Dead-Bang Fall: A Nate Ross Novel

By J.R. Sanders

March 1939, and try as he might, private eye Nate Ross can't seem to stay clear of Hollywood. His latest case, a penny-ante theft caper, turns deadly serious when one of the miscreants is murdered and Nate's the prime witness. No sooner does L.A.P.D.'s number one suspect - a former friend and disgraced

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Apr 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685120955

J.R. Sanders

Award-winning author J.R. Sanders is a native Midwesterner and longtime denizen of the L.A. suburbs. His nonfiction articles appear in such periodicals as Law & Order and Wild West magazines. His books include Some Gave All, which gives true accounts of forgotten Old West lawmen killed in the line of duty. J.R.'s first Nate Ross novel, Stardust Trail - a detective story set among the B-Western film productions of 1930s Hollywood - was a 2021 Spur Award Finalist (for Best Historical Novel), and Silver Falchion Award Finalist (for Best Investigator). Bring the Night is the third novel in the Nate Ross series.

Book preview

Chapter One

I’d tumbled to their game right away. I’d watched them pull it about two dozen times over the course of the evening. I was working a penny-ante job for a guy named Mike Skaggs, who ran the Del Rio movie house on Vine, south of Fountain (try as I might, I couldn’t seem to stay clear of Hollywood). Skaggs suspected his box office girl and doorman were in cahoots stealing ticket money. He was right.

I sat directly across from the box office in a dark office above a stationery shop. I’d slipped the janitor a fin to let me set up there, had been watching all afternoon. The vantage point gave me a clear view of the front doors and inside the little neon-framed booth from which the girl, Nora Kay, sold tickets. How it was supposed to work was this: patrons would promptly present said ducats to George Felton, who stood at the entrance in white gloves and a uniform like a comic opera general. His job was to tear each ticket in two, put half in a slotted box on a pedestal by the ornate double doors, and return the other half to the customer, whom he then swept through the doors with a lot of flourish. But these two birds had a system.

It was a dusty gag. With some sweet sleight-of-hand, George would palm the torn-off ticket half, then give the patron the stub and usher him or her in. Then, pretending to be adjusting his gloves, he’d slip the half ticket into the cuff of his right glove. Next customer, he’d pretend to tear the ticket, simultaneously palming it and slipping the half ticket from his glove. He would pantomime depositing a torn ticket in the box, give the rube his half, and see him through the doors. Again, he’d straighten his gloves, sneaking the intact ticket into his left glove. When he’d accumulated a half dozen or so whole tickets, and there was a lull at the box office, he’d saunter over to have a casual word with Nora and sneak the tickets to her through the little opening in the window. She’d sell those loose tickets to the next customers who came along, then set aside the two bits per they handed over, no doubt to be divvied up later with the doorman.

There was a phone in the room I was occupying, so I dialed Mike Skaggs. He answered on the second ring, sounding about half in the bag. Hey, Ross. You on the job?

Yeah. I figured you’d want to know you were right. Felton and the girl, working it together.

Felton, too? Shit.

Yeah. I’ve got plenty of photos, but I thought you might want to come down. I can give you the skinny and we’ll make the pinch.

He paused so long I thought the line had gone dead. Finally, Nah, I’m on my way out. Haven’t had my dinner yet. Tell you what—just write it all up and get me the pics, next day or two. I’ll take things from here on.

You don’t want me there for the fall?

Nah, I’ll deal with ‘em. His voice got sharp. Just send me your bill, okay?

His tone rankled me, but I kept it buttoned. Okay, Skaggs, whatever you say. He hung up and I held the receiver and thought. Couldn’t have asked for an easier job, but something seemed off. Clients didn’t normally like to play the heavy with their own people, usually figured it was part of what they bought when they hired me. Oh, well, Skaggs was free to put the arm on his thieving pair by himself, so long as the check cleared. Meanwhile, as long as I was here I might as well stay and get a few more photos.

I’d parked my coupe on Vine, so I went down after the last show was out, well past midnight. I sat there and watched until the theater shuttered for the night and all the employees, including my two petty grifters, started to go.

I’d expected my pair might leave together, but they didn’t. The girl came out first, alone, in a short coat and a silly little feathered hat. She walked down the block and caught the P. E. car at the corner. Home, I guessed—Skaggs had given me an address not far from my office.

Ten minutes later Felton came out, his imposing garb swapped for a blue pinstriped suit and conservative gray hat. He stepped out with one of the ushers, a lanky, pimple-faced kid still dressed in his red tunic and pillbox hat. They said a few words, a quick goodbye, and the kid ambled around the corner walking east on Fountain. Felton went up Vine, strolling along with his hands in his pockets, whistling.

