The Hollywood Starlet Caper

Chapter 2

Chapter 2“California, Here I Come,” as Al Jolson sings. In the week after my visit to the travel agency I made my final arrangements. Dotty was tearful when I told her that I was heading west but said that she would keep an eye on the office and would let me know if anything important happened. I shuddered to think what my secretary would consider important or unimportant but had about as much choice in the matter as Bruno Hauptmann did when he faced charges of having kidn*pped the Lindbergh kid. I paid her salary two months in advance and gave her postdated checks for the rent on both my office and apartment. I also gave her Marty Hardy's address to use until I found my own quarters. And yes, Dotty did ask why I was looking for quarters rather than bucks.

Next came the task of informing Mom and my ex about what was happening. Mom didn't exactly wish me well, but she did ask me not to send her a can opener. Poor Mom. She already had forgotten that I had sent her two of them in the past year alone. My ex didn't exactly wish me well either. “Don't forget the alimony checks or else,” she warned before slamming down the phone receiver. And to think that I had at one time loved, bedded, and wedded this woman.

I couldn't leave the city without one last visit to The Slippery Elbow, which had provided almost a second home for me and where I knew I'd be missed. I admit that after years of frequenting the Elbow I couldn't tell for sure if Gus the bartender truly liked me, but when I told him my plans, he grasped my hands with great feeling. “I'll miss you, too, you big gorilla,” I said to him as I tried to hold back a bit of moisture in my eyes. “You ain't going no place, DeWitt, until you settle your tab,” he groused. So much for the warmth of comrades.

A few of the regulars whom I had also known for years—Southpaw Sammy Stickit, Tony “Two-Fingers” Mangiamangia, and Curly Bupkis—grunted a few words when I told them about California and then went back to their drinks. Gardenia Gertie, on the other hand, began to wail like a banshee. “You're the best friend a girl could ask for,” she informed me. But when she asked to go back with me to my place I had had enough with my good-byes to the Elbow.

The Big Day finally arrived. I toted my suitcase to Grand Central Station, gulped down a cup of java, and boarded my train. It did look classy, as the travel agent said, despite so many darkies running around in white uniforms. They seemed like a pretty good sort, but I was glad that I had brought along my Smith & Wesson .38 special and blackjack. Never can tell when one of them gets uppity or goes nuts and starts wielding a straight razor. Of course the way they've been treated for all this time you can sort of understand. Sort of. In any case, I told a couple of them that it was real white of them to have such good manners.

The trip lasted a couple of days and bored the bejeezus out of me. Nothing but scenery and then more scenery flitting by. To make it worse, along the way I caught sight of several hobo camps filled with shanties and tents and sad people, and figured that the depression still had a long way to go. The passengers on the train didn't bother me much, except for a snot-nosed kid who kept running back and forth in the aisle until I tripped him and gave him a good lesson in annoyance avoidance. He bawled pretty loud, and his ma came over to complain. I told her to get back to her seat or I'd give her something to cry about, too. That worked. I passed some of the long, weary hours reading. I had bought a couple of Black Mask mystery magazines and enjoyed their stories. Can't say the same for a writer called Dashiell Hammett and his damned fool novel called The Maltese Falcon. I don't know who'd ever want to read that crap, and was sore that I had wasted my dough on it. I went to the dining car for coffee and a couple of meals. Pretty good stuff but pricey. I was glad that I had packed several sardine and Limberger cheese sandwiches for the trip. They tasted and smelled good except for those I ate after Chicago.

Chicago. Yeah. I'm not a sentimental sap, but when the New York Central reached the Windy City, I wanted so bad to call Louise. Just can't get her out of my mind. Don't really want to either, and much of the trip after we left Chicago found me thinking of her and picturing how happy we could be together.

The conductor broke one of these reveries by yelling, “Los Angeles, Los Angeles, everyone off. Use all doors.” I was saddle-sore from too much sitting and regretted not having spent some of my wad of cash for a sleeping car berth. But here I was at last, ready and eager to find a new job and excitement. I grabbed my suitcase, shoved a few people aside, including the obnoxious kid and his obnoxious mother, and found myself in the land of bright sunshine and brighter dreams.

Trouble was that some moron forgot to tell Mother Nature to hang out the sunshine. Instead, the old b***h had provided enough rain to turn the Sahara into a swamp. To make matters worse, Marty Hardy was nowhere to be seen. I had called him from Chicago to let him know when my train would hit the City of Angeles, and I could have sworn that he said “come to get you there.” As I later found out, Mumbles had said “cab to get you here.” I wasted a nickel to call him. No answer. Between the downpour and the absence of my pal I was half-way decided to catch the next train heading back east. What the hell, I had come this far, and so I grabbed a Checker Cab and headed for Mumbles's place.

The cabbie told me that he was a dirt farmer from Oklahoma and wouldn't have had to leave had his spread got half as much rain as he'd seen in Los Angeles this month. “Lordy,” he moaned, “why is it that some places go dry and others are as wet as when Noah had his ark?” I couldn't imagine why the dumb fool would want to farm dirt in the first place. Served him right to fail, and I told him to shut up and keep driving. Besides, I wasn't in the mood to listen to his Okie whining, especially when I felt like whining myself.

I didn't see much of interest along the way, although I was surprised to see a lot of stores in one area that indicated a sort of Chinktown or Niptown. Geez! Those people breed like flies. My thoughts went back to the dead c***k waiter at the time I was solving the Black Llama caper. I also pondered the fairly large number of cars that were on the streets, despite the downpour. Fifty years from now there might be a traffic problem if this continued. Probably not, but who knows?

“Here we are, mister. Here's your place on Bunker Hill.”

Bunker Hill! I head for Los Angeles and wind up in Beantown! Either this is a joke or I'm “Wrong Way” Corrigan.

“Hey, Cabbie, what's a place out here doing with a name like Bunker Hill? I don't see any redcoats running around.”

“Nope, that's just a name I guess they gave the place because it must have sold bunk beds. It's an interesting part of town. Got some real swell mansions, although some of them, like the address you gave me, have been jigsawed into small apartments. Crying shame, if you ask me. Anyway, lots of artists and young people hang out here. You'll like it, I think.”

I wasn't sure about that. Didn't care for artists or young people. Didn't care for the land of sunshine greeting me with a miserable rainy day. And didn't care for the shabby looks of my friend's abode. But I was here, and the East was back there. So I took my good old mom's advice: you made your bed, sonny boy, now shut up and lie in it. The cabbie got my suitcase from the trunk, wished me well, but didn't thank me for the nickel tip I added to the fare. Cabbies are the same all over, I guess. You treat them well and they spit in your face.

I walked to the front door, pressed a buzzer to Marty Hardy's second floor apartment, and waited. Then I waited some more. In the rain.

“Hey, Mister,” a voice croaked from behind me, “the buzzer ain't working. Hasn't been for six months. Just go in. The door's always open.”

Welcome to the City of Angels.