Life, Death and Dizzy Gillespie
Part Two:
Tuesday, October 9, 1956/10 AM – Wednesday, October 10, 1956/7 PM
Nothing like starting your morning with a little Breaking & Entering. Gunn didn't know what he was searching for, but it never hurt to look. He removed a set of master keys from his coat pocket. He matched a master key with the name on the door lock. As he pushed the key into the lock, the door swung open. Katherine Bedrosian's small apartment looked like a newspaper photo of a future Southern California earthquake.
He inched through the mess. Now and then he righted a chair or checked under a pile of books or clothing. He briefly searched the bathroom and saw some of the same beauty products from Edie's bathroom – Noxema, cotton balls, whatever else women used on themselves to be beautiful.
He drifted to the tiny kitchen. Not much in the little pantry and nothing in the small gas oven. The fridge contained a half-filled quart bottle of milk, containers of mustard, mayo, and Russian salad dressing, and a water-filled ice cube tray. The freezer compartment was jammed with Swanson TV dinners.
Gunn stopped to think. As a reporter, she kept notes, a lot of notes. He looked around again. No little black reporter's notebooks. Maybe she kept them at work or maybe he was too late. Who got here before him? He reached in his suit pocket for his cigarettes. He flicked his lighter – the ice cube tray!
He whipped around to the fridge. Why was the ice cube tray in that part of the fridge? He sprang to the freezer. He began removing the TV dinners and shaking the boxes. The third box was the charm. He tipped it and a black notebook slipped out. The pages were ice-encrusted and written in a similar type of short hand he'd seen in her other notebook. Cause for a trip to see Blaney and to check in with Harold Walker.
oO0Oo
Officer Jerry Delaney scrambled up the stairs to the coroner's inquest room on the third floor of the Hall of Justice. It was usually bare of people on Tuesday afternoon. Leigh was waiting on him.
"I got that info you wanted on Joe Mannix." Delaney pulled out his notebook.
"Joseph Ricardo Mannix, born August15th, 1932 in Summer Grove, California, only child of Stefan and Davita Mannix, grape farmers. Graduated Summer Grove High in 1950."
Delaney figured that's the connection between Mannix and Bedrosian. Leigh had him get background information on her too. Maybe he was her old boyfriend.
"Went to Western Pacific University on a basketball scholarship. Joined the air force in 1951 as a pilot. Sent to Korea later that year. Flew F-86 Sabre jets with the 335th Fighter Interceptor Squadron, Suwon Air Base, Korea. Shot down once and injured while ejecting from his plane. After he recuperated in Japan he was returned to duty and this is the weird part. About a month later he wound up in a Korean POW camp, Camp Five, commonly referred to as Changju. Word is that he volunteered for some kind of secret mission into North Korea and got caught. Led an escape of six prisoners from the camp. Mustered out of the air force, returned to Western Pacific, got his degree in pre-law last year. Rumored to have spent some time in Costa Verde as a pilot for the rebel forces. Last few months he's been driving a cab for the Chess Cab Company and living at the Downtown Y. No warrants or traffic tickets." Delaney looked up from his notes.
"You found all that out in a couple of days?"
Delaney smiled and snapped his notebook closed. "I got friends in low places."
"He sounds like a boy scout."
"Say, is he connected to the Bedrosian case?" Delaney waited for a reaction. He wasn't sure Leigh picked up on the Summer Grove connection.
Leigh cleared his throat. "What makes you say that?"
Delaney watched him start fiddling with his tie. "Just wondering." He waited. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
"I'll tell what you need to know when you need to know it." Leigh adjusted his tie again. "I want you to follow him when you can. Check on him, see what he's up to."
"I can call in sick a couple of days if it's important."
"No, don't do that. Just keep him in your sights. If in the course of your duties, you happen to find yourself in his vicinity, so much the better. Let me know if he contacts anybody 'interesting'."
Delaney knew that was Leigh's way of saying somebody important or somebody criminal.
"Anybody in particular?"
"You know who I mean."
Delaney did. "You got it."
"Thank you for your thoroughness."
"You know who to call." Delaney stepped into the hallway.
"There is one other thing." Leigh pointed to a seat. "What do you know about the Bryce Hunter case?"
oO0Oo
Gunn dropped his smoke to the ground as he entered the Los Angeles Observer Building on West First. He likened the stone facade to a monument, a monument to the Walkers, of which Harold Walker, publisher, was the latest in a line of civic-minded hucksters. If it wasn't for the Walkers, Los Angeles might still be full of adobe ranch houses. As it was it was full of snakes.
The elevator let him off on the top floor. Though it was mid-afternoon and the evening edition had already gone to press, the vast room was noisy with the sound of clacking typewriters. He searched for Blaney in a sea of desks. Blaney saw him first.
"Hey, Pete, got that exclusive for me?" he asked.
Gunn cruised over to his desk and slipped the notebook from his coat. "Give me a read on this. Should have information on Bryce Hunter case. I'll meet you later at Jacoby's office."
"Sure, Pete." Blaney took the notebook and hid it under a pile of papers on his desk.
Gunn threaded his way through the remaining reporters' desk to Harold Walker's glass-enclosed office. His secretary stopped him.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No, but he'll see me." Gunn's eyes locked on Walker through the glass. The pin-striped dark blue business suit, requisite white silk shirt and tastefully matching blue tie covered Walker's well-padded body. Nothing covered the top of his head; gray fringed around his ears and the back of his head.
He was in conference with a couple of his mangers. Nobody Gunn recognized. Walker dismissed them and came to the door.
