.
“Come in, Sammy. Come in.”
Sammy followed him into the house. “I'm sorry I was out when you called. I was attending a wake down on SouthCenter. Dan Adams filled me in when he got back. I came as soon as I could.”
“Then you've talked to Dan. Good. Heaven knows I've been over the details often enough tonight. I've got some coffee ready. You go on into the study. Are you still on duty?”
“Officially,” Sammy said carefully, “the night watch ended twenty minutes ago. So far as I know, nobody's paying me any overtime.”
“Good, I'll bring a little brandy, then. I wouldn't admit it to anyone but you, Sammy, but this has been a night and I could use a drop of something.” Father paused with his hand against the kitchen door. “Yes, Sammy, I sure could!”
Sergeant Golden went on down the hall past the dining room and into the familiar surroundings of the study where he spent so many, many hours and where talk hadn't always been a crime. He wore a puzzled frown. It was nearly ten years now since he and Father had clashed and then joined forces, and he never had seen his friend so nervous. Sure, he had been through a shocking experience, but the shock of violent death was nothing new to Joseph Shanley.
The opposite door swung open to the pressure of Father's toe and he came in bearing a tray in both hands. He carried a coffeepot, cups, saucers, a bottle of Christian Brothers, two small snifters and paper napkins on the tray. Sammy helped him arrange things on the small table beside the big chair. Sammy straightened up, shoving his hands into his pockets. “All right, Father, what is it? Let's get rid of it.”
Father Shanley set the pot down carefully and met the detective's glance steadily. “You heard how she was killed?”
“Whiskey bottle.”
“That's right. Dan tell you that the bottle hadn't been emptied?”
Sammy waited.
The priest handed him a drink. “Upstairs in my closet,” he said soberly, “is one of my black suit coats, stained across the lapels and rather damp. It smells strongly of whiskey.”
“
What in the devil – ”
“Precisely my own thoughts,” Father agreed.
“Incidentally,” he added dryly, “it's not the coat I was wearing when I paid my call.”
Sammy tasted his brandy, felt the warmth of it on his tongue and then finished it off quickly. The priest reached for the bottle. Golden shook his head. “Maybe I needed one, too.”
Shanley said quietly, “It's rather frightening, isn't it? That they knew when I found the girl I'd report her death. That they knew when I found the coat I'd report it rather than clean it or otherwise dispose of it – either of which would have been relatively simple. Being sure of these things when I was the only witness to my own actions.”
“Don't let it spook you,” Sammy said.
“It may be our one break.”
“Break?”
“The fellow knows you. Chances are, you know him.” He grinned without humor. “Also, Father, he doesn't like you very much.”
“No, Sammy.” The pain was clear in Father's glance. “Not that, not murder because of hatred of me!”
It was nine o'clock the following morning when the big man left the CarltonPlaza and walked ten blocks to
Center Street
. He turned south into the Latin–American district a few blocks above skid row. In the foyer of a theater the billboards advertised Cuattro contra el imperio and Dos diabolitos en aduros. With his back to the girl in the tiny cubicle of the box office, he removed his tie and slipped it in his jacket pocket. Then he unbuttoned the two top buttons of his shirt and ran his hand roughly through his gray–flecked hair. These small actions, plus the fact he had not shaved, were enough to put him on
Center Street
without attracting undue attention.
On down the street, he paused before a hole in the wall called La Fiesta. But there were only two young men at the bar, so he walked on until he came to El Charro. Here, there were quite a number along the shabby bar. The big man went in. He paid for his first beer with a twenty–dollar bill. He left the change carelessly on the damp wood before him. A great many glances evidenced more interest in his money than he did. He was on his second beer when the husky voice inquired, “You like to buy Lupe a little drink, sí?”
“Why not?”
Her brassy hair had dark roots. There was a gold cap on one front tooth and her smile was enormous. She more than covered the stool beside him.
The bartender glanced at them sourly.
“Bring Lupe a drink,” the big man said.
“Sure, Joe,” Lupe agreed. “I gotta friend. What's your name, friend?” Her left hand rested on his knee. “Whiskey and soda, Joe.”
The friendship prospered through five whiskeys and soda.
“Fren',” Lupe said, her soft body rocking, “good fren' with no name. You wanna good time, good fren'?”
The man let his gaze wander the joint. Joe was at the far end emptying a case of beer into the cooler under the back bar. The stools on either side of them were empty. He leaned closer. “You want to earn twenty bucks, Lupe?”
“Twenty bucks, por Dios!”
“Good. Now listen to me, Lupe.” He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “I'm going to make a phone call and you're going to do the talking. Okay?”
“Okay. ...”
