Shanghai rubys, p.27
Shanghai Ruby's, page 27
I could make out both Murphy and McCullen as they flew over backwards, hit during our attack. Still attempting to resist capture, they hunkered down in the open cockpit, continuing to shoot blindly in our direction from their ineffective cover behind the gunwale. It wouldn’t save them. I couldn’t see either of the other two losers from the Pike and assumed they’d either both been hit as well or were cowering inside, hoping this nightmare would soon end.
Mine was only a flesh wound and I wasn’t bleeding much. I’d had bigger hits in the past and this one just made me mad as hell for getting nicked by those punks. I yelled to Canyon, who looked pale, “Sweep by one more time and closer, pal. I’m going to give them a taste of the BAR and sink those bastards.”
I wrapped my mitts around the heavy automatic rifle and rested it over the edge of our gunwale for support. As Canyon circled again on the next pass, I unloaded a 20-round magazine of the full metal jacket 30-06’s through the hull and into the fuel tanks. We swung past at lightning speed, sweeping a heavy wave, rocking the big cruiser, and powered out of range. This time we reduced speed to idle and sat there watching from about 150 yards away. The big powerboat had now been literally stopped, dead in her tracks. She was finished and began smoking from the hits. Her big twin Chrysler engines were now silent and no more gunfire could be heard coming from within. As she drifted silently toward shore, she erupted first in a ball of flames fueled by the leaking 200 gallon, tanks of gasoline and then exploded. Scattered smoldering wreckage and a sheet of leaking burning gasoline and oil from the damaged hull, spread over the ocean surface surrounding the once beautiful vessel.
We slipped in as close as possible, keeping just outside of the burning slick, with our sidearms prepared, but they weren’t necessary. As we watched, both Murphy and McCullen appeared out of the smoke and flames, fighting their way out of the burning inferno. Attempting to save themselves, they jumped into the water, struggling to swim through the engulfing flames. There was still no sign of the other two.
They thrashed through the burning surface in the direction of our idling patrol boat, but we were too far away and had to steer clear of the liquid inferno ourselves. They couldn’t make it across the slick without their hair and skin consumed by the burning fuel, both burning as they thrashed through the water in our direction.
They reached the patrol boat at the same time with McCullen’s blackened and charred face begging for assistance from Canyon’s side and Murphy’s roasted arms reaching up and his scorched face pleading on mine. I glanced over as Canyon, holstered his handgun. He was preoccupied attempting to hoist McCullen over the side, the flesh sliding off the counterfeiter’s arms like slippery rotten meat.
I turned back to Murphy who was already burned toast, envisioning his attempt at killing Rhonda in a purposeful hit and run collision on a dark road at night. He’d left her in the crushed and battered car at the bottom of a ravine and she was now lying in a coma. I stuck out the boating hook, which he initially mistook as an assist to board. It was his ticket to a clam bake and he was already the clam. He struggled to within grasping distance.
Instead of receiving the tip of the pike straight into his cabeza, which by now would be softer than a rotten pumpkin and what he deserved, I didn’t have to. Shoving him down deep into the Pacific as far as the pole would reach and holding it there until there was no longer any resistance, wouldn’t be necessary either. He’d seen my face and read my mind. After a few more weakened strokes, this time backing away, he stopped thrashing and disappeared from sight in the burning gasoline-fueled flames, sinking into oblivion.
The beautiful Matthews gave a few final gasps and minor eruptions as the wreckage continued to burn on the surface for a while longer. She then sank below the surface to join the body of one of its passengers already precooked and halfway to decomposition for the fish to feed on.
I took over the wheel again as Canyon slumped down near the charred and barely alive McCullen lying next to him. The burning cruiser had been spotted from shore and rescue boats were dispatched immediately, but unnecessary. We returned the bullet-scarred Avalon back to a disgruntled Sheriff Blair and received a patch up at the Catalina medical clinic for our minor flesh wounds. McCullen’s were so severe that he was transported immediately back to a Los Angeles hospital on the next flying boat flight of the day…escorted and under arrest by “Special Agent” Wes Canyon.
