Larry’s Little Log Cabin was a block from the beach, a pink stucco building with phony redwood swinging doors and a sign over them posting its hours–6:00 AM, to 2:00 AM., the maximum allowed by law.
Dudley nudged me as we entered. “It’s only a queer joint at night, lad. In the daytime it’s strictly a hangout for local riffraff. Follow my lead, lad, and don’t upset the locals.”
The room was very narrow, and very dimly lit. There were hunting scenes on the walls and sawdust on the floor. Dudley nudged me again. “Bruhaker changes the decor at night, lad, muscle-boy paintings all over the walls. A sergeant from Venice Vice told me.”
There were a half-dozen elderly juiceheads sitting at the logshaped bar, slopping up brew. They looked dejected and meditative at the same time. The bartender was dozing behind the counter. He looked like countermen everywhere–jaded even in sleep. Dudley walked over to the bar and slammed two huge hands down on the wooden surface. The bar reverberated and the early morning drinkers snapped out of their reverie. The bartender’s head jerked back abruptly and he started to stutter: “Y-y-yess, s-s-s-sir?”
“Good morning!” Dudley bellowed musically. “Could you direct me to the proprietor of this fine establishment, Mr. Lawrence Brubaker?”
The barkeep began a stuttering sentence, then thought better of it and pointed to a doorway at the back of the bar. Dudley bowed to the bartender, then propelled me before him in that direction, whispering, “We’re cop antagonists, lad. I’m the pragmatist, you’re the idealist. Brubaker’s a homo and you’re a fine-looking young man. He’ll go for you. If I have to get rough with him, you touch him gently. We have to go about this in a roundabout way. We can’t let him know this is a murder investigation.”
I nodded my head and twisted free of Dudley’s grasp. I felt myself getting very keyed up.
Dudley knocked softly on the door and spoke in an effete American voice, the last syllables strained and upward intoned. “Larry, open up, baby!” A moment later the door was opened by an almost totally bald, blue-eyed, very skinny mulatto who stood there staring at us for a brief instant before cowering backward almost reflexively.
“Knock, knock,” Dudley bellowed in his brogue. “Who’s there? Dudley Smith, so queers beware. Ha-ha-ha! Police officers, Brubaker, here to assure our constituency that we are on the job, ever vigilant!”
Lawrence Brubaker stood in the middle of the office, his thin body trembling.
“What’s the matter, man?!” Dudley screamed. “Have you nothing to say?”
I took my cue. “Leave the gentleman alone, Dud. He’s no queer, he’s a property owner.” I slapped Dudley on the back, hard. “I think that Vice sergeant had it wrong. This is no homo hangout, is it, Mr. Brubaker?”
“I don’t ask my customers for their sexual preferences, Officer,” Brubaker said. His voice was light.
“Well put. Why should you?” I said. “I’m Detective Underhill and this is my partner Detective Smith.” I clapped Dudley’s broad back again, this time even harder. Dudley winced, but his brown eyes twinkled at me in silent conspiracy. I pointed to a sofa at the back of the little office. “Let’s all sit down, shall we?”
Brubaker shrugged his frail shoulders and took the chair facing the sofa, while Dudley sat on his desk, dangling one leg over the edge and banging his heel against the wastebasket. I sat on the couch and stretched out my long legs until they were almost touching Brubaker’s feet.
“How long have you owned this bar, Mr. Brubaker?” I asked, taking out a pen and notepad.
“Since 1946,” he said sullenly, his eyes moving from Dudley to me.
“I see,” I went on. “Mr. Brubaker, we’ve had numerous complaints about your bar being used as a pickup place for bookmakers. Plainclothes officers have told us this is a hangout for known gamblers.”
“And a homo den of iniquity!” Dudley bellowed. “What was the name of that flashy-dressing gambler we rousted, Freddy?”
“Eddie Engels, wasn’t it?” I asked innocently.
“That’s the pervert!” Dudley exclaimed. “He was taking bets at every queer joint in Hollywood.”
Brubaker’s eyes went alive with recognition when I mentioned Engels’s name, but no more. He was holding his ground stoically.