Hear the Wind Blow, Dear... (Vic Daniel Series) Read online

  We were headed toward her school to see something called Waiting for Godot. Evonne told me that the author, whose name I forget if ever I knew it, had an eightieth birthday coming up so the school drama department was doing three of his plays.

  We got there on time, found our seats, said hello to a lot of folks, or at least she did, then the house lights dimmed and the play began. There were these two tramps, see, waiting for someone: one had a sore foot and the other didn't. And that was it. By the end of the interminable first act I'd figured out that the guy they were waiting for was going to be a no-show so I sat out the second half in my car listening to a C & W station on the radio. Now, Dolly Parton, if she had a sore foot I bet she wouldn't sit around complaining all the time. Evonne claimed she wasn't miffed at me for leaving her in the lurch but I noticed she ordered the second most expensive item on the menu at Mario's afterwards, the veal piccata, and also I couldn't help noticing that she didn't invite me in for a nightcap, let alone a little heavy necking back at her place. Maybe I should have waited for that guy a couple of hours longer.

  Mañana came knocking at its usual time – too early. When I left home after breakfast Mom was vacuuming the carpets again.

  The office was chilly. I was on my knees turning on the gas heater when there was a timid tap-tap at the door. It was unlocked but I politely went to open it anyway for whoever was there.

  A woman was there. Middle-aged, white, all wrapped up in a overcoat more suited to back East than California. She had one arm in a new-looking cast and sported a classic shiner.

  I asked her to please come in and got her seated in the spare chair across the desk from me. She gave her name as Mrs Mavis Gillespie. I didn't believe her but I let it slide. The Mrs part I believed as she was wearing a plain gold wedding ring.

  'What's it about, Mrs Gillespie?' I asked her when she had more or less stopped squirming about in the chair. She raised one hand to her swollen cheek, which I suppose was some sort of answer, then turned away to look out the front window. I didn't bother looking. I knew what was out there. Unless Mr H. Houdini had miraculously come by since I last looked out some three minutes earlier and changed everything into a glittering wonderland complete with capering pixies, what was out there was a small parking lot, then some of those weird Californian palm trees of which all you can see is scabrous trunk because the tops disappear some forty feet up into that yellow murk known as LA air. Oh yes, you could also see a street, Victory, and several million cars.

  Finally I said, 'Look, would you like a cup of coffee or something?'

  She shook her head.

  'Is it your husband?'

  This time she nodded slightly. Then, still without looking at me, she said, with a hint of a brogue, 'Please, can you tell me what you charge?'

  'Sure,' I said. 'Twenty-five dollars an hour, usually.'

  'Why?'

  I didn't know what she was getting at, so I said, 'Why not?'

  'Why that much?'

  I didn't have a clue. 'I find out what psychiatrists are charging these days and half it,' I said.

  She nodded, as if that made sense. Maybe it did. From her handbag she took out five five-dollar bills, one at a time, and passed them to me. I got a glimpse of what looked like prayer beads as she did so.

  'Thank you, Mrs Gillespie,' I said. 'Would you like a receipt?'

  She shook her head again. I was afraid she was going to start staring out the wndow again, so I said, 'Listen, Mrs Gillespie, I know it's difficult to talk about your personal life in front of a stranger, but like a doctor or a lawyer or a priest, I am under oath as well to keep what I hear to myself.' I wasn't really, but so what? 'Also, if I may say so, I've been involved many times before with serious domestic problems.' I hadn't really as no one in my line of work likes to have anything to do with serious domestic problems except for a little harmless divorce work as someone usually got hurt and that someone was usually your well-meaning busybody. I can't honestly say I've got the scars to prove the above statement but I can and will say I've got one scar to prove it and that one a beauty; it was made by boiling water.

  Nothing from Mrs Gillespie except that this time she looked around the office instead of out the reinforced plate-glass window. It didn't take her long. My office was about twelve feet by twelve feet, was painted off-white, had a tundra (dark green, dear) carpet and two items on the wall – a fire extinguisher and a calendar of Armenian beauties compliments of my pal Mr Amoyan. Oh yes, there was also a shelf of more or less technical books.

  'I can't,' she said suddenly. She started to get to her feet. Her coat fell open slightly; I saw she was wearing a religious medal of some kind on a chain around her neck. I made one more try.

