MOE "SNAKE-EYES JUAREZ
A PRIVATE DETECTIVE
IN EAST LOS ANGELES IN THE 1940s
The year was 1940, and the
unforgiving sun beat down on the dusty streets
of East Los Angeles, turning the asphalt into
a shimmering mirage. Inside his cramped office,
Moe "Snake-Eyes" Juarez mopped his brow with a
sweat-stained handkerchief. The air hung heavy
with the smell of stale cigarettes and
desperation. Three years had passed since he'd
traded the smoky haze of underground gambling
dens for the uncertainty of private
investigation, and business, to put it mildly,
was slow. Snake-Eyes hadn't exactly been a
choirboy in his younger days. His arrest at a
crooked casino in El Monte at the tender age
of 25 was a badge of dishonor he wore with a
rueful smile. But that life, a life filled
with the adrenaline rush of marked cards and
shady characters, had eventually soured. He
craved something more, something legitimate.
So, with a past that reeked of backroom deals
and whispered secrets, Snake-Eyes decided to
go straight – or at least as straight as a man
with his connections could manage.
His tiny office, nestled above a noisy bakery
on Whittier Boulevard, was a testament to his
newfound (and somewhat precarious) path. The
walls were adorned with cheap detective novels
and faded wanted posters, the only real
decoration a framed photograph of a woman with
a smile as bright as the California sun. Her
name was Amelia, his wife, gone too soon from a
bout of the Spanish Flu. The picture served as
a constant reminder of the life he was trying
to build, a life where justice, not chance,
determined the outcome.
PLEASE CRITIQUE THIS CHAPTER AT:
solartoys@yahoo.com
IF YOU WANT TO READ THE NEXT
CHAPTER EMAIL ME:
solartoys@yahoo.com
|
A PRIVATE DETECTIVE IN EAST LOS ANGELES IN THE 1940s by Robert Nerbovig
| |||||||
|
The year was 1940, and the unforgiving sun beat down on the dusty streets of East Los Angeles, turning the asphalt into a shimmering mirage. Inside his cramped office, Moe "Snake-Eyes" Juarez mopped his brow with a sweat-stained handkerchief. The air hung heavy with the smell of stale cigarettes and desperation. Three years had passed since he'd traded the smoky haze of underground gambling dens for the uncertainty of private investigation, and business, to put it mildly, was slow. Snake-Eyes hadn't exactly been a choirboy in his younger days. His arrest at a crooked casino in El Monte at the tender age of 25 was a badge of dishonor he wore with a rueful smile. But that life, a life filled with the adrenaline rush of marked cards and shady characters, had eventually soured. He craved something more, something legitimate. So, with a past that reeked of backroom deals and whispered secrets, Snake-Eyes decided to go straight – or at least as straight as a man with his connections could manage. His tiny office, nestled above a noisy bakery on Whittier Boulevard, was a testament to his newfound (and somewhat precarious) path. The walls were adorned with cheap detective novels and faded wanted posters, the only real decoration a framed photograph of a woman with a smile as bright as the California sun. Her name was Amelia, his wife, gone too soon from a bout of the Spanish Flu. The picture served as a constant reminder of the life he was trying to build, a life where justice, not chance, determined the outcome. Lola is Being Threatened The smoke from Moe's cigarette hung thick in the dimly lit office. His fedora was tilted low over his eyes as he studied the black and white crime scene photos strewn across his desk. Another dead-end case involving the Eastside mob. Just then, the door swung open and a beautiful dame sashayed in, all curves and red lipstick. Moe recognized her instantly - Lola Ramirez, a singer at one of the Cuban joints down on Brooklyn Avenue. "Mr. Juarez," she purred, "I need your help. Someone's been leaving me threats, ugly notes shoved under my dressing room door." Moe took a long drag on his cigarette. "Why come to me, Lola? With your connections, you know plenty of boys who could take care of this." Lola's eyes flashed defiantly. "Because I want someone I can trust. Someone who plays by their own rules." She reached into her purse and slapped down a wad of cash. "What do you say, Snake-Eyes?" He picked up the money and started counting. Whatever mess Lola was mixed up in, he was already knee-deep. "Guess I'm on the case, Lola baby. But it's gonna cost you..." Moe folded the cash and tucked it into his coat pocket. "Don't worry your pretty little head, I'll get to the bottom of this. Where can I find you when I got a lead?" Lola wrote down her address on a slip of paper, the Biltmore Hotel downtown. "I'm performing nightly at the Tropicana Room. Don't be a stranger, Snake-Eyes." She gave him a lingering look before turning to leave, her ruby red dress swishing against the doorframe. After she left, Moe lit another cigarette, mulling