by Arlette Lees
“Come on in, Albie,” she says, tightening the sash of her robe and setting her coffee cup on the table next to the chair.
“Mornin’ Miss Angel.”
“Morning, Albie.”
Albie delivers the Santa Paulina Morning Sun, three cents a copy, a nickel on Sunday. He’s an enterprising little squirt with an engaging personality and ready smile. He’s smaller than most ten year olds, wears saggy overalls and a red cap with the bill turned sideways. He gives Angel the paper. She hands him an extra dime to bring her cigarettes from the machine.
Albie is the closest thing the hotel has to room service. He can hustle up almost anything you need…a magazine…cigarettes…complimentary coffee from the lobby or take-out from the Memory Lights Café. He can steam a suit, press a shirt, shine shoes…anything except run numbers for Toots McGee out of the back room of the Tammany Hall Bar, although the offer is still on the table.
Albie’s father, Jake Sherman, is head of the hotel janitorial and housekeeping staff. On Saturday nights he blows a mean sax at Smokey’s Barbecue Pit by the river. There was once a Mrs. Sherman, but she left town with a fancy-man in a sharkskin suit and an ace of diamonds in his hatband.
Jake and Albie live in the furnace room, which isn’t as bad as it sounds. They have cots in an alcove beneath the ductwork, a bathroom and shower at one end of the basement and a communal laundry with clotheslines stretched across the ceiling. It’s warm in winter, cool in summer and it’s free. Those poor folks in the Hooverville on River Road would give anything to have it so good.
Albie returns with cigarettes and Angel gives him a nickel tip to jingle in his pocket with the rest of his morning take.
“Thank you, Miss Angel.”
“You must be rich as Rockefeller,” she says, leaning down to straighten the collar of his shirt.
“I got fifteen dollars in my coffee can.”
“That’s a lot of money, Albie. Be sure you keep it in a safe place.”
“Mr. Reese in 320 says if I loan him ten dollars, he’ll give me twelve when his ship comes in.”
“Don’t you listen to that man, Albie. Mr. Reese’s ship went to the bottom in ’29. He gets any wise ideas about your money, he’ll have Jack to deal with.”
“Yes, Ma’am. Jake wants me to bring all them flashlights up from the basement in case we lose power. You think it’s really going to get that bad?”
“Better to be safe than sorry. Run along now so I can get dressed.”
* * * *
Around noon Angel goes downstairs wearing a beige raincoat and carrying her blue umbrella. In the lounge, men sit around the radio drinking their morning coffee, ashes growing long on their cigarettes as they lean close to the speaker.
Cantor Nemschoff, with his long white beard, is looking more solemn than usual. “Shhh! Just listen,” he says, when Angel approaches. She takes a seat beside him. The voice on the radio belongs to Nathaniel Forsythe, the anchor of the daily news editorial, Up To Date:
“In July, construction commenced on the Sachsenhousen Concentration Camp at Oranienburg, near Berlin. By September 23rd, it housed 1000 inmates labeled enemies of the state, ordinary citizens incarcerated without due process: Gypsies, Jews, 7th Day Adventists, Catholics, intellectuals, the mentally and physically defective and anyone who questions Nazi authority. Pogroms and mass exterminations are reported in outlying Polish and Russian communities.
“On October 1st, criminal court judges in Berlin took mandatory oaths of allegiance to Hitler. Nazi Minister of Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels has banned film criticism, allowing the Nazi-controlled German film industry to pursue its blatantly anti-Semitic rants.
“We’re out of time for today, but tune in tomorrow for continuing coverage of the growing Nazi threat to the civilized world. Until then, I am Nathaniel Forsythe reporting.”
The room is suddenly a-murmur with voices, some listeners buying into every word, other thinking something so outlandish couldn’t possibly be true.
“Don’t you have a brother in Berlin?” says Angel, turning to the Cantor.
