Behind Good and Evil: Prelude to the Further Meddling of Tony Resolvo, Private Detective

By Tommy Villalobos

It is 1941. Tony Resolvo quit his job as a Los Angeles cop because he yearns to make more money as a private detective. He sets up shop in East Los Angeles. His first case, kind of, has him taking on the eternal struggle between Good and Evil. Unknowingly. That initial case involves the definitive femme fatale. She is followed by others who come recruiting him for their side in the Good versus Evil conflict. He attempts to investigate cases presented to him by the combatants who come to him in the guise of clients or acquaintances. They enter his life through his time worn and dusty office. This office becomes the launching point for La Batalla. Worst part for Tony R. is that people he loves are pulled into The Battle along with him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tommy Villalobos
• Release date: Apr 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224662616

Tommy Villalobos

Born and raised in East Los Angeles, I have always loved reading and writing. My goal in life is for people to read what I'm writing and then double up laughing, dislocating something. But modest giggles are OK, too.

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Behind Good and Evil: Prelude to the Further Meddling of Tony Resolvo, Private Detective

By Tommy Villalobos

Copyright 2024 Thomas Villalobos

Smashwords Edition

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To my wife Gloria Anna with all my Corazón and all my Gente Living and Loving in the 7.4

Square Millas of East Los Angeles.

Table of Contents

Chapter-1

Chapter-2

Chapter-3

Chapter-4

Chapter-5

Chapter-6

Chapter 7

Chapter-8

Chapter-9

Chapter-10

Chapter-11

Chapter-12

Chapter-13

Chapter-14

Chapter-15

Chapter-16

Chapter-17

Chapter-18

Chapter-19

Chapter-20

Chapter-21

Chapter-22

Chapter-23

About Tommy Villalobos

Other Titles by Tommy Villalobos

Chapter 1

Hello, she said with an incendiary voice that implied invitation, restraint, confidence and vulnerability, all in one palabra. With my office door open, she tapped on the door jamb. It was 2 in the afternoon. It was September. It was hot. L.A. hot. East L.A. caliente.

My office was located on the second floor of a timeworn building. Someone said it was built in 1889. Creaky floors agreed. I had a corner office in the round part of the building that rested over the intersection of First and Boyle; and the office itself rested under a belfry. Could I have a corner office in a round part of a building? I’m not a philosopher and flunked Geometry in high school. So, I won’t say.

Getting back. When I say she, I mean SHE. Before me stood a striking female I suspected of being an angel who had made a wrong turn in heaven and ended up in East Los Angeles, circa 1941.

I was still staring in wonderment, when she said Hello again.

How are you? I asked the rhetorical question knowing there could be only one answer, Fine.

Awful, she said, disagreeing.

I asked her for confirmation, allowing for temporary mood swings.

Why not?

I have a serious problem.

Come in, I solve serious problems, I said. I’m a private detective.

I know, I saw your home-made sign downstairs. ‘Tony R., Private Detective.’ What does the ‘R’ stand for?

Resolvo, I said quickly, displaying my rapid reflexes. I had been in business three weeks, and I was grasping at what would be my first client.

She swayed toward my desk. Her dress whispered a tune that her hips danced to. Her lips were a red torch of invitation while her hair flowed down in a cascade of raven splendor from under her white, wide-brimmed hat. The sound of her high heels on the wood floor resonated in my head, telling me that they were holding a woman who, at will, could make any man with half a pulse whimper.

She stood before my desk and looked at me as if she was the Queen of Sheba and I was a busboy at one of her lesser banquets, set to tell me to jump this way or that way. With tongue shooting in and out like a lizard waiting to snatch a passing fly, I waited on her next words like that busboy.

Aren’t you supposed to ask me to sit or something?

I saw that I had no chair in front of my desk. I looked at my bare office and saw a wooden folding chair in the corner, on loan from my mother. I scrambled around the desk and retrieved it, unfolding it next to her, dust flying. I wiped the chair with the sleeve of my wrinkled white dress shirt.

Sit, I said, pointing to the chair, making sure she knew where.

She responded like a well-trained terrier and sat. I returned to my chair.

What brings you to my office? I said.

She looked at me as if I had no notion of the concept, office. Then she composed herself.

A certain someone is trying to kill me.

Her beautiful brown eyes were now widened for emphasis. Her full, red lips were pursed, joining in the emphasis. Her face was not smiling. This was no chiste. This was serious. I put on my most professional face and used my most elevated voice.

Who?

Joe Fluiz, she said casually as if he was a mutual friend.

Should I know him?

No. He’s dead. Been that way for a while.

I put chin to chest. I was confused. Even dubious. Then, again, she dressed well and maybe could pay well. I was getting hungry for decent comida. Another question begged to be asked.

How long has he been dead?

About a hundred years.

