Crime Takes No Holiday

by Thomas Lewis

  But, I still have my eyes, and even without them this girl appears to also be something special. I can still appreciate that, even though my ‘gold standard’ girl isn’t in the room with me right now. Can’t I? OK, I’m a professional, and to act professional I can’t allow these things to distract me.

  More throat clearing as I ran through the photos again.

  “Elle’s important to you. I can tell. May I hold on to these photos for a while, Kate? They could be quite helpful; our firm already has well over five years of success with this sort of investigation.”

  I was kind of knee-jerking into the sales pitch, maybe a bit inappropriately, but I also wanted to console her and give her some confidence in me.

  Five whole years. Really?

  In truth, I had less than three years and Parker barely had the other two. But after an honorable, or medical, discharge, and a purple heart from the Operation Torch battle in Morocco, after graduating tops in the Academy I was a cop for the previous three years. Well, until getting unceremoniously kicked off the force on a frame-up. Not quite as honorable.

  I’d been the fastest-rising star in the Hollywood Division, made detective in well under two years, which still may be a record. But a year as a night watchman and a couple of years trying to get this private eye firm off the ground had humbled any hubris I might have exhibited as one of LA’s finest.

  My professionalism was seemingly not all that effective, as by now Kate was beginning to break down. I came back around the desk and gingerly put an arm around her shoulder and tried to convince her that no stone would go unturned.

  This was usually when I hit the client with the $45 a day plus expenses shpiel and whip out the boilerplate contract, but Parker, currently AWOL, usually greased those wheels and, well, Kate was beginning to get to me.

  A classic ‘don’t’ for a hard-boiled private detective if you need the business to thrive, I know, but I’m a sucker for tears and dimples. Sue me. But I also had the disturbing feeling, maybe not consciously, that I was not running this show. She was either who she appeared to be, or she was as good a scene stealer as anyone else in Hollywood

  PART TWO

  And I Want That Back!

  By the time I’d stubbed out my fifth Lucky, I’d sent Kate to file the report and then home. I picked up what was left of a watered-down highball, ‘breakfast’, I guess, but I stopped myself, holding it up to the light and regarding the tiny ice cube remnants floating there innocently. I set it back down. Scotch was not going to ever be the answer.

  Instead, I shifted into detective mode, and set out to see what I could find regarding the missing Elle. This began by tailing Kate, as even though I might be a softie, this didn’t mean I was a complete sucker, and I’ve been led down a garden path before by a teary client or two. If you’re gonna tail somebody, you want that somebody to look like Kate, anyway.

  This took a bit longer than I expected, as being a 1949 UCLA grad student her main means of transportation to John Daniel Investigations was a streetcar. So, I followed her down the H Line, feeling a bit like an idiot, but she went straight to the Hollywood precinct to file, then, twenty minutes later, straight home.

  The girls are indeed right next to UCLA, their duplex about as close as you can get. They walk to class, and I wanted to see this layout for myself, so see if this might spark some understanding of how Elle might have disappeared or been abducted.

  Kate had explained to me that she makes this walk alone at one-thirty a.m on Wednesdays and Thursdays to get lab time at the College of Engineering, a walk that doesn’t sound very safe to me, even if less than half a block of it’s not on campus.

  “I’m friendly with the campus police, and they send a little shuttle over most nights. My team created this, and they’re testing it for us. It’s battery powered, and they think golf courses may want to start using them. So most nights I don’t have to make the walk by myself.”

  Still, I was skeptical. A pretty young thing like her out that late alone? It made me uneasy. Too much could go wrong there.

  I pulled out the trusty Leica and snapped a couple of wide shots of the path to UCLA and the cars on her street, as a basis of comparison for later. Damn! I think the darkroom’s out of developer.

  I didn’t really know what to do; I was sort of making things up as I went along, sadly often my working style. Scotch and water for breakfast has never been a good idea, but I was feeling pretty sober by now. Still, I think I finally might be through with the booze.

  I had no real plan, other than I would soon trot up the block over to UCLA to see if I could get a line on this ‘Randy’ character. I never got that opportunity.

  I was about to record license plates when I noticed out of the corner of my eye a couple of rough types exiting a black Hudson and stealing towards the back side of Kate’s duplex. It’s a modest neighborhood, but a nice one. They do not belong here.

  This made the hair on my arm stand up. Feeling to make sure the .38 was in its holster, I followed. My 20-10 eyesight revealed they were also carrying sidearms, as noted by the unmistakable jacket bulges. As I’d put the Leica away, I also grabbed my trusty seven iron from the trunk, which was possibly going to come in handy. It did.