I stayed overnight on the island, met Dan Blair’s beautiful daughter Avalon as promised, and returned the following day back to the mainland. This time…by slow boat.
Epilogue
Doris Fillmore’s initial report on Carson McCullen was reasonably accurate in its findings. But, the overall scheme of events was much more complicated and verified by McCullen himself, who miraculously survived his Catalina Island boat explosion. He made a full confession to his counterfeiting scheme and connections to the communist ring leaders who financed it. After extended convalescing from his burns, he was eventually sent to federal prison where he died before serving out his sentence…
Carson McCullen lived beyond his means. He was broke both personally and his business was on the verge of bankruptcy as Doris and I surmised. He’d apparently been turned down by banks and other loan institutions all over town as he was already overextended on loans and his available credit lines were maxed out everywhere.
He began cultivating friendships with some of the Hollywood A-List crowd, hoping the big names with their wealth would lead him to more financing from somewhere. One of those connections was with Joey DeCosta a former known gangster and now the head of Majestic Studios. DeCosta was becoming a big wheel around town, known for his philanthropy and his charity parties. McCullen wrangled an invitation to several of these events and while there met DeCosta’s beautiful twist, the Ava Gardner lookalike Erika Sherwood.
He and Sherwood hit it off immediately, especially with his disarming personality. He sold her on his persona as a big-time, manufacturing tycoon and she was hooked and wanted to know him better.
During some of his despondent hours, contemplating how he was going to resolve his financial debacle, he’d taken to hanging out in some sleazy dives around town and down by the Los Angeles harbor where he kept his expensive yacht over at one of the marinas. Shanghai Ruby’s was out of the Hollywood mainstream, on the waterfront. It was one of his favorites and so he coerced the beautiful Sherwood into going there for drinks and entertainment. Naturally, he had more in mind and their secretive relationship grew close one night ending back at the Blue Parrot, which he was familiar with as it was located close to his company. She always drove her own car to Shanghai Ruby’s and told him it was only a short drive back to West Hollywood where she supposedly lived in an apartment but was vague as to the address.
They continued to meet back at Shanghai Ruby’s, but after one of their nightly trysts, she didn’t show up again. And he never saw her after that. Afraid to tackle DeCosta and ask her whereabouts, he fruitlessly scoured the apartment area she’d mentioned in West Hollywood, but couldn’t find her. Eventually he had to give up, except he knew it was only a matter of time before DeCosta and his gangster association uncovered their relationship. He had to do something. That’s when he panicked after he spotted her photograph in the newspaper and in desperation, hired me to find her fast but with a slightly different twist to his story
* * *
In the meantime, the clock was ticking on his outstanding and rising debts. With the war, just a fading memory, and his profits dwindling from manufacturing questionable aviation instrumentation, he was in deep trouble.
Right about that time, his wife told me, he received a letter from one of his old friends left behind in Europe during the war. They apparently corresponded regularly and this time the letter contained something that piqued his imagination and appeared like a light at the end of his dark financial tunnel. His letter, written in German, contained the usual gossipy bits of everyday happenings, but this time it included something special. It was a crisp, never been used, folded, washed or wrinkled newly minted Deutschemark. At that stage, it was completely worthless as currency. It was sent more as a light-hearted reminder as to what the old country’s plans for world domination were than as funds for spending. She remembers him turning it over and over, holding it up to the light, and mumbling about something with a big smile on his face.
He stuffed it into his wallet and didn’t mention it to her again. But an idea was born. If the German war machine could crank out impressive-looking currency like that, why couldn’t he do the same here in the States? He knew how to build large paper printing machines; it would be easy to build something smaller, but with more detail. He just needed someone that had the right artistic expertise to design the plates he’d need for printing. He could do the rest and could procure inks, paper, and any other equipment and supplies under the guise of his huge company. But where to find such an individual? He’d mull it over for a while, but not too long.
