A grey-haired woman, about forty, poked her head out. ‘Hey, what are you doing there? Where’s Phyllis?’
She was nervous, thin, and on closer inspection the deep lines across her forehead and around her eyes made her seem older. She was jittery too, as though she spent too much time worrying about small things, the better to put off the big questions.
‘Good evening, ma’am,’ I nodded politely, ‘I’m renting the place while Phyllis is visiting her parents. She left yesterday.’
An equally grey cat poked its head out from between her skinny ankles, trying to make a run for it. From the smell seeping through the doorway, it mustn’t have been successful often enough.
The woman bent to grab the cat by its tattered pink collar, then roused on it. ‘Now, Bitsy, you know you can’t go outside. That old dog will eat you!’
It meowed something back, nothing polite.
The grey-haired woman shoved the cat behind her with one foot and resumed the inquisition. ‘So what’s Phyllis doing taking a holiday back home?’ Her tone was disbelieving. ‘She didn’t have enough money last month to do anything more than pay the rent.’
‘I believe Phyllis came into some money.’
‘Really?’ Her dull eyes lit up at the thought of gossip.
I worked on the sticky lock, hoping to evade any further cross-examination, but just as I turned it she tried another tack.
‘There was a strange man here … earlier. He came back twice to knock on Phyllis’ door.’
That caught my interest. ‘What did he look like?’
The neighbour scowled. ‘I wouldn’t open my door to someone else’s caller.’ As though she was above such petty curiosity. ‘But I looked out as he was leaving. He was in his forties maybe, grey and black hair. Thin. Wearing a grey trench coat.’
That was the man Benny had described. The one who’d been asking the studio guard about me … it had to be Brigham.
But why would Brigham come here? What was he after?
‘What time was he here?’
She snarled, ‘I’m not your social secretary.’ And slammed her door shut.
Damn Brigham! The last thing I needed now was a hostile supervisor breathing down my neck.
I pushed the front door open and went in.
Inside was a greasy, stinking mess. Phyllis had left piles of dirty clothes everywhere and unwashed pots and plates in the sink.
I ignored it all and headed for the bedroom to lay out my stalking gear. It was innocuous enough to wear around the streets but would also be fine for scaling walls and sneaking around Earl’s back yard. Women wearing pants was still considered strange enough to be noticed so I had black ski pants rolled up under a brown trench coat; my shirt matched the pants and my shoes were black flats with good traction.
My stomach rumbled; I hadn’t eaten since Beulah’s fried breakfast.
Cockroaches scattered across the stained floorboards as I surveyed the little sink and gas burner that passed as the kitchen.
Yep, it was going to be takeout tonight. Definitely.
Phyllis had recommended Rochelle’s Caravan, down near the beach. She’d said a Hungarian friend of hers was the cook. Surveying Phyllis’ neglected sink she must’ve eaten there every night.
Rochelle’s Caravan was one street back from the waterfront, but you could still see the lights on the Ferris wheel in the amusement park switch on. Venice Pier was getting ready for its evening visitors.
It was past seven o’clock but the diner was three quarters empty, just like the street outside. A long yellow counter ran parallel to the back wall, while dilapidated booths in yellow and green sat under the windows on either side of the front door. Like the rest of Venice, the diner had been built back in the early twenties when a richer clientele strolled the beachfront.
A palm reader wearing a red and green kerchief, big gold circle earrings and a shawl over a flowery gypsy outfit sat in one corner morosely considering her own palm. The handwritten sign on the wall above her booth said, ‘Fortunes told for a dime, curses lifted for a quarter, hexes placed for fifty cents’.
From the palm reader’s depressed glower she was about due for a change of profession herself.
The wall behind the yellow counter was covered in framed black-and-white photographs. They were all silent movie stars, eternally frozen in overly dramatic poses. The photos had that faded quality, as though the customers’ searching eyes had worn out the ink.
I picked up one of the menus on the counter and sat on a high stool. The list of meals, handwritten on white cardboard, was short; just plain working-class fare: hamburgers, sandwiches and soup. At the bottom, a section listed in Hungarian sounded more interesting but the only thing I recognised was goulash.
The waitress stopped washing down the sink to attend to me. She nipped over with her notebook and pencil, ready to take my order. She was middle-aged with frizzy, dark grey hair tied back with a violet scarf and an attractive wide smile outlined in bright fuchsia lipstick.
‘Hi, dearie, what can I get you?’ She licked the end of her pencil.
‘Er, what’s Halaszle?’
‘Fish soup.’ She kept her pencil above the page, silently urging me onto a swift choice.
‘What about the Toltott Kaposzta?’
‘Stuffed cabbage.’
Hmm. None of that sounded very portable and I needed to take it with me. ‘Can you make that two hamburgers to go, well done. And a Coke please.’
‘Anything while you wait?’
Good idea. I was still reeling from Earl’s afternoon alcohol-fuelled tantrum. I scanned the menu. ‘A cherry soda, thanks.’
The waitress went off to place my order with the cook lounging by the griller, then started making my drink. First the deep cherry syrup, then the soda, then the scoop of vanilla ice cream. She plunked the deep-red frothy concoction down in front of me and I lapped it up with a spoon.