"That's alright, Miss Fountaine, I'll see the gentleman. Hold my calls." He waved Pete into his office and returned to his seat behind his desk.
"I don't like you just showing up here. I gave you my private number for a reason."
"Just because I accepted your money doesn't mean I accepted all your terms."
"Miss Bedrosian's case, unfortunately, has become a murder investigation. I meant to call you and terminate your services."
Gunn pulled an envelope from his pocket and tossed it onto Walker's desk. "Here's your fee back."
Walker scowled at the envelope. "You can keep it. For your trouble."
"That's petty cash to you. What I want to know is why you hired me in the first place? And what did you know about what Katherine Bedrosian was investigating?"
"My motives are none of your business."
"Does it have to do with the Bryce Hunter sex films?"
Walker blanched. "What do you mean? What reason would I have . . ."
"I think you hired me because you found out that Bedrosian was looking into the Hunter case. Maybe she said something that alerted you she was on to something. She had managed to do something no one else had – find the Hunter sex films. That scared you."
Walker fumbled for a button on his desk. The curtains slithered on their tracks closing Walker's office from public view. He edged toward floor-to-ceiling window and the view of downtown Los Angeles in all its smog-filled glory.
"My wife," he half-whispered.
"What?"
Walker cleared his throat. "My wife is on one of the missing Bryce Hunter reels."
Gunn digested his admission.
"I had an 'indiscretion' a few years back. Dottie, my wife, was livid, so to pay me back she had an affair of her own. With this Hunter fellow. But one of his other clients killed him before he could start blackmailing us. Miss Bedrosian managed to do something no one else had done. She found a source for the films. She didn't know anything about Dottie being a participant. She came to me asking if I'd be willing to pay for the films. I said if they were authentic, maybe a deal could be arranged. That's all she needed to know. I didn't think it would lead to her murder. When she didn't report for work on Monday morning, I panicked."
"So you really didn't want me to find her as much as you wanted me to find the film."
"Yes, how can I convince you to continue looking?"
"Next time, tell me the truth." Pete pocketed the envelope. "I'll be in touch."
oO0Oo
Joe Mannix arrived early evening at the Hollywood Bowl. Kathy's ticket was for a terrace box seat to the center right of the stage. He settled in as the crowd thickened with jazz buffs. The cloudy mess above him was threatening rain. He checked his watch. The concert start was running late. Waiting for the stragglers, he guessed. The couple to his right poured over the program. A man in a Homburg and a business suit to his left was one of the late comers. No one else joined Joe in the box seat.
He couldn't focus on the music; all he could do was grip the railing, wait and smoke. The intermission was a blur. The concert, a couple of hours long, was a like a dream, a bad dream. When the last note of the music faded in the darkness he was left with one thought: Kathy's ticket to a Dizzy Gillespie concert was just a ticket. He crumpled the ticket in his pocket and tossed his empty cigarette pack to the ground. It was about 10:30 PM. He had wasted enough time on this. He stomped to his cab.
A man in a cheap suit and a newsboy cap grabbed the handle of his cab door. "Man, are you're a life saver."
"Yeah, where to?" Jo asked in a monotone voice.
The passenger slouched into the back seat. "The Comanche."
The Comanche on Central and Fifth was on the edge of the downtown industrial area, a blue collar bar. Joe knew of a couple of other places that might suit this guy better, but he kept his mouth shut. He penciled in the time in his log and flipped the flag down on the meter.
"Got a smoke?" Joe asked as he pulled into the traffic tangling its way out of the Bowl parking lot.
"Don't smoke."
Joe wished he hadn't smoked up his whole pack. That wasn't the only thing he had wasted this night. He concentrated on his driving. After this fare he'd stop by the Buck to get a pack of Kools and check with the Duchess on whether he was filling in for Davey, her injured bouncer, this Friday. Joe heard his passenger jostling around like he was trying to get comfortable.
"You okay?" Joe asked.
The passenger leaned forward. "Yeah. Did you heard about that dame reporter that got killed?"
"You knew her?" Why this guy was talking to him about Kathy?
"Nope, just saw it in the paper. I wonder what she was doing snooping around."
"Who says she was snooping?" Joe glanced in his rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of the man's face. The passenger glared out of the rear window and then faced front.
"Why else would she be hanging around Hotel Sheila? Yeah, reporters must think they're bulletproof or something. You don't happen to be associated with the Observer, do you?"
"Me?" Joe stiffened.
"Just asking." the passenger said.
Joe clutched the steering wheel. He only read the papers if someone left them at Clifton's while he was having breakfast. So it had been in the newspapers that Kathy's body had been found at the Sheila. His head swirled with questions. The Sheila? Jacoby didn't mention that. That dump! How did she get there? He dropped her off at the Mayfield.
Before he could make a complete stop at the curb, the passenger was out of the cab. He tossed a five dollar bill at Joe and dashed into the bar.
Joe plucked the money from the seat; he'd noted the time in his log. His eyes lingered on the bar entrance. Could be a coincidence, but his gut was telling him otherwise. Still.
He needed to get going. Something else he hadn't told Art about was sometimes he filled in as a bouncer at a bar called the Buck, short for Buckingham. He earned a little extra change and Mac didn't mind. Besides Joe enjoyed the people there. They accepted the face he wanted to show them and didn't ask questions. He had stumbled onto this place when one of his late night fares from the British consulate invited him in to taste a bit of Great Britain in the Colonies.
The interior, bedecked with the flags of the Commonwealth, welcomed you with a lit fire.
