The Biggest Liar in Los Angeles by Ken Kuhlken (speld decodable readers TXT) 📖

and meaty. He gave Tom’s hand a firm and cordial shake. “We’ve heard plenty about you.”

“That so?”

“Why’d you give up football?”

“I grew up,” Tom said.

Mister Woods added, “The choice was between playing football and taking good care of his little sister.”

“Orphans, are you?”

“More or less. Are you some kind of dragon?”

The man chuckled. “You bet I am. And I hear you’re involved in activities besides peddling Sam’s choice meat and raising a frisky girl.”

“I keep busy.”

“And you’ve got into your mind a notion that one of our Klaverns has gone in for lynching.”

“Suppose I do.”

“Son,” the man said, “I’m well aware that in other regions, our brethren have acted with excessive zeal against those whose actions and motives they mistrust. But here, in what many regard as the promised land, our aim is simply opposing those bent on profiting by the destruction of the culture our forefathers established. I’m referring to the developers, the bootleggers, the oil profiteers, the financiers who hold no reverence for God, community, or tradition, whose greed excludes all other values.” He gave Tom an earnest smile and waited.

“Good for you,” Tom said.

From under the tablet, which was covered with algebraic formulas, the dragon pulled a sheet of heavy paper. He held it up as though in position of honor and read aloud, in a voice that rose to a sermon pitch, “Whereas Sister Aimee Semple McPherson has proven her God-fearing and obedient nature by healing the sick and the lame, advocating the old-time gospel, we Knights of the Invisible Empire do pledge to revere her and call her our Sister. As we have bestowed this honor, we solemnly vow to protect our Sister from all harm, and to defend her wherever and whenever danger or unrighteousness threaten. We admonish our brethren everywhere to forever hold true to this vow. Denver, Colorado, 1919.”

Toward the end of his proclamation, the door had opened and three men dressed in overalls entered and stopped just inside. Now the dragon signaled and the men withdrew.

The dragon sighed and turned a solemn gaze on Tom. “Son, not only did we have no hand in this lynching your negro muckraker claims as a fact, but we doubt such a regrettable act occurred. In addition, we’re not about to let you, the Jew cop, or anybody else, discredit Sister Aimee.”

Tom noted that the mention of Leo could mean the Klan maintained sources amongst the police. “I see. Then, based on your reverence for Sister, maybe you engineered the cover up?”

“Tom, what do you think of Sister Aimee?”

“She a pip.”

“Do you wish her well or ill?”

“Whatever she deserves.”

“Well, keep in mind the inquest into her disappearance and realize that broadcasting stories about this lynching you allege took place might drive the final nail into her coffin. Think, son. Do you want to see Sister in prison?”

Thirty-two

AS the Brougham turned onto El Camino Real, Mister Woods said, “Smart fellow, don’t you think?”

“Pal of yours?”

“A friend of the family.”

Tom fixed a stare on the boss’ profile. “Tell me, are you a Klansman?”

The car lurched and sped faster. “If I say no, will you come back to work?”

“Maybe.”

“Then we’re done talking.”

From there to the city, Woods ran stop signs and passed every vehicle, including a policeman, as if a license to speed came with each Cadillac.

Tom asked to get dropped at the Top Hat Ballroom. When the boss delivered him to the curb out front of the speakeasy, the valet tipped his cap. He stood ogling the Cadillac as it roared away.

Mister Hines showed Tom from the entry to the stairs. Little Abe accompanied him up the stairs and ushered him across the dance floor. Tom looked for Florence, though he didn’t suppose this dive was slick Pablo’s style.

Dancers crowded the bar. The four-piece combo was on break. The drummer, who had sat in with groups in which Tom moonlighted, played a roll on his snare.

Max stood in the doorway to his office. “What do you drink, Tom?”

“The best you’ve got.”

Max laughed and sent Little Abe after Canadian whiskey. He led Tom into the office, kicked the door shut, sat on the desk and invited Tom to do the same.

Tom declined. “You’ve got something for me?”

“Ain’t you going to ask how’s business?”

“How’s business?”

“To get ahead in this world, a guy needs manners.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“Frank Gaines, either nobody knows him or nobody’s talking. But I got something better. See, a colored boy comes to a Dragna associate and inquires about hiring a few tommy-gunners. Says he’d pay them well to drop in on a KKK meeting and blast away.” A knock sounded. The door eased open, the combo led into “Limehouse Blues,” and Little Abe handed Tom his drink then backed out and shut the door.

“They make a deal?”

“No deal,” Max said. “The associate, he put it to the boss. The boss says tell the colored boy to get lost. Hell, if they made a deal, I wouldn’t be telling you. Thing is, Dragna’s not the only one knows where to go for tommy-gunners.”

Tom nodded and drank from his whiskey.

“Stick around,” Max said, “A little dancing would do you good. No telling what might come of it. Know what I mean?”

“Only I’ve got a little sister to find.” Tom hopped off the desk and set his glass on it. He thanked Max, shook his hand, then hustled down the stairs and out. He jogged all the way to Cactus Court and walked a fast clip past the cholla.

Florence was gone. He found her room littered with dresses and slips, the usual scene she left behind when skipping out. The only time he had bothered to ask why she didn’t cover her tracks, she said, “Come on, Tommy. If I didn’t hurry, you might show up and catch me.”

He moved a chair to the best angle for keeping one eye on the window that overlooked the path, giving him a view of an avocado stump, an ancient well, and the street. Then he sat down with his Forum collection and read using the available eye.

