The Secrets of Harry Bright (1985)

by Wambaugh, Joseph

  "Ladies, gentlemen and others!" Ruth announced on the bullhorn. "The Eleven Ninety-nine Club is proud to present the one and only--Elfis himselfis!"

  When the first beats of Elvis Presley singing "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog" crashed out of the jukebox, Anemic Annie threw open the front door and Oleg Gridley waddled in.

  He was wearing a white satin shirt with collars bigger than his head, a remnant from his disco days. He was wearing the tightest pants he could find from when he still weighed seventy-five pounds and hadn't ballooned up to eighty-three. He had on a drum majorette's sequined boots that Annie had borrowed from the daughter of a hairdresser at Edna's Salon, and on his head was a black pompadour wig with sideburns drawn in black mascara over half his face.

  He carried what looked like a midget-sized eight-string guitar but was actually a ukulele borrowed from Ruben, the bartender at the Mirage Saloon.

  " 'You ain't nothin' but a hound dog,' " Elvis sang while Elfis himselfis lip-synched the words, driving the crowd mad with delight.

  Oleg Gridley had all the moves. He did a bump. He did a grind. He'd turned his back to the raucous crowd and shook his booty. He was, to Portia Cassidy, adorable.

  "This, ladies and gentlemen," Ruth bellowed over the horn, "is show business!"

  Bitch Cassidy jumped off the bar stool and wildly applauded her relentless suitor.

  Toward the end of his number, Oleg Gridley parted the crowd and waddled right up to Bitch Cassidy showing her the best miniature Elvis impression the Coachella Valley was ever likely to see.

  He lip-synched, " 'You ain't never caught a rabbit and you ain't no friend of milliner

  And Portia Cassidy nearly swooned right on top of the midget. Ruth the Sleuth was so proud.

  The detectives had to sit through one more lip-synched Elvis classic. Oleg stood on a bar stool and "sang "Love Me Tender" to Bitch Cassidy who was drunk enough to get all teary-eyed, resigning herself to a midget in her bed.

  Only Beavertail Bigelow, drunk and surly as usual, didn't get a bang out of Oleg's performance. In fact, he looked downright mad. He staggered out of his chair while the crowd was screaming "Encore!" and demanding a curtain call. He strode right up to the midget and accused him of larceny: "That's Clyde Suggs' uke! Where'd you get that uke, you little thug?"

  "Get away from me less you want it in your hat!" Oleg warned. "They don't serve Beefeater highballs in the intensive-care unit!"

  "He stole this uke from Clyde Suggs," Beavertail announced to the crowd, who lost interest since Beavertail was obviously in his fight-picking mode, and in these parts that was as predictable as big wind.

  "I found this like (it in Solitaire Canyon," Beavertail Bigelow accused. 1 suld this uke to Clyde Suggs."

  Of course, by now nobody in the saloon was even listening to all this bullshit. Everyone had returned to drinking, dancing, griping, lechering. Except for Officer O. A. Jones, who gave up trying to seduce a Palm Desert bankteller and approached the surly desert rat.

  "Where in Solitaire Canyon did you find it, Beavertail?" O. A. Jones asked.

  "By the road that goes up the hill. Past the fork."

  "Can I see that, Oleg?" O. A. Jones asked the angry midget who said, "Sure. I don't know what this rat's talking about. We borrowed it from Ruben over at the Mirage Saloon. Ruth and Annie were with me."

  "Then he stole it from Clyde Suggs," Beavertail said, looking for justice somewhere in this miserable fucking world.

  "Why don't you go back to your table, Beavertail," O. A. Jones said. "I'll take over this big larceny investigation."

  "Probably let that rich pygmy bribe you outta doing your duty," Beavertail complained, but did as he was told.

  "Be right back," O. A. Jones said to Oleg Gridley, who was now snuggled up to Portia Cassidy, basking in all the attention, wondering how he could drink the freebies that were being bought by his admiring public.

  "See, you don't have to be an. evil disgusting pervert when you put your mind to it," Portia Cassidy cooed to the now popular midget. "You can be awful sweet and nice.

  "Portia," Oleg said somberly. "I do have a confession to make. I got a real ugly dingus. One night last year Maxine Farble slammed the window on it when I was sneaking outta her bedroom cause her old man came home early. And the biggest woody I ever get might look to you like a belly button."