The bar stools were covered in richly padded oxblood leather as were the cushioned seat backs and booths that covered the far wall. Round tables with chairs dotted the open space.
Behind the bar, Neil, usually welcomed patrons with a "G'day. What's your pleasure?" Standing a couple inches shorter than Joe, Neil's blonde hair contrasted with the dark walnut paneling of the liquor shelves behind him. On the few really cold days in Los Angeles, he favored his left leg. Old war wound, he claimed.
Like everywhere else on a Tuesday night, the crowd was thin. The Duchess camped in her usual spot in the corner booth at the end of the bar. She was ever vigilant to her customers like a sheep dog protecting her flock. She motioned to him to her.
"Joseph," she said.
"Evening, Duchess."
"What brings you here tonight?" Despite all the British trappings, the Duchess spoke with an American flavor to her accent.
"Thought I'd check and see if you need me this weekend, get some cigarettes, and something to eat."
"Maybe Saturday night, depends on the wind, you know."
"Okay, I'll check again later in the week." As he passed the kitchen on the way to the cigarette machine, Ruby, the Jamaican cook asked, "Your usual?"
"Surprise me," Joe said. Even when he wasn't hungry the aroma from the her kitchen always enticed him into ordering the pub grub.
He sunk his quarters into the machine and pulled the Kools knob. He opened the pack and plucked a cigarette out. Seemed like forever since he'd had a smoke. He checked his jacket pocket. Not again. He felt the hole. Got get that fixed.
The parking lot was encased in darkness relieved only by a couple feeble lights on either end. As the backup bouncer, he regularly cruised it a few times a night to prevent theft from the patron's cars.
"What the – " Joe dashed and yanked a body out of his cab. "hell . . ."
Joe saw the man's arm cock back. He ducked and blocked the right fist. Behind him he heard the rustle of clothing and an explosion in his head. Through the haze of pain, Joe saw two men towering over him. One guy in his thirties and the other looked just old enough to have just made eighteen.
"What gives?" Joe coughed.
"Don't play dumb." The older and taller of the two hoisted Joe to his feet, slammed him against the cab bouncing his head off the side mirror. Joe slumped, then suddenly straightened up and roundhouse punched his assailant in the stomach. The big man staggered back a step and took a swing. Joe blocked the punch with his left arm and right crossed the man's face in. He struck again before the big man could recover. The younger man grabbed his arms and pinned them to his sides.
Joe strained to wiggle into a stance to throw the punk. The big man recovered quickly and began body blows while his partner tightened his grip on Joe's arms.
"Where is it?" the big man asked.
The punk let go and Joe collapsed to the ground, doubling over and gasping for breath.
"I'm not going to ask again."
"Don't know . . . you're talking about."
"He said he doesn't know."
The attackers spun to see a pistol aimed at them and hear the click of the hammer being pulled back.
"Step away. Move!" The man waved the men off. "Tell Reeves he doesn't know anything."
"Listen, Gunn . . ."
"No, you listen. Tell Reeves to lay off."
The younger man kicked at Joe as he passed. "Next time." The big man straightened his tie and sauntered past Gunn. Gunn stared him down, keeping the pistol pointed at his chest. He waited until the men drove off.
Gunn knelt beside Joe. "Can you walk?"
"I'm alright . . . just a little winded." Joe winced and spit the asphalt from his mouth.
Gunn hooked a hand under his arm and lifted Joe to his feet. Joe leaned on the front fender of his cab.
"Who were those guys?" Joe wheezed.
"Ever heard of Macklin Reeves?" Gunn replaced his pistol in his holster and buttoned his coat. Joe shook his head.
"Businessman, connected to the Mob through Victor Fortune, though neither of them will admit it. Pretends to be an upstanding citizen. Those guys work for him. The big one is Cully Roberts. The youngster is Bernie Moss. Whether you're aware of him or not, Reeves sat next to you at the Bowl. The guy in the box seat to your left."
"So what? What does he want with me?" Joe struggled to remember."The guy in the hat?"
"Yeah, the guy in the hat. Those guys are his hired muscle. They rough you up or kill you depending on whether Reeves needs you dead or alive."
"What do they want with me?"
"I have no idea. I was hoping you could tell me. Obviously, Reeves thinks you have something that belongs to him."
"Weren't you in Jacoby's office? You following me?" Joe asked.
"Good thing I was. Peter Gunn. I'm a private investigator. You can pay me back by telling me what you were doing at the concert."
"I like Dizzy Gillespie."
"Yeah, right." Gunn helped Joe into the Buck. The Duchess's office was on the right near the end of the hallway. She saw Gunn dragging Joe into her office.
"I won't ask the obvious question. Just give me the answer," she said.
"Cully and Bernie."
She examined Joe's face. He jerked away at her touch. "Not very professional." She stepped into the hallway. "Ruby, bring the first aid kit." She faced Gunn. "Doing your white knight act again, Peter?"
"Annie," Gunn acknowledged.
Joe felt a chill between the two. Gunn looked as uncomfortable as he could get in a two-hundred dollar suit. He moved aside when Ruby entered.
"Just throw some band-aids on him. He's not at death's door," Gunn said.
"Why don't we step outside and give Ruby room to work," the Duchess suggested.
Joe stretched his neck to see around Ruby. Gunn and the Duchess strolled in the direction of the parking lot.
"What's with them?" Joe asked.
