by David Pierce
"I see!" I said. "Of course! But my tickets, miss, or I mean our tickets, where would they actually be?"
"They would actually be right here," the lady said. "We do not send out tickets to everyone who books them in advance, we keep them right here until the people who have booked them in advance come by to pick them up."
"Well, that makes sense," I said, "as they have to come by anyway if they want to see the show."
"Exactly," the lady sighed.
"But who pays?" I said. "Has the company already paid and do we have to pay them? I wonder if they deduct it from my wife's salary?"
"You pay," the lady said firmly. "To the box office. Thirty-two dollars per stall seat, including your company discount. At which time I or my associate will hand you over your tickets. You then present them to the ticket taker. He tears them in half. You take your half and show it to an usher. He or she will usher you to your seat. Shortly thereafter, the houselights will dim, the curtain will rise, and the play will begin. Good-bye. Thank you for your call." She hung up before I had a chance to remark that shortly thereafter that, if the play had anything remotely to do with guys in sheets who loved their mothers too much, you would find this theatergoer in the nearest bar.
Next thing I did was to plot on my map the shortest route that would take in Fred's Deli, the central branch of the DMV, where all their records are kept, and the corner of 8th Street and Berendo. When I had it committed to memory, I alerted King, and off we went. Fred's was full; I had to wait ten minutes for even a counter seat. At the DMV, I had to wait in line twenty minutes before it was my turn. I handed over eight dollars through the grill, plus a scrap of paper on which was written the names and address of the Joneses, also the name and address of the recording studio. A moment later I got passed back the information that the Joneses owned a Mercedes coupe, which I already knew about, as I'd admired it at Rick's, and a late-model compact, which I also knew about, as I'd read about it in Sergeant Brav's report. The studio owned a two-year-old Ford half-ton, not surprisingly. And that was it.
Then came the nasty drive down Vermont to 8th. I found a place to park in a side street—on Hampshire, I think it was—told King to mind the vehicle, and strolled back to the corner of 8th and Berendo, which looked exactly like a million other corners except for the dead pigeon that lay in the gutter by the storm drain, awaiting the rains. Quietly normal, is how you could describe that corner; it'd be even quieter at night when the few small businesses there were would be closed. And, like many a million other corners in LA, it was a four-way stop intersection. Why would Mrs. Jones have stopped and started her way up to Berendo, when she could have zipped up Vermont, just two blocks away? Or, indeed, turned off Vermont right there? I looked up and down 8th for a possible reason, and lo and behold, spotted one, not fifty yards away. Well, it would certainly have been a reason for me to turn off after suffering through several dry hours of the Drama—a bar. A bar called the Treble Clef, no less, which, dogged investigator that Iam, I decided I had no option but to investigate.
Immediately on entering, I instantly deduced that the joint was a musician's hangout, as every inch of wall was covered with either posters for gigs or photos of giggers gigging. Another giveaway to the astute was the hundred or so instruments of every shape, age, and nationality hanging from the ceiling. The T-shirt worn by the shapely bargirl, which commemorated some Stones tour, only confirmed my darkest suspicions. Could Mary have known about such a place? Highly likely, given her connection with Tex—wedded to—and his involvement in the music biz—also wedded to. Were our protagonists on their way to, or even coming from, the Treble Clef on the night in question? Short of directly asking Mary, which I did not want to do at all, it would be next to impossible to find out after all those months, but at least I now knew there was a plausible reason for Mary's compact to be where it was when it was. Which left me you know where, one more time. I walked back to the car, let King out briefly, then faced the miserable drive back home through the thickening and bad-tempered afternoon traffic with surprising cool, all things considered. And so much for Wednesday.
And so much for Thursday, too.
And so much for Friday, more or less, until a quarter to five, which is when I began preparing for the gathering of the clans. Evonne had promised to bring along two fold-up chairs from her garden, and I had two already in the office, which left me eight more to scrounge. As previously arranged, I collected six from the Nus next door and two from Mrs. Morales, next door but two. Then I pushed my desk back till I could just squeeze in behind it, and lined the chairs up neatly in two rows in front of it. A quick dusting, then a quick carpet-sweep, which would have been smarter to do before I set out the chairs, I belatedly realized, but what the hell, no man is perfect, not even Mrs. Daniel's little boy. Then I arranged my papers and memo pad and pencils and what-have-you neatly on the desk, then I waited. Gee—my first-ever press conference—be still, you butterflies.
