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the Wanderling

"The envelope was addressed to a man named Russ Miller, the owner of the Normandie Club, one of six legal poker casinos in the city, with those six being practically the only legal poker clubs in the whole state. I knew enough about gambling places to know that no 12 or 13 year old kid was just going up to the front door and walk right in."

With the end of World War II thousands and thousands if not millions of ex-servicemen began wending their way back into civilian life. A whole new wave crested over the nation as former military personnel returned home and began getting married, buying little houses in suburbia on the G.I. Bill along with matching sets of white Kenmore washing machines and dryers from Sears and Robucks and started raising families.

It was then that some of the more seedy side of things that had been offered and acceptable to those same servicemen during the war began coming into the crosshairs of the same people that before were willing to overlook the offerings or even be on the payroll. It was during that budding environment, matched with the cessation of hostilities around the globe, that my dad and stepmother decided they should do a little traveling, picking South America rather than war-torn Europe as their main choice. With their doing so, it required my brothers and me to once again be parsed out like we had been so many times before since our mother died. Thus entered for me, as a young boy, the Normandie Club.

A few days before my dad and Stepmother left for South America a woman by the name of Pauline who had at onetime worked for my stepmother, stepped forward and either asked for, was asked, or consented to, having my younger brother come live with her, my older brother already having been placed with a friend of my stepmother who had a working ranch in Idaho.

With no similar offers surfacing or aimed toward me from anybody or anywhere as those so aimed toward my brothers, and with time running out, I was basically left hanging. My uncle, himself right on the cusp of returning to Santa Fe and by default the only adult left in the loop with any sort of responsibility, everyone else having split by then, after some heavy duty negotiating on his part that bordered on pure begging infused with a certain amount of bribery with Aunt Pauline, as we were told to call her, she halfheartedly agreed to take me in as well.

As South America loomed ever closer on the horizon for my stepmother, within minutes of departure actually, seeing there was a good chance I would end up living with Pauline, she handed an envelope to my uncle to give to me with strict instructions that even though it was OK for me to see the contents I was not show it or give it to anybody else except to the person it was addressed --- in other words, keep Pauline out of it. Big time stuff. Remember, we're talking me being not much more than a 12 or 13 year old boy or so at the time.

When my brother and I were sent to live with Pauline she and her husband had just bought a brand new house in a small but growing community about 12 miles south of downtown Los Angeles --- and a world away from Los Angeles --- called Gardena. It wasn't too many years, even months before, that most of the area had been nothing less than miles of stoop-labor farmland, but as we were moving in, and although you would never know it today since freeways have cut it all to pieces, and it was no Lakewood then or now, it was quickly becoming more and more of a post-war bedroom community as new tract houses began springing up all over the former cabbage fields. In a quasi biggest little city in the world scenario, Gardena was also quickly becoming known, if it hadn't already, as the card club, poker capitol of the world.

The school my younger brother attended went from the 1st through 6th grades, with no middle school. In that I was three grades higher than my brother and with no middle schools I went to a combination junior-senior high, which meant, starting with the 7th grade the school ran straight through to the 12th grade. The junior high classes were all mixed up with the high school classes, with some classes, levels, and teachers overlapping all grades. What it meant to my brother and me was we were on totally different time schedules, and since the high school was so much further away than his school we had different departure and return times. Typically I had to oversee my younger brother during any free or off time almost like babysitting, but because of the differences in the schedules I had all kinds of time at my discretion for both coming and going relative to his coming and goings. Matter of fact, nobody really kept close track of me going back and forth to school, so in a sense, if I wanted, I could build in almost any amount of time on either side of coming or going I wanted as long as it didn't raise any red flags.

With that kind of latitude, I was easily afforded all the time I needed to deliver the envelope my stepmother gave me without anybody knowing. Where I lived was right near South Vermont and 147th Street, not far from the school my younger brother attended, Amestoy. Where I needed to go was maybe eight blocks west of there, on 148th Street and South Western, not so far off the route I used to and from school that I couldn't easily squeeze it in.

The envelope was addressed to a man named Russ Miller, the owner of the Normandie Club, one of six legal poker casinos in the city, with those six being practically the only legal poker clubs in the whole state. I knew enough about gambling places to know that no 12 or 13 year old kid was just going up to the front door and walk right in, especially one that if it didn't operate 24 hours a day it nearly did. I also knew if I didn't give the letter directly to Miller he might not actually receive it. So, I did what any enterprising kid would do, I went around to the back door and talked to the help. One of them was kind enough to get someone to get Miller and I handed him the envelope.

