L.A. DANGEROUS

By Tom Tytar

A noir crime fictions story that takes place in Los Angeles, California in the year 1969. An L.A. Private Eye, John Angelo is hired to protect a widowed and wealthy former B movie actress who fears that her life is danger. What begins as a job as bodyguard soon spins out of control.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350904819

Book preview

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Copyright 2023 by Tom Tytar. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or produced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

Print ISBN: 979-8-35090-480-2

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35090-481-9

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

FIFTY-FIVE

FIFTY-SIX

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY-EIGHT

FIFTY-NINE

SIXTY

SIXTY-ONE

SIXTY-TWO

SIXTY-THREE

SIXTY-FOUR

SIXTY-FIVE

SIXTY-SIX

SIXTY-SEVEN

SIXTY-EIGHT

SIXTY-NINE

SEVENTY

ONE

The city: Los Angeles, California. People often said it was a pleasant place to visit, but you would not want to live there. But L.A. was stuck with being what it was, though there was much to like. Outdoorsy, fun things to do like Disneyland, Knott’s Berry Farm, the La Brea Tar Pits, or rides on the Ferris wheel and carousel at the Santa Monica Pier. You could stroll down the Hollywood Boulevard Walk of Fame with the grab bag of tourists dressed in a rainbow of colors and see your favorite movie star’s name embedded in terrazzo. Grauman’s Chinese Theater had Marilyn Monroe’s and Jane Russel’s hand and footprints side by side on the sidewalk, but it would have been more fun to see Jane’s breasts and Marilyn’s bottom in the concrete had the powers that be not nixed Marilyn’s in the moment brainstorm. People bought maps to the stars and walked by their lavish homes in Beverly Hills. There was a story that Jimmy Stewart turned on the sprinklers when some ballsy tourists camped out on his front lawn for a brown bag lunch.

It was the ocean, the beaches, and the tall palm trees in sunlight almost 365 days a year, where the girls all got so tan, that kept the natives here and the California dreamers coming. The smog and traffic were a small price to pay for living in la-la land.

But L.A. had its darker side. A walk down Hollywood Boulevard after sunset was like entering another world. That’s when runaway hippie teens, boys and girls with fine slim bodies, in survival mode, on the hunt for cash, offered themselves to anyone willing to pay a few bucks for a quickie in a car or back alley. It was an ugly game they played in competition with the barely dressed, hot-eyed hookers under the watchful eyes of their pimps. You would see spaced-out junkies desperate for their next fix, and grungy winos, jacked to the max, stumbling like zombies, panhandling for chump change to buy a bottle of T-bird. And when the sun came up, like magic, most of them disappeared. Gone, like a lurid carnival that suddenly pulled up stakes and left town.

But nothing seemed as dark as the last couple of days. A widespread panic had spread over the city following the news of the gruesome murders of the actress Sharon Tate, and four of her friends at a home on Cielo Drive in Benedict Canyon during the night of August 8th. And sometime in the early morning hours of August 10th, a married couple were murdered in similar fashion in their home on Waverly Drive in the Los Feliz neighborhood. These were no ordinary L.A. crimes on the dime.

It was August 12th, 1969, and cloudy in Los Angeles. John Angelo drove his 1962 Corvette convertible up into the hills of Los Feliz. He carried a badge, Private Investigator, license issued by the State of California. Early this morning he got a call at his office in Santa Monica from a woman with a kicky voice who said she lived a few blocks from Waverly Drive. Said her name was Deanna Dumont, wanted to hire him, and asked how much he charged. He told her $150 a day plus expenses. She said she would pay $500 a day, if he was any good. Gave him her address and told him to be at her house before noon, then hung up. Angelo figured it was worth the drive to find out what the gig was and let her chat him up. After all, things were slow lately and he was living on a bare-bones budget.

Angelo fiddled with the AM car radio looking for his favorite station that played jazz, but all he could get was Honkey Tonk Women by the Rolling Stones. The bluesy song blasted from the single dashboard speaker as he pulled into the circular drive of a massive two story, white stucco, tiled roof, Spanish Colonial that was probably built in the 1920s. The front yard was all Kentucky bluegrass, sculptured shrubs, and beds full of flowers. There was a six-car garage. Why not?

Angelo parked behind a beat-up, red, late 1950s MGA convertible. The top was up and there were tears in the fabric. The plastic rear window was yellowed and cracked. He shut the motor down on his Corvette, got out and headed for the huge, hand carved, Spanish style front door. It opened as soon as he hit the front step. The maid was there to greet him. She looked to be in her forties, with I Love Lucy red hair, and a hard face that still had a trace of pretty. Her body was quite voluptuous as she stood there in her neatly pressed gray uniform and stared at him, silent. Angelo figured he better break the ice.

I’m John Angelo, here to see Miss Dumont.

She rolled her flat dark eyes, shrugged, and gave him a listless look. Her accent sounded Russian.