"Used to be an item until Edie Hart came along," Ruby said. She cut several strips of tape and attached them to the edge of the desk. She soaked a piece of gauze in alcohol to wipe away the blood on his face. Ruby applied Mercurochrome to a cut. Joe flinched from the sting.
"Ow! Gunn and the Duchess!"
"She's a woman and he's a man. What's so new about that?"
In a few minutes Ruby had bandaged the cuts on his face and swabbed his scraped knuckles with more Mercurochrome. Ruby poked at his ribs; Joe gasped. "Can't do nothing for that. Just have to let the ribs heal on their own." She clicked the kit closed.
"Hey, you're pretty good at this."
"Used to be a nurse," Ruby said. She stepped out into the corridor. "He'll live," she said to the Duchess as she and Gunn returned.
"You're done for tonight," Gunn said.
"No arguments, Joseph. I'll understand if I don't see you Saturday."
"I'll be okay." Joe rose slowly from the chair.
"You've got a couple of hoods looking to hurt you. I haven't got all night to follow you around. You're done. Head for the garage. I'll be right behind you."
Joe watched him walk across Commonwealth Street and get in a pale blue Thunderbird convertible. Being a private cop must pay more than what Art was making. He had never seen a LAPD officer driving one of those.
oO0Oo
Gunn followed Joe to the Chess Cab Company garage on Lucas and Third. He hung far back, trying to determine if Cully and Bernie were still in pursuit. Clear so far. Reeves' boys must have slunk back to their boss. He checked his watch. Only 11:30 PM; he still might be able to catch Edie at Mother's.
He watched Joe slip the taxi into an open bay inside the garage. Gunn parked in the same visitor spot he had earlier in the evening when he blessed the dispatcher with a ten spot to find out where Mannix was.
The garage was littered with cars that destiny had saved from the junkyard. A couple of heaps were for parts; others should have been. Gunn saw a work light glaring from underneath the frame of another vehicle. A man limped up the pit stairs. He wore soiled gray coveralls and wiped his hands on a dirtier rag.
"What are you doing back so early?" the man asked. He squinted at Joe's face. "What happened to you? Somebody try to rob you?"
"No, nothing like that." Gunn answered for Joe.
"Mac Wagner, owner and chief mechanic, Peter Gunn," Joe introduced. "He helped me out."
"Helped you out?" Mac stepped closer to inspect Joe's injuries. Between the swollen lip, the band-aids, and asphalt scratches, "What happened?"
"Heard of Macklin Reeves?" Joe asked.
"Yeah, he owns a lot of buildings downtown."
"He thinks I have something that belongs to him."
"Like what?"
"That's what we're about to find out," Gunn said.
While Joe brought Mac up to speed on his night, Gunn launched his search with the trunk. He found nothing in there but the jack, the spare and trash. Gunn moved to the passenger seat. "Which side did he sit on?"
"The right side," Joe answered.
Gunn noted the ashes in the door tray. He scanned the cab interior and cursed. "Don't you ever clean these cabs?" He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands. He noticed a folded newspaper under the front passenger seat. As he pulled it out, he heard a thunk against the floorboard. With his handkerchief wrapped around his hand, he reached under the seat and removed a small unlabeled movie film canister. "Bingo!"
"Yeah, bingo. What is it?" Joe asked.
"What Reeves sent his muscle to find." Gunn covered the canister in his handkerchief and got out of the cab. He grabbed Joe. "You're coming with me."
"Where to?"
"Jacoby. This is probably what got Katherine Bedrosian killed."
oO0Oo
As much as Lou Jacoby hated being awakened in the middle of the night, Joan, his wife, hated it more. She rolled away from him covering her head with her pillow. He hated it even more when it was Peter Gunn on the other end of the phone line, but he knew Pete wouldn't calling after midnight without a very good reason. The only words he needed to hear were film canister and Bryce Hunter. He whipped the covers from his side of the bed.
Jacoby arrived with his collar open at the neck and his tie looped over his shoulder. Pete and Mannix were waiting in his office. The Mannix kid looked beat up, and Pete looked smug. A movie projector rested on his desk.
"Have you seen it yet?" Jacoby asked.
"No, we were hoping you'd bring the popcorn."
"Smart ass," Jacoby mumbled, then flipped the light switch. Pete pushed the projector on button as Jacoby tumbled into a chair.
The film flickered against the office wall. The images were raw. No editing, whatever happened in front of the camera was there. Faces and naked bodies wandered in and out of the frame. Matters, private between a man and a woman or a man and a man, flashed against the institutional beige wall. Bryce Hunter's face faded in and out of the frame. Jacoby took notes on the other faces he recognized; the names of politicians, movie stars, businessmen and socialites peppered his list. When the film ended eleven minutes later, the three men let out a collective sigh.
"If that's only eleven minutes of it, makes you wonder where the rest of this stuff is, doesn't it?" Jacoby turned off the projector and turned on the overhead light. "He was squeezing them babes for years."
"This is what Kathy died for? This is what I got beat up for?" Joe drooped in his chair.
Jacoby could guess what the Mannix guy was thinking. Was this worth getting killed over?
"Okay, where'd you get this?" Jacoby asked.
Gunn nudged Joe.
"Some guy left it in my cab," Joe muttered.
"You know him?"
"He was a fare I picked up at the Hollywood Bowl."
"And what were you doing there?"
Joe clamped his mouth shut, but Gunn filled in. "The girl gave him an envelope to keep. Had a ticket to the Dizzy Gillespie concert in it. He decided to play detective and see what he could find out."
Jacoby rolled his eyes. "You could be charged with 'withholding evidence'!"