“Years ago I begged him to bring his family to America, but he didn’t vant to valk avay from his successful gallery. He had a Van Gogh, a Kandinsky and a von Werefkin among other fine paintings. Now, da SS is quartered in his home and da gallery seized.”
“Have you heard from them since this happened?”
“No von knows vat’s become of dem. My cousin Moisha, a vell-respected urologist, has lost hospital privileges. My nephew, Schmueli, ousted from University. All Jewish students gone, gone, gone and Schmueli has fled to Paris.”
“I’m so sorry. Isn’t a pogrom some kind of riot?”
“It’s da organized massacre of an ethnic group. It’s vat da Turks did to da Armenians and vat da Germans do to us. It’s dere method of confiscating property vithout compensation and viping us from da face of da earth so ve can’t tell.”
Angel sits quietly for a moment, trying to take it all in. “Come up to my room, Cantor. Let me make you a cup of tea.”
He smooths his long white beard and rises shakily onto his cane.
“No tank you, dear. I tink I’ll lie down avile. Dese old knees predict rain better den da veaderman.” Angel rides with him up the elevator and sees him safely to his room. When she returns to the lobby Hank is behind the desk sorting mail.
“You heard what Forsythe said. Is there going to be another war?” she asks.
“There’s always going to be another war, but this time Jack and I won’t be in it. We beat them s.o.b’s once already. If they’re smart, they won’t make us do it again.”
CHAPTER 2
Officer Jim Tunney is my partner. He was my first friend when I hit town. He’s red-Irish with a touch of the old Viking blood. His blue eyes are as pale as drinking water and he has the kind of fair, freckled skin you don’t parade in the noonday sun.
Soon after we met, he said S.P.P.D. had never had a bona fide, big city detective on the Force, and after checking me out, Chief Garvey was all for it. I considered telling a whopper about my inglorious departure from B.P.D. but decided to play it on the square.
“They forced me out in Boston,” I said. “I couldn’t crawl out of the bottle back then. I’m doing better now.” The Chief joked that as long as I don’t fall off the floor, I haven’t reached my limit. I was in like Flynn.
Jim and I streak to the site, where Ted “Curley” McDaniel is sprawled on the highway near Sparkey’s Roadhouse. Only one road can be considered a highway in these parts. Everything else is a street, a dirt road or a cow path. The highway runs from the Tehachapi Mountains in southern California, through the Central Valley and on to points north. When we arrive on the accident scene, the ambulance attendants are splinting Curley’s leg for transport to Santa Paulina General, a spacious three story house that was turned into a rehab center for wounded soldiers of the Great War.
“The s.o.b plowed right into me,” moans Curley. “Busted me up pretty bad.”
“I can see that,” says Jim.
The road rash on Curley’s face looks like he tried shaving with a road grader. Serpentine tire tracks zigzag across the center line. There’s a tread mark on Curley’s pants leg and one cowboy boot is missing. It’s evident no brakes were applied either before or after the accident. Then again, maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe someone has it in for him. Who knows, maybe someone is out to get any cop who makes himself an easy target.
“What were you doing outside of your car?” I ask.
“Waving my arms to get the attention of that crazy driver,” ‘crazy’ being the operative word here. “A truck from Cooley’s was almost forced into the ditch.”
“Get a description of the vehicle?”
“Green sedan, driver so short only tufts of orangy hair were visible th
rough the steering wheel. Could have been an adult or minor, male or female, a clown or an Irish setter for that matter.”
“After he hit you, which way did he go?”
“Don’t know. I was busy spitting gravel out of my teeth.”
“You think you can finish this conversation at the hospital?” says the attendant, strapping Curley into the stretcher.
Jim turns to me. “How about I follow them in and get a formal statement?” he says.
“Good idea. I’ll bring Curley’s car in.”
I climb behind the wheel of McDaniel’s black and white. There’s a pack of bubble gum, a candy bar and a comic book on the dash. I can’t help smiling. It looks like Curley has a little growing up to do. I spend the next hour scouring the highway and the back roads for the green car, but it was probably in the next county by now.