over what little he had to go on so far. He knew Lola moved in dangerous circles - her ex-husband Enzo Castellano was a capo in the Palermo crime family. Had he picked up a new plastered pal who was looking to make Lola his own? Or were her threats coming from a jealous admirer? There was only one way to find out. Moe grabbed his coat and fedora and headed out into the smoky East LA night. A couple blocks over, he pulled up in his Buick convertible outside a dimly lit cantina called Club Intimo. This was one of the joints where Lola used to croon before she hit the big time. The jukebox was playin' a smokey bolero tune as Snake-Eyes sidled up to the bar. "Dos cervezas, Eduardo," he said, slapping a quarter on the battered wood. The bartender's eyes widened as he recognized Moe. "Juarez, I heard you was out of the game, compadre. What brings a P.I. like you around these parts again?" Moe slid one of the cervezas towards Eduardo. "I'm working, Eddie. Need to learn what you know about who might be leanin' on Lola Ramirez." Eddie lifted the bottle to his lips, taking a slow pull. "Lola...now there's a name I ain't heard in a long time. That little senorita used to shake her moneymaker something fierce on my stage before the big leagues came callin'." "So you heard from her recently? Anyone hassling her, maybe an old flame with a jealous streak?" Moe pressed. Shaking his head, Eddie replied, "You know I can't be breakin' confidences, Moe. But those Eastside barzones? They got a mean possessive streak when it comes to their working girls..." Moe nodded slowly, a pit forming in his gut. He knew Eddie was referring to the notorious gang that ran rackets throughout East LA. If they had their sights set on Lola, she could be in real danger. "Gracias, Eddie. You've given me enough to go on." Moe tossed back the last of his cerveza and slapped a couple more quarters on the bar. As he turned to leave, a loud crash came from the back room followed by raised voices. Acting on instinct honed from years on the streets, Moe pulled his .38 special from his shoulder holster and crept towards the commotion. He could make out at least three men arguing in Spanish, their tones getting more and more heated. Moe burst through the door his gun raised. "Alright cabrones, keep your hands where I can see them!" The two larger men had gravely expressions and snake tattoos on their necks - definite Eastside barzones. But it was the slight man cowering in the corner that caught Moe's eye. He recognized that weaselly face from the crime scene photos - Enzo Castellano's Capo, Miguel "El Raton" Quesada. "Well, well, if it ain't Snake-Eyes Juarez," the taller barzone sneered. "You still slingin' that peashooter and pretendin' to be a detective?" Before Moe could respond, El Raton raised his hands shakily. "He's telling the truth, Julio! I've heard of this Juarez...he ain't afraid to go too far." "Can it, Raton," Julio growled. "We're takin' you back to Don Castellano. And as for you, Juarez..." His hand moved towards his jacket, no doubt going for the shotgun he had stashed. That's when all hell broke loose. Moe's .38 thundered as he dropped Julio with two quick shots to the chest. The other barzone reached for his piece, but Moe was quicker on the trigger, punching three holes right through the snake tat on his neck. He went down without a sound. El Raton was still sniveling in the corner when Moe grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him against the wall. "Start talking, Raton! What's your play with Lola and I'll make sure you get to see Don Castellano again..." El Raton's eyes were wide with terror as Moe's revolver pressed against his doughy cheek. "Okay, okay! I'll spill!" he squealed. "Lola left Don Castellano for that singer Puente last year. The Don didn’t take it well. He put a hit out on the two lovebirds," El Raton babbled. "But they got wind of it and split town before we could collect." Moe tightened his grip, letting the pistol dig in a little deeper. "If that's true, then why circle back now? Why start leaving Lola threats after all this time?" The little capo started trembling harder. "I d-don't know, I swear! The Don's been obsessed, thinking Lola was playing him for a sucker! He wanted to flush her out into the open, get her scared enough to show herself. That's all I know I swear on mi Madre!" Snake-Eyes studied the weasel's face, deciding he was telling the truth. He holstered his .38 and gave El Raton a hard shove back against the wall. "You just bought yourself a chance, Raton. But you tell Castellano, if he even thinks about going near Lola again, there'll be more holes comin' to him next time." Leaving the cowering capo behind, Moe hurried out to his car, tires squealing as he raced towards downtown. If what El Raton said was true, the whole situation with Lola was even more twisted than he thought. Don