Injun Joe was the first to show. He waved at me through the window, and I beckoned him in. In he sidled.
"How're ya doin', chief?" he said, nodding my way. "Ain't too early, am I?"
"Right on time, Joseph my boy," I assured him. "And are we squeaky clean, as we promised?"
"Yeah, yeah," he said.
"Our hair, too?"
"Yeah, yeah, Lil saw to that. Can I put my new stuff on now, chief?"
"You assuredly can," I said. "Right back there. I left a shopping bag for you to stow the garments you are presently wearing in, which you will then please hide away out of sight under the sink."
"Got 'cha," he said, shuffling out back to the kitchenette. Then he turned and said, "Oh. I thoughta somethin'."
"What, Joe?"
"What's my name?"
"What do you mean, what's your name? Your name's Joe, isn't it?"
"Yeah, but, like, my Indian name."
"I've got an Indian name for you," I said, "if you really want one. How about Joseph Big Pain in the Wigwam?" He grinned at me.
"How about Joseph Half-Moon?" he said. "Lil liked that."
"OK, OK," I said. "Joseph Half-Moon. Anything else?"
"Well, there was one thing," he said. "Lil thought I should mention it just in case."
"Out with it, Joseph, out with it."
"Well, see, chief, it's like I ain't really an Indian."
"Now you tell me," I said. "What the fuck are you, if you're not an Indian, a pygmy bushman? How come your name's Injun Joe if you're not an Indian?"
"It ain't," he said. "And I'm a Scandahoovian is what. Injun Joe is sorta like a nickname."
"Oh, really?"
"Lil's brother Donald, we was in the navy together, he was buckin' for Chief, so I started callin' him Chief, so he said if you go on callin' me Chief before I'm Chief, I'm gonna fuckin' call you Injun Joe. So he did."
"Fascinating, truly fascinating," I said. "And what happened to Donald?"
"Got kilt," Joe said. "We was loadin' ammo on the aft gun deck, somethin' happened, whammo, I woke up in sick bay two days later and he an' Frenchie and Red and the First woke up dead."
"Ah, shit," I said. "I'm sorry, Joe. Now go on, get into your expensive new duds, will you, it'll be all right, just don't say anything to anybody. My lawyer pal Mel will do all the talking for you. Just nod your head in a dignified manner if he asks you a question. OK?"
"If you say so, chief," he said. "How will he know my new name, though?"
"I will tell him," I said. "Now get back there before I scalp you, here comes more company." Joseph Half-Moon took himself out back. I stood to greet the new arrivals—Benny the Boy, Mel the Swell, and my landlord Elroy, who all had met previously, so I didn't have to introduce them. Benny was wearing a neat three-piece suit and his habitual and highly misleading air of slightly perplexed innocence. Mel was his usual elegant self in a white and highly expensive-looking sports coat with dark green slacks and highly polished, tasseled loafers. Elroy, richer by far than either of them, wa
s attired in his customary garb—ponytail, cheap flip-flops, cheaper T-shirt (with "Habit: Noun: A shackle for the free" on it), and the kind of flimsy, baggy black pants Cambodian coolies wear planting rice. Plus his un-see-through-able shades, of course, and his Mickey Mouse watch, and his dope bag dangling from the string that held up his trousers. I was wearing a stunning green, pink, and orange Hawaiian shirt and new tan cords.
Greetings were exchanged all around. Puzzled glances were directed toward the kitchenette area, where what appeared to be a naked man was hopping around and cursing.
"All will be explained," I assured them. "As soon as the others get here."
"What others, my man?" Elroy wanted to know.
"Sara and Evonne," I said, "And a cop, a padre, and a historian. Then I will elucidate, and then we will all play our parts to perfection, and then a reasonable compromise will be worked out, and then that fence next door will come tumbling down and there will be joyous dancing and merry frolicking in the streets."
"My small part," said Benny. "You've neglected to tell me exactly what it is."
"You are the Reverend Michael Lendon," I said. "Representing the Council of the United Presbyterian Churches of these United States. Your fellow cleric, Father Romero, will be here shortly with your dicky. You will then retire to the changing room, put it on, and commence to think and declaim piously, which will be an enlightening experience for us all."