Miller looked the letter over for a few minutes, asked how my "mother" was, then after a bit of small talk wanted to know what is was he could do for me. I told him I was looking to earn some money and was hoping for some kind of regular after school or weekend work. He asked what grade I was in and stretching the truth a bit I told him I went to Gardena High. He said come back in a couple of days and ask for Rick. Which is what I did. When I got home I told Pauline I signed up for after school extra curricular activities with the drama department working with the stage crew, bringing a whole slew of paperwork home testifying to the fact. Instead of course, the same time I was supposed to be doing stage crew stuff I was really working at the Normandie Club.[1]

One Saturday late in the afternoon or moving into early evening several months after I started working I was in the back of the club when four or five rough looking suit types, rather than coming in the front, came through the back entrance headed toward the casino or Miller's offices. As I looked up one of the men said, "What are you lookin' at fuckface?" I diverted my eyes downward, but as soon as I did he stopped the group and came over to me tipping my head up to get a closer look, all the while squeezing my jaw and chin really tight. Then he said, "I know you, I've seen you before, what the fuck are you doing in this fucking place?" Another of the men, seeing how tight I was being squeezed, put his arm between the two of us, stretching the distance between the man and me causing the man to loosen his grip. In a much nicer much softer tone the other man said, "Hey kid, remember me?" And sure enough I did. Matter of fact, after looking at the men more closely I recognized two or three of them. By then Miller was there with a couple of other guys wanting to know what was going on.

It seems the heavyweights were coming in the backdoor to catch Miller off guard, possibly even planning on using the art of friendly persuasion inflicted through some sort of bodily harm. The interlude with me stopped them just long enough for Miller to confront them with witnesses. Whatever the problem was it was all diffused and before anything could happen, nothing happened --- or at least delayed to another day. Nobody was shot anyway.

Miller wanted to know what was the nature of the men's business, coming through the back door and all. In an apparent deflection of interests, the man who stopped to look at me initially, pulled Miller aside wanting to know how it was I was working in his club, was I affiliated with or knew anybody else there. Miller told him I was hired as a favor to my stepmother. The man said, "That fuckin' whore, don't you know she and Roselli are tight. Shit, the boy's probably working for him right now." Miller asked me if that was true and I told him I wasn't working for anybody but him, that Roselli was a friend of my stepmother's and it was through her that I knew who he was. The man that stepped between me and the other man earlier, moved into the conversation saying "the kid's alright," that he knew me from long back and that I was OK, Roselli or not.

My stepmother was always a woman of mystery. Nobody seemed to know anything about her really. Until she married my dad and took his last name she had at least three aliases and just as many passports. During the war and postwar years she was a regular at heady celebrity nightspots like Ciro's, the Tracadero, Coconut Grove, while before the war, the Clover Club on the Sunset Strip, hobnobbing on a first name basis with a slew of Hollywood bigshots. The same was true with influential California politicians as well as Los Angeles area mob figures such as Jack Dragna and Johnny Roselli.

After my real mother's death, prior to living with Pauline and a few relatives and a foster couple or two before that, I lived for a several years under the auspices of my stepmother after she and my dad got married. At the time my stepmother was very wealthy and she basically hired people to do everything. She did the same in the process of overseeing my two brothers and myself. It worked out great for me because as soon as she noticed I had a certain propensity toward art she talked my Uncle, who lived in the Santa Fe, Taos, New Mexico, area and a well established artist in his own right, and who had been going back and forth per my grandmother's request, to just stay on the west coast. She set him up in a fully equipped artist's studio and covered all expenses, including models, lots of models even though he was a desert landscape or still life sort of a guy. All my uncle had to do was have me as a protege, develop my budding talents, and arrange for me to have as many art and educational experiences as possible although he wasn't so hot on my developing interests in life modeling.

My younger brother had a nanny, but for my older brother, any attempt on my stepmother's part to make things right for him did not work out so well. Bottom line he hated her and made her life as miserable as possible. It was the total opposite for she and I. True, I didn't spend a lot of time with her one-on-one very often, but every once in a while just the two of us would go on errands together where she would pick up little bags of money here and there and sometimes drop off little bags of money here and there.

