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

a mob of regular folks, a few lost souls, and a troop of smiley tourists on their way to a healing service at Angelus Temple.

At the Echo Park stop, he stared from his seat at the hanging tree, then rode on past the temple toward the address the Eden Now Society pamphlet gave. A new passenger, groomed like a hobo, stood in front facing the rear, swaying in the aisle and staring at riders until the timid ones flushed or squirmed. He rubbed his hands together as though enraptured by the notion that soon he would find someone to kill.

Tom missed his stop while watching the fellow. He spotted the Edenist address as the streetcar whizzed past. On the way walking back from the next stop, a sharp pebble stabbed through the worn-out sole of his brogans.

The address was next door to a nut-burger stand with brown palm fronds scattered atop a corrugated tin roof. The Edenist headquarters doubled as the workplace of a fortune teller who called herself Flora. He might’ve guessed the name if he hadn’t been plagued by visions of Frank swinging from the oak and Harriet kneeling and vomiting her bloody guts, and by questions whose answers he feared. Though he had learned to accept having a crazy mother, the thought that she might’ve poisoned somebody left him feeling estranged from everything decent.

Flora was in. She wore a silk blouse with orchids that could’ve been painted by the same artist who sold Leo his ties. Flowers in shades of red and purple were pleated into the woman's gloss black hair. Her front room was a jungle of hanging ferns, furnished only with a round knotty pine table scarred by cigarette burns and a few mismatched wooden chairs. She seated him, then herself.

“Name’s Tom,” he said, “I’m hoping to write an article for Sunset Magazine on our region’s native vegetation. The Eden Now Society seemed a good place to start.”

Her look and tone, Tom imagined a follower of Sigmund Freud using. Intensely serene. He had gained some knowledge about those fellows because Milly consulted at least two of them and ranted about their gall charging for quackery.

“Miz Flora,” Tom said, “if you’ll provide me with a membership list, and your educated guess about who among them I’d best consult for of my article, I’d be grateful and on my way.”

Her grin showed off a gold front tooth. “Our membership is strictly confidential.”

“Suppose I join?”

“In that case, we might allow limited access.”

“Sign me up,” Tom said.

She stood, strolled into a back room, swishing her pleated skirts on the way, and returned with a paper and pen. “Twenty dollars.”

“For what?”

“Initiation fee.”

“Right. Sure. I’ll come back tomorrow with the dough. Meantime, I expect you’ll let me take a look at the list. I’d really like to get moving on the article.”

She gave him the gold-toothed grin.

The last time Tom had assaulted a woman he was younger than five. Milly was screaming at Florence and cursing his father. Tom socked her. Now, when he caught himself wondering if he should lift this gypsy by the throat and hold her aloft until her attitude changed, he decided to leave.

HE STOOD in his bedroom staring at his Selmer clarinet and Buescher True Tone alto sax, trying to decide which to pawn. With a sigh and promise to fetch it before the claim expired, he picked up the sax.

Auggie’s Jewelry and Loan, on Broadway and Seventh across from the Lankershim Hotel, fronted him $26.50. He crammed the ticket and the money into his billfold. He walked about fifty yards then he checked to make sure he hadn’t already lost the ticket. Next he tried to convince himself the sax was only a hunk of metal. For now, all that mattered were Frank, Harriet Boles, and Florence.

The streetcar was running behind, and the cause was clear enough each time the coach stopped. The driver couldn’t let a skirt enter or exit without showing off his repertoire of wit.

At Flora’s place, Tom sacrificed two tens. Trying to send a twinkle from his eye, he said, “How about a few minutes with the membership list, make it easy on us both?”

She pushed the application form across the table.

He filled it in, a lie on every line, and passed it back. “The membership list.’

“Limited access,” she reminded.

“Meaning?”

“Certain members request anonymity, for reasons of their own.” She reached under the table and came up with a thin pamphlet.

He opened the pamphlet. As he scanned the names, he asked, “You have some of these from past years?”

“Why would you want them?”

“It’s not just current members know about the region’s vegetation, I’d expect.”

“Current members will give all you need, I’m sure.’

Tom only recognized one name. Pointing to it, he leveled his gaze on the gypsy. “Harriet Boles.”

She gave him a woeful smile. “Harriet was one of us, though inactive lately. A pity.”

“Huh?”

“Her passing.”

“Belladona,” Tom said, and waited for a reaction. All he got was a sorry gold-toothed smile.

Thirty-six

EVEN halfway between the afternoon healing service and evening’s worship and sermon, the sidewalks around Angelus Temple roiled with a wondrous assortment of humans. Brand new Angelenos, aglow with blind faith in the boosters’ claims of all life’s needs and delights free for the picking, mingled with hostiles carrying signs and banners who hollered slogans that proclaimed Sister Aimee a swindler. Devotees shouted down the antagonists. Here and there a policeman attempted to mediate. And, alongside one of the uniformed cops, glaring at Tom, stood Detective Fenton Love.

No doubt Sister was back home from the Grand Jury proceeding. Which meant, to wedge himself through the crowd in front of the parsonage door cost Tom several minutes and some of his more subtle fullback skills.

Emma Shaffer stood guard at the open door, backed up by two swarthy fellows. She looked even sallower than before. Her drab hair appeared to have sprouted gray over the past few days. Still she stood tall, chin out. “Good day, Mister Hickey.”

Tom removed his fedora and held it to his chest as if he meant to pledge allegiance. “Ma’am. I could use a few words with Sister McPherson.”