Another customer arrived and the waitress moved off to serve him.
I took another look around as I slurped in the wet sweetness. Through the long front windows I could see a couple of teenagers swirling past on the Ferris wheel. The girl was primly holding down her skirt and the boy was teasing her.
At eye level, underneath the framed photos of old movie stars, was a cork notice board. I leant in for a better view. There were handwritten cards advertising work wanted: machinists, waitresses, babysitting … Next to them was a photo of a gorgeous brunette, makeup perfect, hair fetchingly styled, red evening dress. It stuck out amongst all the want ads. Underneath it said, ‘Julie Dray, 17 years old, runaway from Ohio. Reward for information, call her parents at …’
Seventeen years old? I went back to the photo again. It was a studio portrait and she’d been made up to appear a lot older, more sophisticated. Probably one more hopeful actress ready to make it big in Hollywood.
Next to Julie Dray a brightly coloured poster advertised the Hope Foundation Literacy Program; there was a Santa Monica address at the bottom of it. Next to the poster was a sign for the Hope Soup Kitchen at Venice Beach; it gave a list of opening hours …
My eye wandered across to the next sign. There was no picture but it was chilling purely for what the hand-printed message said.
Across the top was: ‘Women Beware of the Venice Beach Maulers’. Below was: ‘Seven women have been attacked since January 1938. Women — do not walk home alone at night.’
Do not walk home alone at night … Bloody hell! Captive in your own city.
After that talk with Charmaine and Eve about the Hollywood Wolves it made me furious that this City of Angels seemed like one big trap for women. My era wasn’t perfect, and if I ever struck it rich I fully intended to pour part of it into women’s shelters and free self-defence courses, but here and now women were treated like …
‘Do you live around here, dearie?’ The frizzy-haired waitress was watching me read the warning with some concern.
‘Yes. I just moved in yesterday.’
The LAPD again.
‘Why’s that?’
The waitress bent in to whisper, ‘Because the cops say it’s the girl’s fault being out so late … that they’re asking for it. But if you work nights what can you do?’ She patted my hand. ‘If you ever get into trouble, sweetie, don’t go to the cops. You can’t trust them.’
They’re asking for it? Asking to be raped?
I shook my head. Sure, it was 1939 … but that excuse was straight out of the Dark Ages.
My food arrived neatly packed in a sturdy brown paper bag so I gave her a nice tip and thanked her for the warning.
I was about to head out for my night job.
It was pitch dark outside and an unseasonably chilly wind whistled up the deserted sidewalk. It carried the lilting carnival music from Venice Pier with it, as well as a handful of leaves and a dancing sheet of old newspaper.
I retraced my steps home, bathed in the rising scent of hot, juicy hamburger. My stomach growled a ‘hurry up’ complaint and I lengthened my stride. Phyllis’ house was only minutes away.
I turned left and onto the bridge that connected the beachside to the canal district. There were wrought-iron streetlights at either end, casting yellowish spotlights on the seawater swirling below.
There was no one in sight.
Thirty minutes ago there’d been a stream of harried workers struggling home, but the fall of night and the cold wind had scattered them.
My footsteps echoed on the cement.
Beneath the bridge, the incoming tide was forcing seawater into the canal system. It was deep enough for the waves to crash against the steep cement sides, sending crystal-like plumes of spray upwards and into the yellow light.
Two pairs of footsteps sounded on the pavement in the darkness ahead: one heavy, the other with a slight dragging limp. Then two heavily built men in dark suits and hats erupted into the light at the far end of the bridge.
They saw me but studiously avoided my eyes.
Okay …
I slid my satchel off my right shoulder and gripped it together with my dinner in my left hand. I’d left the .38 back at Phyllis’ house.
The taller one with the limp was carrying a baseball bat in his clenched right hand.
I kept going.
As I reached the middle of the bridge there were footsteps behind me.
I took a swift glance over my shoulder.
Three more similarly dressed men had stepped onto the bridge at my back. One carried a length of iron pipe.
I kept going …
My temper started to rise. These Neanderthal goons were going to waste precious time and energy I didn’t have to spare.
The pair coming towards me fanned out, blocking my path. They were now ten feet away.
I halted, eyeing them the whole time, and placed the dinner bag and satchel on the ground next to the bridge wall.
The tall cretin with the baseball bat slapped it in his other hand threateningly. ‘Hey, Blondie, what are you doing out this time of night? Don’t you know it’s not safe?’
‘Yeah, Boss,’ sniggered his short mate. ‘She must be looking for customers.’
‘I’m not looking for customers. I’m not looking for anything.’ I tried to keep my tone as placatingly bland as gritted teeth would allow. ‘I’m just on my way home and I don’t want any trouble.’
‘I don’t think that’s true, doll face,’ leered the boss. He sauntered towards me, as cocky as his limp would allow. ‘But I’m willing to give you the chance to prove it to me.’
He let his baseball bat dangle at his side but swung it up and down. Up and down …
Now they had my attention, they wanted to play … cats to my mouse.
They were five feet away.
‘Just let me pass.’