The only person who seemed to have any amount of control over my older brother other than my father was the person my dad had long ago designated as our Godfather. The problem was that over the years he had continually turned toward the bottle, becoming a heavy drinker and an even heavier gambler. When he wasn't passed out or on the verge of passing out he was constantly playing the horses and betting on boxing matches or other sporting events, most often through a bookie and usually with money he didn't have. Because of same, one of mobster Mickey Cohen's so-called seven dwarfs stopped my godfather on the street one day threatening his life right in front of my older brother telling him that if he did not come through with a large amount of cash he owed he would "end up in Santa Monica bay swimming with the sharks." My stepmother was aware of my godfather's gambling habit but did not realize it had got so out of hand. She also felt it was way out of line for someone as high up on the food chain as one of the seven dwarfs to be running errands for Cohen, let alone threatening someone's life in front of a young boy. Thinking it might somehow be personal she contacted Jack Dragna, the Los Angeles don, and asked him to request Cohen, who my stepmother did not know, to lay off, she would take care of any debts incurred. Re the following from the source so cited:

"Jack Dragna, who was connected to the Chicago mob and Mickey Cohen, who was connected more closely to the New York side of things, did not get along appreciably well. To ensure that Cohen got the message that Dragna did not want any additional or continuing problems regarding the incident, he had mob heavyweight Johnny Roselli join my stepmother for the payoff of my godfather's debt. Cohen sent flowers to my stepmother the next day. My stepmother had a friend, or at least a close business associate named Brenda Allen, who was the top 'madam' in Los Angeles at the time. Cohen knew that Allen and my stepmother were close. He told Allen he felt slighted that my stepmother would be compelled to show up with Roselli, although he thought that in her doing so, it most likely was not of her own making."

THE STEPMOTHER: Footnote [2]

It was either during one of the aforementioned times my stepmother was picking up little bags of money here and there or dropping off little bags of money here and there, and/or associated with the above payoff of my godfather's debts to Cohen that I saw or came across two or three of the men in the group that came into the Normandie Club that evening --- and why or how a couple of the men recognized me. I was a great deal younger than 12 years old when the above events happened, so for my stepmother to have a young boy with her under such circumstances was so atypical that I was easily remembered. Those types of dealings were done in an all adult world, kids just didn't exist. If a kid did exist at that level it had to be for a special reason. In my case if it was to diffuse the eventuality of a potential toxic situation or being groomed for later participation in similar type activities I didn't know nor never learned. In later years, now for example, I do have a tendency to lean toward the groomed for later participation in similar type activities aspect of it all. Below is a quote from interactions I participated in in later years as found at the source so cited, that pretty much substantiates that view:

"My stepmother and I had a long and special relationship from the very beginning, she having from very early on taken me under her wing and into her confidence. Until everything she had came crashing down and she lost everything, I think she was grooming me for a very special high position in whatever she did, as she always made it a point for people to know me and who I was, and that I was a person, even though a kid, was someone that could be trusted. When she said that the slot machines should be dealt with on the sly I knew exactly what she meant --- and she knew I knew."


In the opening paragraphs at the top of the page I write that Pauline, who had at onetime worked for my stepmother, stepped forward and either asked for or consented to, having my younger brother come live with her. She and her husband's plans to start a family showed no promise as four years into their marriage they still had no children --- hence her interest in my younger brother. As for me it was another thing. According to my uncle, after some heavy negotiating that bordered on pure begging by my him, Pauline halfheartedly agreed to take me in as well. So, from the very beginning I was the odd man out, I was older and had history and Pauline never let me forget it.

Sometime into the second year of living at Pauline's, out of the blue, my dad came to visit. Under the premise of seeing my brother and me he actually spent more time behind closed doors with Pauline. When we did have time to talk, giving no reason, he told me he and my stepmother had divorced. After continued harping or pressure on my part he finally gave up that she was now either in the process of buying or already had bought property in the high desert in some business deal with an old friend of hers the famed aviatrix Pancho Barnes, most likely he said in an effort to reestablish herself. With that tiny seed of information, seemingly driven by an overwhelming need, desire, or just plain want to see her, and with no one willing to make any kind of arrangements to help make it happen, I started plotting on how to connect up with her in my own inimitable way.

My own inimitable way was fairly simple. I was going to run away and find her. After that I had no plans, although I was highly aware of the fact that the summer I chose to run away just happened to be the summer before I was to start high school --- and I wasn't sure in that respect of what, if any, the ramifications might be.