It was a little after noon when Captain Bill Cantrell and Sergeant Golden climbed from the official sedan at the curb in front of the parish house. Father Shanley laid down the shears with which he was trimming the flamboyant pillar of Gladiator roses beside the small front porch and then peeled off his gloves.
“Captain Cantrell, Sammy, I'm delighted to see you.” The priest's smile was genuine.
“Are you, Father?” Cantrell growled. He threw the remnants of a tattered cigar at a rosebush. “Mind if we come in?”
His face sobering, Joseph Shanley swung upon the gate.
“Sammy's told you about the coat?”
“Yeah,” Cantrell admitted. “Funny thing, that coat.”
“I don't find it so,” Father said gravely. “I expect you would like to have it.”
The captain from Homicide nodded. He didn't look any happier about it than Sammy did, and Sammy hadn't even spoken. Bill Cantrell said, “This isn't easy for us, Father. We have a search warrant. Would you like us to serve it?”
The priest's strong, tanned hands gripped the top of the fence. “Please,” he said quietly, “would you mind telling me what this is all about?”
“Father,” Sammy began, “this is – ”
“I'll do the talking,” Cantrell said abruptly. He returned to Shanley. “We have received some information. In it certain allegations were made. If you would like to be represented by an attorney, we'll permit you to call one.”
“But, why?”
“Then we may make the search?”
The priest nodded without speaking. As they started up the front steps, he said, “One favor. It might benefit all of us if I were to find an errand for Mrs. Mulvaney outside the house before you go to work.”
The priest returned to the front hall.
“I've convinced her that the Fuertes need her pepper–pot soup more than I do. They've all had a virus this last week. And after that, she's going to do some shopping to replace the soup and she's been wanting new curtains for the kitchen windows. So, if we could start upstairs while she's putting on her bonnet, that should give you ample time. ...”
They began their search in the priest's sparse, almost Spartan bedroom beneath the still, watching eyes of the dusty gold crucifix. Father Shanley never forgot Sergeant Golden's expression as he turned from the bottom dresser drawer, his hands coming up from the bleached Navy suntans that were now the priest's old work clothes. In his grasp was a pair of flimsy nylons.
“Well, Father?” It was Cantrell who spoke, not Golden.
Joseph Shanley came out of the shock slowly. “Her legs were bare,” he said with a hollow detachment. “I remember because the door was open and the light was on and I could see her calves and ankles and feet and those new shoes with the clean, clean soles. So, of course, I hurried in. What else could I do? She was on the floor, you see. Not at all in a proper position and, of course, I could smell the liquor.”
The two policemen stared at him.
“Sammy,” Father said, “Sammy ...”
Before Golden could reply, Cantrell caught his arm and squeezed. Sammy looked down at the stockings in his hand. The Captain's bloodshot eyes never left the priest.
Father spoke quickly, a sudden, bitter anger rising in his voice. “Good heavens, you two don't think ...”
“Sometimes we have to,” Captain Cantrell said soberly. “You'd better come downtown with me for awhile, Father.”
“Is this an arrest?”
“I didn't say that.” He turned his glance to Sammy, rubbing the back of his neck. “You stay here, Sergeant. I'm going to have a team from the lab comb the place. Somebody might have been careless. After they arrive, you can beat it home. Report as regularly for the night watch.”
Sammy had watched them go and felt like Judas. An involuntary Judas, sure, but then, what Judas is not? And even if he had not carried the story of Father's liquor–spattered coat to headquarters, the phone call this morning would have done the job. It had been an anonymous call, but not a crank one, a call from an exceedingly nervous woman with a Spanish accent who insisted that she had seen a priest hurrying from the Vista del Sur Apartments where the “mystery blonde” had been killed at eight–thirty.
It had been nine when Father had called Homicide to report the murder and, according to Shanley, eight–thirty when the blonde had called him to come to her.
So, somebody was lying. Sammy backed up and started over; so the woman was a liar. Why? Last night he had suggested that someone did not like Father. True as that might be, it was not half enough by far. Because you had to go back to the beginning and start with a blonde, an expensive blonde who had moved into a cheap apartment in a neighbor
hood where she didn't belong, who attended a church where she didn't fit and who had died most violently only last night.
According to her driver's license, she was Sally M. Cox, five foot four inches tall, weighed one hundred and thirty pounds and lived at the Vista del Sur address. Inasmuch as she had moved to that address less than three weeks ago, the driver's license was brand new. It said exactly what she wanted it to say and no more. There was no previous record of the State of California's having issued a driver's permit to one Sally M. Cox. She had a checking account at the Royal Heights branch of the Bank of Southern California. She had made an initial deposit of three thousand dollars in cash. The currency had been in old bills of varying denominations. There had been nothing irregular about it except that the amount was startling in Royal Heights.
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