The P.I. Who Came in From the Cold

Uncle Ben never set foot in his room. Aunt Sophie moved in with us and divorced him, but divorce in New York in those days wasn't easy. It took almost three years, plus another four years to pay off the blood-sucking lawyers. By that time we'd moved to Gowanus. My father said it was to get away from the bad memories, but even I could tell that the neighborhood had changed. Crime was getting worse, sometimes it was dangerous for Jews.

It took even longer for my bad dreams to stop. Even today, I can still shut my eyes and hear him shout "Tell Ma I'm sorry and I love her!" and watch him jump.

My father never spoke to his brother Ben again.

Albright corralled his emotions and finally spoke clearly. "Why do you ask? What difference does it make?" I asked myself the same question, and had to admit that it didn't make a plugged nickel's worth of difference.

"You're right, Mr. Albright, it doesn't matter. Did he have any enemies that you know of?" He didn't say anything, just gave me a look that said Come on, Mr. Spector, you're smarter than that. You know that at least a million people in LA alone think the only good queer is a dead queer.

I was wasting my time and making him even more miserable. I tried to get myself off the hook. "Sorry I upset you, Mr. Albright. I just want to make sure that you know both the police and I are determined to find the bastards who did this and bring them to justice." Feet first, if possible, I added to myself. I also decided that Searle was going to pay for being such an asshole, if only with his job.

"Thank you for caring, Mr. Spector, but that won't bring Al back. But I do hope you find them."

I never saw Albright again. I hope he made it okay.

I NEEDED A DRINK after the visit with Albright. I was still off the booze, so I did the next best thing and headed for Laverne's new place. Bernie's went belly-up right after New Year's, so Laverne looked for a new job. She wound up at a place called The Rusty Scupper on North Main in Lincoln Heights.

When we were getting to know each other better last year, she'd jokingly referred to herself as Laverne Porter, of the Pacoima Porters. She wasn't from Pacoima, of course, nobody in southern California is from southern California. They came here before and during the War, some to the fruit and nut orchards, some to the shipyards and aircraft factories. None of them ever looked back.

Like me, Laverne was an East Coaster. I was from Brooklyn and she was from Weehawken, across the river from Hell's Kitchen at the other end of the Lincoln Tunnel. Without waiting for me to order, she brought my first Fonytini, her name for the fake martinis she made for me. She'd shake up water and a few ice cubes, then pour the water through a strainer into a martini glass and spear two or three olives. Couldn't tell it from the real thing without tasting it.

Idly scanning the customers, I munched the olives and sat there sipping as if it were straight gin. All of a sudden I bent over and yelped when a pain hit my stomach like somebody had slammed in a shiv. The bellyache I'd had for a couple of days was nothing compared to this.

Laverne immediately came down the bar and asked if something was wrong with the drink. I managed to shake my head, but she could tell that something was really wrong. Without asking, she grabbed the phone and called for an ambulance. I tried to object, but it hurt too much to even say anything, let alone wave my arms.

It took a while for the ambulance to get there. I'd managed to get off the bar stool and lie on the floor, which seemed to help a little, but I was shivering with chills and afraid I'd throw up. I don't remember much about how they got me onto a gurney and into the ambulance, but I'm told I managed to shout vulgar comments about their mothers, medical training, and all-around fitness as human beings.

They took me to LA County, where I was quickly diagnosed with a ruptured appendix and hustled into emergency surgery. I came to in the recovery room and immediately fell in love with the vision in white who assured me that the operation went fine and everything was going to be okay. I had no idea what she was talking about, I just wanted her to keep holding my hand and talking to me.

The next time I opened my eyes, she'd grown a five-o'clock shadow and looked like some exhausted guy who'd been up all night. "You're a lucky fellow, Mr. Spector. We removed the appendix and cleaned you out before peritonitis had a chance to set in." I sort of nodded as if I understood and went back to sleep.

"I wish they didn't keep this wing so cold." A different nurse was bustling around tucking in my so-called blanket and rearranging the tubes sprouting from my arms and belly. She wasn't the same angel I'd fallen in love with earlier, but she was another looker. I wondered if the hospital needed help interviewing nurse applicants.