About a month after school was out for the summer I had accumulated enough money for a Greyhound ticket to the then little desert town of Palmdale which I knew wasn't far from Pancho's. Using the cover story of going to a friend's house for the day, without anybody's knowledge or approval I gathered up a few things to be gone longer, especially so my Sgt. Preston Prospector's Camp Outfit which included a small camping tent and a camp stove that just happened to arrive in the mail only a few days before (total cost: buck fifty) and I left. Several days later I found my stepmother with the following results:

"Although impressed that I ran away just to be with her she thought it best to get in touch with my dad and see what she should do next. Unwilling to talk with my grandmother she called the woman of the foster couple I ran away from, who she knew and was friends with, hoping to find out if I should be returned to them or to locate my father, telling the woman that I was in good care and everything was OK. The woman of the couple, Aunt Pauline, told my stepmother to 'keep the fucking little asshole, I don't give a shit what happens to him.' Then she added, 'Don't forget his prick of a little brother, either.' My stepmother, taking into consideration there were no subtle or hidden messages in her response, being quite clear as well as taking her at her word, contacted my uncle to see if he had any idea where my dad was. He didn't, but told my stepmother if she could find no other solution and she could get me to Santa Fe he would deal with situation until everything could be hammered out. With that, having no success locating my dad for whatever reason, rather than sticking me on some grungy multi-day cross desert bus ride to my uncle's and not knowing for sure if I wouldn't just get off somewhere on the way, she arranged for the same former World War II P-47 pilot that flew my uncle and me to Sacramento a few years before to fly me to Santa Fe, ensuring, she hoped, I would be less likely to get out mid-trip."[2]


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Even though my dad and stepmother were no longer together, I spent a good part of almost every summer while I was in high school on one property or the other she owned in the high desert. During the summer just before I started high school she had only just returned from South America and bought the property or was in the process of buying it. At that time the place she bought was pretty much a run down, long shuttered former attempt at a dude ranch. One year later, during my first full summer there, what she called a 'ranch' --- even though as a ranch it was a little on the sparse side in what I would call standard ranch fare --- had been completely rebuilt and refurbished with a rather long fully stocked bar, food service facilities, swimming pool, dance hall, live entertainment, along with rodeos and boxing matches on the weekends. It also had a Wurlitzer bubbler model jukebox and at least two dozen one-armed-bandit slot machines in a secret hidden room, plus like I like to say, a flock of ever present hostesses --- several of whom took me under their wing and one or two that may have been slightly more friendly than they should have been considering my young age, the youngest at the time at the very least being six years older than me.

At the end of one of the boxing days, some Runyonesque types, knowing I was the "son" of the owner and having been ferrying bet money between them on some of the matches invited me to sit down and have dinner with them. My stepmother, circulating through the crowd, after noticing me at the table with some fairly risky types, came over to see if all was well. In small talk one of them said they had come up for the day from Del Mar and would soon be heading back to continue their gambling on the thoroughbreds, then asked if I could go back with them and learn about the horses. My stepmother, having a complementary bottle of wine sent to their table, asked to let her think on it.

Later, when she and I were alone she told me I was welcome to go if I liked but to be aware, despite their appearance and demeanor they were pretty rough types, possibly some even packing heat. That night five of us left together counting me, with me riding in the middle of the back seat of a brand new 1953 Cadillac convertible with the top down, the whole of the trip to Del Mar done mostly at flat out high speed. Cigars, booze, and sometimes shooting at stop signs with .45 semi-automatics. Not me of course, I was just a boy. In the afternoon of the second day, and nearly $500 bucks ahead thanks to their suggestions, I was put on a train to L.A. where I was met at Union Station and taken back to the ranch. Little did I know at the time that for the whole trip I was being watched closely, albeit from a distance, by one of my stepmother's employees.

The interesting part of it is that one of the Runyonesque types watching and betting on the boxing matches that day was one and the same man who had, at the Normandie Club several years earlier, put his arm between me and the other man saying he recognized me. At my stepmother's ranch he recognized me again and during our trip to Del Mar in an astute fashion basically kept watch on my overall well being. My stepmother told me that years before, his wife and young son had been killed in a horrific auto accident with the two of them burnt beyond recognition. She said if his son would have lived he and I would have been just about the same age.