“Not today, sir. We fear Sister is ailing.”

Tom might’ve asked for an appointment, but after what he had learned today, he knew he couldn’t rest without some answers.

He said, “Let me in, please. Give me your ear for one minute, in private.” A reporter tried to circle on his right. Tom blocked with an elbow and leg.

Emma Shaffer stepped aside, as did one swarthy fellow behind her. He let Tom pass, then closed the door.

Shaffer said, “Yes?”

“Private,” Tom said.

She huffed but wheeled and led him to a small library off the kitchen. Half the shelves were devoted to Sister Aimee’s Bridal Call magazine. Shaffer shut the door, squared off, and lifted her chin even higher. “Be brief, please.”

“Sister probably told you I was investigating the lynching.”

“The alleged lynching.”

“Either way, it’s got some colored folks making plans to go gunning for the Ku Klux Klan. And I expect nothing’s going to stop them but the truth, which I’m not likely to get without your Sister’s help.”

“Then I would suggest you return tomorrow.”

Tom supposed the woman had resided in hell since the day she accompanied Sister Aimee to Ocean Park Beach. Either she came home believing Sister had drowned, or she had risked body and soul as a conspirator in the preacher’s outrageous con. He said, “You’d let the whole world burn if it meant saving your precious Sister?”

“I would.” She averted her eyes and stood still as though allowing a moment to reconsider. “Yes.”

“I’ll be here bright and early.” Tom opened the door, passed the swarthy fellows, went outside and wedged through the gang of reporters throwing queries at him.

As he stepped onto the sidewalk, a hand grabbed the back of his collar and gave it a mighty yank. Tom’s guard flew up while he wheeled. He found himself staring at Fenton Love.

“Here’s for telling lies about me,” Love said, and threw a roundhouse punch.

Football had trained Tom’s reflexes. He ducked in time so the punch only glanced off his cheekbone. He could’ve landed a jab in Love's belly, but the man was a detective with four or five uniformed cops nearby to back him. Tom preferred a beating to another lost night in jail. He backed away with long strides. The detective stalked him.

“What lies?” Tom said.

As Love rushed, the elbow Tom threw up to block caught him square in the mouth. The man didn’t wince, grimace, or rage. Instead, he grinned, lifted a hand, and made a beckoning gesture to the fellows in uniform. Then he rushed again, both arms slashing.

The detective was taller, but Tom had longer arms. He sidestepped all but a glancing blow to the shoulder, and threw a right that doubled the man over. An elbow to the back of the neck dropped Love face first on the pavement. He lay for half minute before trying and failing to roll over. By that time, Tom saw the uniformed cops weren’t about to detain him. They appeared in no hurry to assist the detective in any way.

Reporters followed Tom all the way to the streetcar, some wanting to hear what he had learned from Emma Shaffer, others curious to know what the assailant held against him. His patience depleted, he turned on one pushy fellow. “You want to tell me why none of you scabs wrote a word about the lynching? Give me that story, I’ll tell you mine.”

All five reporters backed away.

Maybe, Tom thought, as he boarded the streetcar, if I talked things over with the right person, between us we could begin to put in order the awful thoughts cluttering my mind.

Something like hope, surely not reason, told him Madeline could be the right person.

He arrived at Bruno’s Grocery a few minutes after six. He would’ve rounded the corner and climbed the stairs except Bruno was outside, boxing lettuce from the sidewalk display to take it in for the night.

“Too late, chum,” Bruno said. “She’s already out on the town. Most nights, she don’t come home till late.”

Tom walked off shuffling his feet, thinking he ought to kick himself for letting his heart drift away from where it was needed. He wondered what kind of rat would forget that his little sister might already be painted up, dressed in something silky, shoulder-less and back-less, V-cut in front, hemmed above her knees, and on her way out the door. He double-timed to the bus stop.

Thirty-seven

AS Tom reached his block of Virgil Street, he saw the Packard up ahead on Fourth at the base of the hill. In the moonlit dark, he didn’t see a driver inside. He peered and made out a scratch along the passenger side. The car was Leo’s.

He wished he and Leo could talk but wouldn’t risk Florence and her Romeo showing up and spotting them. He walked on home and gained hope for relief from the dread that possessed him, because he saw a light in the cottage.

The relief didn’t come. Florence was gone. He looked in the kitchen where they often left notes to each other. He scrambled a few eggs, brewed coffee, sat at the kitchen table, picked at the food, and brooded. He devoted a few minutes to Fenton Love, far more time to Milly.

Then he turned out the kitchen light, moved to the parlor, and sat in the dark. Just maybe, if Florence thought he wasn’t home, she might invite Romeo in, or at least let him walk her to the door where Tom could meet him. Not since Coach Gloomy Gus chewed out the team at halftime had Tom felt so willing to thrash an adversary.

His mind kept whirling and refused to pursue any sort of logic. Still he tried to sift through all he had learned or speculated about the lynching. He groped for evidence that led anywhere other than Teddy Boles.

Long before he expected her, he heard the tap of Florence’s Mary Jane shoes with their two-inch heels that called attention by the noise as well as the lift they gave her already notable rear end. The only footsteps were hers.

He sat still, let her use her key. When she entered, flipped on the light and saw him, she jumped back and squealed, “Tommy, you sap. What’s the big idea?”

“I’m setting an example,” Tom said. “Water and Power’s got all the dough they need.” He eyed her spangled outfit. “Did you go to church?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know. Say, you’re so curious, why weren’t you out snooping