His mate sneered, ‘You ain’t going nowhere, doll face. Not until we say you can.’
The three behind me broke into a dead run.
So be it.
I dived forward, rolled between the two men and jumped upright to twist the baseball bat out of the tall one’s fist with one hand as I hooked up and hard into his jaw with the other.
His head snapped back and he collapsed like a building under demolition.
I slammed the baseball bat straight down into Shorty’s groin with a thunk. He sucked in a volley of curse words and tottered in a crouching spiral towards the bridge wall.
A swift kick in the backside shoved him right over.
Shorty shrieked as he hit the cold water; the tide swept him along and towards the inland canals.
He wouldn’t die but he may have second thoughts about defenceless women … or maybe women in general.
I swung around, twirling the bat like a cheerleader’s baton. ‘Come on!’
And then the three others, visages contorted with shock and rage, were upon me.
A fist swung at my head and I ducked, snapping a straight punch into my attacker’s solar plexus. He grunted as he staggered backwards, clutching his guts.
A lunge with the bat to the chest and he joined his mate in the roiling sea below.
From five feet away the last two goons just glared at me, wanting to strike but not daring to get any closer. One had a length of pipe, which he shifted from hand to hand nervously.
They were both sweating; their faces glistened.
‘Crazy bitch!’ spat the one with the pipe. But he inched further back rather than forward.
I waited, still twirling the baseball bat. Holding their gaze I flipped it up, end over end, and caught it again without looking. I’d practised that trick with my katana, my three-foot-long samurai blade. It was razor sharp.
They were lucky I didn’t have it with me now.
I stared meaningfully at the hand holding the pipe.
It dropped with a clang.
They couldn’t believe their eyes. How could a woman do what I’d just done to three tough men?
They didn’t know what to do.
So I told them their options.
‘Take that,’ I jerked my thumb at their boss, still flat on the ground, ‘and get out of my sight.’ I swung the bat up and down. Up and down. ‘Or I do catch up on my batting practice?’
They edged past, eyeing me the whole time, and dragged their leader off the bridge like a sack of dried beans.
I watched them fade back into the shadows — just to make sure. There was the sound of car doors, an engine revved into life and then tyres screamed as they accelerated away.
They wouldn’t be back and they wouldn’t hurt anyone else … at least for a little while.
I picked up my satchel, slung it back over my shoulder, then opened the dinner bag and checked inside. It smelt good. Yep, it was all okay but cooling fast.
Something bright glimmered up at me from where their leader had lain.
I grabbed it up in disbelief.
It was a police badge …
An LAPD detective was running his own rape squad?
I fingered the double-barred cross that Charmaine had hung around my neck. Were these just bad times for women … or was something more sinister going on in Los Angeles?
26
STAKEOUT AT CEIBA HOUSE
I pulled into Earl’s block and parked diagonally across from Ceiba House. His lights were on and the street was deserted, so the rest of the neighbourhood must be settled in for a quiet night.
My stomach rumbled loudly.
Time for some food.
Once I’d eaten I’d skim through my files, then do a run of the house perimeter to check all possible entry points. I pulled the first hamburger out of its brown paper bag and flipped off the top of the Coke bottle with the opener on my penknife. I rested the Coke on the seat between my legs. It was still cold but I wanted to use both hands to munch into the burger.
It
was Rochelle’s speciality and bulging with ingredients. It smelt great and the first bite was no disappointment. The meat patty was good quality, the sauce was tasty and the salad was fresh. The sauce was peppery but I figured that was the Hungarian cook’s take on what a burger should taste like.
I followed the second bite with a slurp of Coke. Nothing like caffeine and sugar to make you feel better about life.
Well … feel as good as you can when you have a studio full of highly motivated suspects and only two more days to work out what the hell is going on. That, and a rich and powerful client who was either delusional or lying … or both.
Repress that last thought for the moment. I had to focus on catching the killer … whoever it was.
That’s right — stuff Brigham! I was going to make this work. Force ’em to keep me in the program. I had to stay positive … Presume I’m going to succeed.
Whatever happens in the future, I’m a PI here and now. So think like one.
I took another juicy bite and made a mental note: start forming good mission habits now. Watch the intake of junk food on future trips. Start packing lunches.
And exercise. Come up with a routine I could do on stakeouts. Some karate katas … Maybe I could jog on the spot more. Do push-ups.
Regular work habits, that’s what I needed … For my long and prosperous career as a Time Investigator.
Who was I kidding? I was screwed.
If Brigham didn’t get me, Susan’s duplicity would.
Stop that! I promised Troy I’d find the answer. I heaved in a big breath. So I would.
I took the last bite and a dribble of sauce ran down my chin. I licked it off. I didn’t have anything to wipe with so I licked my fingers clean as well. I’d save the other burger for later.
I slid down in the seat and switched on my flashlight.
The shopkeeper hadn’t known what I wanted when I asked for a torch — another instance of Australian English, I guess. I needed to check a few things, then I’d switch it off — I didn’t want the neighbours calling the police. I had a fake driver’s licence and other papers, but considering everything Susan, and by implication Bloom, had produced was now suspect, I didn’t want to put them to the test.
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