  Sure enough, they were breaking in. By the time I caught up there was a broken pane next to the lock and glass fragments on the ground. They were already in. As I crept in I heard a slight yelp as Kate saw the intruders, both raising their weapons toward her.

  “You all done, honey.”

  Wingtips off, and sneaking up behind, I made like Sam Snead at the PGA and popped the one in the rear right on the top of his pointed little head, and he dropped like a stone, sidearm clattering to the floor. I’d leaned into it.

  Fore! … must have been a 300-yarder.

  But I didn’t really have time to yell something that stupid, as Tiny hitting the deck caused the other genius to whirl around as I chucked the seven iron at him. Hard. I heard metal-to-metal contact with his weapon and saw a muzzle flash as something zinged past my right earlobe. I quickly saw two more muzzle flashes, this time from my .38.

  Brainiac took both slugs center mass and danced backwards for a couple steps before he went down, scattering kitchen chairs like dominoes. I was now over him, the .38 cocked and pointed between beady eyes, my size-eleven un-Florsheim-ed foot on his throat. He tried to aim his Luger towards me.

  “Don’t!” I suggested, and he thought better of it.

  Or maybe he just lost consciousness. For the last time, as it turned out. I kicked his sidearm away out of reach … some of that Academy training is reflexive. Kate had wisely taken cover.

  “Kate! It’s Jack! Call the police!”

  Hope the girls have a phone. I made sure neither mook was going to make a second stand then rushed to her side in the front room. She was calmly attempting to obey my request, although she was more concerned with my immediate health than anything else. I assured her I was OK, and that she was going to be.

  “What’s the holdup?” my ears still ringing.

  “It’s a party line, Mr. Daniel. This lady won’t …”

  “Let me,” as I took the receiver.

  “Lady, this is the Los Angeles Police Department. I need you both to hang up and get off this line right now,” as I winked at Kate. “We have an emergency, and–” Click. Dialtone.

  I thought I heard her call me a nasty name before hanging up. Wouldn’t be the first time. Or the last. Kate seemed to be amused as I yanked the receiver away from my ear for a second.

  “I’ve got the number.”

  Kate was all over it, took the phone from me and made the call, and police and ambulance were both soon on the way, although a coroner’s wagon might have been more in order.

  I guess I should find my shoes again.

  A real take-charge kind of gal. I like that. This is some girl when under duress, I thought. But after checking on our guests one final time, I wished I’d not had her call. I wish I’d called A
rmando, instead.

  That’s Detective Armando Lauro, my old partner when I was on the force. When I sent Kate to Hollywood Division earlier, I told her to ask for him.

  I‘d steered her away from Westwood, because I trust Armando, and Westwood Division’s populated by morons who I watched wash out of Hollywood. Well, before I washed out. But at least Kate had the presence of mind to call the main number at Hollywood Division from the paperwork they’d given her.

  Not taking a chance, I called Lauro’s desk phone.

  “Mando, it’s Jack. I just had a client call in a break-in gone sideways right off Wilshire, 2235 Crescent Ave, I think.”

  “Hey, Jack. Long time.”

  This was Armando being sarcastic—I bug him about once a month on jobs I get—and him pretending not to notice my urgency. I could tell from his tone he was likely deep in the middle of an important game of wastepaper basketball, Hollywood Division’s favorite time waster.

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “Only my pride. I need a favor on this one.”

  I could hear his eyes rolling.

  “I think Dooley and Pyle just caught that one, bud.”

  Shit. These two zipperheads were the last humans I wanted to ever see. I know they set me up, and they know I know. Three years ago to the day. That’s right, on Thanksgiving. Of course. I had no revenge plan cooking, and I’d put it all behind me, but without resolution, so this could get shitty quickly. My silence said it all.

  “This part of Wilshire’s not even in our district anymore. And we’re kinda short ‘cuz of the holiday, you know.”

  Radio silence from me.

  “Listen, Jack, I’ll do what I can to run interference and whatnot from here, but Janks has a pretty tight leash on me ever since Deke quit, and since Chalmers went down, comprende?”

  Deke was Mando’s new/old partner who’d recently retired. Chalmers was the case that got me booted. This was exactly three years ago. Mando had to have been let out of the penalty box by now. More bullshit.

  “Yeah, mi ‘comprende’, or ‘entiendo’ or whatever it is you guys say. Who’re you partnered with now?”

  “Uhh … Yeah. Sure.”

  “… You can’t talk right now, can you.”

  “That’s 10-4.”

  “It’s Chang, isn’t it. And he’s there. Tell me it isn’t Chang.”

  “No, I’m not going to be able to do that, Jack.”

  “Mother! Fucker!”