  'If it is your husband the choices are pretty clear – stay or go. The police don't like to and indeed can't get involved unless there are repeated assaults and the assaulted party is willing to formally charge her assailant, because unless there is a major change in the situation, such as a jail sentence, the same actions tend to recur, the wife gets blamed and beaten up again. I'm not saying it's easy to leave, there can be a lot of strong reasons against it, children, religion, lack of money, nowhere to go, but at least leaving solves one problem – you can't get beaten up from a distance.'

  I think she was listening but I wasn't sure, she still wouldn't volunteer anything. I tried yet again.

  'If you're a Catholic I assume you've already had a talk with your priest which didn't help and a talk with your husband which didn't help and I also assume you've tried everything else you can think of before coming here because for a woman like you a man like me must be more or less a last resort. Did you have any idea of the sort of help you might get from me?'

  This time she got all the way up, buttoned her coat, and began to walk out. I caught her at the door, I didn't want her money.

  'Here,' I said, holding it out. 'On the house.'

  I thought she was going to take it but she slapped it out of my hand, hard, and left. I watched her cross the street to the bus stop on the other side and sit down on the bench there, the one that advertised a local kosher funeral home. A Catholic funeral home was what she was going to need, I remember thinking, if she didn't put some mileage between her and her charming husband soon.

  I don't know. Sometimes I think I do but sometimes I know I don't. When in doubt, eat, so I closed up and meandered down to Fred's Deli on Ventura. On the way I noticed that Mrs Gillespie was still on the bench although a bus had just pulled out. At Fred's I had my usual second breakfast of cream cheese on onion rolls (two) and a glass of buttermilk. As I was leaving I paused for a chat with Two-to-One Tim, a bookie I knew who lived in Fred's front booth and I put ten bucks down at respectable odds on the Lakers who were playing in Boston that night. Easy money.

  Back at the office, I pondered. Then, just to make sure, I called the psychiatrist friend of mine, Art Feldman, who owed me one, the doctor I wanted to have a look at Chico, but as I thought, he was out of town until the end of the week, his answering machine told me. It also told me that in case of emergencies he could be located on the front nine of a golf course somewhere in Southern California. Very funny, Art. But that took care of Chico for the next few days, or rather, didn't. Bits and pieces . . . did I ever expound to you about bits and pieces? In my work there is rarely a beginning, a middle and an end, in real time, like there is in Greek plays, some egghead told me once, where the action moves briskly along in a continuous sequence from onset to startling denouement. Interruptions is what I get, funny messages on answering machines is what I get, Irish ladies who won't talk is what I get. Anyway, if this narrative sometimes seems to be made up of disjointed episodes with brief pauses for eating, drinking, smooching and picking up the drycleaning, it is because it is but a mirror of life. I also read a lot. Paperbacks, but they're books too.

  The phone rang. I picked it up. A man wanted to know if I was Victor Daniel. I confessed I was. He wanted to know if I was busy that night. I co
nfessed I wasn't. He said his name was Donald Kalvin and he was a friend of a friend of mine. I asked him which friend. He said Benjamin H. Hanrahan, which meant my pal Benny had been at it again.

  'Ah, yes, Benjamin,' I said. 'Good lad. Old friend.' Referring to Benny as a good lad was like referring to Hitler as 'short, careful dresser'. It might be accurate but it was rather missing the point. Benny was a good lad but Benny was a crook was what Benny was, he had his finger in more pies than Little Jack Horner – or was it Tom Thumb? – ever dreamed of, insurance scams being a particular specialty. He'd just bought another half a house in Anaheim which brought him up to five that I knew about and I didn't know everything. One springtime I'd almost married his Aunt Jessica. But there you go.

  He was certainly an old friend, though. If I ever thought about it I might find it strange that for someone purportedly in the law-enforcement business like me, so many of my friends were dips, petermen, scam artists, touts, con men and assorted other riff-raff. Perhaps they felt the same way about me. Perhaps the moment someone is your friend you automatically assume a sort of amused tolerance for their little peculiarities. However. Onwards.

  'He says you're an expert on private security systems, does that include things like advice on how to set up a neighborhood watch?' Mr Kalvin wanted to know.

  'Sure,' I said. 'But the police will do it for free.'

