Could it be just a cosmic coincidence that exotic dancers begin disappearing around the South Bay area in record numbers just after a well-fed, 6-foot alligator is spotted in the San Pedro's Machado Lake? Alto saxophonist Loose Bezich, whose topless terpsichorean girlfriend is terrified, doesn't believe in such concurrences. Loose calls on band leader and fellow-jazzman Lars Lindstrom to help him check out the scene. Lars sets their suspicions before jazz fan and friend Captain Tom Cheatham of the L.A.P.D. Tom tells them he suspects that a rogue former cop with a penchant for collecting poisonous reptiles and other creepy crawlies might be the man responsible for both the missing strippers and "Reggie" the alligator's appearance in the city park's large lagoon. When their suspect stages a daring daylight bank hold-up then does his own disappearing act, police departments on two continents begin a serious manhunt for former Los Angeles detective Louis Muñoz. Both the bad man and the 'gator elude capture. Then a second coincidence brings Loose, Lars and the band on a performing tour of the French Riviera just as Louis Muñoz is sighted trying to cross the Spanish border. Lars Lindstrom, musician turned detective faces is biggest challenge to date as California's "Reggie-gator" serial killer becomes obsessed with the trumpet man's beautiful Norwegian lady.

The Dig You Later, Alligator Blues

A Lars Lindstrom Zen-Jazz MysteryBy Skoot Larson

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Skoot Larson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-0203-9

Chapter One

I was having trouble keeping my peeps on the sheet of music in front of me. Large green eyes, framed by coffee-colored stockings, lavender panties and a garter belt, gave me a come-hither stare. The face was upside-down, long blonde hair, straight as a horse's tail, hangin' behind the oak bar top, pendulous breast partially concealing her lips and lower face. Her hair and bosom swung gently one direction as her elevated bottom moved the opposite way to the heavy, bumping rhythm my band was pulsing out.

The lady stood suddenly, shaking her tail feathers and rotating her head, her hair fanning out and circling over her. She turned, thrust her chest forward and smiled directly at me, then strutted down the bar in front of more than a dozen assembled police officers of very high rank. At the other end of the bar, a portly cop with silver bars on his collar pushed a chair up close, then gave the lady a helping hand as she stepped from her makeshift runway. The heavy lieutenant then took her hand and led her between booths and tables, stopping at the red suede bench closest to the bandstand.

I'm not a great sight-reader. Like, I can read music, and I can play fast licks, but I'm not accustomed to doing both at the same time. I'm a jazz cat. Improvisation is my forte, and I'm known to be good at both playin' brass instruments and singing. It's the same with most the cats in my band. We form the house band here at Blondy's Waterfront Dive, a small, wigged-out jazz club on 7th Street, three blocks from the main channel of the Los Angeles Harbor complex. We usually play our own music here six-nights-a-week, but tonight we'd been handed charts. Blondy's guests wanted some special tunes rendered, and they had brought their own, poorly written arrangements; no improvising until all their requests had been played!

I glanced over at the nearest booth, the one Blondy usually reserved for herself. The dancer was moving her three-inch heels carefully around the Formica tabletop, close enough that I could almost reach out and touch her, thrusting her most intimate female parts in the face of my friend Tom Cheatham. Across the booth from Tom, sat his good buddy and co-worker Lieutenant Rich Moen, the women's lavender panties pulled over his brush-cut of blond hair, crotch down on the center of his head, and waistband looped under his ears.

Just an hour ago, the Los Angeles Police Chief had been here at Tom's table as well. The department had rented Blondy's for a private party, the occasion being to celebrate Tom's promotion to the rank of captain. The evening had started out quiet and mellow, senior officers and a few of Tom's homicide squad in their seats with mugs of Miller Genuine before them, talking quietly among themselves and takin' a sip of suds from time to time. There had been some grumbling about the Miller beer, but Lady had told Tom emphatically that "Blondy's don't serve no stinkin' Budweiser!"

Detective I Carl Berger, our appointed stage manager and Master-of-Ceremonies for the evening, had queued us into "Land of Hope and Glory," as Chief Birkason led Tom to the stage. While we had droned out what sounded like some high school's sorry chart, the chief exchanged Tom's sky-piece for another similar model, but with clusters of gold leaf across the black visor. Carl pushed an open palm toward the floor, a signal to drop our volume toward pianissimo, and the chief summoned Blondy to the dais.

"Pearl," the chief intoned, "Pearl Van Weirden, can you join us up here please?" Blondy stepped up onto the crowded stage, where the chief asked her to pin the gold badge of his new rank on Tom's left collar while the top cop fastened the same on the right. Captain Tom stood at rigid attention until his new status had been made official, then he relaxed and smiled as Chief Birkason shook his hand and Blondy planted a big smack on his cheek.

At that, forty-some policemen came to their feet applauding. Their hand clapping fading behind shouts for beer by the pitcher and bottles of single-malt scotch for each individual table. The room erupted into a serious stag party with loud shouting, catcalls, and officers coming forward to squeeze onto our podium in a ribald roast for the new brass hat.