It is Mrs. Dumont. You can come in, but must take shoes off first. Take them with you, put them on when you get to patio. She wait for you by pool. Do not drink too much of her liquor, bad for stomach.

Angelo said he never drank before noon, then did as he was told and took off his penny loafers. He did not want to mess with her don’t-screw-with-me attitude. He stepped into the foyer, flashed her his best boy smile. She frowned, then toodle-ooed down a hallway and disappeared.

He walked through a living room decorated with dark leather chairs and sofas, and walls filled with art. Angelo was no art connoisseur, but the paintings looked familiar. Like ones he had seen at the Detroit Institute of Arts. The room looked like a 1940s movie set from The Big Sleep or Dark Passage. Angelo smiled and wondered if Bogart and Bacall might mosey in and light up cigarettes. On one wall was a framed movie poster. The title: DANGEROUS DAME. A photo of a young glamour gal in a tight, black sweater and black beret, with a gun in her hand. The poster read: SHE COULD BOUNCE ANY MAN INTO A DOUBLE BED OF TROUBLE. STARING DEANNA DUMONT. Angelo never heard of the movie and up until an hour ago, never heard the name Deanna Dumont. The movie looked like one of those 1950s B flicks that made the drive-in circuit in places like Alabama and Arkansas, then disappeared forever. Ahead was a sliding glass door that led out to the patio and pool. Angelo slid it open, stepped out onto the concrete, and slipped on his shoes.

She was at the far end of the patio, poolside, semi-reclined on a bamboo lounger. As he approached, he could see her black two-piece swimsuit, the bottom cut a couple of inches below the naval. She was a brunette with a few streaks of gray. She was tan. Too tan. The actor George Hamilton had nothing on her. And her skin was beginning to look like crepe paper, starting to wrinkle on her legs and arms. Her face was pretty, chest busty, but she had the look of a woman starting to fade. Wayfarer Ray-Ban shades hid her eyes.

She looked Angelo over head to toe and said, Is this how private eyes dress now, or are you going for the Las Vegas lounge lizard look?

Angelo stood there in his Chinos, penny loafers, no socks, and black silk untucked shirt, sandy brown hair with a touch of gray almost covering his ears, thinking smart-ass talk must be the specialty of the house.

My drip-dry suit’s still hanging on the clothes line.

She managed a half-smile and said, Have a seat Mr. Angelo. Her voice was a low rasp. Angelo pulled up a chair next to her and caught a scent of the woman, a mixture of Coppertone, Jack Daniel’s, and Chesterfield cigarettes. There were two packs on the end table next to an ash tray full of butts. She stood, then walked to a well-stocked bar devoid of any bargain basement booze. She was rangy but not real tall, tight around the rear end, and seemed sure of herself, the way she walked in black stiletto heels. Steady for someone maybe half in the bag.

She said, What can I get you to drink?

Nothing, thanks.

Did my maid tell you to take off your shoes in the house?

Yeah.

She turned back to him, slid the Ray-Bans down her nose, and drilled him with a look. Angelo noticed the lines around her dark eyes.

And you did. So, I am telling you to have a drink. What will it be?

Angelo never drank before noon, but she seemed adamant for him to join her.

Okay, I’ll have what you’re having.

She put her shades back on, then poured herself and Angelo a good one. Jack and Coke. She walked back and sat down, handing Angelo his glass. She raised her glass, then took a long swallow.

She said, You remind me of someone.

An older Steve McQueen?

She got a good laugh out of that.

Did someone tell you that or do you tell yourself that?

Angelo smiled, then took a swig of his Jack and Coke.

She said, My agent told me McQueen was on the guest list for the party at Roman Polanski’s house on Cielo Drive in Benedict Canyon where his wife, Sharon, and her friends were murdered. He decided at the last minute not to go, and now he’s carrying a gun.

I’d say that’s a smart move on McQueen’s part.

Do you carry a gun, Mister Angelo?

I own a gun, but I left it at my office.

Mrs. Dumont set her drink on the table, grabbed a pack of Chesterfields, bumped one up, and got it going with a fancy silver-plated Ronson lighter.

Do you handle divorce cases, John? I am going to call you John from now on. Is that okay?

I’ve been called worse. And I don’t do divorces if I can help it.

She gave him a nod and said, Good, I’m a widow, so you won’t have my cheating, son-of-a-bitch husband to spy on. I am scared shitless, John. That married couple, the LaBiancas, were murdered in their home not two blocks from here.

Angelo got the drift of where this was heading, watching her inhale on the Chesterfield and blow out smoke, letting it dance around her face.

I’m not in the security business anymore, Mrs. Dumont.

She stubbed out the cigarette, took off the Ray-Bans, and gave him a hard-eyed look. Her eyes were like stones set in her head. Red, and glazed over like the functioning alcoholic she was.

"What kind of work do you do?"

I mostly look for missing persons.

Isn’t that what the police are for?

