Ch. I: Murder in 33-B
Los Angeles, 1957
The moon hung low in the April sky and looked like it could have sweated all that rain. The streetlamps reflected up from the rain puddles lining 16th street in the City of Angels -giving water the edge found in fishnet stockings. Like the steam pouring from the street centers, the steam from the train station was white like a virgin's pillow -the mist of heat and travel.
"All aboard!" Came the cry from the tracks. Last minute travelers, and those fashionably late came running forward, tickets in hand. The conductor had a shy eye about him, like he knew something of a card trick and eyed the lagging passengers with the contempt saved for church goers who caught their neighbors sneaking of to speak-easies.
Hugo Kirby, caught sight of this conductor and made out his badge: W. Utley. "Not supposed to open that inside," was all Utley said, indicating Kirby's umbrella.
The umbrella was whipped shut with the bravado reserved for Old Western Towns and Kirby tipped his Fedora, "Suppose I ain't supposed to wear this inside, neither?"
And that's when the commotion started.
The storm of Madeline Cross. There she was, decked in a black party dress -a mockery of a funeral. Her lavish black hat. Her long black cigarette holder.
She was always surrounded by an entourage. Bodyguard. A personal photographer. Make-up girl. Hair girl. Secretary. All there to make sure that Miss Cross would be Miss 1958. Like she was Miss 1957 and Miss 1956 for Class Act magazine.
But she was alone tonight.
And Kirby would've missed her, but he knew that face anywhere. Burned into the back of his mind like the dying embers in the pipe of someone who'd kicked the habit long ago. He snorted at her.
"Mr. Kirby," she chimed, stepping toward him, staring up with that soft white skin. With those ruby red lips. With that touch of make-up on the cheek to make her look embarrassed. But the raised eyebrows gave her game away, she always acted like she'd be leaving with her marbles and yours when the game ended.
"Miss Cross," he said with his tongue in his cheek.
"Going to the end of the line?" She intoned, bemused.
"What about you?" He turned to face her. "Going all the way?"
She gave a husky chuckle, the kind that came from smoking cigarettes and drinking rum behind an officer's back. "Mr. Kirby..." She places a white glove on the handle, preparing to pull herself onto the train. "...if I'm going anywhere, it won't be with you."
"Las Vegas?" He asked with a dry smile.
He knew her ticket read the same. She narrowed an eye at Utley. "Sir. I have some personal items I would like to see carried into my room. 33-B."
"Right away, miss..." The crotchety man spoke with a touch of spittle. He blew a whistle and a black porter appeared in a sparkling uniform. He had no name tag. Few black workers did on this train line.
"Whatcha need, sir?" The man asked, too happy to help.
Madeline Cross looked the Negro man up and down with an eye lit somewhere between that of a scientist and good old fashioned lust. "I'm Miss Cross," she said, taking over the conversation and issuing instructions. "This bag... I want it in 33-B."
He nodded and went to speak, his large black hands taking up the bags.
"Excuse me," a skinny man -a family man asked from behind Madeline, "are there many Negro gentlemen working on this train?" It was obvious he was addressing Utley. Utley the conductor.
Kirby turned and observed the family. The father slim, the wife more slim, the daughter blooming, and the son reading a book. He quirked an eyebrow and turned back toward the black porter.
He was already boarding the train with the luggage, Madeline behind him. Utley stopped the porter, "Now, once this train is moving, you better get on to the back of the train like you're supposed to!"
"Yes sir," the porter beamed and ducked into the train, Madeline scooted up behind him.
Kirby listened a moment to Utley clearing up the matter of how many blacks were employed by the train and once the family was assured that these men wouldn't act like wild animals -that indeed the family would be safe, he boarded the train. Rolling his eyes, he thought Utley was the biggest bigot of the bunch.
Whew. Madeline. How long had it been.
Three years going on fifty.
The dining car was all full up and Kirby had to squint to find an empty seat. There were couples, families, lots of smoke and waiters with the elbow room of a seven year old girl. He smirked to himself, appreciating the omen before him. A train ride to Vegas and a blonde woman was sitting all alone.
"I'm Kirby," he said. "Hugo by the first name," he added after seating himself.
"That a fact?" She asked, not looking up from her menu to take in his charm.
"Going to Las Vegas?" He asked, knowing immediately afterward that he'd fumbled. She looked up with a dry smile. Blue eyes.
"Just put the bags down anywhere," Madeline said, turning to sit in her couch. She watched the porter set down her items as she smoked her cigarette.
He had some muscles, this specimen before her. It looked as if he would explode from the tight white shirt wrapped around him. She ashed on the floor.
"Yes ma'am," he said under his breath, choosing to set them to one side of the door. It was as if the weight of her bags or the ash on the floor that started the train.
Perfect timing. She smiled to herself.
"Have a name besides Porter?" She asked with a husk.
"Yes ma'am," he said, turning for the door. "James. James Hill."
"James Hill..." she said, standing to stop him. "Is it customary where you're from to introduce yourself and leave the room?"
"No ma'am," he said, turning to look over his white shoulder with his black skin. "I just got work to do is all. I didn't mean to be rude."
"Apologize then..." she muttered, approaching him.
"I'm sorry, ma'am."
"I didn't hear you..." Madeline breathed, now close enough for him to feel her breath on his neck. "...maybe it's that rock n' roll... tell me again." She could smell the sweat from a hard day at the train yard. "Tell me here..." She pointed at her ear.
