Oceans of Brass: Dapper Luoo Mysteries, #2

Chapter 1

LOCATED ALONG SAN PEDRO Street at the edges of Skid Row, the El Rey Hotel was shaped like an elevated letter E, with three separate wings connected by a back building, all atop the ground level containing various side businesses and the lobby entrance.

While the doorman and bellhops were usually on the lookout for anyone who didn’t belong inside, a smartly-dressed Asian man with enough panache would stand an even chance of getting past these formidable sentries, provided he kept his nerve.

And I aimed to do just that. With my chin up and shoulders straight, I walked in through the glass entrance before seemingly heading towards the front desk.

The young bellhop in his stiff uniform, circus cap, and starched white gloves standing by the doorway was just about to stop me, but he ended up hesitating just a little, giving me enough time to stride right past him before he lost sight of me as a group of young, out of town hepcats swarmed the lobby, asking for directions to an all-night diner to nurse their hangovers away.

With the receptionists duly distracted, I nearly let out a smile as I walked over to the corridor that housed the elevators. For almost an hour I’d been biding my time outside, waiting for the right moment to get in, and everything worked like a cinch so far. Tonight was my lucky break, I felt it in my bones.

Instead of pushing the button to summon the lifts, I opened the door leading to the stairwell and began making my way up on foot. I wasn’t sure about the hotel’s accommodation rules, therefore it was a safer bet to use whatever the building staff ought to be employing, instead of sticking out like a sore thumb and getting arrested for it.

I remained in good shape since I still jogged occasionally and smoked less than a pack of Chesterfields a day, making it up to the eighth floor without breaking a sweat or slowing my stride. Opening the door ever so slightly, I peeked out into the plush corridor beyond.

The passageway was deserted. With my footsteps muffled by the thick red carpeted floor, I moseyed towards a door with the numbers 819 stenciled in gold. Placing my ear against the inch thick lacquered mahogany paneling, I tried my best to listen in.

Much of what I heard seemed to be coming from a radio. Snippets of Evelyn Knight’s muffled singing about what a little bird told her reverberated in my eardrums as I tried to get a bearing on what else was going on inside.

Once the song had ended I heard a soft giggling, like a little pet mouse squeaking in delight while having its fur stroked.

Do you like that, sweetheart? I bet you do, a baritone voice said from within the room.

Taking out a skeleton key from my trouser pocket, I carefully inserted it into the keyhole and began to shift it up and down, trying my best to line the lock pins in place before twisting.  

When I heard the audible click, I placed the key back into my pocket before I began to turn the knob slowly, all the while listening in just in case the room’s inhabitants had been alerted by what I’d done.

The constant giggles and manly humming seemed to demonstrate the ones inside didn’t notice. But just as I inched the doorway open, the chain above the lock quickly became taught, preventing me from expanding the slight gap any further.

Peering through the sliver, all I could make out were their shoes on the bed, a pair of black wingtips atop a pair of green felt wedges.

I bit my lip in frustration. The one thing I forgot to plan for was a little old door chain. With an opening less than two inches wide, I couldn’t slip my arm in. My very lucky night was quickly turning into a tall glass of sour milk.  

Hearing a noise coming from the other end of the corridor, I silently closed the door and turned away towards the opposite side, right into the open balcony that jut out in between the rooms. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw another female guest walking up to another room and letting herself in. She either failed to notice me or didn’t think much of it.

A laundry cart had been placed along the side of the balcony, with numerous crumpled bed sheets still lying in the hamper. I shook my head slowly while staring out into the nighttime streets of Los Angeles, wondering what else I could do.

Hearing more squeals coming from the target room, I quickly surmised the window leading inside was parallel to the balcony. Peering out past the metal railing, I checked to see if I could position myself to peer into the adjoining window.

No such luck. The casement alongside the balcony was almost four feet away from where I was standing. The building walls were smoothened concrete, with no chance of being able to climb sideways using handholds. I would have to find a way to extend my body out in order to do the task that was needed.

My eyes once again fell on the laundry hamper, followed by an idea so screwy, it might have come out in a Looney Tunes short. My logic circuits kept telling me it was a bad plan, one that would surely get me killed, but my gut insisted upon doing it.

