Hollywood Heat. Arlette Lees
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hidden by smoke and shadows beneath cocked fedoras, gold watch chains dangling from the vests of their zoot suits. Suspicious glances cut in his direction, their wariness met with equal unease.
A mile further, and a deserted gas station appeared on his right. This should be it. He pulled beside two battered 1920 gas pumps and let the engine idle. A rusty motor oil sign flapped against the wall of the dark auto repair bay. Wind rocked the car and dead leaves blew across the hood. He’d been stood up…again. He was through. He couldn’t do this anymore.
A man appeared at his window. Where the hell had he come from? He wore a black hat and tapped on the glass with a big ring. The sudden tension caused the pain in his side to ratchet up a notch.
The stranger had a pencil-thin mustache reminiscent of a silent film Casanova, his black eyes set close to the bridge of an aquiline nose, thin lips drawn back in what might have passed for a smile in a friendlier setting.
“I have a message from.…” The wind blew away the words.
“What?” he said, rolling down the window. A gun appeared in a leather-gloved hand. “Is this a joke?” Gavin broke into a sweat. He wanted to unbutton his coat and loosen his tie. He tried to punch the gas pedal, but his foot froze. “Here, you want my wallet?”
The man didn’t answer, his black eyes swallowing the light.
Gavin’s mind was spinning, sweat prickling like flea bites on his scalp. He didn’t want to give up the money, but he had to get the gun out of his face. He’d have to think of a story to tell Amanda when he came home with an empty wallet. He’d never lied to her…until recently.
The wallet was half out of his pocket when a bullet whispered into Gavin’s left temple. There was no time to contemplate his fate, or have a redo, or speak Amanda’s name one last time. He couldn’t have been deader if the Saturday night special had been a bazooka. Across the street a man walking his dog paused a moment, then continued down the dark sidewalk.
The gunman pocketed the weapon and took the wallet from the dead man’s hand. He smiled. It was stuffed with cash, as if the poor sucker had paid for his own hit.
CHAPTER THREE
THE ALIBI ROOM
Detective Rusty Hallinan sat nursing his third beer in a dark smoky corner of The Alibi Room on Santa Monica Blvd. He was tall and solid, and although he was sliding into his middle years, he carried his extra weight with a modicum of grace. He had a good Irish cop face, dark auburn hair, and uncommonly bright blue eyes. He was in no mood to join the festivities, and equally unenthusiastic about going home to an empty house.
Dorothy had left him a week ago. A makeup artist at MGM in Culver City, she often started her day early and worked late into the night. When shooting began on the set of The Devil Wore Spurs with newcomer Monty West, she started slipping in at dawn.
Monty was a Hollywood phenomenon. He’d been raised on a ranch and started out as a stuntman, but his good looks and charismatic personality had catapulted him into starring rolls almost overnight. When Hallinan asked Dorothy if there was anything she needed to tell him, she responded by packing a suitcase and moving in with West, fifteen years her junior.
Eleven years of matrimony, and he’d been someone the guys at the station looked up to. He didn’t cheat. He was generous with money and took Dorothy to dinner at nice restaurants. He didn’t know where things had gone off the rails or what he could have done to prevent it. He blamed it on the miscarriage she’d had soon after they married. She’d been angry at him ever since.
As midnight approached the noise level was brain-numbing. Voices competed with the cha-chunk of packs tumbling into the tray of the cigarette machine, dice cups slapping against the bar, and a bubbling Wurlitzer cranking out songs no one could hear.
A slender beauty with a butt as tight as a sailor’s knot walked toward him through a veil of smoke. She wore a long gown of sapphire satin and earrings the size of pie plates.
“Hi, sugar.” Her voice had the texture of rough velvet, smoky and deep. He was tempted to look behind him to see who she was talking to, when she leaned over his table, her cigarette trailing a ribbon of silver smoke.
The candle in the ruby ball on the table illuminated elegant cheekbones and sculpted features. She was ethnically ambiguous, with a light caramel complexion and almond-shaped hazel eyes. She looked like she could cross the color line from either side without raising an eyebrow.
“You don’t know who I am, do you, darling?” Hallinan took a closer look. Knuckles like walnuts. Prominent Adam’s apple.
“Holy shit, Tyrone!” said Hallinan. “What are you doing masquerading around town like that?”
Masquerading in 1950s L.A., was a crime. Ordinance 5022, passed in 1898, made it illegal to dress in the attire of a sex other than one’s own. It was punishable by a five hundred dollar fine and six months in jail. The law was designed to target gays, cross-dressers, transvestites, and male hookers. Ty was a high achiever in most categories. S/he was also the best damn informant Hallinan had ever worked with. As far as he was concerned, s/he could dress up like a goddamn Christmas tree.
A year ago Ty Covington was a respected drama teacher at Hollywood High. There were those who might have suspected he wasn’t as straight as the road to Vegas, but he was well-liked and good at what he did. Then without explanation he was fired. After that he changed…a lot.
Ty looked at Hallinan as if s/he’d read his mind.
“I had a visit from Cinderella’s fairy godmother,” s/he said, pressing a false eyelash in place. “And it’s Tyrisse from now on darling, not to be mistaken for Tyrone, who went to live with his maiden aunt in Pasadena.”
Hallinan smiled, lit a Chesterfield, and leaned back in his chair, his face melting deeper in shadow. “You said you were going to bring me Lobo Calderone. What happened?”
“The guy’s a ghost. He drifts from one fleabag hotel to another. I hear he’s pimping out a fourteen-year-old from Kansas who thought she got off the bus in Emerald City. Goes by the name, Cupcake.”
“You serve him up on a silver platter, I’ll make it worth your while.” Hallinan blew a stream of smoke to the side. “You still in the apartment on Cheremoya?”
“That tenancy ended abruptly, like my position at the high school. Now, I’m at The Empire on Vermont. If you want to come up I’ll introduce you to my new self.”
“I have enough complications in my life without living on the down low.”
The door opened and Buzz Storch from vice blew in off the street. He wore a dark nylon jacket and a knit cap pulled low on his forehead. He walked to the end of the bar and waited for Red Dooley to finish tossing coins in the cash drawer. At five-five, Storch barely made the department’s minimum height requirement, although he overcompensated by taking on the muscle and temperament of a junkyard dog.
“I’m goin’ out the back,” said Ty.
“Stay right where you are,” said Hallinan.
S/he eased into the chair across from him, her back to the bar. Hallinan noticed swelling along her jaw and a five-fingered bruise on her throat.
“Storch do that?”
“Three nights ago me and my sister-girls were sitting in Willie’s Donut Shop…you know, the all-night place on Main. A couple guys from vice busted in and tossed two of the ladies in a squad car for congregating. Storch dragged me into the alley and worked me over. He’d started to take off his belt, when the cook from the cafeteria next door looked out, and Storch walked off.”
“What were you doing that got everything going?”
“We were fuckin’ eating donuts and drinking coffee!”
“Okay, okay, I get it.”
In the current political and judicial climate, it was open season on homosexuals, transvestites,