I was curious to see where he was heading; Skaggs had said he lived in East Hollywood. Traffic was light, so I made a U-turn and cruised along a half-block behind him. With the windows down I listened to the music of nighttime L.A.: the bumblebee drone of neon lights, the whine of distant sirens, the occasional far-off gunshot. Two blocks away, Felton went into a corner bar. I parked a couple doors away, gave it a minute, then went inside to see what Felton was about. I figured Skaggs wouldn’t kick about one beer added to my expenses.

The Kit-Kat Lounge wasn’t the sort of joint you went to if you cared about atmosphere. The fixtures were plain and plenty worn, and the management hadn’t devoted much of the budget to décor. The only adornments on the walls were the sort of stuff beer distributors gave out for free—a couple of gaudy, flyspecked prints, a racy calendar two years out of date, and a small neon sign with a cracked tube that flickered and fizzed behind the bar. I’d been in there on another job a year or so earlier and it didn’t look as though they’d cleaned the place since.

The bartender was counting the till and sized me up briefly as I came in, then ignored me altogether as I took a stool at the bar’s near end. Two drunks at the other end sneered at me, then returned to a mumbled argument they’d been having. A guy sat at the piano opposite the bar, making noises meant to be music.

The red fake leather seat was sticky with what I hoped was spilled beer, so I moved down one spot. Felton sat at a table in the back corner, idly rotating his beer glass on the tabletop and taking an occasional sip.

I gave the barman the high sign and he slammed the cash drawer and shambled over, looking sulky. He was a stumpy tub with a huge gut holding his apron almost parallel with the floor. He raked me with baleful eyes under John L. Lewis eyebrows.

Whaddya have, bub?

Beer will do.

Got no beer.

How’s that again?

Got no beer, he said, as though I was an imbecile for making him repeat it.

I inclined my chin toward Felton and the drunks. What are those guys drinking?

They got the last of it.

I looked around for dramatic effect. Sorry, thought I’d wandered into a bar. If he thought it was funny he didn’t show it. How the hell can you not have beer?

He shrugged. Boss ain’t paid the supplier in three months. No dough, no shipment.

I guess I’ll have bourbon, then. Why not? Skaggs was buying.

No bourbon neither. Before I could ask he added, Same deal. Different supplier.

Of course. I blew out my cheeks. A cup of coffee, then. If the boss has paid the grocer.

He scowled. We don’t serve no coffee, bub. Guys come in here to get tight, not sober. He rolled his eyes upward toward whatever deity bartenders appeal to. "Coffee, he says."

I was getting tired of the guessing game. Just give me some ice-cold water, okay?

No can do.

What—boss skipped the water bill?

He poked a fat forefinger at his temple. Use your noodle, bub. He leaned in and spoke in a professorial tone. "If it was as cold as ice it wouldn’t be water no more. It’d be ice."

If this guy was looking for a slug in the bazoo, he was going about it the right way. If I didn’t care about drawing Fenton’s attention… You’re too much for me, Socrates. How about just a glass of water with some ice in it, then? Or on the side, whatever’s less trouble.

Backing off with an aggrieved sigh he grabbed a beer glass, threw a handful of ice cubes into it with excessive vigor, and filled it from the tap. He plunked the result down in front of me.

Two bits.

For a glass of water?

We live in a desert, bub. Plus rent on the stool.

I dug out a quarter. Resisting the urge to bean him with it, I laid it on the counter. I’ve got half a mind to take my drinking elsewhere.

Aw, don’t break a guy’s heart. He spread a meaty hand over his chest and struck a pose, then snatched the coin up and slipped it into his apron pocket. As he started back to his register he smirked back over his shoulder. For you, bub, first refill’s on the house.

I was about to suggest where he should put the next fistful of ice cubes when the front door opened and another party stepped in, a rail-thin guy about my height. He was mopping his face with a handkerchief, so I didn’t see the face right off, but it jolted me when I did. I knew this guy, though I’d never expected to see him again. The name was Tommy Ronan. We’d worked together on the sheriff’s department. He’d been a good copper, until he wasn’t. I’d given testimony at his trial nearly five years back, and the last I’d seen of him was the day the judge handed him a ten-spot in San Quentin.