Grabbing the sheets from the cart, I held them up in front of me, testing their material strength. The used white cloth had lost its starchiness, but the fabrics held firm to matter how much strength I put into tearing them apart.

With a foolhardiness I never thought I had, I tied two sheets together, before binding one end around one of the balcony’s metal railings. I wrapped the other end around my waistline and knotted it, testing again to make sure it held my weight.

After pulling out the borrowed Leica camera from beneath my coat and placing its strap around my neck, I put one foot over the guardrail, followed by another, until I was suspended at the edge of the balcony. Not wishing to look down at the eight story drop below, I kept one hand on the railing and tried to lean out again.

The makeshift line extended along my side and seemed to keep me in place. Letting go of the railing, I leaned out a bit further until my head and shoulders were just past the adjoining window.

Thankfully the curtains hadn’t been drawn shut, and I could see clearly what was going on inside. The fifty-something male subject resembled Walter Pidgeon in looks and body, but with a cruel upturned sneer. He had stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, but he somehow kept his shoes and black sock garters on.

The half-naked woman with curly red locks lay giggling on the bed as he alternately danced in front of her, before occasionally falling on top of her voluptuous body like a plank of wood, and then repeating the same routine all over again.

"When the El Chiquita opens her watertight doors, it’ll feel just like this," the man said as he began caressing her.

Oh Horace, the woman said. You’re such an animal!

I snapped away with the camera while the both of them remained oblivious to my presence just outside the window. The radio continued to play crooning ballads of Perry Como and Frankie Lane, drowning out my photographic clicking.

After taking more than a dozen shots, I sensed my own body slipping sideways. Dropping the camera, I used both hands to try and grab hold of the sheet just as the knot around my waistline suddenly began to untangle itself.

My survival instincts kicked in, turning my once calm demeanor into a blind panic as my senses fully realized that I was about to take a very nasty and final fall. My hands clawed at the sheet in a desperate struggle to climb back into the balcony.

I didn’t have much strength left in my arms, and for a short minute I actually thought myself too weak to get over the railing. But some sort of inner power mixed with a spurt of adrenaline somehow got me to clamber up and over. The next thing I knew I was sitting on the balcony, panting and sweating like a penguin in the Sahara Desert.

After getting back up on my feet, I looked down. The camera continued to dangle around my neck before I gingerly placed it back beneath my coat. Tossing the sheets back into the hamper, I hurried towards the stairwell once more.

Chapter 2

I WOKE UP BRIGHT AND early the very next morning in the tiny apartment above the restaurant my parents were running. After doing my morning ablutions in the even tinier bathroom, I dressed in a white collared shirt, striped tie, and navy blue suit with penny loafers.

My younger brother had already gone to school, so I took my time, using splashes of Vitalis to help set my hair. Suitably dressed, I walked down the stairs, past the restaurant kitchen, and stepped out into the alleyway. My dad called out to me in Cantonese as I exited the establishment, but I made a curt reply that I was busy, and scampered out of earshot before he could retort.

It had been a few months since I graduated from UCLA with an accounting degree. My parents were openly wondering whether I’d be getting a job by now, and hardly made any protests whenever I left home, figuring I must be out looking for work. But as time passed, they began to grow suspicious of my activities.

The fact that I hadn’t spoken to them much since my graduation also added to the tension, and I avoided staying at home for very long, preferring to hang out with my best friend Herbert Wong, or moonlighting at a gig I didn’t want them to know about. Deep in my heart I knew I would have to tell them the truth sooner or later, and I somewhat dreaded the day it would finally occur.

For the meantime I preferred to keep things as they were, until it got to a point where I could impress them with what I’d achieved. Last night’s hair raising experience made me feel that I finally turned the corner, and I couldn’t wait for the expected accolades to come my way.

Walking up to the pre-war, dark blue Ford De Luxe parked in the next alley, I unlocked the door and started up the engine. This sedan used to belong to Herbert, and when he got a new car a few months back, he offered to sell this one to me at a reasonable price. Naturally, I jumped at the chance.