I look for missing heirs. Long lost relatives who might be able to cash in on an inheritance. That’s my specialty.

She lit another Chesterfield and blew smoke in Angelo’s direction.

I am paying five-hundred dollars a day. I would think you would do anything for five-hundred dollars a day.

Angelo could not argue with that. He needed the cash.

Exactly what would I have to do?

Move into my guest house and bring your gun.

And how long do I live in your guest house?

As long as it takes the police to find those killers!

This woman meant business. No messing around. She had the bucks. Could spend it however she wanted, and Angelo sensed this is what she wanted.

When do I start, Mrs. Dumont?

Tonight. I will call you later this afternoon with more details.

She stood, the glass of Jack and Coke firm in her hand, and put on a smile.

You can call me Deanna. And, John, one more thing. How old are you?

Angelo was not going to leave that alone, giving it to her straight up with a little chaser.

Fifty-two going on thirty-five.

She stood there wrapped in cigarette smoke, the smile never leaving her face, liking his attitude.

She said, Are you sure you can handle all of this?

The way she said that, flirtatious, her body language and those penetrating eyes. Angelo got the feeling it was a tease, making him think it was there for him whether he wanted it or not.

Angelo played it cool.

It’s hire and fire at will in the good old U.S. of A. If I don’t measure up, you can let me go. I’ll park myself by my phone, waiting for your call… Deanna.

And with that he took the last sip of his drink, set it down on the table, stood, and walked back to the house. The swimming pool cleaner arrived through a back gate. Angelo noticed he was a young stud, Hispanic, maybe about twenty with ink on his arms and long ponytailed hair. He set his equipment down as Angelo approached the sliding glass door to the house. Angelo took off his shoes, not wanting to anger the maid, entered the house and strolled through the living room headed for the front door.

A young woman came bounding down the stairs and they ended up eyeball to eyeball. She looked to be about seventeen or eighteen. Tall and willowy. A cute girl dressed in a tie-dyed T-shirt, and hip-hugger bellbottom jeans.

She put an aggrieved look on her face and said, Were you just here to fuck my mother?

Angelo stood there slack-jawed, holding his penny loafers. Before he could think of how to respond to that, she put her hands on her hips and gave him a sleepy-eyed reefer smile.

Oh, I’m sorry, today’s Tuesday. Pedro the pool boy’s here. She cocked a hip, then spun around. What a shame, screwing her when he could be having some of this.

She headed for the front door, then turned back to him.

My name’s Bunny, what’s yours?

John.

You’re kinda cute, for an old guy, John.

She left in a hurry. Angelo put on his shoes and walked outside and watched jailbait Bunny, or whatever her name was, drive off in her raggedy MG sports car. The past half-hour was surreal. Freaky family, he thought. Five-hundred dollars a day? Was it enough?

He watched the MG peel out of the drive and said, What the fuck?

TWO

Angelo said, Fifty-two going on thirty-five? His left knee was throbbing from an old high school football injury, probably arthritis, and his back was killing him after hefting a box of books in his office two days ago. He was headed west on Sunset Boulevard, re-thinking the scenario that took place in Los Feliz, while the Corvette’s radio belted out the thump of a song, Janis Joplin’s Little Girl Blue. Five-hundred dollars a day was more than he made in a month as a rookie Detroit cop. He liked the nice round figure, though. But what if the Sharon Tate murders in Benedict Canyon, and the murders on Waverly Drive two blocks from has-been movie star Deanna Dumont’s estate went cold case? Would he live in her guest house forever? No way. Maybe until he hit age 62, and could collect Social Security? She oozed money, but how rich was the widow?

How was he supposed to protect her? Sit in her guest house all day and night with his blue-steel Walther PPK pistol in his lap? Same gun James Bond used. But Angelo knew he was no James Bond. And what else did she expect for all that money? He imagined her showing up at the guest house door in some sexy nightgown, with a Chesterfield hanging from her lip, and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, wanting a one-minute hack in the sack, or a slow poke until the sun came up. And how did the hot to trot daughter fit into this potential nightmare? He felt gut-punched.

He’d called a former newspaper reporter before he left his office in Santa Monica. Said she would give him the scoop on Deanna Dumont. He was on his way to meet her. Her name was Hilda Cassidy. Hoppy for short, as in Hopalong Cassidy.

Angelo passed Dino’s Lodge on Sunset and saw the larger-than-life face of Dean Martin staring down at him. Dean Martin. One of the kings of cool. The Rat Pack, ring-a-ding-ding, and all that jazz. Angelo remembered driving by the Bruin Movie Theater in Westwood a few months ago and seeing the marquee lit up…The Wrecking Crew, with Sharon Tate’s name just below Dean Martin’s. It was her last movie.

Angelo realized he had driven too far on Sunset. Ye Coach & Horses bar was back one block. Hoppy was there waiting for him, ready to dish the dirt on Deanna. He did not see any cops, so