  "Size and beauty ain't important," said Bitch Cassidy, nuzzling up to the brand-new celebrity, Elfis himselfis. don't care if you gotta jerk off with tweezers."

  Sidney Blackpool was about to tell Otto Stringer that they could get started for the canyon when he looked up and saw the surfer cop holding a ukulele.

  "This might be the banjo," O. A. Jones said.

  It took ten minutes to trace enough of the Mineral Springs ukulele odyssey to get an idea that this could indeed be the stringed instrument heard by O. A. Jones one day last year when he discovered the burned corpse of Jack Watson.

  "It sounded like a banjo," the young cop explained.

  "It's a strange-looking uke," Sidney Blackpool said. "Wish I knew something about ukes. Eight strings. What would a regular uke have?"

  "Four, I think," Otto said.

  "Maybe it's got nothing to do with the case," O. A. Jones said. "Maybe somebody just lost a uke sometime, back there in the canyon."

  "It's at least worth checking out," Sidney Blackpool said.

  It was a finely made old instrument. There was a maker's tag on the head of the ukulele that read C. F. MARTIN & CO., NAZARETH, PA. Sidney Blackpool recorded that information in his notebook.

  "Tell you what," he said to O. A. Jones. "Let's keep an evidence chain intact in case this amounts to something. You hold on to this uke personally. Tell the bartender at the Mirage Saloon you're going to borrow it for a couple days."

  "I better call Palm Springs detectives tomorrow," O. A. Jones said.

  "Don't do that . . . yet," Sidney Blackpool said, and this caused Otto to do a take. "The detective that worked on the case's outta town. Don't tell anyone about this. I'll make a few calls and if it seems promising I'll notify Palm Springs. We can book it down there as evidence if and when the time comes. Okay?"

  "Okay." O. A. Jones shrugged, strumming the uke a few times. "Maybe I oughtta try this out on that sexy little bank teller who keeps shining me on. It worked for Oleg."

  "I'll contact you in a couple days about the uke," Sidney Blackpool said. "Remember, don't talk about it to anyone.

  "By the way," the surfer cop said, "I heard an old-time singer on the Palm Springs station that sounds like the voice I heard that day. Guy named Rudy Vallee."

  Suddenly, Maynard Rivas who had been almost into a crying jag because so many scum buckets were suing cops these days came very close to his first Indian war whoop. "There's a cricket in my chili!" he screamed at J. Edgar Gomez.

  "That's a dirty lie!" the saloonkeeper yelled back, up to his elbows in slimy water at the bar sink. "There ain't no crickets in my freaking chili!"

  "It's got a big ugly mouth, a wimpy body, and hops around like a speed freak!" cried the outraged Indian. "It's either a cricket or Mick Jagger!"

  "Lies! Lies!" J. Edgar Gomez hollered.

  "My whole life's nothin but crickets in my chili! Well, I had enough! I'm Kirin me a ruthless Jew tomorra morning. I'm gonna own this fuckin joint!" the Indian promised.

  They were halfway out the highway toward Solitaire Canyon before Otto spoke. "I don't like this, Sidney."

  "I'm not fond a driving out here myself, but . . ." "I don't like the way we're going about this." "Whaddaya mean?"

  "This is a Palm Springs homicide all the way. If that uke has anything to do with it, they should be told. I don't like withholding evidence. It makes me real nervous."

  We re not withholding evidence. This might not even be evidence."

  "That's not for us to determine. It's for them to determine. It's their case."

  "Damn it, Otto, their detective isn't even in town now. We can che
ck it out. No harm done."

  "We could also keep them informed a what we're doing, yet we haven't set foot in their police station."

  We will if and when the time comes, Otto."

  "This is what the feds used to do to us all the time," Otto said. "They'd keep us in the dark and try to steal the glory."

  "I'm not doing it for glory, Otto."

  "I know, Sidney," Otto said, looking out the window at the desert landscape sailing by in the headlight wash. "You're doing it for money."

  "For the job. I want that job."

  "I'll play along," Otto said, "but if this case starts developing any further, I wanna go down to Palm Springs P. D. and tell them everything we've learned. I don't have my pension in the bag yet. I wanna protect my job."

  "Fair enough, Otto," Sidney Blackpool said. "I wouldn't do it any other way."