With the jalopy’s engine now fully warmed up, I eased it from the back street and out into Broadway. Turning into Sunset Boulevard, I rode it straight down, all the way west before driving into Wilshire, just south of Beverly Hills.

Parking the car in the back lot, I got out and made my way to the entrance of a four-story commercial building, one of the newly constructed ones in the area. The plush lobby had polished green granite floors and emerald lamps casting stylish lighting from the alcoves. Seeing a familiar face, I was waved through by the uniformed security guard stationed near the receptionist’s desk.

Stepping off the top floor elevator, I sauntered down the corridor until I got to the last office on my right. The sign on the frosted glass door read: Everett Wayne, P.I. in gold painted letters. Turning the shiny golden knob, I stepped inside.

At the desk facing the door, a thirtyish woman with cat eye framed glasses and light green blouse beneath her blue office coat glanced up at me and smiled. You’re early, Dapper. How’s it going?

I made a wide grin. Morning, Mary. Did the boss get them?

He sure did. The studio brought the prints over just as I got in this morning.

Is he free? I asked.

He’s in a meeting which ought to be over soon. Take a seat.

I sat down on a padded Harvard chair by the entryway and began leafing through the newspapers lying on a side table.  The front page of the Herald-Express displayed what looked to be the aftermath of another mob killing that took place in South Central L.A.

Reading the article, I shook my head. In July of last year the mob war between Mickey Cohen and Jack Dragna had intensified. Ever since the death of Bugsy Siegel, Cohen had been busily trying to take over as prince of the city, but Dragna’s established Italians weren’t going to give up L.A. without a fight. The war consisted mostly of assassination attempts, as each side tried to ambush and cut off each other’s heads in one fell stroke.

Cohen seemed luckier than most, having survived numerous attempts on his life. Dragna was doing his best to stay out of the limelight, and things were quiet for most of the time until a hit happened. And on it went for more than a year now.

But this particular article looked different. A private betting saloon above a colored barbershop a few blocks south of West Vernon Avenue was raided by unknown assailants. Four men inside were slaughtered and the cash taken. The police claimed automatic weapons were used.

Noting the author of the piece, I couldn’t help but smile. Frances Byner wrote it, and she had implied—with unnamed sources, of course—that the betting parlor was affiliated with the Dragna family. The last time I saw her was during my college graduation ceremony. She’d apparently been accepted as a full-fledged reporter for the Herald-Express, and I couldn’t help but feel happy for her.

My ears barely picked up the sounds of the inner office door opening up, since I was too engrossed in reading about the latest news on the rapidly expanding conflict in Korea. The United States was once again involved in another overseas war, only this time we were fighting the communists now.

Mary’s sisterly voice quickly brought my senses back to the present. Oh Dapper, he wants to see you now.

I quickly looked up and thanked her while folding the newspaper back onto the table. Getting to my feet, I strolled into the boss’s office and closed the door behind me.

Everett Wayne was leaning back on his padded captain’s chair, smoking a cigar behind the gargantuan desk. He was short man with thick hips, and resembled a graying James Cagney with a balding forehead. Have a seat, kid, he said.

I sat down in front of him. The morning sun’s rays filtered by the venetian blinds divided the room into vertical rows of varying light, and I hunched forward in order to prevent one of these bars from blinding me. Good morning, sir.

He let out another puff before placing the cigar on the ashtray. Picking up a folder from the side of the desk, he opened it up and held one of the photographs in front of his face. These are very good. How did you get these without them seeing you?

I made a mischievous smile. We Chinese tend to become invisible whenever someone looks the other way for just a minute.

Wayne smirked back. Congratulations are in order. You’re the first of my operatives to actually get a picture of Horace Wilson and his mistress. Well done, kid. Looks like this case is now in the bag.

Thank you, sir.

I’ll have Mary type you a check for twenty dollars, he said. But if you can’t wait, I can give it in cash out of my own wallet.

My giddiness quickly turned to disappointment. I was hoping for a fifty, or maybe even a hundred, sir.

He shook his head. That kind of pay is what I earn, kid. When you get to run your own private detective firm, that’s when you can charge the big bucks to the other fellah.