  'They'll also take three weeks to get around to us,' Mr Kalvin said. 'And I'm not prepared to wait. Tonight at seven thirty suit you?'

  When I said it did, he gave me an address over in festive West Hollywood, and hung up. I did know something about setting up a neighborhood watch but I figured it wouldn't hurt to know a little more so I took the three steps necessary to take me over to my library and actually found something relevant, an old FBI Crime Commission report on violent crimes in the inner cities. It was one of a bunch of stuff my brother had lifted from the LAPD library downtown where he worked and had passed on to me in a desperate attempt to improve my image or education or wage scale or something.

  I made some notes; time passed. I typed up the notes. I phoned a sign store down on Santa Monica Boulevard and got some prices from them. I fooled with the computer for a while trying to learn a new program. I visited the Taco-Burger where Mrs Morales' daughter served me something hot, cold, greasy and Mexican. Two bottles of icy Corona eased the pain somewhat.

  Then it was the post office to make some copies, then I visited the tool section of the local hardware store, then I picked up the Hollywood Freeway and took it downtown to the old Hall of Justice building on Temple and Broadway. It seemed polite to let the police – or more accurately in this case the Sheriffs Department, as West Hollywood was by contract under its jurisdiction and protection – know what I was up to. The fifteen-story hall, built back in the mid-twenties, is the headquarters of the County Sheriff, an elected official, and his sizable department which polices an area of LA County spread out over three thousand square miles of mountains, sea shore, islands, deserts, suburbs, 7-elevens, porn parlors, corn-dog joints and a great many places where those who thirst for knowledge go – bars. The building itself contains courtrooms and five floors of jail space at the top as well as the head administration offices of the line branches – Patrol, Vice, Burglary, Homicide and Narcotics. The Sheriff's Department has a better reputation than most if not all of the large metropolitan police forces; its recruiting standards are higher (some police forces not even requiring a complete high-school education), the training more severe, especially the physical side of it, the level of commitment and service pride higher as well.

  Downtown LA looks like downtown anywhere, it's the only part of Los Angeles that even remotely resembles a normal city. It has tall buildings. It has old hotels. It has rummies and panhandlers, a Chinese section, a Japanese section, a Little Korea, a garment district, the old flower market. I parked half legally, walked to the Hall, stated my business, showed my ID, took the elevator and in no time at all was sitting opposite a guy I knew slightly, a Deputy III name of Will Mullins who had been one of the Crew in Narcotics until he took a rifle slug in one knee when he stumbled into a holdup in progress when he was off duty one night. Since then he'd been at a desk doing community relations and as I wanted to relate to a community, or part of one, he was the man to see.

  He'd put on a little weight, Will, since the last time I'd seen him in a bar down near the Firestone Station in South LA where cops hung out. He'd lost a little hair, too, I was glad to see. And he wore glasses now.

  After the usual persiflage that occurs between us he-men types I told him why I was there.

  'Professional courtesy, one might call it,' I told him.

  'Oh, would one,' he said in a prissy voice. He seemed to be glad to have been interrupted in his paperwork. 'So what would one want from me?'

  'You could call up your equivalent in West LA and let him know what I'm up to.'

  'I ain't got no equivalent,' he said, 'especially in West LA.' He made a note on a pad. 'So what else?'

  'Do you guys provide those neighborhood watch signs?'

  'No,' he said, 'but any two-bit printer will.'

  'I thought so. I also need a phone number,' I said. 'The local hotline that might get a patrol car without it taking a couple of hours.'

  'That I can do,' he said. He flipped through a rotary card file, wrote the number down, and passed it over. 'The man you want there is a Lieutenant Ronald Isaacs, known to all who love him as Abie. What else. What have you been doing? What's life like on the outside? Met any movie stars recently?'

  'Nothing but,' I said. 'Why, Tuesday Weld was by my office only yesterday. What about you?'

  He grimaced and tossed me over a typewritten sheet of paper that was headed 'The Paradox of Law Enforcement – The Public's Right Vs. The Policeman's Needs'. Then he handed over another, 'The Contradictions Involved in Forcibly Obtained Evidence'.

  'Required reading,' he said. 'These days.'

  'Makes a change from True Detective,' I said.