I had to agree with her complaint about the temperature. I hadn't felt warm since shivering on the bar floor. She gave me some pills, then dimmed the lights and told me that the sooner I went to sleep the sooner I'd start healing. I wasn't sure I could sleep when I was this cold...

"COLD! JESUS, I've never been this cold! I haven't felt my feet for a couple of days." I was bitching to Kalapu Maumasi, my loader. Kal was a big guy. He claimed all Samoans were. His folks moved to San Diego right after the War. I called him Kal-El once, but he didn't read Superman comic books so he didn't get it.

Kal joined the Corps to shorten his time to get US citizenship. Then Korea happened. He wasn't sympathetic about my whining, he'd heard it all before. After Samoa and San Diego, his idea of cold was anything below 80. I'd told him that back in '34 it'd been 13 below in Brooklyn, so as far as he was concerned I had no business complaining about 30 or 35 below.

We were covering the back door of our retreat from Chosin reservoir. There hadn't been time to properly dig in the Ma Deuce, entrenching tools weren't much help on ground that'd been frozen for over a month. We made do by scraping up as much dirt and gravel as we could to fill some sandbags, then piled up some of the bigger rocks. Our position was on the military crest, as high as we could get on the hill without breaking the horizon.

We were running low on ammo, so Kal made a couple of trips over the hill to battalion HQ. He humped back half a dozen cans and the latest pogue news and rumors. "We're gonna pull back a few miles sometime tomorrow and set up on another one of these goddam hills. I told 'em we needed a whole new crew to carry all this shit since our guys got reassigned. They said they'd take care of it, but I'll believe it when I see it." Kal didn't have a lot of faith in rear echelon types, even if they were Marines. He had more news.

"Those poor doggies on the east side of the lake pretty much got wiped out. Guys said it looked like half the goddam Chink army came down on 'em." He stacked the ammo, then reached inside his parka and handed me a box of C rations,. "Here's dinner. Probably breakfast, too. Eat it fast before it freezes."

The other Ma Deuce was about 200 yards west of us. We were covering three .30 caliber M1919s with overlapping fields of fire a hundred yards below us. The .50s were effective a good thousand yards farther than the .30s. The smaller guns took care of the ChiComs we missed. We were making life difficult—and short, in a lot of cases—for the bastards trying to stop us from reaching Hungnam.

The top brass hoped that Hungnam would be our Dunkirk where we'd be snatched out from under the guns of some godawful number of ChiComs. Those poor bastards suffered from the cold even more than we did. We found a lot of them dead in their foxholes with no wounds, either starved or frozen or both. Even though we were way outnumbered, it was still humiliating to run away. We were Marines, goddammit!

Not long after Kal got back with the ammo, it started getting dark and everything went to hell. A few mortar rounds walked up the hill and a lucky shot took out the other Ma Deuce before our counterfire could take them out. Kal was up and running before I could move. He came back in a few minutes carrying three more cans of ammo and shaking his head. "Nobody left." He didn't say anything else, just clipped a couple of belts together.

No sooner had he sat back than bugles announced the first attack of the night. I started firing short bursts at the shadowy figures moving toward the base of the hill. They usually came in bunches of 75 or 100, but this time it looked like several hundred with another bunch not far behind.

I kept firing short bursts but stepped up the pace, then started worrying about overheating the barrel. The .30s below us were strafing back and forth, firing almost continuously as the ChiComs got closer. I started firing longer bursts. We'd set the tripod so I couldn't depress low enough to hit the .30 crews, so the closer the ChiComs got to the .30s the harder it was for me to train on them.

Then I ran out of ammo. I turned to yell at Kal. "What the hell..."

He was slumped on his side, a hole where his left eye used to be. I couldn't take time to make sure he was dead, I had to reload the Ma Deuce. Just as I yanked the charging lever, two Corsairs swept low over the base of the hill and dropped four tanks of napalm. The rolling fireball stopped the ChiCom attack dead in its tracks. It also incinerated two of the three .30 crews.

I didn't have time to react to their death. I figured Kal's parka was big enough to fit over mine, and it was getting colder by the minute. Working fast because his body was already stiffening, I managed to get his parka off 260 pounds of dead weight. I thought about taking his wool sweater, too, but it had to be 20 below already and I didn't want to take my own parka off long enough to put on the sweater.

