***Out In The 1950s Crime Noir Night-The Private Eye Is Out
Some guys never learn, yah, they
just never learn. Take Robert Streeter, smart. street smart as befits a working
private eye, a good looking guy, a guy built for 1950s grey flannel suit
action, hefty, actually beefcake would be a better description, barrel-chested,
with enough guts to take on some tough stuff but with enough whatever it is
that moves dangerous dames to have them all over him like some magnet to make
things dangerous (or was it that he was fatally attracted to them, such things
are not always what they seem). But in the end he took the fall, took it hard
and wound up with plenty of mud on his face in some dusty ditch. But here is
where the never learn part comes in, he didn’t get mixed up with just one
frosty dame who sent him reeling but two. So, no, we of the fraternity need not
bleed, at least not for long, over one Robert Streeter, gumshoe, shamus, peeper,
private dick, whatever you happen to call guys who work for cheap dough and plenty
of aggravation tilting at windmills in this wicked old world. But his story
might just be a cautionary tale. So listen up.
Robert Streeter frankly had gone
through a rough patch, had had a few cases that fell through the cracks, the
customers weren’t satisfied and didn’t pay up, stuff like that, and therefore had to take on some divorce
work, although he usually was loathe to do such peeping in shady motel bedroom work.
She, Faith Smythe, had called him up, had told him her requirements, told him
of her need to get some stuff on her husband, some scandal to pave the way to
that happy future divorce she craved and to be settled with enough dough to
head south, maybe Mexico, maybe further down. But here was the catch, and the
place where even we of the fraternity had to give Robert some slack, he was in
such a tough spot for dough that he took the case sight unseen, sight of her
unseen, took it because it sounded, well, sounded like finding money on the
street once she said she would have his retainer sent over posthaste. A few days’
work, he figured, maybe stretch it out for a week or so and collect his money. Maybe
a bonus since this involved serious money, society money, rather than the usual
butcher’s wife thinking her husband had run off with a starlet that the bedroom
peepers spoke about. Easy.
And it was easy, easy getting enough
material on one Horace Smythe, one wealthy for about five generations wealthy,
Los Angeles patron. He openly philandered, even had a suite reserved at the
Hilton where the bellhops were eager to help out anybody if the dough was
right, so that Mrs. Smythe (it wasn’t Faith at that point) had an open and shut
case in the courts. She just had to file, wait her time, and then flee south.
Then, bringing her the photographic proof she needed for her divorce over to
the house, he got his first look at her. And then he knew, knew right for the
moment she opened that damn door that whatever it was that she was looking for
beyond that divorce, and she was looking for more as every fiber in her being
cried out, was going to put him through his paces.
There was no need to describe her,
young, very young, brunette, brown eyes, slender, wasp-waisted and trouble,
trouble the minute he heard that in person metallic money voice in person that
spoke of treachery, and guys in grey flannel suits duplicity. Certainly she was
not what he had expected, not after having seen old guy Horace, that dirty old
man. He had expected some aging gracefully with plenty of help matron and with lots
of time on her hands. Maybe too hiding a little tryst or two herself along the
way in order to settle scores with old Horace and even things up. She, after
opening the door, a drink in hand, scotch, practically swooned in his arms,
just to see if he would catch her. He did. Yah, some dames are like that, she
was like that. And from then on he knew whatever happened their fates were
joined, no rhyme or reason to it, but there it was. He bedded her that night after some arch
banter over a drink or seven (or rather she let him bed her, no resistance,
none) right in that old man’s house. He was hooked, hooked bad, but he had to
play his hand out, play it to the end.
Playing out that hand meant nothing
but murder, murder one, plain and simple when she got under his skin. Oh sure,
once she saw him at the door and maybe later in bed she had it figured that
Robert would have no trouble with the old man, taking him down and then they,
yah, he was in the sunny sky of Mexico scenario now, could be off to the southland
and sipping high- grade tequilas. And, at first it could have worked out just
that way, they had set it up so perfect. An ‘accident’ with Horace’s car, and
some wayward young thing beside him, after some drunken night out. Then the poor
bereaved and jilted widow and all. But then one night, a few nights before
their plan was to become operational, they got sloppy. They had been drinking
heavily all afternoon and evening and he had, in the heat of the moment, carried
her up to her bedroom for a frolic.
Unfortunately about nine o’clock
Horace showed up at her bedroom door, pretty drunk himself, and yelled bloody
hell. Yelled that there was no way she was getting any dough now that he had
the goods on her, now that he knew she was just another tramp. He called her
that many times practically ready to throw her out the window in his rage. Robert,
very drunk and a little wobbly, tried to defend her, they tussled and Horace
went down quickly, out for the count, but not before clubbing Robert with a
fireplace iron which sent him tumbling as well. When he regained consciousness and
he checked on the prostrate Horace he had already gone to meet his maker. And
then the madness started, the closing off of their plans had left them with no
out except to flee, no matter what Robert’s condition. They had to flee to
Mexico where she had a stash of cash that could carry them for a while. Just enough
dough until they could figure out what they could do next. But she persuaded
him that they had to move just then or else. That was the way she played it, played
it to an addled love- smitten fall guy with a big bump on his head and a
massive headache.
And then the madness really accelerated.