Back at Shanghai Ruby’s slumming again one evening after work and still brooding over his dilemma, he was knocking down one shot of booze after another, when a tough local dock worker with tattooed forearms sidled up to the neighboring barstool and ordered a cold brew. McCullen glanced over at this character and remarked about the intricate designs he had plastered on his arms. The guy smiled proudly and said there was only one guy in town, a new guy that could create those designs with such accuracy. And that guy, Frank Murphy worked at Archie’s Tattoo Shop there in Long Beach. McCullen bought him another round or two, got the exact location, and slid off the barstool, another germ of his plan, now maybe planted.
One trip to Archie’s, was enough to get him started. Archie, himself an ex-con with a sketchy past and a thirst for dough, was reluctant to give out any personal information about his employees, but with a short stack of sawbucks staring at him across the countertop he opened up about his pal, Murphy also a recent con and best detail man in the business. He’d apparently learned from some of the best tattooists while he was serving time in the joint. Several of them had also cut their teeth in the counterfeiting business, before being sent up to the big house and were pros at designing very intricate and detailed designs whether on skin or on etched plates, but now only for the other cons on their bodies. That was all McCullen wanted to know and arranged to meet Murphy with the intention of having him design the plates he’d use in his machine, if he was that good.
He convinced McCullen he was and they hit it off, followed by a plan now set in motion to begin the counterfeiting scheme.
McCullen began designing a small press that he could have fabricated in his own shop, right under the eyes of the unsuspecting, disguised as a new prototype press for small business use. Murphy had connections for some labor, Archie and his other two tattoo artists. Two others to help McCullen out when needed were suggested by Murphy’s blonde girlfriend Gina Slade, now working at the Pike Amusement park running one of the concessions. She’d been waiting for his return from jail, but in the meantime, unbeknownst to Murphy, she’d also struck up a relationship with one of the Pike workers, a tough psycho named Chester Pruitt, who’d eventually get even with Murphy for reclaiming Slade.
Everything was moving forward with the equipment construction, a small truckload of printing supplies on order, and Murphy’s printing press counterfeit plate designs. When after a few trial runs to see if the public was falling for it, several small-time low-life handlers got picked up all carrying some of the fake cash in identical serial numbers and the Feds. were tipped off. Snooping around for answers regarding the fake dough, they stumbled into a hornet’s nest one night in a bar near the Santa Monica Pier where Chester and his pal from the Pike, Roy Stryker were boozing it up with some other bums. Pruitt and Stryker took it upon themselves to snuff out the two unidentified Feds and carelessly dumped them in an alley.
Then one night shortly thereafter, during Erika Sherwood’s final meeting with McCullen at Shanghai Ruby’s, she met the beautiful blonde Gina Slade who was with Murphy that evening. The blonde clung to Murphy like a wet dishrag and Sherwood could see that the girl had as much potential as any of the others at Majestic to be on the big screen. But she said she was apparently stuck in a dead-end job at the Pike and didn’t make much money, yet. Slade admired Sherwood’s ankle bracelet and while McCullen and Murphy were huddled together over at the bar drinking, smoking cigars, and discussing business, she took off her ankle bracelet and gave it to her, but told her not to talk about it because it had been a gift from McCullen. She was going to break it off with McCullen anyway afterwards, as it was getting too dangerous with her mob-connected jealous lover DeCosta breathing down her back. Gina apparently repeated her safety concerns to Murphy who repeated them to McCullen after she’d dumped him.
Note: Upon further questioning, Joshua Keys remembered seeing both women that night sitting by themselves at the same table in a serious discussion, exchanging something shiny, which the blonde placed around her ankle.
McCullen told Murphy to meet him back at the shop later that evening after he and Sherwood had parted, but Murphy wanted to take Gina to a motel somewhere first. McCullen suggested the Blue Parrott as it was close to his factory. Murphy agreed and left with Gina.
