***The Life And Times Of Michael Philip Marlin, Private Investigator- The Gypsy Rain

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman- with kudos to Raymond Chandler

 

Those who have been following this series about the exploits of the famous Ocean City (located just south of Los Angeles then now incorporated into the county) private detective Michael Philip Marlin (hereafter just Marlin the way everybody when he became famous after the Galton case out on the coast) and his contemporaries in the private detection business like Freddy Vance, Charles Nicolas (okay, okay Clara too), Sam Archer, Miles Spade, Johnny Spain, know that he related many of these stories to his son, Tyrone Fallon, in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Many of the stories related to Marlin’s personal lone-wolf operations (he always used the term “private operative” when he referred to his profession but when cash was tight or the landlords were howling in the dead air night for their room and office rents he would bend his pride and take assignment from the International Operatives Agency which had it main offices on Post Street in San Francisco and would pay the freight to transport Marlin up there when a hot case needed his professional expertise.    

Tyrone later, in the 1970s, related these stories to the journalist Joshua Lawrence Breslin at his request, a friend of my boyhood friend, Peter Paul Markin, who uncovered the relationship and who in turn related them to me over several weeks in the late 1980s.This one is actually from Tyrone’s files which he wanted shown to one and all as an example that he had listened to his father back when he was telling him those long gone stories. I believe that I have been faithful to what Tyrone presented to Josh. In any case I take full responsibility for what follows.        

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That Simon the Seeker was a smooth operator, smooth right up until the end. The end being face down in his exclusive twenty-two rooms Bel Air mansion, a place bought courtesy of half the Hollywood swells, or rather their wives, more nervous actors and actresses than you could shake a stick at, fidgety producers fighting tight budgets and overdue shooting schedules, and just plain wanderlust average citizens who could foot the bill for signs of the futures, omens, portents, whatever the hell you call them.

I, Tyrone Fallon, head of the Tyrone Investigation Agency, first heard about Simon back when I was working out of the old run-down, seen-better-days Meyers Building off of Wiltshire when I was just starting out and the low rent was a plus for my occupancy. In those days Simon the Seeker was working the carny racket, you know Madame Somebody telling your bright future for nickels and dimes, kid’s stuff really. He would have his skills published on every telephone pole in the area and come carny time he would have young girls, usually nubile teenage young girls who you would look at, and maybe in the right mood look at twice, passing out colored flyers announcing his presence in the community. I caught his act one night, one summer night up at the State Fair in Ventura when I was on a case looking for a dead-beat dad for an irate wife needing some alimony money and had a lead that he was working as a barker at one of the take-a-chance booths.

Simon was set up on the midway and would draw a crowd based on those young nubile girls, again a draw for hungry eyes or curious wives wondering why hubby was looking back all the time. His stunt was pretty routine, nothing but hocus-pocus for the rubes but also nothing, nothing Bunco squad-worthy to get worked up about either. By the way that Simon thing was a gag, Simon Saroyan, trying to play off of some gypsy Armenian mystique thing out here where there were plenty of Armenians and maybe a few people thought he was the author with that last name of his. His real name was Bradford Ames and I don’t know if his people came over on the Mayflower or anything like that but he was a tall good-looking blond guy which threw people off a little, especially those who expected some dark swarthy guy and made even more mystery around him like maybe he had been stolen at birth. Who knows but like I said it was all bunk, if harmless in those days.

Then Simon kind of fell of the map, at least I stopped seeing any posters around, or nubiles passing out leaflets. As I found out later when I got closer to the case what had happened was that Simon had finally struck gold, had hit the big time that he was craving all along. One night at some low-rent carny down in Encino, Betty Alden, Mrs. Lance Wadsworth Alden, yes, that Alden who made a ton of money when the LaBrea oil boom hit, was slumming and caught his act. He did some fast talking, very fast talking to the young, thirtyish, attractive Mrs. Alden and one way or the other slipped under the silky sheets with her at her place over in Beverly Hills. Right under the nose of the ancient Mr. Alden who probably was here to greet them when the Spaniards showed up.

So naturally Simon had moved up in class or at least clientele since he now was patronized by all the misty-eyed ladies with time on their hands in the Hollywood swells community since that Mrs. Alden had been Betty Bostock, a young wannabe starlet build more for casting couches that the screen, when old Alden picked her up off the streets one night. But even that entrée did not whet Simon’s appetite. He had been a wayward son back home among the Mayfair swells, had larceny engraved in his heart, and felt he needed to make a show, make some real dough. He now had the in, the connections and the information to make a big score.

What Simon did was contact Max Flame (real name unknown, unknown even when he went down in a hail of bullets later in his career, much later well after Simon took his fall), the best B&E in the night time guy ever. Here was the proposition Simon laid on Max. He would set up the mark, set up the particulars and Max and his boys would execute the heist with a fifty-fifty split. Done. And so for a time all prospered. Usually the victim, or the victim’s insurance company, paid off on the quiet. Very quiet. Beautiful and even I could appreciate the artistry of it-until I had to pull the hammer for my client.                                             

The way I got involved in the whole mess was that Lloyd Benton, a friend, a very close friend of Betty Alden’s, meaning he too had found his way under those silky Alden sheets, wanted me to help him get some family heirloom necklace for her that had been stolen when her home had been hit by Max and the boys. (Simon planned that caper himself just to throw suspicion off him, no one would figure that he was involved in a rip-off of an ex-lover and patroness.)   

For some reason Max had held onto the necklace, emeralds and all.

That piece of jewelry he was saving for a lady friend. But Betty really wanted them back and so Lloyd was on the case. The reason Lloyd was knowledgeable about what went down is that he was a confederate of Simon’s and Max’s. He was the finger man, the guy who fit into that Hollywood swells set, and who could easily gather information about who had what and how to grab it. His cut came from both sides, from both Max and Simon. So Lloyd hired me to be his bodyguard when the deal when down with Max. The problem was the trade never occurred. Never occurred because Betty Alden got wise to what was going on. At least wise to the Simon end of the deal. So one night Betty, drunk, went over to Bel-Air and popped one Simon the Seeker where it hurt, hurt very bad, dead hurt. You never heard about it though, did you?

One Lance Wadsworth Alden carried a lot of weight in tinsel town, Los Angeles County, Southern California and on up into Sacramento  and the whole thing was hushed up, clapped down. Self-defense they said.  And Simon, well, Simon had as good a run as could be expected. He sure must have been a smooth operator though to work that swells crowd when he was in his prime.    

Yes, he sure must have been.