I stared at her. Then I turned and stared at the dirty windows to my right. Then I turned back to stare at her. Then I stared at the far wall. Then the worn wooden floor. Then landed on her again.

Are you sure?

Sure as shootin’.

Why are you so sure? I mean, did he come to your door and tell you politely that he was no longer with us but still wanted to kill you?

Better than that. The person whispered it into my ear. It was at night. I was in bed and I heard breathing in the dark. Actually, it was more like wheezing. I sat up and that is when the whispers came.

I repeated my staring routine from above with one alteration. I additionally stared at my phone. I might have to call someone to pick her up, as dazzling as her looks were, and have her rushed to a proper lugar. One for locos. I coughed the insincere but polite cough then sought clarification.

Exactly what did this dead person whisper to you?

That I was going to die.

Just came out and told you?

Yes. He was very direct.

Anything else?

He said that he had been dead for almost a hundred years, and was going to kill me. He then said that I didn’t have all that much time.

How much time did he give you?

Didn’t say. Just said I didn’t have that much time. Your place is run down, she added as an afterthought.

Didn’t you ask him to be more specific?

No.

You didn’t ask him why he held this grudge against you all this time.

Didn’t have a chance. He disappeared.

In a puff of smoke?

How’d you know? Has he visited you?

I then let out a shallow laugh to lighten the mood.

No.

At this point in our relationship, I wanted to tell her she was a loony, a genuine loca, but my professionalism kept me in check. I again studied her features chiseled by angels. They were dazzling. I now hoped that this was a clever joke. You know, a nutty friend of mine who thought this would be a fun thing to do, send a doll who was off her cebolla to a rookie private detective and see him confused, thinking of running to another line of work. Like a lechero.

I was waiting for her punchline, or maybe that friend to come charging in the room, pointing at me, guffawing all the while. Then I considered. Someone who was talking like her usually had a frazzled appearance topped by pelo shooting in all directions while sitting on a park bench speaking to the wind. She did not fit the mold.

She got up, narrowing her eyes.

I was set to pay you good money for a little work. But you seem to question my circumstances. I wanted to tell her that what I was questioning was her sanity. She then stared around my bare office.

Being a professional detective, I understood her point. She could improve my lot. A lot.

She turned and left, her high heels calling me a heel all the way down the stairs. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what to feel. Was I losing a well-off client or a bien loca?

Next moment, I heard struggled breathing at my doorway.

Man, you should get a first floor office, said an overweight man standing at the doorway. It was my former partner, L.A. cop detective, George Itazmo.

George was one of those personas Jung referred to as petrified pillars of the past. George will be trying to solve a crime his last day on the job with no change in method or approach going back to the mid 1920’s. They would have to kick him out of the door, for he would never voluntarily retire. He told me that one night over his double bourbon.

What do you think of her? I said.

Who?

Who?

Yeah, who?

The dazzling female you just passed on the stairs.

He stared at me as he had had at fleeing criminals.

Are you eating right? said George.

What’s that got to do with her?

Who?

Hombre, the woman you just saw.

I saw no one.

You had to.

Not if I didn’t.

We looked at each other as if the other was clothes-less as well as clueless.

Flinging his fedora on my desk, he sat on the same chair the angel had. It groaned in protest. And he didn’t fill it as well.

You gave up a pension for this? he then said, waving his hand around the room, his face frozen in a tragic grimace, much like the mask of Melpomene, the Greek Muse of tragedy.

It takes a while to get rolling for any new business, I said. Word of mouth will kick in.

Word of mouth is that soon you be begging to be reinstated.

I like being free.

Free? Looks like you’re a slave. To poverty. He looked around my office. I was going to tell him about my first potential client…then it hit me like a sack of frijoles to the head. I didn’t know the dazzling woman’s name. I have to ask for names. Names are important in my business.

I didn’t get her name, I cried to the world, which at the moment was represented by over nourished police detective George I.

Who is that? he asked, ever the detective.

My first client.

You have one?

It was bound to happen. Well, she hasn’t hired me yet. She’s thinking about it. Maybe.

You don’t seem sure.

I have hopes she’ll come back even though she seemed a bit confused. I guess that’s why she is looking for a private detective.

Did her husband get himself lost and now she wants you to bring him back hog tied?

No.

Her daughter ran away con un mariachi sin vergüenza?

No.

She is a missing person but can’t remember who she belongs to?

To whom she belongs. No.

She found a man’s cold body in her bedroom and wants you to justify it being in her bedroom?

Close. She doesn’t want to be a cold body in her bedroom at the hands of a long cold man.

George looked at me and I could hear the rusty tornillos turning in his head, rusted from all that Kentucky Bourbon he had downed over the years. Then the light turned on in his alcohol-soaked head.

You mean, someone tried to kill her?

No. He just whispered in one of her pretty ears that he would love to do that.

Subtle approach.

Very.