"I know." Joe squirmed. "What do you want me to do? Say I'm sorry? If I knew that film was there I would've turned it over to you. I just wanted to understand why someone would kill her."
"Now he's a target. Macklin Reeves is involved somehow. He sent his goons to beat on him," Gunn said.
"Oh, really. So that's why you look like hell. Would you recognize that guy who left this in your cab if you saw him again?" Jacoby asked.
"Maybe, didn't get a real good look at him."
"Describe him," Jacoby said.
"White guy, maybe five ten, one sixty, maybe 30-35 years old, wore a cap, doesn't smoke, seemed nervous. I didn't get a good look at him."
"Where'd you take him?"
"The Comanche."
Jacoby marched to his door and called to Davis, the desk sergeant, while pointing at Joe. "Get him a cup of coffee and the mug books." Jacoby waved Joe out of his office. "And don't hold out me again or you'll be looking at life from behind bars." Jacoby slammed the door. "Amateurs! Why does everybody think they can be a private detective?"
Gunn smiled. "I make it appear too easy."
"Yeah, but you were a cop once." He settled into his chair. "What are we going to do about this?"
"About Macklin Reeves or about the film?"
"Both."
"Mannix is on his radar now. Never a good sign."
Jacoby drummed his fingers his desk. "Makes me wonder how Reeves got on to Mannix. The only reason we knew about him is because his name and phone number were in her reporter's notebook."
"Yeah, how did he get his hands on that information?"
"But what's the connection with the Bryce Hunter homicide?" Jacoby thought a moment. "Yeah, that was Joe Friday's case. He was never happy with the way it turned out. Didn't believe that Morgan woman killed him. Thinks she was taking the fall for someone else."
"Unofficially I found another of Bedrosian's notebooks. Blaney coming by later after he translates it for us. This could be the big story Bedrosian was working on. I think we can assume she'd been trying to track down leads on the Bryce Hunter films."
"This connects her to Reeves, how?"
"Don't know. You gonna go see him?"
"I'm thinking about bringing him here. Shake him up a bit. See what falls out."
"He's got a lot of friends in the right places," Gunn said.
"I wouldn't call them friends. More like victims."
oO0Oo
Art found Joe seated at a vacant detective's desk surrounded by a pile of mug books, a paper cup of coffee, and an ashtray full of cigarettes. Joe's morning stubble peeked out from around the bandages on his face. He was going to have hell shaving.
"Hey, Joe."
Joe stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette. "Morning, Art." He stifled a yawn.
"How about getting breakfast?"
"It's Wednesday. Aren't you working today?"
"Not till later. C'mon. Bad night?"
"Yeah, sorta. Clifton's?" Joe suggested.
Art examined his friend's face closer. "Next time you might want to make sure your face misses his fist."
"Yeah, next time." Joe led the way out of the station to go north on Figueroa. It wasn't worth driving to Clifton's. As usual the downtown morning traffic was already snarled. The traffic cops did their best, but it was a losing battle. Art and Joe picked their path amid the stalled cars and honking horns.
Art broke their silence. "Want to tell me what happened in Costa Verde?"
"What do you mean 'what happened'? Nothing happened. My contract was for six months. I did six months. I came home."
"Joe, this is Art you're talking to, remember? Korea? POW camp?"
"When did you become Sigmund Freud?"
"Look, I'm trying to help. Since you came back, you're . . . different. Like . . . I don't know. Different." Art lowered his voice. "Was it worse than Camp Five, Changju?"
"Maybe . . . not now," Joe said, his voice just above a whisper.
Art knew he could only press Joe a little at a time. He was probably the stubbornest guy Art knew, but that's what got them both through Changju. Neither spoke until they made the right to Sixth.
"What do you know about Macklin Reeves?" Joe asked.
"Why the sudden interest in him?"
"No reason. Curiosity."
Art sensed it was more than that. "Everybody knows he's into gambling outside the city limits. Probably in cahoots with the Fortune crime family, but no one can prove anything. He claims he's a legitimate businessman. Mostly deals in commercial real estate, some residential. A lot of people figure that's how he funnels his money from the gambling joints. Buys up property and holds on to it until he can make a profit. Snappy dresser, also owns a men's clothing store, Cameron's, on Sunset. Probably throws some of his gambling profits in there too."
"Does he hire muscle?"
"Why would you ask that? You're not thinking of going to work for him?"
"No, I've got a debt to repay."
"The interest is pretty high in his neighborhood. Is this something I shouldn't know about?"
"Just curious."
"Joe, what's up?"
"Nothing."
"Sometimes you make it hard on your friends."
"You can stop being my friend anytime you want." Joe halted a few steps from the front door of Clifton's.
Art grabbed his arm; Joe shook him off. "I didn't mean it that way. Come on, Joe, I'm a cop; I can only look the other way so many times. I don't mind sticking my neck out for you. I just want to know how close I am to getting it cut off."
"Did that sergeant send you?"
Art hesitated. "Yeah, he did. He wants to make sure you don't wind up in a gutter somewhere."
"I can take care of myself."
"No, you can't. This isn't Korea or Costa Verde. This is Los Angeles. There's guys out there who'll blow your head off for looking at them the wrong way."
Joe flinched. "Leave it alone, Art."
"Why can't you let anybody help you? Don't you trust me?"
"It's not you I don't trust." Joe disappeared around the corner. Art watched him go. He had pushed enough for one day.
oO0Oo
"Damn!" Reeves pounded his desk. He was so close to finding the Hunter sex films, he could see it flickering before his eyes. Bernie jumped; Cully continued holding up his favorite wall.