  The asphalt road seemed darker, if that was possible. The moon looked smaller but there were more stars glittering. The moaning wind sometimes shrieked. They drove farther down the asphalt road and saw a large shape on a dirt road to the right. A van was parked in the darkness with its lights out. The van flashed its lights on and off when the detectives got close.

  "Must be our ride," Sidney Blackpool said.

  "This is about as safe as the Khyber Pass," Otto said. "Or a Mexican wedding."

  Sidney Blackpool turned onto the dirt road just past the fork, parked, and locked the Toyota. Otto took the flashlight from the glove box and they waited for the four-wheel-drive van to pull out from the trail where it waited. The van moved forward slowly with the high beam blinding the detectives. Satisfied, the driver dimmed the lights, pulled up to the two men, leaned across and unlocked the door.

  "One a you jump in the back," she said.

  The driver was a young woman in her late twenties. Her hair could make a home for three chipmunks and a kangaroo rat. She wore a dirty tank top and a biker's jacket with the Cobra colors across the back. She looked like a girl who could be working at any lunch counter in the Coachella Valley, and may have been, before being "adopted" by outlaw bikers. She was a pretty girl in a life where they grow old before they grow up, if they ever do.

  "My name's Gina," she said. "I'll take you guys to Billy's. -

  Gina didn't talk during the five-minute ride up the hill. Not until the asphalt was gone and they were on a gravel road that forked left. They passed six houses on the way, every one with a noisy watchdog. The gravel road veered close to the edge of the canyon. There was a small stucco house perched too near the brink, especially for flash-flood country.

  "That's where Billy lives," she said.

  "You live with Billy?" Otto asked.

  "I live over yonder, the other side a the canyon," she said. "Me'n my old man."

  "He a Cobra?"

  "Everybody's a Cobra. Everybody in my life," she said.

  "Who does Billy live with?" Sidney Blackpool asked.

  "Whoever's around," Gina said, carefully watching the gravel road, which was partially washed away where it looped into a turnabout in front of Billy Hightower's hillside lair.

  Billy Hightower opened the door when the van parked in front, nearly obliterating the backlight with his bulk. He'd removed his Cobra jacket and it was plain that his massive body was going to fat. But he still cut a very impressive figure.

  Sidney Blackpool led, and Otto followed behind Gina.

  Billy Hightower showed his fractured teeth when the detectives entered the little house.

  "This ain't Hollywood neither," he grinned, "but it's all mine and paid for. Wanna drink? I got vodka and beer."

  "I'll take a beer," Sidney Blackpool said.

  "Me too," said Otto.

  The detectives sat on a velveteen sofa that no doubt had had a color at one time. There were grease smudges everywhere. Outlaw bikers had left their tracks where they walked, sat, lay. The carpet was uniformly stained by engine grease.

  Another thing stained by engine grease was the dirty yellow tank top worn by the girl. The cotton was stretched tight by her big arrogant breasts. She helped Billy get the beer and examined the two detectives in a curious friendly way.

  Then she said, "Billy, I'm a mess. Mind if I take a shower? Ours ain't been workin for a week now and Shamu won't fix it."

  "Help yourself, babe," Billy Hightower said, and seemed amused when Gina stripped off the tank top in front of the men.

  "Way you can tell a biker momma is her tits're dirty," Gina said to the detectives. "From hangin against a guy's back all day. Just look at my shirt!"

  Of course she knew that the detectives weren't looking at her shirt, which she pretended to be inspecting. They were looking at her breasts, especially the right one, which was decorated by a tattoo of a bearded biker on a Harley. Her right nipple was the bike's headlight.

  "You might get a fifty-grand endorsement from Harley Davidson if they got to see that," Otto said.

  The girl smiled saucily and winked.

  "Speaking a fifty grand . . ." Billy Hightower began, then turned to the girl. "Go take a shower, momma. We gotta talk bidness."

  When they could hear the shower running, Billy Hightower chuckled and said, "she's real proud a that tattoo. Jist gotta show everybody."

  "Her old man gonna mind her in your shower?" Otto asked, sipping the beer.

  "We ain't possessive out here," Billy Hightower said. "We left all that back where we came from. Here we share and share alike."

  "After you left police work . . ." Sidney Blackpool began, but was interrupted by the biker.

  "After they fired me."

  "After they fired you, what made you come out here?" "I jist drifted with the wind."