One morning early during that very same summer as the Del Mar excursion above, my stepmother came to me all dressed up with high heels and everything and said she was going to Los Angeles for some meeting or the other and wanted to know if I would like to go along. What I thought would be a more formal meeting, say like at a lawyers office or some other equally important happenstance, turned out to be basically no more than eating at Tiny Naylor's Drive-In restaurant in Hollywood followed by a trip to Forest Lawn Cemetery --- all the while my stepmother looking at her watch as if she had to be someplace at a certain time. She bought a bouquet of flowers as we entered the cemetery then drove along the roads just as though she knew where she was going or had been there before. She pulled up behind a taxi, the only car parked anywhere in the area and stopped, telling me to stay as she got out.

She hurried across the road going many rows deep, with each step sort of wobbling because of her high heels sinking into the grass until she reached the site of a grave where a lone woman was standing. After what seemed to be not much more than a slight cursory hug and a cheek touch between the two she put the flowers next to some already there then the two women just stood next to each other over the grave for quite some time looking down. However, even at the distance I was I could tell the two were talking a good part of the time as they stood there. After a while they both walked back toward the car and it was then I was introduced. The woman was Brenda Allen, a few years before Hollywood's and L.A.'s most prosperous madam. The gravesite they went to see? I never learned.[3]






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As to the subject of donations, for those of you who may be interested in doing so as it applies to the gratefulness of my works, I invariably suggest any funds be directed toward THE WOUNDED WARRIOR PROJECT and/or THE AMERICAN RED CROSS.

Footnote [1]

Further down in the above main text, more specifically as found in Footnote [2] and the paragraph it is associated with, you will learn that during the summer before high school, right after I heard my stepmother had returned from South America, I ran away from the home of the aforementioned foster couple I was living with, i.e., Pauline and her husband, ending up at my stepmother's ranch totally unannounced. Although she was far from advocating it, she was pleased with the fact, in that I did run away, I sought her out specifically to be the person I ran away to.

"I reminded her that as it was, just before she left for South America, she had written a letter that was responsible for me getting a really good part-time after school job, and it was money from that job that helped finance my bus ticket and finding her that summer."

The money I earned working at the Normandie Club did a lot more than just pay for the bus ticket to my stepmother's. When my uncle was overseeing me we used to go down to the giant Palley's Surplus Store off Alameda Street and Vernon in Los Angeles, often with my brothers going along, For us the place was like Disneyland, sometimes we would spend the whole day there because the place had everything --- big things like half tracks and bomber machinegun turrets to little things like GI issued lensatic compasses and packets of fluorescent green sea dye markers. My brothers and I, in what was one of the few things we ever did together, were always cooking up some kind of an excuse go there with me always returning with a ton of World War II army surplus stuff --- canteens, pistol belts, parkas, infantry backpacks, army M43 folding shovels, and two of my very favorites, an Army Signal Corps J-38 Handkey with a leg-band for sending Morse code and an ESM/1 Emergency Signaling Mirror.

When my dad and stepmother went to South America for a couple of years and our de facto family broke up, with my uncle going back to Santa Fe and my younger brother and I going to the foster couple, most of my army gear got lost in the shuffle --- and going to Palley's, for the couple, at least as far as me and my little brother was concerned, was out of the picture.

The thing is, at the time I was a kid and I did kid things. As a kid it seems like a large portion of almost everything I learned came from reading comic books. Over and over, even today in the stuff I write I often refer back to something I read at one time or the other in a comic book, that is, except maybe for one major time when there was not just comic books involved, but the coming together of both comic books AND Saturday afternoon matinee movies of the day. That time I flew well over two-stories high in a Da Vinci-like flying machine I built myself as described in Tarzan and the Huntress.

Below is an ad from a comic book that just happened to start showing up for the first time around August 1949, just at the exact time my family was breaking up or on the verge of breaking up. On top of that, with the prospect of me not having the unfettered cash resources that had been provided me so freely in the past, my stepmother arranged for me to get a job so I could pick up some extra money. With that money and the comic book ads like the one below I was never without all the Army surplus stuff I wanted.