I managed to get his parka on over mine, then wrapped his wool muffler over my hat around my chin and ears. I wasn't warm, but thanks to the workout and added layers I wasn't quite as cold. My good feelings didn't last.

In the dim starlight I saw movement down the hill. I couldn't believe it. The dead ChiComs were getting up, blood staining their quilted jackets, and starting to move up the hill again! Racking the charging handle again just to make sure, I fired longer and longer bursts but they'd get back up as soon as I knocked them down. They were getting closer and closer...

Then Kal grabbed my hand. "You took my coat! I'll freeze!"

"You can't freeze, you're dead!" I jerked my hand away and fired another burst, but he grabbed back.

"You took my coat! I thought you were my friend!"

"You were already dead!" I jerked my hand away again. "You were already dead!"

He reached toward me a third time, but this time put his hand on my forehead instead of grabbing mine. It was...warm?

"Mr. Spector! Mr. Spector! Wake up Mr. Spector!" The nurse's hand felt cool, not warm. "That must have been a terrible dream. You kept saying 'You were already dead!'"

I was panting like a horse that just ran eight furlongs at Santa Anita. Not trusting my voice yet, I just nodded and pointed to the glass of water on the bedside table. She put the bent straw in my mouth. I couldn't remember the last time something tasted so good, or a dolly who looked so angelic. Then I remembered the angel in the recovery room. Maybe my mind was beginning to function again.

"Thank you." My voice sounded to me like a cross between Bugs Bunny and Foghorn Leghorn but she awarded me a smile, so I guess she thought I sounded okay.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Mr. Spector. I was worried when you kept saying 'You were already dead' over and over." I didn't want to strain what was left of my voice by telling her that I was worried, too, so I just nodded and tried to grin. I think I drooled instead.

Wilkes showed up a few hours later. He wasn't carrying any flowers, just the morning Times. "Found another way to get your customers to pay while you're resting, Spector? Sweet racket you got going here."

"Wonder how much rest you'd get if your appendix exploded, Wilkes." It was good to be back in familiar ground, trading insults with him.

The nurse doped out we weren't serious. "It didn't explode, Mr. Spector, it ruptured. If you must persist in giving out unofficial reports of your condition, you should use proper terminology." She almost managed to keep a straight face.

Wilkes and I both laughed, which I immediately regretted. My belly hurt some all the time, but it hurt like a sonofabitch when I laughed. I didn't even want to think about coughing or sneezing.

We settled down and the nurse went to check on some other patients. Wilkes ID'd the two stiffs in the pickup, a couple of small-time hoods. After swapping a few more insults, he told me to give him a call if I needed anything. The nurse came back, so I didn't get a chance to ask him what he meant by "anything" before he left.

They let me go home a couple of days later after making sure there'd be someone to take care of me for the first week or so. Since Laverne had been in my room whenever her work schedule allowed, they readily accepted that she would move in with me for at least a week. Which she did. Sort of.

"Sort of" because I had no intention of taking a full week off. I called Wolfson the first day I was home to tell him what happened. He told me not to worry about it, but I did. There were too many unanswered questions. After four days of enforced recuperation, I got dressed and left for my office over strenuous (some almost threatening) objections from Laverne.

The elevator was out of order, of course, so I had to use the stairs. It was only one floor, but by the time I got to my office door I felt like I'd climbed the Washington Monument. Using my upgraded coffee-making skills, I made a pot and sat at my desk with the Times. Sure as hell, the phone rang just as I finished page one. I answered with my usual secretarial skills.

—Good morning Mr. Spector, this is Clarence Wolfson. How are you feeling? I'm surprised you're back in your office so soon.

"You aren't paying me to lie around wishing my belly didn't hurt, Mr. Wolfson. In fact, it doesn't hurt that bad anymore, and I was getting bored."

—If you really are on the mend, I'd like you to check out something down at the port of Long Beach for me. I've heard that something...interesting might happen tonight.

"Where would you hear such a thing, Mr. Wolfson?" I didn't think there was much chance he'd fess up, but I was curious as hell where he got his info. It makes me nervous when a client seems to know more than I do and won't let on how he knows.

