Could it be just a cosmic coincidence that exotic dancers begin disappearing around the South Bay area in record numbers just after a well-fed, 6-foot alligator is spotted in the San Pedro's Machado Lake? Alto saxophonist Loose Bezich, whose topless terpsichorean girlfriend is terrified, doesn't believe in such concurrences. Loose calls on band leader and fellow-jazzman Lars Lindstrom to help him check out the scene. Lars sets their suspicions before jazz fan and friend Captain Tom Cheatham of the L.A.P.D. Tom tells them he suspects that a rogue former cop with a penchant for collecting poisonous reptiles and other creepy crawlies might be the man responsible for both the missing strippers and "Reggie" the alligator's appearance in the city park's large lagoon. When their suspect stages a daring daylight bank hold-up then does his own disappearing act, police departments on two continents begin a serious manhunt for former Los Angeles detective Louis Muñoz. Both the bad man and the 'gator elude capture. Then a second coincidence brings Loose, Lars and the band on a performing tour of the French Riviera just as Louis Muñoz is sighted trying to cross the Spanish border. Lars Lindstrom, musician turned detective faces is biggest challenge to date as California's "Reggie-gator" serial killer becomes obsessed with the trumpet man's beautiful Norwegian lady.
The Dig You Later, Alligator Blues
A Lars Lindstrom Zen-Jazz MysteryBy Skoot LarsonAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2009 Skoot Larson
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4490-0203-9Chapter One
I was having trouble keeping my peeps on the sheet of music in front of me. Large green eyes, framed by coffee-colored stockings, lavender panties and a garter belt, gave me a come-hither stare. The face was upside-down, long blonde hair, straight as a horse's tail, hangin' behind the oak bar top, pendulous breast partially concealing her lips and lower face. Her hair and bosom swung gently one direction as her elevated bottom moved the opposite way to the heavy, bumping rhythm my band was pulsing out.
The lady stood suddenly, shaking her tail feathers and rotating her head, her hair fanning out and circling over her. She turned, thrust her chest forward and smiled directly at me, then strutted down the bar in front of more than a dozen assembled police officers of very high rank. At the other end of the bar, a portly cop with silver bars on his collar pushed a chair up close, then gave the lady a helping hand as she stepped from her makeshift runway. The heavy lieutenant then took her hand and led her between booths and tables, stopping at the red suede bench closest to the bandstand.
I'm not a great sight-reader. Like, I can read music, and I can play fast licks, but I'm not accustomed to doing both at the same time. I'm a jazz cat. Improvisation is my forte, and I'm known to be good at both playin' brass instruments and singing. It's the same with most the cats in my band. We form the house band here at Blondy's Waterfront Dive, a small, wigged-out jazz club on 7th Street, three blocks from the main channel of the Los Angeles Harbor complex. We usually play our own music here six-nights-a-week, but tonight we'd been handed charts. Blondy's guests wanted some special tunes rendered, and they had brought their own, poorly written arrangements; no improvising until all their requests had been played!
I glanced over at the nearest booth, the one Blondy usually reserved for herself. The dancer was moving her three-inch heels carefully around the Formica tabletop, close enough that I could almost reach out and touch her, thrusting her most intimate female parts in the face of my friend Tom Cheatham. Across the booth from Tom, sat his good buddy and co-worker Lieutenant Rich Moen, the women's lavender panties pulled over his brush-cut of blond hair, crotch down on the center of his head, and waistband looped under his ears.
Just an hour ago, the Los Angeles Police Chief had been here at Tom's table as well. The department had rented Blondy's for a private party, the occasion being to celebrate Tom's promotion to the rank of captain. The evening had started out quiet and mellow, senior officers and a few of Tom's homicide squad in their seats with mugs of Miller Genuine before them, talking quietly among themselves and takin' a sip of suds from time to time. There had been some grumbling about the Miller beer, but Lady had told Tom emphatically that "Blondy's don't serve no stinkin' Budweiser!"
Detective I Carl Berger, our appointed stage manager and Master-of-Ceremonies for the evening, had queued us into "Land of Hope and Glory," as Chief Birkason led Tom to the stage. While we had droned out what sounded like some high school's sorry chart, the chief exchanged Tom's sky-piece for another similar model, but with clusters of gold leaf across the black visor. Carl pushed an open palm toward the floor, a signal to drop our volume toward pianissimo, and the chief summoned Blondy to the dais.
"Pearl," the chief intoned, "Pearl Van Weirden, can you join us up here please?" Blondy stepped up onto the crowded stage, where the chief asked her to pin the gold badge of his new rank on Tom's left collar while the top cop fastened the same on the right. Captain Tom stood at rigid attention until his new status had been made official, then he relaxed and smiled as Chief Birkason shook his hand and Blondy planted a big smack on his cheek.
At that, forty-some policemen came to their feet applauding. Their hand clapping fading behind shouts for beer by the pitcher and bottles of single-malt scotch for each individual table. The room erupted into a serious stag party with loud shouting, catcalls, and officers coming forward to squeeze onto our podium in a ribald roast for the new brass hat.
Chief Birkason made excuses about 'another civic event,' and showed himself to the door with head held high. His exit signaled the death of dignity to the rest of his troops. When the young woman had been escorted in and helped up onto the bar, where she proceeded to bare all, Blondy got a real salty look on her visage and stormed into her office. The door slammed loud enough to turn some heads, but the lady's disappearance went largely un-noticed. Most sets of peepers across the room were focused on a lavender colored 38-double D bra that twirled in circles then sailed off toward the steps leading to Blondy's single billiard table.
When she'd rubbed her breasts in the new Captain's face, made a circuit of the room collecting tips in her stocking tops and then reclaiming scattered articles of clothing, a uniformed patrolman showed her to the ladies restroom. She dressed quickly and was lead out through the rear exit. One policeman guarded that entrance, which was generally used only for deliveries, and the alley beyond. Two more junior uniforms, fresh from the academy, stood sentry duty at the front to clue our regulars that this was a private party and Blondy's would reopen to the general public the next day, Sunday, with their usual jam session.
The dancer gone, we finished the set with an original blues of our own. We drew weak applause, but the ballin' cop cats largely ignored us. Carl told us to take a break, so I knocked on the lady's office door to scope out if she was aw'reet.
She wasn't. Blondy was on a seriously uncool tear. "I let them take over my club on a Saturday, what a sorry riff! Yeah, I know they're payin' more than I usually take in plus payin' bar drink prices for their private bottles, but I wasn't expectin' this kind of shit! Nude dancers? Public officials acting like animals?
"I thought this would be a dignified ceremony!" "Well, babe," I told her, "the ceremony itself was dignified ..."
"Dignified hell!" she shouted. "We've had two cop funerals here in the past year. They got a bit drunk, but they managed to keep a bit of self-respect and decorum with it. These guys are the top men on the force, and they're cuttin' up like high school jocks on a bender."
All I could do was nod. When Blondy wigged out on these kinds of freakish kicks, it was best not to say anything.
"This is the last time anyone is bookin' my club for a private party, I don't care how many yards of bread they want to lay out. And I'm seriously thinkin' of eighty-sixin' all cops from my place!"
I quietly bugged out for the bandstand before I might become part of the focus for this chick's anger. I nursed a large gin until time to play another set of tunes.
We were hard into Charles Mingus's "Peggy's Blue Skylight" when the patrolmen from the alley door came ringside and whispered something in Carl Berger's ear. I watched Carl pat the man's shoulder, then take a couple steps over to Tom's table. He said something to Captain Tom, Lieutenant Moen and the other high ranks in the booth. The officers got to their feet and followed the uniform out...
