The P.I. Who Came in From the Cold

Thanks to Chloe Tzang and the The 2021 "Hammered: an Ode to Mickey Spillane" Author Challenge for inspiring me to send Pete Spector out for another go with the bad guys. Pete lacks Mike Hammer's feral masculinity and comes up short in the body count, but then I'm a mere shadow of Mickey Spillane. I hope Pete's story meets Chloe's intent. It's in Loving Wives because that's where the first Pete Spector story was.

The P.I. Who Came in From the Cold

SQUATTING IN A cardboard box used to deliver a refrigerator was a lousy way to spend a cloudy morning in LA. But there I was, on a fire escape outside a vacant Rosslyn Hotel room. The box gave me cover so I could watch the back door of the hotel kitchen across the access drive between hotel wings.

The hotel was paying me to watch the door because expensive cuts of meat seemed to be walking out of the cooler—more were missing than they were serving. Hotels don't take kindly to those kind of losses. The hotel's manager of food services, Denny Searle, was my contact. He'd arranged for the vacant room behind the cardboard box.

Searle and I disliked each other from the get-go. He tried to look the part of Manager with his Hart Schaffner Marx suit, but his jowls, greasy tie, and saggy belly shouted Food Services. It was obvious that as far as he was concerned, I was nothing but an overpaid snoop. As far as I was concerned he was ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. About the third time he tried to tell me how to do my job I wanted to tell him to shove it, but the hotel was paying me well enough to put up with him.

This was my second day in the box. Nothing out of the ordinary happened the day before. I was glad the room behind me was vacant. I could crawl in the window every few hours and dump the coffee can I was using to get rid of the coffee and Coke I drank to stay awake and grab a few drags of a Lucky. Moving around also seemed to help the bellyache that started last night.

It's almost impossible to describe the day-to-day excitement a of a P.I.'s life.

A pre-war Leica was slung around my neck in case I saw anything worth remembering. I couldn't afford such a good camera, but the client who claimed he couldn't pay me for finding his wife in bed with her boss couldn't wait to give the Leica to me when I explained—in great detail— why my home-grown collection agency was so successful.

A little before 10:00, an old Ford pickup with two guys in it pulled up outside the kitchen's back door and honked twice. A minute later, the door opened and a guy in cook's whites backed out carrying a hunk of meat under each arm (found out later it was two whole prime ribs). As he turned and walked down the steps toward the pickup, a milk truck turned into the alleyway.

I picked up the Leica to start shooting and watched the whole thing unravel through the viewfinder. The cook and the milk truck got to the pickup about the same time. The milk truck stopped just past the pickup and two guys in cheap suits jumped out. Each carried a sawed-off shotgun.

Shooting so fast they must have been slamfiring, they pumped two rounds into the cook and four into the pickup, then jumped back in the milk truck and took off. Six shots. Must've been amateurs, they didn't even take the plugs out.

I shoved the Leica in my jacket pocket and ran down the fire escape to the truck. Six rounds of double-aught buck at that range were plenty. It was hard to tell the prime rib from what was left of the cook, the pickup cab was filled with bloody chunks and pieces. I took a few more pics, then went inside the kitchen to call Lt. Dan Wilkes at LAPD.

Searle stormed into the kitchen while I was dialing. "What the hell happened out there? I thought I heard shots!"

"No shit, Sherlock, they weren't backfires. Your cook and a couple of his buddies got turned into hamburger while he was trying to give them a couple of hunks of beef." Somebody answered the phone at the cop shop just as Searle started to say some more. I held up my hand for him to be quiet. He didn't like that and I didn't care.

"Yeah, this is Pete Spector. I'm a Private Investigator. There's been a shooting at the Rosslyn Hotel, three guys are dead. I need to speak to Lt. Dan Wilkes."

I had to argue with the desk sergeant (or whoever answered the phone) for a couple of minutes before they transferred the call to Wilkes. I needed to tell him what happened, not just any old cop, because we went way back. I wouldn't have to convince Wilkes that I was just a professional observer, and he wouldn't have to convince me to tell him everything as truthfully and accurately as possible.