I have to get back. Still trying to nail a bartender and his pal who pushed some wanna-be-actress over a cliff at the end of Franklin in Hollywood. All because she didn’t want to do a romantic scene with one of them in the back seat of a car. But first, I’m going to get me a big ham sandwich at the Grand Central Market. Come along, I’ll buy. He said this while again examining my surroundings.

Thanks but I have to find clients. Tell you what, once I’m on my feet, we’ll go get some Barbacoa at the Azteca Restaurant on Main Street. It’s been a couple of years since I been there. I’ll even buy.

He got up, paused then he looked at me with what looked like disenchantment. He then put on his fedora and headed for the door, turning for a postscript.

Be careful.

Why?

He left without saying.

So, here I was once more alone with my new life. Should I treat this spooky woman as a victim or vampira? I needed a drink. I put on my own Fedora, grabbed my coat and headed for the door.

The telephone rang. I jumped and attacked.

Private Detective Resolvo, I said.

Mijo, come over for some Chilaquiles. It was my dear mother. My stomach roared its approval. I was ingesting less these days, and Chilaquiles were my favorite.

Well? she said.

I will be right over.

The click of the phone sounded firmly in my ear. My mother was one not to waste unnecessary moments on the phone.

I rode the P Car to First Street then a Garden Cab to my mothers. She lived in a neighborhood that was the eastern edge of East Los Angeles.

I let myself into her house with my key.

¡Mijo! she said, rushing from the kitchen with open arms.

I smelled your Chilaquiles all the way from my office.

She laughed the pleased Mexicana mother’s laugh.

You are a true flaco. You need to come over more often.

Ma, when I start making money, I’m going to take you to Clifton’s Cafeteria. Clifton’s was the only place she would eat outside of her own home.

Then hurry up and make some money. Sit, I’ll bring you some coffee.

She rushed back to her kitchen.

Mom do you believe in ghosts? I said when she came back with a cup of steaming coffee.

She crossed herself.

I saw two ghosts sitting on the roof of Doña Antonia’s house across the street.

She rushed to the kitchen. She returned with a corn tortilla spread with butter.

I remembering you telling about the two ghosts on Doña Antonia’s techo. I was a chamaco.

It was at night, but I could see what looked like white smoke in the shape of two figures sitting on her roof facing each other.

Maybe it was just chimney smoke, I said.

Doña Antonia has no fireplace so she doesn’t have a chimney.

You were the only one that saw them.

No, your Tía Consuela came pounding on my door at three in the morning. She saw them.

My Tía Consuela was always seeing things. She claimed that she saw La Llorona one night crying her head off on the corner of Brooklyn and Ford. We suspected that she had been drinking, but she denied it till her face had turned as red as an overripe tomate.

Was she the one who convinced you that there were two people on that roof?

It was the other way around. I had to convince her that there were two people sitting on Doña Antonia’s roof.

She must have been sober.

No, she had gone out on a toot. I had to convince her they were there. She finally saw them and jumped with a Dios mío. It took some time to calm her down.

My mother went to the window and looked out at the roof.

Then, she continued, I turned back to this window expecting that she had scared them off. But they were still there, calmly staring at each other. They might have been exchanging chismes. I closed the curtains and we both went to sleep. She conked out on the couch right away, thank goodness. All the booze helped. The two ghosts were gone by morning.

Did they drop by again?

No. I checked the following night and many nights after. I still check now and then.

I thought nothing could scare Tía Consuela.

Estoy de acuerdo. She has encountered some scary feos in her life. Even married a few.

I’m sure she is over the scare by now, knowing her.

Ni modos, said my mother. She left early en la mañana, and all these years has visited me only at high noon, crossing herself all the way till she reaches my front door. Why are you asking about ghosts?

I have a client who——

¿De veras? she said, clapping her hands with a large smile.

I’ve been a detective with the police for a few years, áma.

The public handed you those cases.

Well, she visited me all on her own.

I decided to leave while she was still happy for me. I also decided not to tell her about Lucia Fiolencia, not being sure what had happened.

Chapter 2

I bought a newspaper then went back to my desk full of mom’s cooking. My office looked shabbier. I read the crime stories, looked for missing persons. Then I went to the classified for notices of someone losing someone or looking for someone for some reason or other. Finally ended with the comics, to laugh it all off. Reading crime stories and laughing with the comics became my routine. Like strong whiskey with a beer chaser. They strangely complimented each other.

The rent, utilities and other bills were filling my mind. My lack of income was squeezing in. My meager savings were disappearing like L.A. fog burned off by the morning sun.

Before long, I was scanning the Help Wanted ads. Someone must want a former cop who was also depressed and on the verge of becoming a career bum. I looked out of my grimy windows at the city. Someone somewhere out there needed a private detective to help them carry on their cheerless existence.

At the same time, I was grateful that the woman with the unbelievable story had not been around. Maybe she found some other soul to pester. I recalled the scent of her swanky