The Patrolman - 7 (1/2)

 

 

7.

 

 

 

Madre Jalisco’s stood on the corner of Hollywood and Schrader at 6536. From the front, it didn't scream nightclub. Lacey walked over to the double doors. Through pink-tinted windows, two fellas were setting up for the night swing. Carruthers was parking, and they'd burned enough daylight already, so he knocked.

The 30-minute round trip to the victim's home was a bust. It was a nice hillside mansion, the kind Lacey could only dream of owning. Nobody was home, not even the help. They tried the key they found on Juanita, but it didn't fit. So they checked through the window, made a note to call again, and drove back down the hill.

'We're closed,' the older man yelled from inside.

Lacey badged him. Carruthers turned up and badged him too. The old guy opened up and led them over to the bar.

Madre Jalisco’s was very square and very cheerless in the afternoon. Upended chairs sat on dinner tables. The bandstand was nothing but a bunch of disassembled microphones. Lacey knew the place would be bouncing come night-time. Wooden crates full of imported booze sat stacked by the bar. It was a big draw - swings and chandeliers dangled from the ceiling. What sort of people came here? Did Figueroa-Villa hit this place on a whim or was she a regular? He let Carruthers do the talking, he wanted to stop and take it in.

The old guy turned to the other one – busy with a mop and a filthy bucket. If he was cleaning, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. ‘Tom, you remember the girl in the polka dot dress? The one from last night, been ‘round here before?’

Tom stabbed the mop in the bucket and kicked it to one side. Lacey checked him out. Tall, dark, late twenties, off-kilter handsome – large ears and a smattering of freckles. ‘The one that spoke to me?’ he said with a Mexican accent. 'Don’t think she’s been here before.’

‘Talk to these policemen for me, would ya?’ said the old guy. ‘I gotta fix up the private bar.’ He headed upstairs.

'You Central Division?’ Tom’s voice croaked from too many cigarettes.

'No,’ Carruthers said. ‘We’re Hollywood.’

'Then the drink’s with me, what are you having?’

Carruthers told him three fingers of rye and looked at Lacey, but he shook his head. ‘What’s your beef with Central?’   

‘Putas. They help the sailors beat the crap out of my people.’

‘I heard you boys started it?’ Carruthers said.

‘The real news ain't fit to print,’ Tom said.

On an impulse, Lacey stuck out his hand to break the ice. ‘My name’s Jake Lacey.’

He shook it. ‘Tomas Estevez, temp bartender. Is the girl in trouble?’

‘She got murdered last night,’ Carruthers said.

Estevez’s face contorted. Every muscle in it jerked, twitched, and spasmed. It happened in a fraction of a second. He’d been playing it cool. Too cool. Nobody would react like that if they'd only seen the girl once.

‘How well did you know her, Tomas?’

‘We necked once when I first started here. She used to come with her friends, copped some free drinks. That was before she met her fella. Did he do it?’

‘We’re working on it,’ Carruthers said. ‘Did you see anything out of the ordinary last night?’

Estevez said he didn't know.

Lacey pressed him.

He grabbed the mop and ran his fingers down the handle, gazing into the murky water. He pushed it around some more. ‘Might’ve been nothing.'

'What was it?'

'A car,' he said. 'Outside.'

'You get the make and model?’

‘No.’

‘What was so special about it?’

‘I don’t know. It seemed wrong. Someone was watching the club. The car was gray, or silver.’

‘You get a look at the driver?’

‘It was too dark. Can I give you the impression I got – on the Q.T.?’

‘Go on,’ Carruthers said.

A sultry voice cut through the room. ‘Something I can do for you, fellas?’

Coming through the double doors was a middle-aged brunette. Dressed like she was ready for nine holes of golf. She moved across the floor with purpose. Dark curls framed her heart-shaped face. Lines etched around her brow and eyes, more from squinting than frowning. She stopped cold when she locked eyes with Lacey's.

‘June,’ he said, almost a whisper.

‘Jake.’ She spoke through tight lips, as though talking pained her. 'How are you?’ She seemed to be struggling to keep cool. Her eyes slid shut for a moment. When she opened them again, the hard look was back. She glanced at Carruthers. ‘June Hartsfield,’ she said. ‘This here's my place. Tomas, I'll see you in my office.'

Estevez headed upstairs.

‘This a social call, Jake?’

‘Police business,' he said.

Hartsfield took a cigarette from a gunmetal case. ‘Be a darling, won’t you?’ she said. He lit it for her and Hartsfield rested a hand on his. Their eyes locked, taking the other in, but Lacey broke it off. She smiled. They got down to brass tacks. Carruthers told her about the girl. It was busy last night, Hartsfield didn’t remember her. He asked who shut the place, and she told them. ‘Lenora. Want me to fetch her?’

‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Well,' Hartsfield said. 'Trouble is my business.'

They watched her leave, making music with her hips.

'What the hell just blew into Los Angeles?' Carruthers said.

Lacey said nothing and stuffed his hands in his pockets. June Hartsfield had changed plenty since they first met. Now she'd gone all Hollywood. Carruthers didn't ask, but he knew it was coming.

Then came Lenora Childs.

She looked better than Lena Horne, and that was saying something. They did introductions. Childs was the head bartender. She'd worked there since the joint opened, which she said was around 18 months ago, give or take a couple of days. Lacey did the math and realized what it meant.

'Tell me about her,' said Carruthers. 

'What do you wanna know? I've known Juanita Figueroa-Villa for years. She used to work as a coat check girl with me at the Chicago Confetti Club.'

'Mickey Cohen's place? Over on Sunset?'

'The one and the same,' she said. 'Her pop's some kinda bigshot downtown. She wasn't exactly a nice girl to work with.’ Childs explained why. She didn’t give Figueroa-Villa a total hatchet job but painted the picture of a spoiled brat. She bounced from job to job. Not out of any genuine desire to work, but at her father’s insistence. Childs knew her well enough to say ‘hi’ to, but that was about it. Figueroa started coming around the club six months ago with her girlfriends. ‘Last night she brought her guy, ain’t the sort of place guys like him come to if you.'

'Spell it out, sister,' Carruthers said.

‘This place attracts a certain. . . crowd. Hollywood types. People with a lot of money and specific tastes.' she said. ‘Rich couples come here to experiment. If you’re single, well, you can still have fun. It’s members only. If you don’t come recommended, then you ain’t getting in. June’s selective about that. Juanita’s fella is a working man. Runs his pop’s repair shop. He’d stopped by before but, last night, he came in. Seemed pissed about it. Got drunk.’

‘And?’

‘Well, for every drink she had, he ordered two. Rum, neat. He put them away like it was going out of fashion. Juanita got sick of him and called a cab. I was closing up at three, three-thirty, and the cab still hadn’t come. The boyfriend said he’d drive them back. She went crazy. Threatened to call the police on him. It blew up. I went out to count the cash and when I got back, she was crying at that table there and the boyfriend was gone. I offered to call her another cab, but she insisted there was one coming. I had to close up, so she waited outside in her boyfriend’s coat. A car pulled up, she got in, and it took off.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then you two showed up and told me she’s dead.’

A pin could’ve dropped.

Lacey interjected, and asked: ‘Do you know where we can find this boyfriend?’

Lenora Childs pulled a face. ‘She didn’t deserve what happened. That’s the only reason I’m tellin’ you. His name’s Manny Flores and he runs his father’s repair shop over on Bunker Hill.'

 

© J. A. Stapleton 2025 - Image Source: Wikimedia Commons