"Him included," murmured Elroy.
"Ah, the ladies!" I said then. "And don't they look a treat!" All heads turned to watch Sara and Evonne as they walked the few yards from where Evonne had parked to my office. A minute later, in they came. All rose.
"Gentlemen," I said, "I believe you all know Miss Sara Silvetti, President of the Wade Dean Christian Students' Movement? Thank you for coming, Miss Silvetti, and may I say that you look particularly fetching this afternoon?" As indeed she did, if you like the Sandra Dee off-to-church look—and who in his right mind does not—demure twinset (a cardigan worn over another sweater of the same material and color), pleated skirt, red suede penny loafers, and two little ponytails held by rubber bands sticking out above each shoulder.
"Up yours," the sweet thing rejoindered. "What're you dressed up for this time, a luau? Where's your ukelele?"
"You also, of course," I went on, ignoring the twerp, always a pleasure, "all know Miss Evonne Louise Shirley, who is here as a representative of the Los Angeles Board of Education."
"Hi, sweetie," she said, giving me a loud smack on one cheek. "Sorry about the other morning." I gave her a loud smack right back. She didn't bother to wipe off her lipstick traces because she wasn't wearing any. She was wearing a mannish suit, flats, and horn-rimmed glasses she'd borrowed somewhere and could hardly see through, and her usually flowing tresses were tied back in a severe bun. Still, she looked mighty delicious to me. She looked like Hollywood's other idea of a librarian, which is when it disguises Virginia Mayo, say, in specs and a bun, and, boy, what a surprise when she takes them off and pulls out a couple of hairpins and she turns out to be gorgeous—who would have guessed, except everyone but Sonny Tufts.
A minute later, Marv showed up, looking highly impressive in his state trooper's uniform; hell, hunk that he was he'd look highly impressive in a fig leaf. Marv had to be introduced all around. Then Joe appeared from the kitchenette, looking a little nervous but mighty like an Indian, too, I must say.
"Oh, Jesus," Sara muttered. "What next, General Custer?"
"Joseph Half-Moon," I said, introducing him to the assemblage. "A key figure in our resistance movement."
"How," said Elroy.
"You will find out," I said.
"No, not that how," he said. "How as in hello, man, how're you doing?"
Joe looked at me worriedly. "It's OK to talk now, Joe," I told him. "Just shut up when the meeting starts."
"Oh," he said. "In that case, I'm doin' OK, chief, how's by you?" He turned back to me. "Looked out back," he said. "Dog's OK." I thanked him; I had King tied outside in the alley to get him out of the way.
Then I said, "We're still two short, folks, so feel free, mingle, chat, sit anywhere you want except those three in the front row, there we will want Joe, Mel, and Taffy." A minute later everyone was chatting away merrily, Mel with Benny the Boy, Elroy with Joe, and me with my gal. Marv and the noodlehead got immediately engrossed in a serious discussion of haiku, whatever that is—some kind of Korean martial art, I think. I looked around at the festive atmosphere thinking maybe I should have provided cocktail snacks and a punch bowl after all.
Some twenty minutes later Dr. Chandler made his appearance, with briefcase and fervent apologies for being late, and a minute after that Father Romero entered, a bag of apples in one hand and a second bag that turned out to contain Benny's dicky in the other, and of course they had to be introduced all around. So it wasn't until five-thirty that I managed to get everyone seated, correctly costumed and properly attentive, in the two rows of chairs in front of me. Well, all but Sara properly attentive, she was grimacing as in deep pain and scribbling away in a kid's loose-leaf notebook and pursing her thin lips and sighing heavily from time to time; it gave one a deep angst just looking at her. It was a toss-up whether she was deep in the throes of adolescent creation or working out how much to stiff me for her part in the proceedings.
"Folks," I said, "King and I thank you for coming. We appreciate your help more than I can say." Here Joseph Half-Moon nodded solemnly.
"Anytime for my main man," Elroy said.
"Mine too," Evonne said, batting her eyelashes.
"What, after all, are friends for?" Mel declaimed rhetorically.