"Now Peter Gunn's in on it. I told you to follow Mannix, not beat him up."
Reeves had managed to get to the concert in time to get the box seat next to Joe Mannix. He wanted to gage the guy for himself. He'd decided Mannix was a lightweight. Nothing to worry about. Just keep following him, and he was bound to lead them to the film. That was the time to take care of business. Cully messed it up by thinking. What he should have done was drop Bernie off at the Comanche Bar and then follow that Mannix guy around. Cully normally did what he was told but since Bernie starting working with him, Cully was showing signs of trying to use what little brains he thought he had.
"Next time I say follow somebody, follow him. Don't talk to him, don't beat him up, and most of all stay away from Peter Gunn. What idiots I have working for me."
oO0Oo
Joe parked the cab about a block away from Cameron's Fine Clothing. He waited for it to open at eleven. He struggled to remember what Reeves looked like. A gray homburg was all he remembered. Reeves looked to Joe like any of the dozen or so fares he picked up on any given night. He had long since learned not to pay too much attention to the people who got in his cab.
The outside of the place matched the surrounding shops. The windows framed tastefully draped mannequins in silk suits and hand-woven ties. Not the kind of place he'd buy his clothes. More like a place for Gunn.
He wanted a glimpse of Reeves. One of the first things he was taught in fighter pilot school was know your enemy. Cully and Bernie were pretty much burned into his memory.
Joe crossed the street, opened the door and heard the chime. He spied Cully lounging behind the counter in the rear of the store. Racks of suits lined the walls. In between were display tables laid out with shirts and accessories. When he looked back at the rear counter, Cully had disappeared.
Joe could feel the salesman's measuring him for how much money he could get out of Joe. Joe surmised that with his morning stubble, bandages and bruises, he was pretty low on this salesman's priorities.
"May I help you, sir?"
"Looking for a tie."
"Just one?"
"I can only wear one at a time."
"This way." The salesman led Joe to a wall of ties. Everything from paisleys to modern art patterned silk ties hung on racks. Joe paid little attention to the salesman's patter. He felt the ties and tried to look casual as he scanned the store.
"That'll be all, Sam."
"Yes, Mr. Reeves." The salesman's exit was swift. Joe ignored Reeves for another second and then faced him. He wanted to memorize his face. He didn't want to mistake him for anyone else.
"You have a lot of nerve showing up here."
"I'm looking for a tie." Joe grabbed a red Paisley tie off the rack. "What do you think?" He held it up to his collar.
Reeves reached for another tie, yellow with large white dots. He neatly pulled up Joe's collar, placed the tie around his neck and began to knot it.
Joe studied Reeves' face. He wanted remember every pore, every hair. When Reeves finished, Cully and Bernie appeared on each side of Joe. Reeves dusted imaginary dirt from the shoulders of Joe's jacket.
"Where's Gunn?"
"He doesn't babysit me."
"Could have fooled me. Let's make a deal. The Bryce Hunter films for your life," Reeves said.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I assumed that's why you're here, to deal. If you don't have them, I'm betting you know where to find them or who has them."
"Can't help you. Just looking for a tie. How much?" Joe asked.
"This one's on the house," Reeves said. He nodded to Cully and Bernie. They grabbed Joe's arms.
"Next time," Reeves said as he snugged the knot against Joe's throat. "Bring the film with you or you'll be wearing the latest thing in nooses." He nodded to Cully and Bernie. "Escort the gentleman out . . . gently."
oO0Oo
For the second time in three days, Joe Mannix was at the morgue in the basement of the Hall of Justice. The viewing room reminded him of his mother's lavender sachets, but the longer he stood there the more the scent of death enveloped him.
Art had explained to him how they prepare the body to be autopsied. Her organs are removed, tissue samples are taken, and any bruises or scars are noted. Joe wondered if Art had ever seen any of his friends laying on that table.
Jacoby tapped on the window and a white curtain peeled back revealing a body covered by a white sheet on a gurney. Joe shut his eyes intent on remembering the Kathy who was alive in his memory.
"That's my Kathy," he heard her father, Ara Bedrosian, say in a choked voice. Joe waited for the rattling of the curtain closing stopped before he opened his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Bedrosian." Jacoby fussed with his fedora. "The autopsy is done. You can take her home."
Through his hand on Bedrosian's shoulder, Joe felt the shudders and the tears. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to comfort him.
"I'll stay with him," Joe heard himself say. Jacoby nodded and departed.
"Why, Joe?" Bedrosian asked as he dried his tears on his coat sleeve.
"I don't know," he whispered.
"But they have so many murders here, not like Summer Grove. How can they find her killer?"
"Sgt. Jacoby's handling it. He's a good detective." Joe didn't mention to Bedrosian about the Hunter sex films. He hoped no one else would neither. He didn't want that to be anyone's last memory of her.
"But what if he can't find her killer? What happens then? The killer go free?"
"Don't worry, Mr. Bedrosian," Joe said. "I'll make sure they find her killer."
Joe escorted the grieving father to the loading dock. They arrived as Kathy's coffin was being loaded into the hearse.
oO0Oo
Joe didn't normally start his afternoon drinking a beer at the Buck, but these were unusual times for him. In the last two days he had been told a friend of his was dead, been to the morgue twice, interviewed by the police, beat up by thugs, and got a good look at Macklin Reeves. So much for flying below the radar. He was so far in over his head he felt he was flying on instruments only.
A plate of fish and chips scooted toward him.