You don’t have to look twice to see that the Central Valley is not the California of movie stars, swimming pools and gingerbread tans. That doesn’t mean there aren’t a few rich folk driving fancy cars. You just count them on one hand. Outside the feed store and local watering holes are battered pickup trucks, horse trailers and geriatric Model T’s driven by men with creased leather faces and dusty or mucky cowboy boots, depending on the season. We have the same stores and services you’ll find in any small town, a right side of the tracks, a wrong side of the tracks, a crumbling Chinatown and a Hooverville along the riverbank.
In summer the valley is a red hot frying pan, in winter the cold freezes the snot to your face, but it’s still beautiful country that takes your breath away, with its fields of fat cattle, lion-brown hills and rocky outcroppings. In spring the valley blooms like the Garden of Eden and in autumn the season collapses with a sigh into a few short days of idyllic weather before the cold drops its relentless hammer.
Our claim to fame is growing things and we grow them like nobody else. You name it, we grow it: grapes and olives, peaches, cherries, apples, almonds, oranges, apricots and plums. On the coast it’s lettuce, berries, artichokes and Brussels sprouts. If you grow it, someone has to pick it. Before the Dust Bowl migration it was the Mexicans. Now, it’s dog eat dog, Okies, Hispanics and a few Blacks escaping Jim Crow, all elbowing for a place at a table with too few plates.
Since the cold weather hit, things have been slow at the station. In the last week I’ve gone out on a urinating in public, use of profanity in the presence of women and children, a housewife cracking her husband on the head with a turkey platter, a cockfight on Gonzales Road and a big dog in a red sweater humping a poodle on the courthouse steps. It doesn’t take a detective with 15 years in law enforcement to resolve these issues.
I drive by the levy where a group of men are filling sandbags, make one more sweep of the highway as far as the Kingsolver’s apple sheds, then turn around and bounce back over the bridge into town. As I pass the auction barn, two men on ladders are hanging a banner over the door, another man on the ground shouting orders. In big red letters it reads:
DEUTSCHLANDER SOCIAL CLUB
Membership by Invitation Only.
Lectures. Brats. Beer on tap.
I look at my watch. As soon as I hit town I pull into the Tammany Hall Bar. It’s lunch time. I can use a beer myself.
* * * *
Angel steps through the double glass doors onto the sidewalk as the first tentative drops of rain tap the canopy of her umbrella. Across the street, a light burns in the window of the Bookworm, the green and white awning snapping in a rising wind. She walks to the corner and crosses at the intersection of Cork and Avalon. When she exits the store with Margaret Mitchell’s new novel, carefully double bagged, the temperature has fallen and the rain comes down more steadily.
The air smells fresh and clean, wind fluttering her scarf and tugging at her umbrella. When she reaches the corner a big O’Hara delivery truck is parked in the crosswalk, the driver wheeling a few cases of whiskey into the Leprechaun Lounge.
A man steps from the bar, takes a final drag from his cigarette and flicks the butt in the gutter where it dies with a hiss. Something familiar in his bearing causes ice to form in the pit of Angel’s stomach. She faces away from him as he walks in her direction. She squeezes her eyes shut. Please, please, please, God, make me invisible!
“It is you, isn’t it?” he says, with a big friendly smile. “It’s been what, two maybe three years?” His hair is center-parted, white-blond, his eyes ice blue. He’d be a photographer’s dream if a black splotch in the iris of his left eye didn’t stand out like a horse fly on a blueberry tart. She ignores him until she feels his leather-gloved hand on her elbow. She shrugs him away. “Don’t touch me.”
A stranger would look at this man and see wealth, education and elegant manners. Men would emulate him and women give up their virtue before noticing the unspeakable sins that crawl like tropical parasites beneath his skin. He raises an eyebrow, his smile revealing a row of straight white teeth. “Come on Angel, no use pretending you don’t know me.”
