Gabriel Mountains, awash in smog, bordered the northern perimeter.
I got off at the Valley Boulevard exit and cruised west until I found Hank's Hot Spot, described by the papers as a 'convivial watering hole.' It didn't look like that; it looked like what it more probably was: a meeting place for lonely juiceheads.
I pulled up to the curb. The place was open at eight-thirty in the morning. That was encouraging. It went along with the scenario. I was composing in my mind: Maggie Cadwallader and Marcella Harris, lonely juiceheads. I kiboshed the thought: don't think, Underhill, I said to myself as I locked the car, or this thing—which is probably only coincidence—will eat you up.
I hastily prepared a cover story as I took a seat at the narrow, imitation-wood bar. The place was deserted, and a lone bartender who was polishing glasses as I entered approached me guardedly. He nodded at me as he placed a napkin on the bar.
'Draft beer,' I said.
He nodded again and brought it to me. I sipped it. It tasted bitter; I wasn't cut out to be a morning drinker.
I decided not to waste time with small talk. 'I'm a reporter,' I said. 'I write crime stuff laced with the human interest angle. There's a double sawbuck in it for anybody who can give me some interesting lowdown on this Marcella Harris dame who got croaked last weekend.' I pulled out my billfold, packed with twenties, and fanned the cash in the bartender's face. He looked impressed. 'The real lowdown,' I added, waggling my eyebrows at him. 'The barfly tidbits that make bartending such an interesting profession.'
The barman swallowed, his Adam's apple rotating nervously in his wiry neck. 'I already told the cops everything I know about that night,' he said.
'Tell
'Well,' the barman said, 'the Harris dame came in around seven-thirty that night. She ordered a double Early Times old-fashioned. She practically chugalugged it. She ordered another. She sat here at the bar by herself. She played some show tunes on the jukebox. Around eight-thirty this greasy-lookin' guy and this blond dame with a ponytail come in. They get in some kind of conversation with the Harris dame and they all go to a booth together. The guy drinks red wine and the ponytail drinks Seven-Up. The Harris dame left before them, around eleven. The greasy guy and the ponytail left together around midnight. That's it.'
I fingered an inch or so of the twenty out from its hiding place. 'Do you think Marcella Harris already knew these people, or do you think they just met one another?'
The barman shook his head. 'The cops asked me the same thing, buddy, and it beats me.'
I tried another tack: 'Was Marcella Harris a regular here?'
'Not really. She came in once in a while.'
'Was she a pickup? Did she leave with a lot of different men?'
'Not that I ever noticed.'
'Okay. Was she a talker?'
'Not really.'
'Did you ever talk with her at length?'
'Sometimes. I don't know, once or twice.'
'I see. What did you discuss?'
'Just small talk. You know . . .'
'Besides that.'
'Well . . . once she asks me if I've got kids. I say yes. She asks me if I ever have trouble with 'em, and I say yeah, the usual stuff. Then she starts tellin' me about this wild kid she's got, how she don't know how to handle him, that she's read all these books and still don't know what to do.'
'What was the problem with the kid?' I asked.
The bartender swallowed and shuffled his feet in a little dance of embarrassment. 'Aw, come on, mister,' he said.
'No, you come on.' I stuffed the twenty into his shirt pocket.
'Well,' he said, 'she said the kid was gettin' into fights, and talkin' dirty . . . and . . . exposing himself to all the other little kids.'
'Is that it?'
'Yeah.'
'Did you tell the police about this?'
'No.'
'Why?'
'Because they never asked me.'
'That's a good reason,' I said, then thanked the man and walked back outside to my car.
I looked through the L.A. papers I had been collecting and found Marcella Harris's home address in Monday's
I surveyed El Monte as I drove. The residential streets were unpaved, and the residences that fronted them were ugly cubelike apartment buildings interspersed with subdivided farmhouses and auto courts held over from the not too distant time when this was open country.
I parked on the dirt shoulder at the corner of Claymore and Maple. Number 467 was right there on the corner, directly across from my parking spot. Two small frame houses stood in a large front yard encircled by a shoulder- high stone wall. Both houses looked well cared for, and a beagle puppy cavorted in the yard.
I didn't want to attempt the landlady—she had probably been frequently questioned by the police on her former tenant—so I just sat in the car and thought. Finally it bit me, and I dug a briefcase out of my trunk and went walking. School had recently let out for the summer, and the kids playing in their dirt front yards looked happy to be free. I waved to them as I walked down Maple, getting slightly suspicious looks in return. My crisp summer suit was obviously not standard El Monte garb.
Maple Avenue dead-ended a hundred yards or so in front of me, where a kids' softball game was in progress. The kids probably knew the Harris boy, so I decided to brace them.
'Hi, fellows,' I said.
The game stopped abruptly as I walked through their makeshift infield. I got suspicious looks, hostile looks, and curious looks. There were six boys, all of them wearing white T-shirts and blue jeans. One of the boys, standing by home plate, threw the ball to first base. I dropped my briefcase, ran and made a daring leaping catch. I fumbled the ball on purpose and crashed to the pavement. I made a big show of getting to my feet. The kids surrounded me as I brushed off my trousers.
'I guess I'm not Ted Williams, fellows,' I said. 'I must be getting old. I used to be a hotshot fielder.'
One of the boys grinned at me. 'That was still a pretty swell try, mister,' he said.
'Thanks,' I returned. 'Geeze, it's hot out here. Dusty, too. You guys ever get the chance to go to the beach?'
The boys started jabbering all together: 'Naw, but we got the municipal pool.' 'The beach is too far and it's full of beer cans. My dad took us once.' 'We play baseball.' 'I'm gonna pitch like Bob Lemon.' 'Wanna see my fastball?'
'Whoa, whoa! Hold on there,' I said. 'What about the Scouts? Don't any of you guys go on field trips with them?'
Quiet greeted my question. There was a general reacting of down-turned faces. I had hit a nerve.
'What's the matter, fellows?'
'Aw, nothin' really,' the tall first baseman said, 'but my mom got real down on our troop for somethin' that wasn't even our fault.'
'Yeah.' 'Yeah.' 'What a crummy deal!' the other boys chimed in.
'What happened?' I asked innocently.
'Well,' a tall boy said, 'it was our troop that found the dead lady.'
I tossed the battered softball into the air and caught it. 'That's a shame. You mean Mrs. Harris?'
'Yeah,' they all said practically at once.
I waded in cautiously, although I knew that the boys wanted to talk. 'She lived here on this street, didn't