Castellano wanting revenge on his ex-wife years later? And someone using those threats to try and draw her out? This whole thing reeked of a pit of lies that someone was waiting at the bottom of. As Moe's Buick ate up the miles towards the Biltmore, he racked his brain, trying to put the scattered pieces together. One thing was clear - if he didn't get to Lola soon, that pit was liable to swallow them both whole. As Moe's Buick growled to a stop outside the Biltmore Hotel, he quickly scanned the elegant entrance and the crowded valet area. So far, no obvious signs of trouble. He ducked inside and made his way through the opulent lobby towards the Tropicana Room. The smoky lounge was packed with highrollers and Diamond Dolls circulating with trays of cocktails. On the small stage, a Latin big band was laying down a brassy, swinging rhythm. And there, draped elegantly over a barstool microphone, was Lola in a shimmering red dress that left little to the imagination. Her eyes found Moe's as she sang the final, yearning notes of "Besame Mucho." A barely perceptible nod told him she'd noticed his arrival. Lola purred, "Why don't you cowboys let the new band take over? As Lola slinked off the stage, Moe pushed through the crowd towards her. Up close, he could see the worried lines around her eyes, offsetting that celebrated beauty. "We need to talk, hermosa. In private," he muttered. Lola nodded curtly and led him into a back hallway, away from the lounge's prying eyes and ears. "What is it? Did you find out who's been leaving those notes?" "Maybe," Moe replied, lighting a fresh cigarette to buy some time. "The way I understand it, Don Castellano is still carrying a big-time grudge towards you over walking out. Put a hit out at one point, aiming to put you and that singer Puente down for good." Lola's perfectly rouged lips parted in surprise. "Enzo? But that was over a year ago! Why would he come after me now?" Moe shrugged. "From what I could get out of his capo, the Don's still carrying a mean obsession with you, mami. Convinced you played him. The threats were his way of trying to smoke you out into the open again." "Dios mio..." Lola sank back against the wall, a trembling hand going to her corseted waist. "Moe, you have to believe me - I never wanted any of this! I was just trying to escape that life of violence." Snake-Eyes took a long pull on his cigarette, considering. "I believe you, Lola. But we're still missin' some big pieces here. Someone else is pullin' the strings behind these threats, aimin' to set you and your ex against each other for good." Just then, a sharp whistle came from the other end of the hallway. They both turned to see the beefy form of Johnny Puente, the singer Lola had run off with, leveling a .45 automatic at them with outrageous calm. "Should've known better than to keep snoopin', Juarez," Puente sneered. "This has been a long time coming for me and my Lolita." He swung the pistol towards the stunned woman. "I am sorry, mamacita, but you left me no choice..." Moe tensed, his hand inching towards the .38 under his coat. But Puente's .45 was already trained squarely on Lola. "I wouldn't try it, detective. You'll just get this beautiful señorita killed faster." "Johnny, what are you doing?" Lola's voice was plaintive, betrayed. "After everything we've been through, how could you do this to me?" The Cuban singer's face contorted with rage. "To you? You stuck-up bitch, you did this to me! Stringing me along with sweet nothings about leaving the vida loca behind." He took a step closer, the gun unwavering. "All so you could bleed me dry and crawl back to that mafioso husband of yours!" Realization crashed over Moe like a wave. The truth they'd been missing finally became clear. "So that's the name of that tune, huh Puente? All this violence, all because Lola finally wised up and decided to ditch your narcissistic hide." Puente rounded on him, spittle flying. "Can it, Juarez! I got permission from the biggest narco hoods in the city to take her out. Just needed to make her big shot ex think she was playin' him again first." His face split into an ugly grin. "Kinda like shooting two birds with one shot, if you know what I mean." The Cuban's finger tightened on the trigger inexorably. But just before he could squeeze off a shot, Moe moved with Snake-Eyes speed. He ripped the pistol from his shoulder holster and opened fire, the thundering report of his .38 echoing like doom in the tight hallway. Puente barely had time for his eyes to widen before the heavy slugs slammed into his chest, flinging him backwards like a rag doll. His arms flew out to the sides as he crumpled, the big .45 automatic clattering uselessly to the tile floor. Moe rushed to Lola's side, gripping her bare shoulders firmly as she stared at her former lover's lifeless form. "You okay, mamacita? That scheming yucca got what he had