[h3]Los Angeles[/h3] [b]Hollywood 4:01 PM[/b] “Roll playback. And… action!” [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mm1wuKvrxAw][Scene Music][/url] Champ Dennis faked blowing on his trumpet while the Edwards Sisters watched in awe. He and the three girls were dressed in the khaki uniforms of US servicemen, the sisters in skirts instead of pants. The set they were on looked like an army mess hall, the sisters sitting on the empty counter and snapping along with the playback. When it came time, the sisters mouthed the words they'd already recorded in a sound studio. "He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way/He had a boogie style that no one else could play. He was the top man at his craft, but then his number came up and he was gone with the draft. He's in the army now. He's blowin' reveille/He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B!" They all slid off the counter and started a dance number with Dennis. The three girls surrounded him and traded off singing duties while Dennis blew his horn in accompaniment. "He was the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B/ And when he plays boogie woogie bugle he was busy as a bee And when he plays he makes the company jump eight to the bar/He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B!" From behind the camera and crew, Elliot Shaw watched the musical number with bored detachment. The movie, [i]Private Champ[/i], was loosely based on Dennis' time in the Army during the war. In truth, Champ Dennis served hundreds of miles behind the lines preforming for US troops and never had to go through basic training. The bit about the tough drill sergeant who learned to have fun through Champ's music was bullshit. The same way the Edwards Sisters were neither named Edwards or sisters. Elizabeth Edwards was actually Esther Segal, a Jew whose dad was some big lawyer back east. Midge Edwards was Maria Rodriguez, product of a Mex dad and a white mother. And young Cathy Edwards was Caitlin O'Keefe, a Mick so Irish she pissed Guinness, all had decent pipes and close enough features to pass for sisters so the studio lumped them together aad gave them new names. Like Dennis' war service, the Edwards Sisters were created for mass consumption. Elliot finished his cigarette and stubbed it out on the floor as the scene began to wrap up. Champ finished his long trumpet solo as the girls climbed on top of the counter to pretend to sing the rest of the song in harmony. Champ dropped to his knees below them and faked belting out the last bit of the song. "He puts the boys to sleep with boogie every night/And wakes them up the same way in the early bright They clap their hands and stamp their feet/Because they know how he plays when someone gives him a beat He really breaks it up when he plays reveille/He's boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B!" "And.... cut!" The crew applauded politely. Champ Dennis wiped sweat from his brow and bowed while Elliot walked towards the director. "How many takes did you do?" he asked the little man. "We got four takes," said George Alexander. "I wouldn't mind a fifth." "Four is good enough," Elliot said, resting a hand on George's shoulder. "More than enough coverage to edit something good. I need to get Midge out of here." George looked crestfallen but nodded. Ten minutes later, Elliot and Midge Edwards were in his car heading west to Malibu. She'd changed out of her costume, now wearing a pair of slacks and a blouse. Elliot could see the beginnings of a bulge sticking up from the blouse. "Geez," he said to her. "How far along are you?" "Six weeks. Gimme a cigarette." He passed her his pack and lighter. She took a healthy drag off her smoke before expelling a column of smoke out the cracked window. "The costume people were taking my clothes out, so it won't show up on film. I know that's why you're asking, Shaw." "Know who the daddy is, Midge?" "I got it narrowed down to about a half dozen," she said with a grin. "Gonna call me a roundheels, Shaw?" "Don't think I will," said Elliot. "If you were a fellow, they'd call you a Casanova or a Don Juan. But because you're a skirt, roundheels is the operative word. I don't think that's fair." Midge finished her smoke and flicked it out the window. They spoke very little after that. Instead, they listened to the big band music on the radio. An hour later, Elliot pulled up to the big iron gates with the letter MBC on both sides of the gates. Elliot rolled down the window of his car and hit the callbox beside the driver's window. After saying who he was, the gates opened and he drove through. It looked like a beachside mansion because it was a beachside mansion. The doctor who ran the place had bought the home and turned it into the Malibu Beach Clinic. It was the best medical treatment money could buy. Dope cures, psychotherapy, plastic surgery, abortions. You named it, the good doctor preformed them for a price. Every studio Hollywood studio had a running account with the man that kept at least two beds open and waiting for their starlets. He was waiting for Elliot and Midge at the front steps of the mansion. "Mr. Shaw," Dr. Charles Van der Merwe said politely, his Afrikaans accent still present after decades in America. "And who do we have today?" "One, sec, Doc." Elliot took Midge by the elbow and walked her away out of earshot from the doctor. "Last chance," he said softly to her. "Midge -- Maria -- you can keep the baby, but you'd have to get hitched. Studio has a list of men they'd like you to marry." Midge looked up at Elliot. She had pale blue eyes, a gift from her European ancestors. In them, Elliot saw no fear or doubt or hesitation. "I want the scrape, Shaw," he said with a smirk. "The last thing I need is a kid I don't want and a husband I don't love. I'd rather get it over with and have my freedom." Elliot nodded and they walked back to the doctor. He was tall, a good three inches above Elliot who was 6'2, with lanky limbs and fingers that were long and slender. There were many rumors about the man's mysterious past in Africa. Human experiments on the natives, lobotomies for Rhodesian