"From last night," Ruby said. "You were interrupted."
"Thanks. So you were a nurse once?"
"I was a lot of things once." She poked at his ribs before she toodled back to the kitchen.
Neil was polishing the bar. He took great pride in blinding anyone who chose to sit there.
"What's with her?" Joe asked.
"We all have our secrets, mate." Neil laid the cleaning polish on thick and tried to rub grain off the wood.
Joe attacked the food. He tried to remember the last time he almost ate. He reviewed his talk with Art. He knew Art was only trying to help, but he didn't know when to quit. Joe didn't know if he would every tell anyone about Costa Verde.
The Duchess placed a bottle of Guinness on the bar and climbed on the stool next to Joe.
"Here, I just polished that bit!"
"Are you forgetting who owns this place?"
"Not at all, Duchess. Just trying to keep it shipshape for you." Neil slid a coaster under her bottle.
"Go keep the tables shipshape."
"Yes, ma'am." Neil did a mock salute and retreated to the tables.
"How are you feeling this afternoon, Joseph?"
"A little sore." He touched the stubble on his face. He'd caught a couple of hours sleep, but he hadn't attempted to shave around the bandages and the bruises yet. "I guess I'm not as good with my fists as I thought."
"You were outnumbered."
"Until Gunn came along and evened the odds."
The Duchess rolled her bottle of beer in her hands. "You have no idea of who you're dealing with."
"I can take care of myself."
"Of course you can."
"Like you said, I was outnumbered." Joe explained to the Duchess what happened after he and Gunn had left. "So I shouldn't be on Reeves' radar anymore. I have nothing he wants." Joe sipped his beer.
"He doesn't know that. Do you think he had anything to do with your friend's murder?"
Gunn had evidently told the Duchess a little bit about what was going on. In fact, Joe was puzzled why the guy left the film in the cab in the first place. Why not take it with him? Maybe that was the point. Joe was that guy's patsy.
Joe stabbed at his potatoes. "What do you know about Reeves?"
"Basically the same things everybody else thinks they know about him and enough to stay away."
"Is that what you're advising?"
"Yes, but you won't listen." The Duchess finished her beer. "So what's next, Sherlock?"
He took a mouthful of fish and swallowed it with beer. "I have no idea."
"But you won't let that stop you."
"I haven't yet."
oO0Oo
Joe saw Gunn leaning on the front fender of his Thunderbird as he parked the cab in the alley next to YMCA. Gunn looked a little tired, but somehow he had managed to find time for a shower, a shave and fresh suit.
"What are you doing here?" Joe asked.
"Get in."
"Why?"
"Because I said so. I got a call from your friend, Mac. Some guy's hanging around the garage. May be that guy, the one who left the film."
"Why didn't you say so?"
Gunn turned the ignition key and the Thunderbird growled to life. Joe jumped into the passenger seat.
oO0Oo
"Looking for something?" Gunn asked. The man in the newsboy cap jerked his head around to stare in the direction of the question.
"Remember me?" Joe asked. He threw his cigarette to the ground and smashed it. It was late enough in the evening that all the other drivers had been dispatched. All you could hear was Mac cursing in the grease pit as he smashed his knuckles against another junkyard reject.
"Yeah, I remember you. I left something in your cab. What about it?" He addressed Joe and pointed at Gunn. "Who's the fashion plate?"
Gunn pulled a small film canister from his inside coat pocket. "Is this what you're searching for?"
The man tried to snatch it from Gunn's hand; Joe caught his wrist.
"Hey, that's mine. I left it in there last night."
"Who are you? And how did you get ahold of this?" Gunn asked.
"What's it to you?"
Joe twisted the man's arm and slammed his face onto the trunk of the cab. The thud rang off the walls of the garage.
"Let's start again. Who are you?" Gunn asked calmly.
Joe bent his arm a little more. "Answer the man's question."
"Lenny McAvoy."
"Where'd you get the film?"
"You know what you got there? You got the key to the city," Lenny panted.
"Really." Gunn examined the can in his hand. "That's not what I asked you."
Joe pushed Lenny's face deeper into the metal of the trunk.
"An auction, a state auction of unclaimed property." Lenny squeezed out the answer from between his elongated lips.
Gunn waved the canister. "And what were planning to do with this key?"
"Figured I'd sell it for a few bucks and get out of town."
"Let him up."
Joe released Lenny's face from the trunk and pulled him to a standing position, keeping a grip on his arms.
"Have you seen what's on the film?"
Lenny eyed Joe who towered over him. "Yeah, I seen some of it. You don't have to see the whole reel to figure out what's going on."
"Any more of these?" Gunn asked.
"Yeah, a few."
"Where?"
"You buying?"
"You're lucky to be alive," Joe said.
Lenny snickered while looking at the bruises and bandages on Joe's face. "You can talk."
"No, I'm not buying. I'm going to assist you into being a good citizen by turning them over to the police," Gunn said.
"How do I know you won't double cross me and then sell them yourself?"
"Because he won't," Joe said.
"Yeah, well, you ain't cops and you can't make me."
"You're right. We're not cops." Gunn nodded to Joe. "Make him." Joe flipped Lenny around to face him and grabbed his lapels pulling Lenny up on his toes.
"Okay, okay, okay."
Joe released him.
Lenny tried to smooth the wrinkles out of his lapels. "Jeez, you guys play rough."
"Not as rough as Macklin Reeves."
"So that's what happened to you," Lenny said as he eyed Joe.