  “Yeah. My life’s darned near perfect, Jack. That’s a fact.”

  “MOTHerfucker!”

  I was having difficulty responding in any other way. Mando recognized my stuck-record mode.

  “Sorry, Jack. Gotta go. Captain’s coming.” Click.

  “Motherf … udger!” as I noticed Kate approaching.

  “Are you OK, Mr. Daniel?” somehow still cool as ice after having her life threatened by two thugs in her own home.

  “Call me Jack, please. Just a snag. Nothing to worry about.”

  Sirens closing in. Now whooping down and stopping. How about that for irony; they pick Thanksgiving Day to respond in under three minutes, but then the Westwood guys would have still been looking for where they parked the squad car.

  “Where are your shoes?”

  I shrugged. “Give me a dollar. Quick.”

  “What?”

  “Give me a dollar. Then I officially represent you as your lawyer. And your private investigator. Anything you say is privileged.”

  Since I had the degree but never got an opportunity to pass the bar once WWII got in the way, this was just addled bullshit and completely unnecessary, but she fished a one out of her purse and handed it to me. It still made us both feel better.

  Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

  “LA Police Department!”

  I laid the .38 on the coffee table and instructed Kate to stay well behind me.

  “I’m unarmed!”

  I opened the front door partway slowly, raised my hands, and yelled “on the job!” as loudly as I could, as two uniforms skulked in, pistols raised, pointed at me.

  Next, in saunters Dooley, followed by his pet monkey, Pyle.

  “Andy, Barney,” nodding curtly at each of them.

  Dooley first had a look of recognition, then immediate disgust. Looking around,

  “Jack, you haven’t been ‘on the job’ since Hitler took the cyanide. Put ‘em down,” he waved to the unis.

  I couldn’t help myself.

  “Speaking of your hero there, your new little mustache is coming in nice and thick, Andy.”

  He glared at me. I’m used to it.

  “Death and destruction seems to follow you wherever,” chimed in Pyle, ever the puppet.

  I shook the vision of me strangling him with the puppet strings from my mind.

  “This is Katherine Wellesley, our victim, ‘Defectives’. She is unhurt.”

  I looked to her to verify, then lowered my arms as Kate nodded. Dooley’s neck might have snapped as he stood frozen, leering at her. Finally, looking around,

  “So who are Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber, here?”

  “Beats me. I was keeping a protective detail on miss Wellesley when I noticed these two skells crashing her party. I followed them in, and they got … unlucky. They fired on me. Self-defense, ‘Defective’.”

  “Well, one of them might have,” Dooley said, now from the kitchen, flipping the first thug’s cheap sport coat open with his shoe. “This guy still has his piece holstered.”

  Great. But only if he was carrying a second weapon; the pistol clattering to the floor is what alerted Braniac to my presence and nearly got my ear shot off.

  “And that’s ‘De-tec-tive’, to you.”

  Dooley still wasn’t totally buying it.

  “Jesus, Jack. This one got run over by a tank,” after he stepped over Mr. Seven Iron towards the second lucky contestant, accompanied by gratuitous unsolicited tongue clicking from Pyle, who was watching me intently through all of this.

  As much as he decided to go to war with me back in the day, I think Pyle always secretly wished he was me. Bent over straddling thug number two, standing hands on knees, Dooley looked up at me.

  “This other one has weep holes in him. Where’s your weapon?”

  I nodded to the coffee table. Dooley shook his head and headed there.

  “Hope you got a current license. Where’s his weapon, anyway?”

  “Think I kicked it under the stove. There’s a seven iron back there, also.”

  “A what?”

  “A seven iron. I threw that at … this other guy.”

  I gestured towards the kitchen as Pyle headed this direction to ‘reinvestigate’ what Dooley had already investigated. Raising my voice to Pyle,

  “And I want that back!”

  I was clearing my throat nervously once again. Pyle turned and stared at me as if I were some sort of monster, jittery hand still on his Police Special.

  “Take it easy, Barney, he’s harmless,” looking directly at me. I took that as a shot.

  “All right. Let’s all go downtown and sort this out. Meat wagon just pulled up,” as he penciled notes into his little notepad. Procedure.

  “Let me at least get my shoes back on. ”

  This drew a more-puzzled look from Pyle, who has this look way too often.

  “By the way, Andy. How’s that promotion coming along? You still suckin’ off your butt buddy Janks?”

  That tore it. Dooley two-hand shoved me. I stumbled backwards and fell into a cushy chair.

  “I ask the fucking questions, shitstick.”

  I just started to chuckle. He stood over me for a moment, then walked away. I got up and dusted myself off, winked at Kate.