'I don't ask my customers for their sexual preferences, Officer,' Brubaker said. His voice was light.
'Well put. Why should you?' I said. 'I'm Detective Underhill and this is my partner Detective Smith.' I clapped Dudley's broad back again, this time even harder. Dudley winced, but his brown eyes twinkled at me in silent conspiracy. I pointed to a sofa at the back of the little office. 'Let's all sit down, shall we?'
Brubaker shrugged his frail shoulders and took the chair facing the sofa, while Dudley sat on his desk, dangling one leg over the edge and banging his heel against the wastebasket. I sat on the couch and stretched out my long legs until they were almost touching Brubaker's feet.
'How long have you owned this bar, Mr. Brubaker?' I asked, taking out a pen and notepad.
'Since 1946,' he said sullenly, his eyes moving from Dudley to me.
'I see,' I went on. 'Mr. Brubaker, we've had numerous complaints about your bar being used as a pickup place for bookmakers. Plainclothes officers have told us this is a hangout for known gamblers.'
'And a homo den of iniquity!' Dudley bellowed. 'What was the name of that flashy-dressing gambler we rousted, Freddy?'
'Eddie Engels, wasn't it?' I asked innocently.
'That's the pervert!' Dudley exclaimed. 'He was taking bets at every queer joint in Hollywood.'
Brubaker's eyes went alive with recognition when I mentioned Engels's name, but no more. He was holding his ground stoically.
'Do you know Eddie Engels, Mr. Brubaker?' I asked.
'Yes, I know Eddie.'
'Does he frequent your bar?'
'Not really, not for a while.'
'But he did in the past?'
'Yes,'
'When?'
'The first few years I owned the Cabin.'
'Why did he quit coming here?'
'I don't know. He moved out of the area. He broke up with the woman he was living with. She used to come here frequently, and when they broke up Eddie stopped coming around.'
'Eddie Engels used to live here in Venice?' I asked mildly.
'Yes, he and Janet lived in a house near the canals, around Twenty-ninth and Pacific.'
I let my breath out slowly. 'When was this?'
'The late forties. From sometime in '47 to early '49, as I recall. Why all this interest in Eddie?' Brubaker inched his feet closer to my outstretched legs so that they touched my ankles. I felt a queasy sort of revulsion come up, but I didn't move.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dudley swivel his neck. 'Enough horseshit!' he bellowed. 'Brubaker, are you and Eddie Engels lovers?'
'What the world, are you—' Brubaker exclaimed.
'Shut up, you goddamned degenerate! Yes or no?'
'I don't have to—'
'The hell you say. This is an official police investigation, and you will answer our questions!'
Dudley got up and advanced toward Brubaker, who fell over in his chair, got up and backed himself into the wall, trembling.
I came between them as Dudley closed his hands into fists. 'Easy, Dud,' I said, pushing him gently at the shoulders. 'Mr. Brubaker is cooperating, and we're investigating bookmaking, not homosexuality.'
'The hell you say, Freddy, I want to get a handle on this degenerate Engels. I want to know what makes him tick.'
I sighed, and released Dudley. Then I sighed again. I took Brubaker by the arm and led him to the couch. He sat down and I sat down beside him, letting our knees touch lightly. 'Mr. Brubaker, I apologize for my partner, but he has a point. Could you tell us about your association with Eddie Engels?'
Brubaker nodded assent. 'Eddie and I go back to the war. We were stationed together down at Long Beach. We became friends. We went to the races together. We stayed friends after the war. Eddie is a very popular guy at the racetrack, and he brought lots of people here to the Cabin. Lots of beautiful women, gay and straight. I introduced him to Janet, Janet Valupeyk, and they moved in together, here in Venice. He still comes by here once in a while, but not so much since he broke it off with Janet. We're still friends. That's about it.'
'And he likes boys, right?' Dudley hissed.
'That's none of my business, Officer.'
'You tell me, Brubaker, now!'
'He's a switch-hitter,' Brubaker said, and stared into his lap, ashamed at divulging that intimacy. Dudley snorted in triumph and cracked his knuckles.
'What does Eddie do for a living, Mr. Brubaker?' I asked gently.
'He gambles. He gambles big and he usually wins. He's a winner.'
Dudley caught my eye and nodded toward the door. Brubaker continued to stare downward.
'Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Brubaker. You've been very helpful. Good day.' I got up from the sofa to leave.
Dudley got in a parting shot: 'You don't breathe a word of this to a soul; you got that, you scum?'
Brubaker moved his head in acquiescence. I gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze as I followed Dudley out the door.
Walking back to my car, Dudley let out a big whoop. 'Freddy, lad, you were brilliant! As was I, of course. And we got solid evidence—handsome Eddie was living two blocks away when that tragic young woman was croaked in '48. Just think, lad!'
'Yeah. Are we going to put someone on that?'
'We can't, lad. Mike and Dick are tailing Engels twenty-four hours a day. There's just the four of us on this investigation, and besides, the trail's too cold—three and a half years cold. But don't worry, lad. When we pop Eddie for Margaret Cadwallader, he'll confess to all his sins, don't you fear.'
'Where to now?'
'This Janet Valupeyk bimbo. She lives in the Valley. She was the other credit reference for handsome Eddie. We can mix business with pleasure, lad; I know a great place on Ventura Boulevard—corned beef that melts in your mouth. I'm buying, lad, in honor of your stellar performance.'
With our guts full of corned beef and cabbage, Dudley and I drove to Janet Valupeyk's house in Sherman Oaks.
'Let's just hope old queer Larry didn't call her ahead. Kid gloves with this one, lad,' he said, pointing at the large, white, one-story ranch-style house. 'She's obviously got dough and she's got no record at all. It's no crime being charmed by a lounge lizard like charming Eddie.'
We knocked and a handsome, full-bodied woman in her late thirties threw open the door. She was blurry eyed and wearing a wrinkled yellow summer dress.
'Yes?' she said, slurring slightly.
'We're police officers, ma'am,' Dudley said, showing her his badge. 'I'm Lieutenant Smith, this is Officer Underhill.'
The woman nodded at us, her eyes not quite focusing. 'Yes?' She hesitated, then said, 'Come in . . . please.'
We took seats uninvited, in the large air-conditioned living room. The woman plopped down in a comfortable armchair, looked at us and seemed to draw on hidden resources in an effort to correctly modulate her voice: 'I'm Janet Valupeyk,' she said. 'How can I help you?'
'By answering a few questions,' Dudley said, smiling. 'This is an absolutely charming home, by the way. Are you an interior decorator?'
'No, I sell real estate. What is it?'
'Ahhh, yes. Ma'am, do you know a man named Eddie Engels?'
Janet Valupeyk gave a little tremor, cleared her throat and said calmly, 'Yes, I knew Eddie. Why?'