I slid into the phone booth and pulled the door partway shut, not enough that the light went on. I faked a phone call and watched Ronan under my hat brim. He blinked in the dim light for a few seconds then walked straight back to Felton’s table. Felton was studying his beer and didn’t see him coming, When he looked up he didn’t appear any too pleased. Ronan took a chair, and they had a brief talk. Ronan did most of it, while Felton threw his palms up and leaned back defensively. Whatever he said in reply struck a nerve. Ronan sprang from his seat and started to drag him up by his lapels.

Hey, you two! The piano stopped as the barman smacked a fungo bat on the counter with a loud crack and burst through the bar gate with more energy than I’d thought he possessed. This ain’t no dance hall—take your party outside, pronto. He slapped the bat into his other palm for emphasis.

Felton used the distraction to stand and brush Ronan off. They both stood for a moment, eyeing each other like scrapping dogs, then Felton muttered something and grabbed his hat off the table. Ronan shrugged irritably and followed him out the side door. I knew from my previous visits that an alley ran alongside the bar and made an ell behind it, emptying out on the adjacent street.

The rummies and the piano player paid none of this much mind; it was nothing to them. The bartender stepped back behind the bar and stowed his cudgel. I eased out of the booth and was trying to decide if I wanted to follow them when it was decided for me. From the alley a gunshot sounded, followed a second later by another.

The barflies’ debate halted. They glanced at the side door, the bartender, and me in turn before resuming their argument. The piano guy paused long enough to look around, then tinkled away again. It was that kind of place.

The bartender edged my way. From the corner of his mouth, as though the two drunks would care what he said, he mumbled, Them sound like shots to you? I nodded, already making for the alley door.

I didn’t see him right off. I was distracted by the clatter of running feet down the alley and the sound of a car bouncing out onto the boulevard and speeding away. Ronan was nowhere in sight, but Felton hadn’t gone anywhere. He was lying in a twisted heap, half concealed by a trash bin under a broken floodlight. I knelt beside him and rolled him onto his back. Even in the dim light, I could see the bullet hole above his tie bar and the blood soaking the front of his shirt. It had already stopped spreading; he was dead. His lips were cut and puffy and one eye was swollen almost shut. The other stared blankly at something living eyes couldn’t see.

I took a quick walk to the bend in the alley and out to the street, finding what I’d expected to find—nothing. When I came back the bartender was standing in the open doorway staring dumbly at Felton’s body.

Your boss pay the phone bill this month? I asked.

Already made the call, bub. He kept his eyes on the dead man. Why don’t you come inside and wait? It’s spooky out here. I don’t guess he’s going nowhere.

I propped the door open with a loose brick and followed him inside. I had no clue where Ronan might have gone but didn’t like the idea of sitting on my hams while a couple of patrol dogs asked a lot of questions and fouled up the scene, only to have the homicide dicks show up and ask the same questions all over.

I can’t stick around, I told the barman. He stiffened and eyed me through narrowed lids. It’s not like that. I’m a private badge. I’m going looking for the guy who was with him.

What do I tell the cops?

Just what happened. Here. I fished out a business card and a pencil. In between Nate Ross, Private Investigations and my address and phone number I wrote Look for Tommy Ronan. I handed him the card. Give ‘em this. They can hunt me up later.

I started for the front door, said over my shoulder as I went, And don’t touch anything.

Chapter Two

Icrisscrossed the area for a while with no luck. I thought about checking some of the old haunts, but I knew I couldn’t stall the cops for long. It was past two, I needed a drink, and the bars were closed. I was fresh out of whiskey at home, but I had an unopened fifth of Cream of Kentucky in the office, courtesy of a grateful client.

The excitement and the warm night had given me a headache. My skull thumped like a kettledrum as I slogged up the stairs and unlocked the door. Otherwise I’d probably have heard—or sensed—that I wasn’t alone.

Morning, Nate.

I doubt I jumped more than five feet. I turned to see a guy half-hidden in the doorway of the dentist’s office next door. Only one side of his face showed in the moonlight filtering through the cracked, pebbled glass. It was enough.

I didn’t recall drawing my .380 but there it was, pointed a foot or so south of the half-face of Tommy Ronan. We stared at each other for a while.

It’s only ‘39, Tommy. You take a back-door parole?

Nah, got the gate three months ago. He grinned. Good behavior.

Like hell.

I can show you my ticket, you don’t believe me. I heard cloth rustle and raised the pistol a little. Two empty hands, palms facing me, came into view near the face. Easy, pal.

Save it. What do you want?

No trouble, just a parley.

You’re a hot number, boy. Every button in town’s hunting you. I could drop you right now, probably buy myself back some goodwill.

I caught his half-smile in the ghostly light. You could. But you won’t.

Why’s that?

We were pals once.

"Yeah. Those