—I'm not really at liberty to reveal my sources, Mr. Spector, but I have a great deal of confidence in them. Perhaps you should go home and rest in preparation for a night of observation. Let me repeat, observation. I'm not asking you to do anything more than passively attempt to gather information. Call me at the number on my business card if you see anything interesting, regardless of the time.

He went on to describe what he wanted me to do and specifically where to go at the waterfront. I took his advice and went home. Laverne wisely hadn't stayed after I ignored her objections. I toasted an English muffin, drank a glass of milk with it, and went to bed

LATE THAT NIGHT I drove down to the port of Long Beach, parked behind a darkened warehouse, and walked toward the water. Midnight found me on a wharf seated on a square of reasonably clean cardboard next to a dumpster, leaning against a bollard. I was watching eight semi-trailers that Wolfson had told me were loaded with frozen sides of Argentine beef intended for markets from LA to Bakersfield.

The trailers were angle-parked, leaving a gap of 15' or so to the wharf edge. The drivers obviously didn't take any chances of embarrassing themselves by backing one into the drink. The only sound was the drone of the refrigeration units on each trailer and the occasional delivery truck driving by.

I was getting cramped and sore sitting for so long, but didn't want to risk taking a pain pill and drifting off into la-la land. Couldn't smoke, of course, but I'd brought a thermos of coffee and could sneak over to the edge and piss in the harbor. Felt good to stretch out the cramps.

Shortly after 2:00 it got interesting. A delivery truck approached the gap at the end opposite me with its lights off. It stopped at the first trailer and someone jumped out. He opened a door in the side of the truck facing the trailer and latched it to the truck body, then walked over to the trailer, unlocked its padlock, and opened the door.

While he was doing all this, a second guy got out of the truck and slid a ramp out the side door. As soon as the trailer door was open, he lifted the ramp up and slid it into the trailer. Both guys jumped up on the ramp, went into the trailer, and quickly returned hefting a side of beef. They slid it down the ramp into the truck, returned inside the trailer, and hefted another side onto the ramp and into the truck. Skullduggery completed, they jumped down, slid the ramp back into the truck, and secured the trailer.

The truck moved from trailer to trailer and they repeated the process, sometimes only taking one side of beef. In less than 10 minutes they had 13 sides of beef in the truck, closed the side door, and drove off. It was a slick piece of work.

They'd taped butcher paper over the sign painted on the side of the truck, but a side had torn loose. I could read "Stagnaro Bros. Meats and Seafood" and "Hawthorne," but the street address was still covered. I took out my notebook and wrote that down plus the license number.

Fifteen minutes after the truck drove off I hoofed it back to my car. It was after 3:00 when I got home, but I called Wolfson per his instructions and gave him the name on the side of the truck and the license number. He yawned and told me to spend the rest of the day in bed. I compromised and didn't get up until 9:00.

I figured I still owed it to Wolfson and Albright to find out if the longshoremen's union had anything to do with the Rosslyn massacre. I further figured the best way to find out would be ask their boss, a guy named Harry Bridges. He lived in San Francisco, but came down once or twice a month to ride herd on the Long Beach local.

By early afternoon I had his routine. He always stayed in the same apartment in Long Beach, nothing fancy but who needs fancy for a few nights a month? There was only one bodyguard, who went into the apartment a little before Bridges got there. The guy who drove him from the train station just dropped him off at the curb.

He followed the routine religiously, which made it easy for him to remember but was really bad for security. Making it even easier for mugs like me, his trips were announced the day before in the local union newsletter. A quick check showed that as luck would have it, it was his day to arrive in Long Beach shortly after 5:00.

I WENT TO HIS apartment an hour or so before the bodyguard was due. The lock was nothing special, took me all of half a minute to get in. I waited in the bedroom for the so-called bodyguard. He came in, took off his jacket and tossed it on the couch, then went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. I walked up behind him at the sink, shoved the .45 behind his left ear, and threw a choke hold on him.

"I really don't want to spray your brains all over Mr. Bridges' nice kitchen, so take the popgun out with just a thumb and finger and put it on the counter." He stiffened as if he was going to try to break the hold, so I shoved the .45 harder and clamped tighter around his neck. "Don't even think about it, Mac, unless you got a really good life insurance policy you're dying to cash in."