Unbeknownst to Murphy, they were being followed by a jealous Chester all the way to the Blue Parrott. He waited somewhere inside and found out where their room was. Murphy and Gina spent an enjoyable interlude making love. Afterwards, they just lay there, he smoking one of McCullen’s gift cigars and she puffing on a cigarette, while they discussed a better future with some of the fake dough he said was a bonus for working for McCullen on some vague machine shop project. After a while, he noticed the time, dressed quickly, gave her a parting kiss, and said he’d be right back soon after a short get-together with McCullen at his company around the corner.
While he was at McCullen’s office that night to discuss details about making more plates with different serial numbers, Murphy couldn’t resist lifting the pawn ticket from McCullen’s desktop slipping it into his breast pocket, intending to find out what it was of value that he’d pawned.
Blondie was left there in bed waiting for Murphy’s return. A little while later, she was surprised when instead of Murphy knocking on her door, a frustrated Chester burst into the room instead. Standing there half-naked wrapped only in a handful of hastily grabbed clothes and shocked, she tried to scream, but he covered her mouth with one hand, threw her on the bed, and roughed her up. He wasn’t finished. Grabbing her panties off the side chair, he wrapped them around her throat, strangled, and raped her, thinking the finger would be pointed only at Murphy. Then he wiped up any tell-tale fingerprints of his and scooped up her purse so that it looked like a robbery, and fled.
When Murphy returned later, he found her dead on the bed. Who had done it, he didn’t know, but it looked like the motive was rape and, robbery. Being out on parole, he figured he’d be the prime suspect, even if he called the police. They’d registered under a phony name and now he didn’t want to be involved in murder. He nervously looked around in panic, didn’t see anything significant to worry about, she’d already hidden the money he’d given her in the Bible before answering the door and saw only that the money and her purse were missing. So, he pulled out his handkerchief from his breast pocket, dropping McCullen’s swiped pawn ticket, wiped up his fingerprints, left her as he’d found her, and slipped out a side exit door, relieved that he was in the clear and the blame would be elsewhere.
Note: The witnesses at the Blue Parrot in the room next door to the crime both originally had conflicting descriptions of the man going in and out of the room. They both had made their observations at different times and were actually describing two different men, which at my suggestion to the P.D. matched the descriptions of both Frank Murphy and Chester Pruitt.
That scheme would eventually backfire on Chester, as Murphy wasn’t stupid. What Chester didn’t know was that Gina had already confessed to Murphy, before the Blue Parrot evening, about her affair with Chester while he was in prison. He didn’t like it and beat her up. She swore she’d be faithful from then on, but wasn’t and continued to see Chester on the side. Chester didn’t fall for the double-timing and planned to kill her slowly with light doses of rat poison, while he continued to use her for his own selfish purposes. A box of arsenic was eventually uncovered by the P.D. in his Long Beach apartment containing his fingerprints.
When she was strangled at the hotel, Murphy immediately suspected that the killer was her former lover, Chester. He’d learned to be patient in prison and waited until the right moment for revenge. It finally occurred on McCullen’s boat escaping from Catalina Island. With the boat under fire from the pursuing sheriff’s patrol cruiser, Murphy blasted back with his own automatic pistol and ordered the other two crew members Pruitt and Stryker below to grab firearms and help defend their escape. Murphy then seized his long-awaited, opportunity. He locked and barricaded the salon door preventing them both from escaping as the boat began smoking from a ruptured gas tank. The two losers from the Pike were now trapped below as the smoke turned to flames and then to a fireball explosion. It consumed the burning boat, which sank from sight taking them and the counterfeit producing machinery and engraved plates with it. Salvage operations would recover all, which would be used as evidence in final convictions of those arrested for complicity in the related crimes.
Note: L.A.P.D. homicide detective Tank Sherman almost had McCullen tagged for killing Gina when he finally located the jewelry store that sold the ankle bracelet and the tobacco shop identified his photo as the customer who usually bought those expensive cigars. Several of my “stupid” questions about the cigars though were the clincher and Sherman finally caved in and looked elsewhere for the killer before finally closing the case.