“Please, go away. I don’t want to talk to you.”
He looks surprised, perhaps a bit offended. “Why the cold shoulder? You were a lot friendlier when you hooked for Axel Teague.”
“Not by choice,” she says, their eyes locking.
He finds that amusing. “You were his lucky ticket back then, all blonde and delicious like a piece of candy in gold foil.” He licks his lips and she turns away. The delivery man gets back in his truck and pulls out of the crosswalk. As Angel steps from the curb his hand closes like a vice on her upper arm, his face an inch from hers. His cologne triggers memories that return with nauseating clarity.
“Don’t rush off now that we’ve found one another again,” he says. “How about an encore for old time’s sake?”
“That’s never going to happen.”
“I bet you didn’t know that Teague was into me for fifteen big ones back then. I would have put a bullet in his head if he hadn’t handed you over that night. I almost believed him when he said it was your first time, but they all say that don’t they?” He laughs, unpleasantly.
“I was thirteen years old. I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”
“Oh, come on. It couldn’t have been that bad. It was sure good for me.” He smiles to himself, remembering. “If I could take one memory to my grave, that would be it.”
“That day cannot come soon enough to please me.”
He digs his fingers into her arm. “You’ve got one sharp tongue on you, kid. You better be careful how you use it.” She tries to pull free but he only tightens his grip.
“Don’t underestimate me,” she says, but she trembles as she says it. “I’m not that helpless little girl anymore.”
He laughs out loud and releases his grip. The light turns from green to red and there are too many cars to make a safe getaway. “What are you, a hundred pounds? I guess I should be shaking in my shoes. Since we’re on the subject, what ever happened to Teague? I haven’t seen him around lately.”
“You can visit him in Oakwood Cemetery.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I shot him in the throat two years ago. He tried to swallow the bullet, but he didn’t have a chaser. Like you, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
He backs off a step or two. “You can’t be serious.”
“But, I am, Mr. Dietrich. You could go to prison for what you did to me. Maybe it’s not too late to put you there.”
“What did you call me?”
“It doesn’t matter what phony name you used back then. You’re Leland Dietrich. If you wanted to keep your identity secret, you should have kept your face off the society page. If Mrs. Dietrich doesn’t know who she married, maybe it’s time she finds out.”
His hand shoots out and grabs her by the back of the neck, dragging her down the sid
ewalk toward a fancy yellow car with red leather upholstery. She struggles and cries out, but her cries are lost in the wind. She stumbles. Her book drops to the sidewalk and her umbrella somersaults down the sidewalk. With a squeal of tires, a green cab swings to the curb. It’s young Tom Kelly from the cab stand, punching the horn until people in the street take notice. He’s a strong-shouldered, handsome fellow with rusty auburn curls poking from beneath his driver’s cap.
“Help me, Tom!” she cries, as he jumps from the cab.
After a moment’s indecision, Dietrich pushes her roughly to the sidewalk. Tom helps her to her feet and retrieves her book. He pushes her safely inside the cab and slams the door shut.
Dietrich jumps behind the wheel of his car and peels away from the curb as Tom scrambles for something to write on. Before the fancy car turns down the next side street, Tom has the license plate number written inside a matchbook cover. He puts it in his pocket and gets back behind the wheel.
“Are you okay?” he says, checking his side view mirror and pulling into traffic.
She covers a skinned knee with her hand.
“Yes, just a bit shaken up.
“Do you want me to call Jack?”
“No, please don’t. Don’t call anybody.”
“Who was that?” he asks.
“Just some drunk,” she says. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”
* * * *
Frances Dietrich, watches the drama from her parked Mercedes down the block. She’s dressed in jodhpurs and the raincoat she bought in London where she met Leland, a German teaching something-or-other at an English university. Frances is what’s called a handsome woman, meaning forceful and unpretty. She’s cut from the same durable fabric as Joan Crawford and Bette Davis, both of whom she admires.