Wilkes came on the line, but before I had a chance to say anything Searle's temper got the best of him. "I don't give a good goddam about Burge or his pals. He's queer as a three-dollar bill, but he's a helluva good line cook so I keep him on. The cops can try to catch whoever knocked off those guys, but we don't need you anymore. Now gimme the fucking phone."

When he tried to grab the phone, I slammed his hand down on the stainless-steel counter and smashed the back with the handset as hard as I could. Doing it felt so good I bashed it again and heard some of the bones crack. He screeched and squealed like a pig caught by a hind leg.

"Be with you in a minute, Wilkes, gotta take care of a little matter here." I didn't bother to put my hand over the phone.

"Next time you try to grab something from me, Mac, I'll break your goddamn arm. Maybe both of 'em. Get smart for a change and go somewhere else until I finish talking with the cops. Or maybe you want I should lose my temper?" He tried to stare me down, then walked away cursing and holding his wrecked hand. I'd made an enemy and I still didn't care.

"Yeah, Wilkes, we got a situation down here at the Rosslyn. Three guys shot up with double-aught buck. Don't need an ambulance, just the meat wagon and a bunch of gunny sacks." I told him about being hired to watch the kitchen back door, where I'd staked it out, and how the shooting happened. Until I finished, his only response was to ask me once to slow down so he could take notes. That and a couple of wise-ass cracks about how I probably whiled away the hours in the refrigerator box. I told him to shove it, there's no hair on the palm of my hands.

"You know the drill, Spector. Stick around 'til I get there with the crime scene boys and the ME." He showed up with the ever-present chewed-up, unlit cigar jammed in the corner of his mouth. I went through the scenario again in more detail, this time pointing to visual aids. After we finished, I wound the film back in the cassette and gave it to him.

"Those'll give you a good idea of how it came down, but don't think they'll help much. Had to be a stolen milk truck. I was a good hundred feet away and no telephoto lens, so their faces'll be pretty small." Wilkes was still happy to take the film, and agreed to give me a set of prints and ID the dead cook as soon as he knew. He didn't even bother to tell me not to leave town.

I didn't feel like going to my office after that. No need to let anyone know, I didn't have a full-time secretary. My first one left last year after a couple of East Coast mobsters grabbed her and her daughter in my office, planning to rape and murder them. The two mugs were shot dead by some rival mobsters who managed to disappear without being seen. I was disappointed, but not surprised when she left a few days later for parts unknown.

I went back to my apartment instead. I'd moved as soon as I could afford to get out of my former one-room dump. The new place wasn't part of a big house broken up into so-called apartments, it was in a real-life apartment house. The entryway didn't stink of stale urine and cigars, it smelled faintly of Pine-Sol. The carpet on the stairs was worn but not threadbare, only one light bulb was burned out. All in all, a first-class joint.

My ground-floor apartment had twice as many rooms as the old place—two—plus its own bathroom with a toilet that usually flushed and a shower. The bedroom was small, the kitchenette was a stretch of counter with a sink and a few cabinets, but there was room for a stove and refrigerator that worked and a small table with two chairs.

I fixed myself a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup—the extent of my cooking skills—and washed it down with a Nehi Orange. I tried not to think how much better a beer would have tasted, then lay down for a nap. It was past 3 o'clock when I woke up. I went out in the hall and dug a copy of yesterday's Times out of a trash can, and spent the rest of the afternoon reading it and doing the crossword. My belly had started aching again so I didn't feel like eating anything. I re-read the obits to make sure I wasn't in them, then went to bed.

Down the block from my new digs were a diner and dry cleaner instead of a hock shop and whorehouse. I grabbed a quick breakfast at the diner, then headed for my office. It was the same three rooms—counting the tiny bathroom—I'd had ever since I opened shop. I'd managed to find enough paying clients since then to replace the broken-down furniture from sidewalk junk piles with half-way decent used pieces from honest-to-God furniture stores.

The secretary's chair in the outer office almost matched the desk. A couple of guest chairs without any upholstery tears sat against the wall opposite the outside door, the coffee pot worked so well that even I could fix a drinkable cup. The window was dirty but had real curtains.