Chief Birkason made excuses about 'another civic event,' and showed himself to the door with head held high. His exit signaled the death of dignity to the rest of his troops. When the young woman had been escorted in and helped up onto the bar, where she proceeded to bare all, Blondy got a real salty look on her visage and stormed into her office. The door slammed loud enough to turn some heads, but the lady's disappearance went largely un-noticed. Most sets of peepers across the room were focused on a lavender colored 38-double D bra that twirled in circles then sailed off toward the steps leading to Blondy's single billiard table.

When she'd rubbed her breasts in the new Captain's face, made a circuit of the room collecting tips in her stocking tops and then reclaiming scattered articles of clothing, a uniformed patrolman showed her to the ladies restroom. She dressed quickly and was lead out through the rear exit. One policeman guarded that entrance, which was generally used only for deliveries, and the alley beyond. Two more junior uniforms, fresh from the academy, stood sentry duty at the front to clue our regulars that this was a private party and Blondy's would reopen to the general public the next day, Sunday, with their usual jam session.

The dancer gone, we finished the set with an original blues of our own. We drew weak applause, but the ballin' cop cats largely ignored us. Carl told us to take a break, so I knocked on the lady's office door to scope out if she was aw'reet.

She wasn't. Blondy was on a seriously uncool tear. "I let them take over my club on a Saturday, what a sorry riff! Yeah, I know they're payin' more than I usually take in plus payin' bar drink prices for their private bottles, but I wasn't expectin' this kind of shit! Nude dancers? Public officials acting like animals?

"I thought this would be a dignified ceremony!" "Well, babe," I told her, "the ceremony itself was dignified ..."

"Dignified hell!" she shouted. "We've had two cop funerals here in the past year. They got a bit drunk, but they managed to keep a bit of self-respect and decorum with it. These guys are the top men on the force, and they're cuttin' up like high school jocks on a bender."

All I could do was nod. When Blondy wigged out on these kinds of freakish kicks, it was best not to say anything.

"This is the last time anyone is bookin' my club for a private party, I don't care how many yards of bread they want to lay out. And I'm seriously thinkin' of eighty-sixin' all cops from my place!"

I quietly bugged out for the bandstand before I might become part of the focus for this chick's anger. I nursed a large gin until time to play another set of tunes.

We were hard into Charles Mingus's "Peggy's Blue Skylight" when the patrolmen from the alley door came ringside and whispered something in Carl Berger's ear. I watched Carl pat the man's shoulder, then take a couple steps over to Tom's table. He said something to Captain Tom, Lieutenant Moen and the other high ranks in the booth. The officers got to their feet and followed the uniform out Blondy's seldom-used back door into the alley. Carl Berger turned to us and drew a finger across his throat; stop the music. Loose Bezich, my alto sax player was right in the middle of some nutty, frantic idea. I wanted to find out where his newly acquired King Super-20 horn was headed, but the studs pickin' up the tab said 'cool it,' so cool it we did.

Carl grabbed my microphone from its holder, tapped it nervously with a finger, sending serious sonic pops over the PA system. "We've got an emergency situation here, men. Candy-Anne, our lovely dancer, was attacked in the alley. We've called an ambulance and the crime scene guys are on the way. The new Captain may need help from some of you, if so he'll let us know who he wants to see. In the meantime, I think we'd better slow this party down. The media is likely to be here soon, and we don't want to give the wrong impression."

At that point, Rich Moen came back into the Dive. I overheard him tell Carl that our nude dancer had been raped and severely beaten. "At this point," he told the younger detective, "she may not live long enough to see the inside of the ambulance."

Chapter Two

The party broke up in a quick 2/4. Individual cops stopped by to congratulate Tom and alibi each other, their bearing sending a signal that they wanted to make themselves scarce of this place; wanted no part of investigatin' a murder that occurred right under their own lushed noses, especially when the victim was a stripper they had just dug in-the-altogether. The band members vouched for each other. David spoke first, sayin' that no one had gone outside 'cause the guests were supplyin' free libations inside. The farthest anyone had ventured was the gents, which they had each visited in turn.

Tom knocked on Blondy's office door, diggin' that Lady and I could alibi each other. I'd already told him the Blonde One's mood was a bit ragged around the edges. She felt she'd been burned by the police high command. I clued him that she had locked herself in her chamber when Candy-Anne arrived and hadn't made a guest shot in the main room since.

Lady jumped salty when her portal opened. She was up in Tom's face, her own an African tribal war mask showing major hatred. "Whata'ya want!" she snapped. "Just go away and don't bother me."

Captain Tom asked her if I'd been in her office at my break time. "What's it to you?" she shouted just inches from his chin, spraying spittle on his new rank insignia. Tom took a step back and blinked a few blinks.

"Pearl," he began, "this is serious. A young girl has been murdered in the alley behind your club and we need to eliminate both you and Lars as suspects."

"Who was it," she barked, "That little trollop that had her gash on your nose a short while ago? If that's who it is, she probably deserved it!" Then she turned and sat back at her desk, doing her best to ignore our presence.

"Pearl," Tom tried again. "You need to talk to me. It doesn't matter if you're unhappy with me or my colleagues. I need you to verify that Lars was with you when he wasn't out there with the band. This is a police matter."