enemies of state, eugenics initiatives the good doctor had started in the name of preserving the white race. It was all conjecture as far as Elliot knew. But still, he was sure to hide the truth about Midge's half-Mexican lineage as he checked her in for the abortion. After Midge was given over to Van der Merwe and his staff, he headed back to Hollywood. He stopped thinking about Midge and instead starting thinking about the dynamite in his jacket pocket. Thanks to Agnes, the list of phone numbers he found at Claire Beauchamp's bungalow had been searched and each number had been given a name and address. The further down the list you got, the worse it was. Each and every name was some kind of mover and shaker in LA in general, and Hollywood in particular. Lawyers, producers, actors, and even a director. All of them were now affiliated with a dead girl with radical beliefs. It was the making of a shitstorm, but a shitstorm he could control. He would look into the list and the names on them tonight after his meeting with the cops. After playing phone tag, he and Detective Thomas had finally managed to arrange a meeting at a diner downtown. He'd give up Claire Beauchamp's life story, maybe leak the angle about her schtupping negroes, something to give the cops that would steer the cops away from the subversive shit and the list. Elliot checked his watch and started to head for downtown. --- [b]77th Street Station 6:21 PM[/b] Jefferson Thomas could smell blood. He'd been smelling it since yesterday night. None of the blood had been his. It'd belonged to the men of South Central LA. He and Hoty led a dragnet through South Central, rounding up all sex offenders who lived within three miles of the Voodoo. Anybody who resisted -- and what colored man would willingly go with the LAPD anywhere? -- had been roughed up by Hoyt and patrolmen until they were tossed into a paddywagon. They were then taken to 77th Street Station and forced to give an alibi for the night Claire Beauchamp had been killed. Those that did have an alibi had it "tested" by Hoyt's rubber hose and phone book while Jeff actually went out and made sure it was real. Those that had no alibi, so far it was six, had been worked over with the hose and phone book to get them to confess. So far, none of the six had confessed and were in holding cells for the next seventy-two hours. Jeff came out the side of the station and on to the sidewalk, hoping the fresh air would clear his nose of that blood smell. In between the beatings, he'd actually made progress on the Wendall Brock murder. His criminal history was redacted, but his work history raised some interesting questions. "Detective Thomas." He turned at the mention of his name. A short, heavyset man in an LAPD uniform stood on the sidewalk. Jeff saw braid on his cap and captains bars on his collar. The man stepped forward and smiled politely. "You're a hard man to get hold of, Detective. Captain Arnold Prescott." Jeff felt his stomach drop. He put on a fake smile and extended a hand. "Captain, I apologize." Prescott looked down at his outstretched and stared at it before looking back up. Jeff retracted his hand and stuck it in his pockets. His face flushed in embarrassment. He should have known better than to do that. While the guys at 77th Street would shake his hand, it had taken them a while to work up to it. "We've had a redball here at 77th Street Station," he said sheepishly. "You know how that is." "Indeed," Prescott said with a nod. "Come with me, Detective. I'd like you to meet someone." Prescott led the way and Jeff followed behind. A man was waiting for them in the parking lot, leaning against a black Ford Florentine, a fed car. He was tall with receding black hair and thick, black framed glasses that made his eyes look enormous. He sized Jeff up like a piece of meat as they got closer to the car. "Detective, this is Special Agent in Charge Nate Parker. He's with the FCB." "Pinkerton Division," Parker said, flashing a badge with the Pinkerton Eye on it. Jeff could feel his stomach doing somersaults. Prescott and the Red Squad interested in him was bad enough. But now a Pinkerton, no LA's [i]head [/i] Pinkerton, wanted him for something. "Detective," Parker said with a smirk. "You are something of a curiosity. I knew LAPD had a few policemen of color, but I didn't expect they had any detectives." "Does that surprise you, Agent Parker?" "A bit," Parker nodded. "Your kind aren't really known for their deductive skills." Jeff let loose with his smile. The same smile he used every time his brother officers made jokes about negroes in front of him. He put a little minstrel show in his voice when he spoke. "Well, sir, I like to think I ain't your average nigga." That made both Parker and Prescott laugh. They were both short and with very little humor. "We just want to know your interest in Wendall Brock," said Prescott. "You requested his arrest report." Something began to form in the back of Jeff's mind. The Red Squad and Pinkertons were interested in Brock, a man with a redacted criminal history, a man who was shot in a back alley. A man with radical literature in his home. Whatever he was thinking, it was unfocused and without form. But it was the start of something. "He was murdered a week and a half ago," Jeff said with a shrug. "I got the case." "But that investigation was suspended, wasn't it?" Prescott asked. "Lack of leads." "It's South Central." Parker squared his glasses. "Brock was a degenerate with dangerous beliefs. Some jigaboo with a gun did the world a favor, Detective. Leave it at that." "Detective Thomas is a good boy," Prescott said with just a touch of condescension in his voice. "He knows when someone, especially someone with rank and influence in the LAPD, asks to drop an investigation, then you drop that investigation." "Yes, suh," Jeff said with a hardy nod. "Thank you for your understanding, Detective," said Parker. "Now, don't you have a starlet murder to solve?" "You're right about that, suh." Jeff left the two men in the parking lot and walked back to the station on shaky legs. He could feel the two men watching him every step of the way.