  "But why a motorcycle club?"

  "Because they wanted me," said Billy Hightower.

  "And you ended up president a your chapter."

  "Ain't that some success story," Billy Hightower said, draining his beer and thumping into the tiny kitchen to get another. When he returned he said, "They ain't so bad, these redneck motherfuckers. Jist like most a the guys I was in Nam with. I showed em how to act with cops when they get in a stop and frisk. I taught em a few things about probable cause, and search and seizure. And also, I beat the fuck outta their baddest dudes till they came to love me. Everybody needs a daddy."

  "What about the rumor a you dealing to Palm Springs kids, Billy?" Sidney Blackpool asked.

  "I wish it was true," said Billy Hightower. "Only thing gets dealt outta these canyons is crystal, and it stays local. I ain't sayin nothin everybody don't already know. Nearly every shack up here's a speed lab. Ain't nobody gonna get rich manufacturin crank but it ain't too bad a life."

  "How much is crystal going for out here?" Otto asked.

  "Bout sixty-five hunnerd for half a pound a meth plus half a pound a cut. Trouble is, all these jackoff Cobras get hooked behind this shit. Better'n junk, they say. You don't zombie out for three hours, they say. You kin change the engine on your bike, you kin paint the kitchen, you kin bone your old lady twice. But they never get that job finished when they're cranked out."

  "You ever shoot speed?" Otto asked.

  "Not like these rednecks around here. All these crankers'll tell you they toot it. Bullshit. They mainline it. I think they oughtta make it legal, though. You wanna reduce taxes? This'd be better'n a state lottery. We buy the makins under the table from legit pharmaceutical houses. When I was a cop I wish I knew what I know now. I coulda retired to Acapulco."

  "Good profit margin?" Otto was still a narc at heart.

  "Damn right. Red phosphorus is legal to buy and hydriodic acid too. An idiot could brew it. Then somebody's always makin it easier for us. The Germans came up with ephedrine, their biggest chemical discovery since Zyklon B. Almost wiped out the Jews with that one. They're gonna git the rednecks with this one. You use ephedrine and one hydrogen atom and you get meth real easy."

  "Where the hell do you buy a hydrogen atom?" Otto wondered.

  "Anyways, I'd rather deal sn
ort," Billy Hightower said. "You get thirty percent more a gram, and a nicer clientele. But it's jist too hard for guys like us to get it at a price. So you heard there's Palm Springs youngsters bein dealt to by Billy Hightower? I ain't never dealt to juveniles. And that brings me to the subject a this meeting, genlemen. That young dude in the picture you showed me.

  "His name's Terry Kinsale," Otto said.

  "I don't know no names a people that buy crystal, but I don't forget faces. I saw that kid twice, once in a bar down in Cathedral City, once up on this hill the night the Watson kid disappeared. And I reported that fact to the police. So it's me that should get a reward if he's the one that iced Jack Watson."

  "How'd you meet him?" Sidney Blackpool asked.

  "I went with one a my guys on a run one night. Delivered an ounce a crystal to some sissies at this gay bar on Highway One eleven. This kid was one a the guys that took delivery."

  "Did he pay you the money?"

  "Naw, his sugar daddy did."

  "Who was the sugar daddy?"

  "Jist some faggot. My man knew him so it was okay. Some local sissy with lots a green and a thing for pretty young boys like this guy Terry. Terry said he'd like to do business with us from time to time. Said he liked to mix speed with other stuff. His funeral, I figgered."

  "Then you saw him on the night a the murder?"

  "There was a little too much bidness goin on at the time to suit me. Too many a those Cat City dudes comin up here to score. I told my people it had to stop, that we'd go down there to do the transactions. But we got this one Cobra, he does real good for hisself down there in the gay bars. Good-lookin dude all covered with leather and flyin his colors, he thrills the shit outta all the sissies and they buy him lots a drinks. That night he wanted an ounce a crank from my stash, but I wouldn't give it up. He said he had a customer waitin down where the asphalt road runs out. I didn't like the sound a the whole thing so I walked down there with a shotgun to check it out. It was this guy Terry and another dude."

  "Not Watson?" Otto asked.

  "Naw, a jarhead from Twennynine Palms. A freckle-nose skinhead marine shakin in his twenny-dollar shoes. I recognized Terry from the other time."