But Mr. Wayne, you told me there would be a bonus if I can take these kinds of photographs, I protested. Your other operatives couldn’t even get close to Wilson, but I did just that.

Look kid, you did real well. But in the end, you’re working for me, remember? I’ll make it thirty, but that’s my limit. Will it be enough to make you happy?

I turned away without answering him.

Placing the photograph on top of the table, he leaned forward in order to make eye contact with me. How long have you been working for me, kid?

About six months, sir, I answered.

I remember you coming in here, practically begging for a job, he said. I did some checking on you, and it seems you solved some mystery in Chinatown, about a murdered boy. I took a chance on you, and I have to admit you’ve done very good work for me.

Yes, sir.

Look at this from my end, Wayne said. I run a full staff, with at least four other operatives, and I’ve known them for years, kid. You started just a few months ago, and now you want to become my partner or something?

I straightened my shoulders in order to give myself more confidence. I can do it, sir. I have a college degree, and I’ve shown that I can get things done. Give me your hardest cases, and I’ll solve them in a few weeks’ time. You have my word.

Wayne threw his head back and laughed. You’ve got plenty of chutzpah, kid, I’ll grant you that. You may have a college degree, but it actually makes you the least qualified of my operatives.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. What do you mean, sir?

Of my other four, two are former cops, the third is an ex-Pinkerton man like me, and the fourth used to be a Czechoslovakian Resistance agent during the War, Wayne said. Your college degree doesn’t mean much for this kind of work, Dapper.

But I proved myself to you, didn’t I?

What exactly are you looking for, kid?

Just a step up, sir, I said. Give me one of your tougher cases. So far all I’ve been doing is the divorce stuff.

He let out another chuckle before puffing on his cigar again. I understand now. You must think my other operatives are working on the more interesting things, is that it?

I nodded. You’re the highest paid private detective in the city, sir. I did my own checking before asking for work here. You charge at least a hundred and fifty a day, plus expenses.

Wayne looked at me with amusement in his eyes. It looks like you’re a bit of a romantic, son, so I’m going to tell you the whole truth. The fact of the matter is... there are no other types of cases that I do other than the divorce stuff.

My ribcage nearly caved in on itself. Are you serious, sir?

He leaned back and nodded. I think you’ve watched too many movies, Tommy. Divorce cases are my bread and butter, it’s what all successful detectives do for a living. Murder cases and all that, it’s mostly a job for the police. When a man or a woman comes into my office asking for help, it’s not about finding someone’s killer or locating a missing person, it’s all about losing trust in one’s spouse. Love is the one thing that’s most expensive in life, and it’s my job to find out if it is real or not.

I looked down. My throat felt tight. His words of wisdom were the plain, unvarnished truth, and it hurt.

Look, Dapper, he said softly. You’ve got a college degree. Stop chasing these fleeting dreams and go on with your life. A real detective isn’t what you see in the motion pictures. It’s mundane work, just like what everybody else does.

I was hoping to strike out on my own one day, I said softly.

Wayne’s fatherly eyes were tinged with pity. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m going to be blunt, kid. You’re Chinese, which means the city will never approve your license. If you want to stick with me, I can offer you a full-time, salaried position as an operative, but I will always be running the show. Take it or leave it.  

Chapter 3

AFTER DRIVING BACK to Chinatown, I walked into the Pagoda Lounge, a bar owned by Herbert’s parents tucked inside the Broadway entrance. Making my way past the little corridor at the back and into the storeroom, I walked up the narrow stairs leading up to a secluded room that had a perfect view of the main square down below. We called this place the Hideout, and no one else was allowed up here except close friends of ours.

When I opened the door I found Herbert relaxing on the upholstered settee, reading a magazine. The freestanding Philco radio phonograph by the window had just finished playing Rag Mop, and now a series of advertisements about vitamin tonics were being aired.

There was an old rocking chair near the wall shelves containing our combined record collection, and I sat down on it with a tired sigh.

Herbert looked up from the magazine. He used to physically resemble me when we were kids, but now his girth had widened considerably. And a good afternoon to you too, Dapper, he said.