Gunn led the way out of the garage to his Thunderbird. Joe followed dragging Lenny by his arm. Gunn opened the passenger door and Joe shoved Lenny in. "Hey, we work pretty well together."
"Don't get any ideas," Gunn said. He strolled to the driver's side and got in. "I work alone." He tossed the film canister to Lenny. Lenny jiggled it and heard no sound. He opened and found it empty.
"Hey, what gives? Where's my film?"
"Where to?" Gunn asked Lenny.
"Up on Mulholland," Lenny muttered and tossed the empty can. He was squashed between Gunn and Joe.
"Mulholland's twenty miles long."
"I'll tell you where. Take Laurel Canyon Road and go west."
The Thunderbird's headlights traced a trail through the evening darkness. At this time of the night the traffic on Laurel Canyon had tapered off.
"Do you see what I see?" Joe asked Gunn. He swiveled the passenger side mirror to get a better look behind them.
"I noticed that about ten minutes ago."
"What? What do you see?" Lenny twisted around.
"Don't look!" Gunn barked. He took the exit to Mulholland West, the headlights following them. Gunn sped up when he could; the coiling road made him curb his speed. The lights behind them faded in the curves of Mulholland.
"It should be just past this sign." Lenny pointed at a 25 MPH sign. Headlights revealed a horseshoe-shaped dirt patch with a white wooden fence on both sides. A metal guard rail defended the center of the overlook from a steep drop. Openings between the fence and the guard rail led to trails that meandered through the brush at a lower level. Gunn parked with the passenger side of the car nearest the right side railing.
The men heard the rumble of a car engine laboring up the hill behind them. They ducked as a car passed the overlook as its headlights swept over them.
"Hurry up." Gunn opened the trunk, reached in for a flashlight and an army shovel. He flipped the blade up and locked it in place. "Where to?" he asked Lenny.
"Looks different in the dark."
"It'll look a lot different if you're dead. Get a move on." Joe dragged Lenny from the guard rail to the opening between it and the fence that led down to the trail. Gunn pulled Joe aside.
"You stay here and watch out for that car. Get my spare pistol from the glove compartment." He prodded Lenny down the trail.
"Wait," Joe said. "Why do . . ." Joe's voice trailed off. Why did he need a weapon? Gunn had a pistol. That should be enough.
Joe positioned himself on the lower level of the trail looking up at the parking area. Lenny complained. "You guys aren't really going to give the film to the cops, are you? Tell you what; I'll split the money with you. Fifty-fifty. This way we all get a a piece . . ."
"Will you shut up and keep going?" Gunn growled. Joe squinted at the flashlight bobbing in the darkness. Their voices faded. He returned to watching Mulholland.
Soon he heard the sounds of metal flinging dirt. He hid when he heard a car engine; its headlights raked the overlook, but didn't stop. The flashlight beam advanced slowly toward him on the dirt trail. Then a car, coming from the east without its lights on, swung into the overlook, a dark color with an aerial on the back right fender.
"You sure you don't want to deal? I've been waiting for something like this all my life," Lenny whined, his voice carrying in the night air.
"Quiet!" Joe hissed. Gunn and Lenny slipped next to Joe.
From the hiding place on the lower trail, the T-bird blocked Joe's view of everything but the feet of the driver of the other car. The feet stepped out soles crunching on the gravel. A beam of light danced in the darkness of the overlook. The feet paused. A car door opened. A jangle.
The feet retreated. "I got your keys. Let's make a trade. Keys for film."
Lenny clamped his arms around the burlap bag. "You can't give it to him," he pleaded.
The man jangled the keys again. "C'mon, I haven't got all night."
"Did you get the pistol?" Gunn whispered. "You distract him while I do a rear guard action." Before Joe could answer, Gunn melted into the darkness of the lower trail.
Joe cursed. Why didn't he get the pistol when Gunn told him to? How was he going to distract this guy? How was he going to get that pistol now?
Slowly Joe climbed under the fence on his stomach and inched his way to the T-bird. He halted every few inches. He heard a crunch and stopped. He looked back at the lower trail searching for Lenny. Gone. What the hell? Where'd he go? Joe stretched his arm to open the car door.
"Where's Gunn?" the man asked. Joe froze. He looked up. The man pointed a gun at him. His dark suit. His fedora. Joe couldn't see his face. Who was he?
"I ─" All Joe saw was the barrel of a 38. caliber police special. Looked like the mouth of a cannon.
"Where's Gunn!" The man drew the hammer back.
Joe trembled, his skin clammy. He saw the cylinder cycle. All the chambers had bullets in them. He wanted to run, nowhere to go. He might as well be tied to a chair. Like Costa Verde. Not again . . . no, not again. It's not happening again.
A bullet shrieked. The man spun and fired. Joe pulled open the door, dived for the glove compartment, fumbled it open, and grabbed the pistol inside. Another shot, muffled this time, further away. Where was that guy? Joe's breath came in short bursts. Where was Gunn? A car door slammed and an engine started. He had to do this.
He popped up from behind the T-bird as the other car sped away. He eased the pistol to his side. Damn Costa Verde!
A groan! Joe scoured the darkness.
"Gunn, where are you?" Joe turned on the headlights. The beams reached into the darkness.
Joe locked on to the sound of Gunn's moans. He climbed over the left side of the overlook fence and found Gunn lying on his back in the bushes. Enough light spilled from the car beams that Joe saw the blood soaking the right shoulder of Gunn's suit.
"Where were you?" Gunn asked. He struggled to get upright. "Get me out of here!"
The End of Part 2