"As you know," I continued, "we are gathered here today for what I hope will be a truly moving and deeply satisfying experience of togetherness, of brotherhood and sisterhood, of simple, ordinary, God-fearing folk united in common cause, a cause that transcends our normal, day-to-day petty preoccupations, infantile prejudices, and unworthy rivalries. And that cause, brethern and cistern? To imbed the shaft, deeply and firmly, once and for all, into the greedy and greasy schemes of one Saul Gall, pornographer to the masses."
"A-men, brother!" intoned Marvelous Marv.
"Rock on, Pops," the twerp said without looking up.
Pops rocked on.
Chapter Fourteen
'Cause the federales flagged me down, then they tore up my old DeSoto,
And two hours mas tarde found it taped beneath the runnin' board.
IT WAS TWENTY minutes later. I polished my spectacles vigorously, checked them, polished one lens again, put them on, peered around, then cleared my throat nervously.
"To commence," I said, "as we are all, with but one or two exceptions, virtual strangers to each other, perhaps we could, one at a time, identify ourselves and our interest in this affair. My name is Victor Daniel, and I am but a concerned citizen. My dog, King, awaits without. You are Miss . . . Shirley, was it?"
"It was indeed, Mr. Daniel." Evonne rustled her notebook impatiently. "I am here on behalf of the Los Angeles Department of Education, to whom a full report will be sent as soon as I have typed it up."
"Thank you. And the young lady next to you?"
Sara jumped to her feet. "I am here in my official capacity as the newly elected President of the Wade Dean High School Christian Students' Movement, which now boasts over two hundred members," she began, improvising freely, I couldn't help noticing. "Each and every one of us are willing to fight for true Christian values and decency. We are pepared to picket. We are prepared to march! We are prepared . . ."
"Thank you, thank you, Miss, er . . ." I said. "Please save your full statement for later." The twerp sat down reluctantly. From his seat beside her, Marv said laconically,
"State Trooper Marvin Morrison, representing the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department and also all concerned parents." Which was news to me; probably to him, too. Then Father Romero said mildly who he was and where his church was, adding that it was pe
rhaps obvious what his and the Roman Catholic Church's interests were in the proceedings. He was followed by a skinny guy in a baggy, checked sports coat sitting behind him, who waved his notebook in the air and said loudly, "Harrison, Citizen."
"The Reverend Michael Lendon," said a prissy voice next to him in a slightly strangulated fashion, as the starched white dicky turned out to be a size too small. "Representing the United Council of Churches and also founding member of the Keep Studio City Clean Committee."
"Never heard of it," said Harrison, Citizen.
"Be assured you soon will, sir," Benny the Boy said politely. Then Dr. Chandler, adopting what I thought was a totally unnecessary absentminded professor guise, stated who he was and what his present position was, and oh yes he did have several degrees and oh yes he was come to think of it a charter member of the California Historical Society and there was something else . . . now what could it have been . . . oh yes, an occasional consultant to the FDIA. What was that? Oh, the Federal Department of Indian Affairs. At which point he stood up, smiled benignly at me, scratched his head, and then sat down again. Beware of working with amateurs, I thought once again. Then Mel arose.
"Melvin Jameson," he said urbanely. "Attorney-at-law. Of the law firm of Melvin Jameson and Associates." Associates—another new one on me—as far as I knew his only associates were a part-time secretary named Betty-Jean and a cleaning lady who came in once a month. "Representing the gentleman beside me, Joseph Half-Moon, descendant of the once far-flung Yokut tribe." He gave Joe a little nudge; Joe nodded his head slowly once, then looked pleased with himself. I looked inquiringly in the direction of the remaining couple.
"My name is Saul William Gall," the man said, speaking with insulting clarity of diction and with a pause between each word, as if he was Dr. Livingston talking to Watutsi nomads. Saul William Gall was a short, compact man in his late thirties or early forties, with a deep tan, completely shaven head, and bright blue eyes that blinked more than eyes usually do. He was wearing no watch, no shirt, no socks, a fabulous sweater, cream in color, made of llama or camel or something, tight suede pants, and battered old loafers. Around one wrist he had a huge Navaho bracelet made from a chunk of turquoise the size of a generous scoop of cottage cheese, and a couple of pounds of Mexican silver. "I represent myself and my partner. It is our intention to construct and then operate an adult movie house, in full compliance with the law, on a tract of land we have full title to. Next to me is my associate, Ms. Garrison."