Faith started acting a little erratically, making wrongs decisions since Robert
was still reeling from his head injuries and was not able to think things
through, heading south. They had also stopped at a doctor’s place in some
podunk town in the high desert going east out of L.A. and then fled when he
became suspicious after viewing Robert’s injuries. The doctor reported that visit
to the police who had been alerted to the couple by an all- points bulletin put
out by the Los Angeles police and who then began the final massive manhunt that
a few days later that would corral them near the border. As they approached the
border Faith, really freaked out and showing signs of extreme duress, drew a
gun from her purse and was ready to put one in Robert when he said that they
should surrender. She shot blindly wounding him in the shoulder as she tried to
make a run for border alone. Once cornered she let go with the last of her ammo.
A police sniper brought her low as she stumbled to make those last few steps to
the Mexican side and freedom. She never made it.
Robert only learned the following
information later. Later after the guns had stopped blazing and Robert had been
cleared of any wrongdoing, legal wrong-doing anyway. It seemed that Faith had
been married previously to some insurance guy from Fresno but when Horace
started courting her, spying her in an LA hotel, that guy found himself as what
the police called a “suicide” after Horace bought some hefty police
cooperation. As it turned out she had snuffed the poor guy out one night with a
pillow. Here is the beautifully ironic part though. Robert hadn’t killed Horace
at all. He died of asphyxiation. Faith, after Robert had gone in his coma had
done her signature work with a pillow and had convinced him that he had done
it. Obviously she was more than ready to let him take fall if there was any
backsplash over Horace’s death. As it also turned out, and this is when Robert
finally understood why Horace was running around with other dames, Faith had
been in and out of half the private mental institution in California. She had
turned out in the end to be a very expensive and dangerous trophy wife.
So that was indeed a close call and
one would have thought that Robert would have learned a serious lesson, maybe
retired into monkhood or something but not our Quixote, not our windmill
chaser. After a few months recuperation, needing dough, needing it badly now
that Faith had gone to the great beyond and there was no easy street in his
future, he put his shingle back up-open for business, come on in. No divorce
work though although after what was to happen later that might actually have
been a better course, maybe just confine himself to a clientele made up of
butcher’s wives or something like that. It seems that Kirk Stevens, yes, that
Kirk Stevens, the big mobbed up guy who ran all the action in Reno sent one of
his men down to fetch Robert for a certain delicate job that involved a wayward
dame. Kirk had heard about his tangle with Faith and was impressed. Kirk
figured Robert would not be burned twice by some twist with brown eyes and
bedroom dream ideas with the next available man. Go figure.
What Kirk needed was to get a certain Jane Stevens, his
wife, back from where ever she was, and more importantly, a certain two hundred
thousand dollars that she fled with, fled south to Mexico from what he knew of her
movements. Robert licked his chops, no, not for the come hither dame, but that
resolving Kirk’s problem would make him well, well in the bank, well in his
profession. He also knew from the picture that Kirk showed him of his fleeing
wife that this one would be easy, a month’s work (he wanted to really get well
in the bank), and he would have her corralled. And that picture told him she
was definitely not his type. This was like finding money on the ground. Besides
you do not turn Kirk Stevens down when he sends one of his boys down to fetch
you. Thanks Kirk, thanks for the business.
Well he found Jane alright about a
week later down in sultry, sweaty Sonora. Found her in the shadowy Tres Pesos cantina
that she visited every night looking, looking for something, maybe kicks with
the natives, who knows. She had enough dough for a lot of things, lots of
kicks, kinky or not. So he waited for her one night once he had tracked her
down. Then she showed.
Maybe it was the way she came in the
door, all fresh as dew in the sweltering night, wearing a summer dress topped
off by a fashionable wide- brimmed hat. Maybe it was her walking right in and sitting
down at his table and asking for a match when he could see she had matches
tucked the cellophane wrapper of her Camels. Maybe, it was because a close up
look of her told him that that photo Kirk showed him did not do her justice,
especially her dancing eyes and big kissable ruby red lips. And maybe, just
maybe, it was that gardenia perfume or whatever she was wearing that said seamy
adventure did him in. All he knew even before they said word one to each other was
that Kirk would freeze in hell before he got his money, or her, back. So it
started, started like a million things start. He followed her to her room after
a few half-hearted drinks, bedded her and decided that whatever the hell
happened this was the hand he had been dealt and he would play his hand out
until the end.
And for about a month Robert’s hand
looked pretty good, looked very good. Then Kirk got antsy, got to wondering why
an ace gumshoe was getting nowhere fast on his search according to his reports.
That set Kirk, no fool toward men, if a little off-balance with women,
decided to pay an unannounced visit to
old Sonora, accompanied by a couple of his gunmen. And as luck would have it
Kirk and the boys were going into the Tres Pesos cantina as Robert and Jane
were leaving. Bad karma, bad karma indeed. Robert turned around trying to run
for the back door. No good, no good at all. Maybe with his injuries, maybe
being dame-addled, maybe just realizing that he was a goner he stopped before
that back door. The boys grabbed him, grabbed him roughly. You know the rest.
Most of it. He was found in a dusty back alley a couple of days later with a
couple of well-placed slugs in him. Case unsolved according to the Federales, figuring
probably just some busted gringo drug deal. Jane, well, Jane was sitting up in
Reno playing the devoted wife of one mobbed up Kirk Stevens. Maybe too waiting
for that next click to come. Yah, so the next time someone asks you to go
looking for some frail, some freshly perfumed femme fatale run, run like hell the other way. Yah, and Robert
Streeter RIP.