The Life And Times Of Michael Philip Marlin – The Club Tijuana

 

 

As readers know Tyrone Fallon, the son of the late famous Southern California private operative, Michael Philip Marlin (Tyrone used his mother’s maiden name for obvious reasons), and private eye in his own right told my old friend Peter Paul Markin’s friend Joshua Lawrence Breslin some stories that his illustrious father told him. Here’s one such story.  

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman-with kudos to Raymond Chandler

Los Angeles private investigator Michael Philip Marlin hated to go south of the border, south down into sunny fetid Mexico, faux Mexico really. Tijuana. He hated the squalor he found just over the border after the immigration station told him he was in hablo espanol country. He hated the bracero looks, stares, eternal stares, piercing right through you, from the sun-blackened Mexican fellahin, and the blank stares, the hungry stares from his children. He hated once he entered dusty, disheveled, loud honky-tonk (gringo honky-tonk) Tijuana leaving the two or three streets that made up tourista Tijuana. And most of all he hated what could and could not be sold, cheaply, cheap like the value of human life there. Anything perverse or illegal could be had for a price, and not much, un-bonded whiskey, seven kinds of dope, women willing to do anything, ditto for guys if it came to it and that was your preference, somebody’s sister, hell, somebody’s brother, guns, all the guns you would ever need enough to outfit Pancho Villa’s army if it came to it.

Yes, Marlin hated going south of the border, the smell, the dust, the piss, everything but just then, 1940 just then, he was in need of cash bad since business had been off and he had room rent coming due fast (his landlord had padlocked his office and that room rent loomed large) so he had taken the Addington case the minute he had received it via Detective James Foote his friend on the Los Angeles police force who threw business, non-police business discreet business his way. What was desired by a Mrs. Addington was for a missing husband to be found, found by a woman who had the means and wherewithal to find that errant soul. The fleer, one James Addington, late of New York City Riverside high-end digs via that searching wife, had made the tour of the West Coast cities and as Marlin found out to his dismay had headed south of the border to indulge in whatever he had the price for, mainly primo dope and loose women.

Yes, James had slipped down the class ladder a few rungs after he got the taste for cocaine, got the taste for loose women who hovered around the cocaine pits, and so his life turned to the meccas for such tastes and Marlin had to go south and find out where he was, and whether he was coming home to his waiting wife. So naturally Marlin had to stop at the Club Tijuana (don’t get confused the place was owned by Americans and catered to Americans, no fellaheen need apply) the central place where those trying to make dope connections, or anything else sporting could be found. And Marlin found James, James and his woman, his all Spanish sparking eyes, ruby lips and swaying hips woman, Rosita. After some verbal sparring James told Marlin (without the fiery Rosita present) that he would return to the up and up in New York once he got rid of his jones. Marlowe thought that would be never giving the ragged look of James. He reported that news to Mrs. Addington and, go figure on women, she not only bought the excuse but sent money via Marlin to cover James’ expenses.

Marlin figured that would be that, case closed except that a few weeks later Mrs. Addington showed up Los Angeles to be nearby when James was ready. Marlin was sent to deliver that message.  James no nearer to recovery than previously was peeved at the fact Marlin presented to him about his wife. Rosita was furious. Marlin sensed that no good could come from these quarters after his announcement. And he was right because a few days later, a couple of days after he got back from Tijuana, Mrs. Addington was found in her rented suite murdered, cut up by somebody skilled at knife work. Needless to say despite all the pat alibis down in Tijuana this appeared to be a hit ordered by James (probably pushed on by Rosita), and was probably done by a Mex bad boy who went by the name (in Spanish) of  Mack the Knife.

Once Marlin had his proof he would go up against James, who expected to inherit a big wad of dough for his habits (and to keep Rosita in style). When Marlin had his proof (somebody in Mrs. Addington’s apartment building had seen a bad Mex looking like Mack the Knife in the hallway) he went in for the collar. One afternoon he entered the Club Tijuana where James and Rosita were sitting at a back table in the dark. As Marlowe approached a knife whizzed by him, he turned and shot Mack the Knife point blank. James seeing that was ready to face the music but Rosita took a shot, two shots actually, at Marlin hitting him in the left arm. He responded by throwing a couple of slugs into her heart. Dead. As for James, James recently took the big step-off up at Q for the murder of his ever- loving wife. Marlin thought when he heard the news that damn was another reason to hate Tijuana, hate it bad.