comin'." She nodded wordlessly, throwing her arms around Moe's neck as she broke down crying into his shoulder. "Gracias, you are my guardian angel. I don't know how I'll ever repay you..." Holding her shuddering frame close, Moe pressed his whiskered cheek to Lola's silken waves of dark hair and sighed. "Hey, don't mention it, hermosa. A guy could get used to playing the hero now and again..." Two weeks later Moe flicked away his spent cigarette butt as he strolled out of the Mission District courthouse, tugging his battered fedora low against the bright California sun. Another successful day defending the dime bag hoods and barrio lowlifes that helped keep his cheap office afloat. As he crossed the street towards his Buick coupe, a sleek black Cadillac convertible purred up alongside the curb. Moe's hand went instinctively for his shoulder holster before he recognized the driver - Lola, looking as radiant as ever in a white sundress and oversized shades. "Get in, Snake-Eyes," she called with a dazzling smile. "I'm taking you out for a celebratory lunch. My treat for once." He raised an eyebrow but didn't need to be asked twice. Swinging his lanky frame over the door and into the buttery leather passenger seat, Moe couldn't help grinning back at her. "If this is how you treat all your friends, I might just get into trouble more often." Lola laughed, that rich warm sound that always tied Moe's belly in knots. As the powerful Caddy accelerated smoothly away from the curb, she slid her hand over to give his rough knuckles an affectionate squeeze. "You've done enough noble deeds to last a lifetime, mi Angel. From now on, just think of me as your own personal chaperone..." Her ruby lips curled in a smile filled with promise. "...away from trouble." Chuckling deep in his throat, Moe laced his fingers through Lola's and raised them to his whiskered cheek with undisguised tenderness. For once, his sights weren't on the next shady case or crooked racket around the next barrio corner. He was too busy picturing a whole new kind of adventure, one where the dashing detective and the sultry songbird rode off into the California sunset together. If that meant playing the hero for his gorgeous partner, well, Snake-Eyes was calling that an even trade. Lupe is Missing In the months that followed, Moe "SnakeEyes" Juarez's caseload only grew more varied and complex - he found a priceless Mayan artifact traded on the black market, trailed an actor's wandering eyes and camera to his mistress's apartment, and even helped solve a grisly murder outside of a downtown diner. No matter how high or low the client, Moe could always be counted on to snake out the truth. The cases kept rolling in for Moe "SnakeEyes" Juarez over the years. A knock at the door revealed an anxious young man named Tommy Salazar who came into Moe's office wringing his flat cap in his hands. "I need you to find my sister, Lupe," Tommy said, his voice cracking. "She's been missing for three days." Moe leaned back in his creaky desk chair. "Tell me more about this sister of yours." "She's 19 years old, works as a waitress over at Millie's Diner on 7th Street. Last anyone saw of her she was leaving work after her night shift Tuesday evening." Tommy's eyes were wet with unshed tears. "Please Mr. Juarez, you gotta help me. Lupe's all I got left in this world." Moe gave the young man a reassuring nod. "Don't worry kid, I'll do everything I can to track down your sister." He started his investigation over at Millie's Diner, questioning Lupe's coworkers and the patrons who were there the night she disappeared. One creepylooking lineman with a moustache waxed too perfectly admitted to slipping Lupe a note with his number after she brought him his check. Moe's neck grew hot watching the guy describe the chase he clearly had planned. The next step was to retrace Lupe's usual walking route home from the diner. On the third day, Moe came across some troubling details - some shredded fabric from a woman's shirt and smears of blood on the ground near a back alley. He bagged it to get analyzed by his contact down at the crime lab. By following the trail of evidence, Moe finally traced Lupe's whereabouts to none other than the deviant lineman’s apartment. He turned the evidence over to the police, who surrounded the apartment and arrested the sicko inside. Lupe was freed, scared but alive, thank God. Moe's heart swelled see the many tears of joy on Tommy's face when he returned his little sister to him. "How can I ever repay you, Mr. Juarez?" the young man asked, hugging Lupe tightly. Moe just shook his head and tipped his fedora. "No need, kid. Just doing my job." Cases like Lupe Salazar's were the ones that made the long hours and gritty work worthwhile for Moe. But there were plenty of other seedy jobs that came across his desk too. 
This site is designed and maintained by: Robert Nerbovig |