The Case That Turned A Once Famous California P.I Lew Archer Into A Has-Been-The Road Down To Skid Road Aint That Far-The Jameson Affair

The Case That Turned A Once Famous California P.I Lew Archer Into A Has-Been-The Road Down To Skid Road Aint That Far-The Jameson Affair  

By Seth Garth

You never know what is going to tweak a reader’s interests, especially when it becomes the plural “readers” looking for the same answers. That was the case recently in response to my piece on the late once famous California private detective, snoop, gumshoe, sleuth, keyhole peeper or whatever you call them in your neighborhood Lew Archer (1915-2019) who came out of U.S. Army Military Intelligence after World War II ready to take on Sam, Miles, Phillip, Nick, the legendary Phil Larkin whoever on and become the king of the hill in the profession. Had the early credentials too. I outlined most of that in my very distinct “not an obituary” of the man whom I held in some esteem even as late as the early 1970s when I interviewed him in San Francisco where he was working for P.I. Hall of Famer Sheila Sharp (the first female to make it Dame May Whitty’s attempt was a joke or taken that way by the nominating committee).

You can see all of that in that recent piece but what readers have been wondering about is the case that broke Lew’s streak, brought him low as a big time P.I who would thereafter work his way down to repo work and keyhole peeping and then when he flunked that as the office go-fer (courtesy of Sheila in all cases who never really gave up on him, had a soft spot for when he was in his prime and ripping up crime and criminals until she in exasperation had to let him go when he was dipping into the coffee and crullers petty cash). That was the Jameson case (I have seen it spelled Jamison and Jameston but I will go woth the way it was printed in the Bay Tribune), although Jameson himself was a marginal figure, was one of those poor little rich boys who pined away for some young women when she ditched him for the next best thing and he never got over it) who had, get this, hired Lew out of the telephone directory where he was first on the Greater L.A. P.I. list. The gaff was that this overweight high-roller bum who stilled lived at home with his father sucking up honey buns was hung up on some girl he had known all his life, had planned to marry and she had turned him down cold, or got that way after some sidewalk Lothario lit up her sky. (That young woman, Leila and her own complicated relationship with this new blue Lothario had a few twists and turns which however even a graduate of one of those “become a P.I. in ten easy lessons (plus plenty of dough) used to be featured on matchbook covers could have figured out before lunch).        

   

The reason this Jameson kid, Peter I think, wanted Lew’s services was that he thought this Lothario, hell let’s call him that since he operated under about five different names anyway was a fake, a phony, damaged goods, a bum of the month selection maybe linked up to some bad asses, some hoods from Vegas when that town was still the Wild West unlike today when the glitter is off, way off and grandmothers with slot-machine worthy arms rule the roost. Was either a bagman or muscle or chief skimmer for Lenny Graham when he was king of the hill before the boys from the East headed out to take over. Maybe that is where Lew made his first line of mistakes, working the criminal gangster element grift that every P.I., even though matchbook graduate works from when serious money is involved, a few people are getting stacked up murdered and there is no trace, especially that last part. But P.I. 101 tells you watch out for some misdirection, something out of left field.  

That’s the front, okay the excuse, Lew put up when I interviewed him in the early 1970s as to why he fucked up what looked like a straight up bad guy gangsters case with a few bucks, throw away money by Vegas standards in play which sent him off the rails. The reality was somewhat different when I checked with Detective Sergeant Ames from the Sunnyvale Police Department who had to save Lew’s bacon from being fried, from him being the late Lew Archer back then and from his ex-wife Martha. Actually Martha is the key since shortly before Lew took the Jameson case Martha threw him out of the house, sent him packing leaving him to fend for himself where he was to sleep. She did care whether it was some sleepy motel or under a bridge but not in her house. Martha had gotten tired, very tired of being the social equivalent of a golf widow and even more tired of Lew’s grabbing every piece of ass he could find on a case (an a few times when just standing around). And kind of flaunted that sexual prowess around to the boys in the precinct and at the annual P.I. conventions. Always had some bimbo on his shoulder without fail.

I am not shrink, psychiatrist or anything like that but the way Martha laid out her story part of Lew’s trysts were to prove he could play with the big boys, the legends like Sam who famously had some twist named Mary in the hay and then calm as you please sent her over when the bodies piled up and it looked like he would take the heat for the bundle after she bang-banged them. Guys like Marlowe who took on two wealthy if screwy sisters at the same time, grabbed some silver wig gangster’s wife and a few stray waitresses and female bookstore clerks, hell even a librarian all while putting said gangster to bang-bang heaven. Guys like Lance Lane who never took a case unless it was some frail in distress and he got a little something besides wages and expenses for his troubles. Or the legendary Phil Larkin who to this day is still going after the young lovelies on the Internet, and they are responding. Yeah, so you could say it was the ethos of the then brotherhood to grabbed what could be grabbed in the sex department.           

That ethos appeared to be okay with Lew until he got the Martha toss and then he lost it. What in the old literature was called a “lost of nerve” but which really was sexual impotency, sexual dysfunction anyway. Today even tough, hard guys would on the sly get some help, grab some pills, see a doctor at least but then that was out and so Lew fell down on his own hubris. Just start with the young woman, that Leila, who this clown Jameson hired Lew to drag, kicking and screaming if necessary, away from that half-baked Lothario who had good looks, some patter and some ready cash as well. Had designs on the young woman’s family fortune, which turned out to be non-existent since her philandering and gambling father had dried up the well. She made it clear when Lew interviewed her that a little romp in the hay could be in the cards if Lew laid off her honey. Lew turned her down cold.       

From there strangely enough it was all downhill as Lew got twisted up in some silly story that the Lothario was “connected” with the mob in Vegas, might have been some mobster’s son or protégé. As mentioned before Lew, who previously had thought out all the angles before moving in, leaped all over that and maybe I would have too except our boy was a bright bulb who had gone to college, several and had some pretty bright professors ready to move mountains to get him ahead. That Vegas diversion let Lew fall down a couple more times, especially with the young house-bound wife of some French literature scholar who practically took her clothes off in front of him. Started rubbing him in the groin area, was ready to take him to heaven since her professor had gone stone cold. No sale.

Of course along with the sexual miscues the bodies kept piling up to Lew’s confusion, that young woman’s mother who he for the life of him could not figure in the gangster scenario, the Lothario whom he thought had been the subject of a gangland “hit”, a couple of Vegas types, some mysterious doctor connected to all parties and a guy who paved the way for others, all because Lew was so enthralled with the academics, was so taken in by the bullshit that the big time French scholar put out about not grabbing every young fresh student he could find in his classes. Yeah, like demented professors couldn’t commit a series of murders to keep their lady friends. The coppers, I hate to say, got there just in time before that deranged intellectual was ready to bang-bang Lew, saved his bacon. Now you have as much skinny as a I can tell you about the long sad downhill skid row tale of one Lew Archer. Damn.