  'Actually, it's pretty interesting,' he said. 'I'll send you copies if you like. You probably think Miranda was some kind of mermaid.'

  I thanked him, told him my address was in the book, and got out of there just in time for the rush hour, it was almost three quarters of an hour before I pulled up in front of my apartment. Of course I knew who Miranda was, give us a hard one, he played third base with the old Chicago Cubs. Bad field, no hit.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  By the time I got to the Kalvins' there were already a couple of dozen people and more were arriving every minute. The house itself was a large, two-story affair on Wilson Crescent, finished in rough white stucco. There were two orange trees in the front yard and something that I guessed was an avocado tree. I found a place to park down the street, locked up, retrieved my genuine leatherette briefcase with the gold initials (not mine) and strolled back.

  It seemed a pleasant part of town, flat and festive, but pleasant. Most of the homes I passed would be in the $100,000-and-up class although there were a few smaller ones. At the end of the block where Wilson met Acacia there were two three-story apartment buildings facing each other.

  The front door was open so I rang the bell and went right in. A short man in tartan trousers and a checked wool shirt bustled over to me, hand outstretched. He had a glass in the other hand.

  'Don Kalvin,' he said.

  'Victor Daniel,' I said.

  'Vic,' he said. We shook hands. 'Swell of you to make it. Come on in and mingle.'

  He led the way into a large living room.

  'Here, dump that anywhere,' he said, referring to the briefcase, 'and I'll get you a drink. What's your poison?'

  'Maybe later,' I said. The doorbell rang again.

  'It's all go tonight,' he said, wheeling briskly away to answer it. 'Be right back. Don't start without me.'

  I smiled at a couple of people who were smiling at me, then took a seat in one of the folding chairs that were set out
in three rows against the far wall where a door led out to a porch and steps led down from it to the backyard. The yard lights were on to show off the Kalvin's Jacuzzi. I hate Jacuzzis. Water is bad enough when it's not doing anything but when it's scalding hot, bubbling and frothing it's impossible.

  I looked around the room like a good detective. Lots of money and little taste is what I saw, a not uncommon combination in Southern California. Expensive Naugahyde sofas faced each other at right angles to an ornate stone and slate fireplace in which was a darling display of dried flowers. Heavy, octagonal end tables. Two tall chrome and smoked-glass floor lamps. Solid-looking ashtrays made from polished stone. Framed photographs, not pictures, on the walls, all slightly arty – long exposures of ribbons of light made by cars at night, a lone seagull at sunset, a close-up of a drop of water on a rose petal, that sort of thing.

  A pretty woman wearing a silver jumpsuit with a pink heart sewn on approximately where hearts usually are and matching pink ballet slippers came over to me and said, 'Hi, I'm Dotty Kalvin, which number are you?'

  'I don't have one,' I said, standing up politely. 'I'm the hired help.'

  'Ohhh,' she said. 'Well hi, hired help. Drinkie?'

  'Maybe later, thanks,' I said.

  'Well Dotty is going to have a drinkie,' she said, turning and heading purposefully if a bit unsteadily towards a shelved alcove where the Kalvins kept their booze. The bar was already doing a steady business but it would be unfair to suggest there was a party feeling in the room, there wasn't, there were a lot of serious faces about and there were many people who were nursing fruit juice or a soft drink.

  After a few more minutes Mr Kalvin checked his watch, said something to his wifie, who trotted off towards the front door, presumably to close it, then he raised his voice and suggested that everyone find a seat as they had better get going.

  Mr Kalvin started by thanking everyone for coming. Then he asked everyone to stand up, introduce themselves and give their house or apartment address while Dotty checked off the numbers on a master list. It turned out there was at least one representative of every dwelling on Wilson between Acacia and Delmar except for three, which was pretty good, I thought. Then he recapped the reasons for the get-together although they were only too well known to most of the assembled multitude, he said. Two burglaries from homes, a mugging, three car thefts, a fire, two attempted muggings and at least one other attempted burglary from a house all in the last six months. And there might have been others he didn't know about. And he was only talking about their one street, a street of fifty-four houses and two apartments. He understood the adjoining streets were having similar crime waves, you'd have to call them. His double garage, which was also his workroom, had been broken into three days ago during the afternoon and all his power tools stolen and he had a lot of expensive power tools, right, Dotty?