The inner office still sported my old desk, but I'd fixed and cleaned it up until it looked half-way decent. Two fairly comfortable guest chairs sat in front of it, a presentable couch was pushed against one wall, a couple of pictures of Yosemite and Death Valley decorated the plain walls. The card table and folding chairs I'd called my conference table were gone because I never used them, the coffee table in front of the couch was genuine wood that took a nice polish. The place almost looked like the office of somebody who was more or less successful.

I didn't always need someone in the office, so when I did I used temps from Kelly Girl. After making a pot of coffee, I'd just leaned back in my chair with my feet on the desk to read the morning Times when the phone rang. I lurched forward and smacked my feet on the floor. Damn! If I'd called for a secretary she could have taken the call.

"Spector Investigations, this is Pete Spector." A young lady with a sweet voice was on the other end.

—Good morning, Mr. Spector. This is Kathy at the Rosslyn Hotel. If you'll come by sometime today, the desk clerk will have an envelope for you with your check. You're also invited to have a complimentary meal in our coffee shop.

Thanking her, I said I'd just had breakfast so would probably be by around noon to take up their offer for a free lunch. I went back to my feet-on-desk perch and managed to get through the Times with no further interruption. Which meant no business, of course, but at least I'd get paid for watching three guys get turned into chopped liver.

I drove to the Rosslyn, picked up my check at the front desk, and enjoyed a nice steak sandwich on the house in the coffee shop. Just as I was about to leave, a fellow walked up to my booth. "Mr. Spector?" I nodded. "Mr. Wolfson, the hotel manager, would like to speak with you in his office, if you have time."

They'd paid promptly and well for a couple of days' work, so I said sure. The guy led me behind the check-in counter, down a hall to a private elevator, then up three floors to a sunny corner office that looked down on West Fifth. Sitting behind a desk that made mine look like a matchbook cover, Mr. Wolfson obviously did all right for himself.

He stood and walked around the desk to shake my hand. Firmly, thank God. There's nothing worse than grabbing a dead fish that sprouted fingernails. "Thank you for coming on such short notice, Mr. Spector. Please have a seat. Something to drink?"

I told him no thanks, I'd just had a very nice lunch that didn't cost me anything except a tip for the excellent service. The dolly who served me really had done a good job. It didn't hurt that she was a looker who was good at flirting for tips.

"Let me get right to it, Mr. Spector. I know that you witnessed the carnage outside the kitchen yesterday, and that the perpetrators are as yet unknown. I have heard rumors that the Longshoreman's union may have had some responsibility for what happened. Have you heard anything to that effect?"

That was news to me. Wilkes hadn't called yet to ID the dead cook, so I hadn't had a chance to ask him what he'd learned. He didn't have to tell me anything, of course, but sometimes we'd keep each other posted about cases we were both interested in. "No, I hadn't heard anything about that. That's not to say it's impossible."

Wolfson leaned forward, his voice hardening. "That union is full of Communists, Mr. Spector. Chinese Communists killed my brother, and a lot of other good American boys, in Korea. If the union is responsible, I want them held accountable."

I decided to let him know I didn't disagree. There was also the possibility that he might be thinking of paying me to find out, and he paid well. "I've heard that about Communists in the dockworkers' union. The ChiComs tried pretty hard to kill me in Korea, Mr. Wolfson, and they killed way too many of my friends. But I killed a lot more of them."

He leaned back, steepled his fingers, and thought for a bit. "Would you be willing to try to find out if the rumors are true, Mr. Spector? I'd want you to spend full time on it, not work it in between other jobs. I realize that you would have to charge more than your normal rate for an exclusive arrangement."

This was getting interesting. I didn't really have anything else cooking, so taking his full-time assignment wouldn't mean losing any business, at least not right away. Before I could decide how much to bump my rates, he took the play away from me.

"I'm prepared to pay you $150 a day, assuming you'd be on call day and night if necessary, plus any expenses you incur. Would that interest you?"

Would that interest me? That was twice my normal fee. I did my best not to let on that it not only interested me, it made my day, if not my whole month. I put on my best business face, but figured I'd better make sure he was serious. "I think we might be able to work something out, Mr. Wolfson, but the police are already working on the case. What makes you think I can do a better job?"

"I believe you'll do an honest job, which is more than I can say for the Los Angeles Police Department. The labor unions have far too much power and influence in this city. I don't believe they would condone a genuine investigation of any union involvement in those murders."

