***The Life And Times Of Michael Philip Marlin, Private Investigator  – The Club Tijuana

 

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

 

Those who have been following this series about the exploits of the famous Ocean City (located just south of Los Angeles then now incorporated into the county) private detective Michael Philip Marlin (hereafter just Marlin the way everybody when he became famous after the Galton case out on the coast) and his contemporaries in the private detection business like Freddy Vance, Charles Nicolas (okay, okay Clara too), Sam Archer, Miles Spade, Johnny Spain, know that he related many of these stories to his son, Tyrone Fallon, in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Tyrone later, in the 1970s, related these stories to the journalist who uncovered the relationship , Joshua Lawrence Breslin, a friend of my boyhood friend, Peter Paul Markin, who in turn related them to me over several weeks in the late 1980s. Despite that circuitous route I believe that I have been faithful to what Marlin presented to his son. In any case I take full responsibility for what follows.        

*************
Los Angeles private investigator Michael Philip Marlin hated to go south of the border, south down into sunny fetid Mexico, faux Mexico really. Tijuana. The American idea of Mexico mainly with the cheap tourista duds, fanfare and dust. He hated the squalor, worst that his home town Ocean City cold-water flats that he knew well from growing up right in the middle of them, he found just over the border after the immigration station told him he was in “habla 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 too once he entered dusty, disheveled, loud honky-tonk (gringo honky-tonk) Tijuana with a bar every other building, cheap bracero merchandise in the others, and a whore, young, old or bent in front of them all, 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, cheaply like the value of human life there. That too came too close to home where his younger sister had turned to the streets looking for thrills after some flash boy gangster turned her head with cocaine and turned her too to walk the streets when he was done with her. Leaving her to waste away in some sullen hole before she went to an early grave.  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, other women, six guys at once, animals, ditto for guys if it came to it and that was your preference as it was for the distinctly- dressed panama suit and hat fairies who came streaming down on weekends, 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. In need of cash badly since business had been off what with rumors of war and the economy in the tank and he had room- rent coming due fast (his landlord had padlocked his office down at the low-rent seen-better days Sadler Building which he shared with the other just barely making it legal and illegal operations tenants and that room- rent loomed large). 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, business where discretion was the watchword, his way.

What was desired by that Mrs. Addington, Mrs. Adele Addington, heiress to the typewriter fortune and thus capable of having her desires carried out unlike some forlorn housewife from Westminster looking for her man, was for a missing husband to be found.  Found Marlin for a woman who had the means and wherewithal to find that errant soul just what the doctor ordered to get his finances well. The fleer once Marlin got a line on him, 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 cantina 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. 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 this downtrodden 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 bracero bad boy who went by the name (translated from 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 that was another reason to hate Tijuana, hate it bad.