I didn’t want to go back to my parents’ restaurant just yet, so I dejectedly stared out the window. Sorry, I’m just not in a good mood right now.

He sat up and adjusted the thick glasses over his eyes. Would it be alright to ask about what’s bugging you?

I’m no longer working for Everett Wayne.

Oh? Did he fire you?

I shook my head. No, I quit.

Why did you do that?

It was by mutual agreement, I said softly. He basically told me I was overqualified to be a shamus.

He’s right, Herbert said. You graduated from college and yet you’re working for a private investigator?

I threw my hands up. It’s not my fault! No one wants to hire me as a bookkeeper. Do you know how many applications I’ve sent out? A little over two dozen now, and not a single reply or even a telephone call asking for an interview.

Herbert shook his head slowly while folding the newspaper and placing it onto the coffee table in front of him. It’s because you’re Chinese, Dapper.

Don’t I know it, I said. The main reason why my kind ended up doing laundry work and ran restaurants was because they were the only kind of jobs society allowed us to have. I wondered why my parents were so eager for me to get a college degree when in the end I wouldn’t be allowed to have an occupation pertaining to it.

Back in the day our grandparents used to send their most highly educated sons over to China, Herbert said. Pity that avenue isn’t open anymore.

He was right. The communists had defeated the Kuomintang, the national government of China led by Chiang Kai-shek, and now ruled all of the mainland. These events had been severely distressing to the Chinese community in America, since we were supporters of the Kuomintang.

I knew a number of the older generation who now felt lost, cut away from their once ancient ties to the Middle Kingdom. Ever since the rise of communism, the once friendly relations we had with the rest of society steadily deteriorated once again, with many of the other ethnic groups in the city now distrusting us. To them, we were all commies, deserving of nothing but scorn and apathy.

Herbert leaned back on the settee. Ah well, maybe you could join the Army now. There’s a new war we’re fighting, in case you didn’t know.

I bit my lip. I doubt if they’ll even give me a draft notice. There’s been rumors that the communists in China are helping the North Koreans, and the last thing they’d want is someone like me in the ranks.

You’re right. If the communists don’t shoot you, your own buddies in the military would probably put a bullet or two into your back.

I glared at him. We’re both the same age, Herbie. Aren’t you concerned about being drafted?

He grinned while proudly patting his bulging gut. I doubt if I’ll even pass the physical. The doctor told me I have high blood pressure. My days of running around pretending to be a man of action are over.

I let out another deep sigh. There’s just no way I can win.

Your parents asked me a few times what you’ve been up to, Herbert said.

What did you tell them?

I said what you told me to say, that you aren’t around and you were out looking for a job.

Thanks, Herbie. At least I can count on you.

Speaking of good buddies who stick up for each other, guess who showed up at the bar a few nights ago?

Who?

Frank and Paul Yuen, Herbert said. You remember those two knuckleheads, don’t you?

Oh, how could I forget, I said rhetorically. Frank and Paul were the two oldest sons of Ti Fat Yuen, the one we used to call Fat Manchu when we were kids. The elder Yuen was a noted tong leader, and he had a hand in the opium trade and the gambling parlors around the city. Frank and Paul were a few years older than us, and they bullied every other kid in Chinatown before becoming full time gangsters under their father.

It kind of surprised me that those two no-goodniks showed up in my bar all of a sudden, Herbert said.

What did they do?

Herbert sneered. Not much. Stood around like they owned the place. Asked a few questions. The worst part was they ordered a couple of beers and didn’t even pay for them.

I stopped rocking the chair. My natural curiosity had once again manifested itself, like a newly awakened alley cat looking for grub. What kind of questions were they asking?

They were wondering if anyone had seen Donny. Pretty strange question, huh?

I pursed my lips. That is weird.

Donny was the youngest of the three Yuen brothers, yet he was the complete opposite of his father and older siblings. While Frank and Paul were the brutish physical types, Donny was a kind and sensitive soul, preferring books and music over fisticuffs and switchblades. Herbert and I were the same age as Donny, and we got along with him pretty well. Even the elder Yuen sensed his third son was different, and allowed him to finish high school.

Herbert smiled while shaking his head. "So Frank and Paul were going