Devil’s garden

Still resting her head across her forearm, she rolled her eyes upward at the little velvet hat cocked just so.

“Nice angle.”

“Yeah? I thought so, too.”

Sam stopped walking. He checked the time. He steadied his breath. “Get in,” said Daisy Simpkins, famous female dry agent.

THEY DROVE BACK into the downtown, to a building called the Bradbury, a big, old hulking brick structure built before the turn of the century. The roof was made of glass and the inside had been designed like the exposed guts of a machine. Scrolled iron balconies boxed the open atrium, with two caged elevators zipping up and down, large iron wheels turning whirring cables. The light inside seemed almost to be magnified, more real than it was on the street, and Sam followed the girl and the other agent across the big, wide lobby and to a staircase they mounted and followed, and Sam looked at the elevators zipping up and down and stopped to rest on the second floor, his hand on an iron banister as he caught his breath.

“You okay?” Daisy asked.

“Dandy.”

They followed the balcony ledge on the third floor to an office advertising U.S. GOVERNMENT on the frosted glass. Inside, it bustled with the activity of a dozen or so men working in their shirtsleeves and ties, talking into telephones and typing out reports. One woman waited at a front desk and led them to a back office, where Sam was introduced to a delicate young man named Earl Ly

He grunted at Daisy.

He was Ly

Earl Ly

The flower smell was soon covered by the scent of Old Dad’s wet stogie that he relit with fat-thumbed flourish. His son tried to get a cigarette in an ivory holder going but failed at least three times.

“Mr. Ly

“You were there?”

“My God, no,” Earl Ly

“Mr. Ly

“Maude Delmont claimed she got the high hard one from my son and carried his seed,” said the father.

“Father,” Earl Ly

“Six months ago, I paid that woman five thousand dollars to peddle that story somewhere else.”

“You and Maude?” Sam asked.

Earl Ly

“But you did know her?” Sam asked.

“We went to the same parties. Knew the same people.”

“What people?”

Ly

“But you two weren’t…?”

“My Lord, she’s an older woman!”

“So you got roped.”

He nodded.

“Why’d your old man pay if the baby wasn’t yours?”

“There was no baby,” Ly

Sam took a seat beside Daisy. Even from the back office, you could hear the giant iron wheels turning and moving and groaning and stopping the elevators. An elevator stopped near the floor and he could hear the gate slide open and then slam shut, the wheels turning again. Sam felt like he was on the inside of a clock.

“What do you do, Mr. Ly

“Me?” the old man grunted. His head looked to be the size of a melon, with a nice slab of fat hanging from his insignificant chin. He resembled a contented hog.

“Oil.”

Sam nodded.

“Why’d you call the dry agents?”

Earl Ly

“You think she co

Earl Ly

“The horror,” Sam said.

“Can we go?” the old man barked. “This man is a tiresome smart aleck.”

“Did you recognize the others?” Daisy asked. “At the party?”

“I know Lowell Sherman, of course. We play te

“The other women?” Sam asked.

“I met Virginia Rappe once. She didn’t impress me. A little tart. A leech.”

“Fishback? Semnacher?”

“Al Semnacher is the one who introduced me to Mrs. Delmont,” Earl

Ly

“How did you know him?” Sam asked.

“He’s in the business. Haven’t you read the papers? He books acts for Mr. Grauman at the Million Dollar.”

Sam smiled at Earl Ly

Sam tucked a Pinkerton’s card in the man’s stubby fingers. He jostled awake with a snort.

“We’d like to see you at the trial,” Sam said.

Earl Ly

“Does the name Jack Lawrence mean anything to you?” Daisy asked.

“Should it?” Ly

“He supplied the liquor, and maybe the girls, too,” Daisy said. “Mr. Lawrence may be the source of the biggest bootlegging ring in California.”

Ly

Sam took the fat man’s seat. He could still smell Earl Ly

She sat behind the desk that displayed a brass marker reading DIRECTOR and lit a cigarette. She placed her feet up on the desk, and finally said, “Why won’t Arbuckle name the man who brought the liquor?”

A small fan on the table whirred and spun.

“Besides the confession leading to a federal indictment?”

“Besides that.”

“Maybe he’s a standup guy,” Sam said. “That’s what I’d call a fella who doesn’t rat on his friends.”

“You know what I’d call a fella who buttons up with his ass in a sling?”

“Please tell me.”

“A fool.”