It sounded like he meant what he said, so I decided to ask for a week up front. "My usual practice—"

He was way ahead of me. Taking a checkbook out of the desk, he started writing. "This should cover the first two weeks. If you resolve the matter before then, consider it a bonus for a job well done." He held out the check with a sly look that told me he probably knew my usual rate and upfront payment practice.

"You needn't check in with me every day, Mr. Spector, just let me know when you learn something interesting. I leave it to you to decide what's interesting." He took a business card from a holder on his desk and put it down in front of me. "You can always reach me at this number."

He stood, letting me know the meeting was over. I picked up his card from the desk, put it and the check in my jacket's breast pocket, and waited to be led downstairs.

Back in my office, I arranged for the answering service to cover my calls day and night since I wouldn't be needing a secretary for a couple of weeks. A couple of minutes after wrapping that up, the phone rang. It was Lt. Wilkes.

—You wanted an ID on the dead butcher. Name is Albert Burge, age 42, no priors, shares an apartment with a guy named Albright, Thomas Albright, age 48. No phone, at least no listing.

"Got an address?"

He gave me an address in a rundown part of East LA. It was after 4:00, but I decided to take a chance that Albright was home and willing to answer some questions.

I HAD NO IDEA how much a line cook at the Rosslyn made, but it couldn't have been much from the looks of the apartment building. It would've taken at least a month and a few thousand bucks to bring it all the way up to rundown. I kept looking for red tags as I walked up to the second floor looking for apartment 2C.

I knocked, waited, knocked again, was just about to leave when the door opened a crack. I saw a nose and part of a mouth, but the guy didn't say anything.

"My name is Peter Spector, I'm a private investigator. I'd like to speak with Mr. Thomas Albright. Can I come in?" It took him a minute or so to decide, then he opened the door, turned and walked away. I went in and closed the door behind me.

The living room was shabby but spotless. The only furniture was a worn-out couch and chair. The clean but curtainless window looked out on a nearby brick wall, a naked light bulb hung from the ceiling. It smelled like faded flowers.

Thomas Albright was a slight fellow, maybe 5-6, with thin features, thinning hair, and a patchy goatee. Still silent, he sat in the chair, so I sat on the couch. We looked at each other for a long minute, then another. I wasn't interested in us sitting and staring at each other all night, so I asked him how long he'd known Burge. That's all it took to end the silence. He started sobbing so hard that when he finally spoke, I could barely make it out.

"My whole life. Now it's all over." Searle's crack about Burge being "queer as a three-dollar bill" looked to be on the money. With no warning, my worst childhood memory came roaring back.

Almost 20 years ago, when we still lived in Brownsville, my cousin Jacob was arrested for soliciting sex from an undercover Brooklyn cop. Turned out the cop approached him first in the men's restroom at Lincoln Terrace Park, but such niceties as who made first contact didn't matter to the Brooklyn PD if queers were involved. Jacob was formally charged so that he'd have a record, but no prosecution was scheduled.

Aunt Sophie was giving me a piano lesson, so I was there the morning a cop brought Jacob home after a night in jail. The cop stood in the hall outside their third-floor walkup and told Uncle Ben why Jacob was arrested. Aunt Sophie and I had come to the door when we heard the shouting, and pretty soon we were all out in the hall. After the cop disappeared down the stairs, Uncle Ben backhanded Jacob. "You're no son of mine! Get the hell out and never come back!"

Aunt Sophie tried to calm things down, but Uncle Ben ignored her, shouting out his hatred until Jacob ran off. Uncle Ben pushed Aunt Sophie back in the apartment and slammed the door. I followed Jacob as he ran to the back stairway and up two more flights to the roof.

When we got to the rooftop doorway, I froze and watched Jacob run to the edge. He looked back at me and yelled, "Tell Ma I'm sorry and I love her!" Then he jumped. The roof of a streetcar broke his fall enough so that ambulance attendants scraped him off and took him to Brooklyn Hospital.

Aunt Sophie and my parents took turns sitting in his room, refusing to leave even when the nurses and orderlies threatened to call the police. I came whenever I could get away from school and my job delivering the Daily Eagle. Jacob died two days later without ever coming to.