Blondy spoke to the wall in front of her desk. "Like that debacle out in my nightclub was a police matter? Maybe Eyewitness News should know how our 'City's Finest' behave when they're not out on the streets." She shut us out once more and focused on some old ledgers spread across the surface before her. After a minute, she turned and stood, hands on her hips and her face screwed up by bad vibes. Her green eyes flashed blue flames. "Okay, Lars was here. Now get the fuck outta my office and don't bother me again." Her heat turned my direction. "And you, asshole, I'm sick and tired of you bringin' trouble to my doorstep. I'm seriously thinkin' of firin' your sorry ass and finding some real musicians! Cats that don't go around half crocked, thinkin' they're Bulldog Drummond."

"Blondy, baby," I wailed. "I thought we were tight? You've always been there for me, and I've been there for you. Like, maybe if you sleep on it ...?"

"Maybe if you haul your sorry ass into an A.A. meeting, I'll think a little more of you. How many times have I told you you'd better do something about your drinking! But it's all about Lars. You don't hear anyone else talkin'." And with that, Lady kicked the door shut. My nose was saved from serious damage by a quick step back.

I was heavyweight drug as I headed into the alley, around the yellow tape barrier, to grab the back stairs to my aerie. As I shuffled behind Lieutenant Moen I overheard one of the crime scene techs tellin' him, "Someone tied her hands with one of her stockings and it looks like he was tryin' to strangle her with the other." Other cats were standing by with a life-size black rubber bag. Candy-Anne definitely wasn't going to see that ambulance, or any other vehicle zipped in her sad, dark cocoon.

Chapter Three

I knew sleep wouldn't be comin' on me soon, so I headed out on the roof of the Channel View Hotel, my crash-pad four floors above the Waterfront Dive where I blew the changes for a living. I moved across the deck in pianissimo so as not to awaken my lovely Norwegian main-day charge.

I'm livin' a jazz musician's dream, with a golden gig that pays my way just a short stumble from my pad. My six-foot frame is topped with thinning, dirty-blond hair. I appear fit, not through healthy livin' or an exercise routine, but because I don't always remember to eat on a set schedule. Music is my life, and if I really get hung up in creatin' some solid grooves, like, I get lost in the frantic out-there, the Zone, and nothin' else can reach me. The yin and yang of the straight world could crumble or fly up to Mars, and I'm happy here leadin' my little combo at Blondy's and livin' my life with my gorgeous red headed frail, Astrid, and all our swingin' life kicks.

Life has been extremely mellow for the last ten or so years as Blondy, my boss, is a very old and close friend, and her jazz club has been my other home right here in the town where I grew up. Though I've hung out all around the world for short times, San Pedro has always been my place in the sun.

Settin' my eyes toward the Los Angeles Harbor, however, I was diggin' some upsettin' changes. For the uncountable years that I've occupied this penthouse above the straight world of the greed-heads, I've enjoyed a very vouty view of the main channel with its ships coming and going. From the other side of my high perch, facing southwest, I cast my peeps on the rolling green of the Palos Verdes Peninsula as it slides into the Pacific Ocean.

Recently, however, rising wooden frames and faux brick has been impairing my view. Between me and the water, high-rise condominiums are sprouting up faster than the reefer in a hipster's flower pot. Farther up 6th Street, on my other flank, our landmark Bank of San Pedro, an architecturally gorgeous pile of granite, has been gutted and will soon become more high-ticket pads for rich straights and squares as new pads grow skyward from within its ancient and ornate faade.

The development in itself is somewhat upsetting. I've never handled change well. The un-coolest part, however, is that with this friendly new face of urban renewal comes increased demand for space here, which drives up the values of everything else in the area. This could be copasetic for Blondy, as it brings more big spenders into her club, but it also could be disaster for me and my musicians.

Blondy and I shared a common landlord, until he was murdered on the docks, the victim of a scheme and scam to steal cargo from overseas that comes here on ships while charging the shippers "protection" money. Bobby Campbell, our former rent collector got caught in the middle. He knew too much, as they say in old James Cagney films, and he paid with his latest incarnation, like, Doornail City.

In Blondy's case, the increased business, plus and inflation of drink prices and a steeper door charge can more than cover the cost of a better neighborhood. We jazz cats, however, have always lived on the edge anyway, kind of a 'hand-to-mouth' deal.

So the thing that was crackin' my brains as I sat in the night air diggin' the changin' scene, was Bobby Campbell's heirs. His two sons never did have eyes to own a run-down, skid row hotel. For years they had been pushing their father to convert the building to overpriced Senior Condos or classy artist's lofts.

Some even more worrying gloom came from Campbell's daughter Wilhelmina, who has long had eyes to boot me and grab the penthouse as her own. Bobby Campbell was the kind of guy who valued my small monthly check above donating free housing to one of his own, but with Bobby gone, the brothers would prove a more receptive target to Willy, as their sister was known. It was only a matter of time before she would get her way.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Dig You Later, Alligator Bluesby Skoot Larson Copyright © 2009 by Skoot Larson. Excerpted by permission.
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