Clandestine

It was a peaceful but sad scene at the Harris apartment on Beverly Boulevard. Sad because police are powerless in dealing with the grief of a motherless nine-year-old boy. El Monte police spokesman Sergeant A.D. Wisenhunt said, "We're doing everything within our power to track down the killer. We have no idea where Mrs. Harris was killed, but we figure that it had to be in the El Monte area. The coroner places the time of her death at between 2:00 A.M. and 5:00 A.M., and the Scouts found her at 7:30 A.M. We have detectives and uniformed officers out circulating composite drawings of the two people Mrs. Harris was last seen talking to. We have to be patient—only diligent police work will crack this case."

Half of me felt crazy for even following newspaper accounts of this "case," but the other half of me screamed inside when the words "cocktail lounge" jumped out at me from the printed page. I hemmed and hawed, and pounded myself internally for several hours, until I realized there would never be a moment's peace until I gave it a whirl. Then I picked up the phone and called Sergeant Reuben Ramos at Rampart Division.

"Reuben, this is Fred Underhill."

"Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, where the hell have you been?"

"Away."

"That's for sure, man. Jesus Christ, did you get fucked! What happened? I heard tons of rumors, but nothing that sounded like the straight dope."

I sighed. I hadn't counted on recalling the past to a former colleague. "I got the wrong man, Rube, and the department had to make me look bad to take the onus off them. That's it."

Reuben didn't buy it. "I'll settle for that, man," he said skeptically, "but what's up? You need a favor, right?"

"Right. I need you to run someone through R&I for me."

Reuben sighed. "You got some amateur gig going?"

"Kind of. Are you ready?"

"Hit me."

"Marcella Harris, white female, forty-three years old."

"Isn't she that dead dame from—"

"Yeah," I cut in. "Can you run her and get back to me as soon as possible?"

"You crazy fuck," Reuben said as he hung up.

The telephone rang forty-five minutes later, and I leaped at it, catching it on the first ring.

"Fred? Reuben. Grab a pencil."

I had one ready. "Hit it, Rube."

"Okay. Marcella Harris. Maiden name DeVries. Born Tunnel City, Wisconsin, April 15, 1912. Green and red, five feet seven inches, one hundred forty. Nurse, U.S. Navy 1941-1946, discharged as a Wave lieutenant commander. Pretty impressive, huh? Now dig this: arrested in '48, possession of marijuana. Dismissed. Arrested in '50 on suspicion of receiving stolen goods. Dismissed. Arrested for drunk twice in '46, once in '47, three times in '48, once in '49 and '50. Nice, huh?"

I whistled. "Yeah. Interesting."

"What are you planning on doing with this information, man?"

"I don't know, Rube."

"You be careful, Freddy. That's all I'm gonna say. Some bimbo gets choked in El Monte, and well . . . Freddy, it's got nothing to do with the other. That's dead history, man."

"Probably."

"You be careful. You ain't a cop no more."

"Thanks, Rube," I said, and hung up.

The following morning I got up early, put on a summer suit and drove out to El Monte, taking the Santa Monica Freeway to the Pomona, headed east.

I went from smog-shrouded L.A. past picturesque, seedy Boyle Heights and a succession of dreary semi-impoverished suburbs, growing more expectant as each new postwar boom community flew by. This was new territory for me, well within the confines of L.A. County, yet somehow otherworldly. The residential streets I glimpsed from my elevated vantage point seemed sullen in their sameness, the big boom in postwar disappointment and malaise.

El Monte was smack in the middle of the San Gabriel Valley, enclosed by freeways in all directions. The San 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.