 

April 6, 1926 For the People:

 

Harry Chandler, you ask: To expose Chandler's nature, one can begin with his forbear, the man who elevated young Harry from a delivery boy to son-in- law and heir. About that man, General Otis, founder of our city's most circulated, if least trustworthy newspaper, I cannot choose better words than our Senator Hiram Johnson, who knew the man all too well and wrote, "There he sits in senile dementia, with gangrened heart and rotting brain, grimacing at every reform, chattering impotently at all things that are decent, violently gibbering, going down to the grave in snarling infamy. Disgraceful, depraved, corrupt, crooked, and putrescent is the General, a man who turned his wrath against whosoever dared to organize in the quest for a wage sufficient to feed and clothe their children."

Over the decade since Harry Chandler assumed control of our city's most influential news source, the heir has shown such a dearth of humanity, compassion, and integrity in reporting the truth, the late General would be exceedingly proud.

Of a limit to Chandler's ravenous hunger for property, power, and influence, no evidence exists. Not only has he acquired more land than most emperors claim, but in league with conspirators from Sacramento and Washington, he drained the Owens Valley of the water upon which its farms once flourished, simply to raise the value of his holdings, and he aims to repeat the scourge upon all communities in California, Arizona, and Mexico that depend upon the Rio Colorado.

Lord Acton spoke the truth: "Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men."

As evidence, I present Harry Chandler.

 

When Tom heard a scrape from outside, looked up, and spotted his sister, she was weaving a little more than required by her normal swishy walk. He dashed outside just in time to glimpse an automobile a king’s chauffeur might drive, gliding away from the curb.

As Florence wobbled close, she gave him a loopy grin. “Good evening, Tommy.”

“Evening’s gone. It’s night.”

“Oh dear.” She slipped past him.

He sat on the sofa waiting while Florence used the toilet and changed. When she leaned out of her bedroom door and called, “G’night, Tommy,” he raised his hand and beckoned, in a manner that meant business.

She came and sat beside him. “Got news for me? Or you want to know about the elections?”

“What’ve you got?”

“Nothing different than what you’d think. Them that favor the builders and boosters, the Times can’t praise enough. The Examiner newshounds, they’re after the wise crack and looking for reasons to quibble. But real controversy, not on your life. For that you go to the Little Blue Books.”

While Tom sat marveling that she realized the Little Blue Books, dime pamphlets, in addition to cooking advice and reprints of classics also offered agnostic, socialist, and homosexual reading, she gave him a peck on the cheek and stood.

“Whoa,” he said.

“Yes, brother dear.”

“Tell me about Romeo’s cars.”

“Romeo was Italian. Pablo’s Spanish. Descended from nobility.”

“He’s got a Rolls and a what?”

“A Leyland.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Just a little dinner by candlelight, then a dance or two, and straight home. Are you worried about my honor, Tommy?”

“What’s Pablo’s angle?

“He thinks I’m a dream.”

“His angle?”

“He’s looking for films to invest in.”

“And he wants to make you a star?”

“No.” Her brow furled and lips pursed, the expression that came when she was pondering whatever troubled or puzzled her. “Not so far. But he’s awfully interested in you. I thought at first he wanted to use your orchestra in a movie. But tonight, he asked what you’ve learned about the lynching. And I said, ‘How do you know about the lynching?’ He sort of blushed and mumbled that a pal of his knows most everything.”

 

Thirty-three

TOM fried eggs and potatoes for breakfast. He called Florence then ate while she roused herself. Before he left, he kissed her cheek, which was no part of their routine.

Around seven a.m. every bus bench was occupied by laborers. The Chinese sat together, as did the Mexicans. Negroes and whites mingled. Some of each color didn’t look pleased. Tom spotted neither lost souls nor crazies. Among workers, they were rare.

He caught Leo still in his pajamas. Vi was busy dressing Una for school. Over coffee, Leo said, “Yesterday, I call in sick, leave a message for the captain, tell him send some other stooge to Owens Valley. I go out, Vi gets a call. The man says, ‘Tell Leo he ain’t sick, what he is, is fired.’”

“Sorry,” Tom muttered.

“For what? We run out of money, I’ll go work for a bootlegger no less crooked than the law, better pay.”

“Hush,” Vi called from the kitchen.

Tom briefed Leo on last evening with the dragon. “Only surprise is, they’re keeping an eye on you. Who do you suppose?”

Leo kept his own counsel.

“I’ll guess you know Max Van Dam.”

“He a confidante of yours?”

“Football gambler. He claims a Jack Dragna associate got approached by a colored fellow in the market for tommy-gunners who’d welcome a fracas with the Klan.”

Leo closed his eyes. “Give me orders, would you?”

“Orders?”

“Funny how life goes. Me playing assistant to a pup. What do you say, boss?”

“You could find Teddy Boles and scare the truth out of him. And you could stakeout my place this evening, get a tail on Florence. Something’s fishy about Pablo, the dreamboat she thinks saved my neck at the Casa del Mar.”

Leo dressed and gave Tom a ride. On Wilshire, as they passed the Talmadge Apartments Tom thought about the day, less than two weeks past, when he parked his meat truck and stood admiring the place. Brocade trim around the top and between the second and third floors and insets of the goddess with handmaidens turned an otherwise plain building into art. That day, he had gone into the lobby and inquired about renting, in hopes the orchestra would soon draw more bookings. Today, he wondered if ever again he’d get to follow any of his dreams.

Leo drove to the east end of Wilshire and through downtown to the Examiner Building, a Moorish fortress. As Tom climbed out of the Packard, Leo said, “Best get your head out of the clouds. Keep an eye everywhere.”

As Leo pulled away, Tom began pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, watching for police, Fenton Love in particular. When he gave up, he entered the complex through the main arch and crossed a