Anybody who is familiar with or has read any amount of my online works knows that as a young boy I was big on box top and the like offers such as Ovaltine's Captain Midnight's Radio Premiums, especially Captain Midnight's Code-O-Graphs, and more specifically so the 1942-1945 Photo-Matic version that figured so prominently throughout my childhood into adulthood. As I viewed it, comic book ads were a quick jump, falling into a similar or like category. Matter of fact the first comic book ad I ever answered was for me to become a Junior Air Raid Warden, of which the ad appears just below the Army surplus ad. I don't think I was even in kindergarten when I sent for the Air Raid Warden kit. Please notice the two smaller versions of the surplus ad below the Air Raid Warden ad, although similar to the color ad above, both offer signaling mirrors for 35 cents. Signaling mirrors played a prominent role between the famed mathematician, meteorite hunter, and astronomer Dr. Lincoln La Paz and my uncle regarding a pre-Roswell UFO encounter. Remember too, from the main text, every time I went to Palley's I always came back with a bunch of World War II army surplus stuff like canteens, pistol belts, parkas, infantry backpacks and Army M43 folding shovels. The comic book mail order made it a lot easier. Notice as well, in those days a kid could order knives, machetes, and axes if one was so predisposed. My dad actually bought a brand new, or at least never used, World War II jeep right off the docks in San Francisco by responding to a similar ad. The jeep, along with hundreds of others, were piled up on the docks just about to be shipped off to the South Pacific when the war ended. The government was selling them off as fast as they could, first come first served for $225.00 bucks.(see)

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Footnote [2]

The primary source for the quote is found in THE GERMAN SUBMARINE ATTACK ON HOOVER DAM, linked below, which pretty much revolves around and gets into the whole summer I spent on my stepmother's ranch the following year after I ran away --- that is, the summer between my ninth and tenth grade in high school. It gets fairly in-depth into who I ran into, what I did, and what happened that summer. Chasing locomotives across the desert in a top-down jeep, my stepmother pulling a pistol on a hooker, former German POWs and submarines trying to blow up Hoover Dam during World War II. The usual stuff that typically happens to a teenager when he visits his stepmother for the summer. The list that follows beneath the link, although somewhat redundant in some of the material it presents does offer a whole lot of insights to and about Pauline including photographs and whose full name was Pauline Page. Have fun:


That first summer, the one I ran away from Pauline's in the first place and went to my stepmother's, if you recall she tried to get in touch with my father. When she was unable to reach him she contacted my dad's brother, my uncle, who said he was willing to take me until things could be worked out. In that my uncle lived in New Mexico and I was on my stepmother's ranch in the high desert of California and she felt time was at an essence, she arranged for me to be flown to Santa Fe. She had a pilot she knew fly into a close-by one-time, albeit long abandoned military airfield called Victory Field and pick me up. The pilot, a former P-47 Thunderbolt jockey was flying a two seat North American AT-6. It was the first time I had ever been off the ground and into the air in any kind of a World War II aircraft, so for me the trip to my uncle's was not only highly memorable, it was as well white-knuckle exciting.

As soon as my father found out he wanted to know what he hell I was doing with in Santa Fe in the first place then going on to the east coast with plans for Europe. He told his brother, my uncle, in no uncertain terms he wanted me back in California immediately --- if for no other reason just because I would be attending a new school in the fall and needed to register, telling me I would no longer be staying with the foster family I had been living with in Gardena, but instead, living with my grandmother and going to Redondo Union High School. So, once again in my young life I was staying with someone else, although this time it was my grandmother, and starting a new school. See The Wanderling and His High School Chums as found in:


Footnote [3]

It seems early in the year 1946 a Los Angeles police officer had been shot and killed on the streets of Chinatown during a gambling raid. When the news of the officer's death eventually filtered down to my stepmother, for reasons not known to me even to this day, she somehow felt responsible for ensuring his widow or the woman he was closely associated with and her young son were properly cared for. Somewhere along the way my stepmother learned the woman, who wanted to leave the city, had previously inherited a rundown dilapidated piece of property in Idaho that had been at onetime a working ranch. My stepmother hired a crew to fix up the place, make it livable with reliable running water and even paid to have the electricity extended to reach the ranch as it had not yet got that far. Then she sent the woman, her young son, and if not with the two of them initially, within a short time, my older brother, for whatever reason, to live there.

Regarding the police officer who was slain, the following, in my own words, is an extrapolation of events recalled to the best of my ability some years after the fact after having been initially researched from official sources:

The policeman killed in the line of duty during the 1946 Chinatown gambling raid was assisting members of the Los Angeles Police Department's Vice Squad. As the primary contingent of the Vice Squad rushed the front of the building, the policeman, as assigned, had positioned himself along with several other officers toward the rear of the building in order to assist in stopping or apprehending any fleeing suspects. A gun battle erupted between those on the inside and those on the outside when one or more of the men providing security for the illicit gambling discovered any potential escape route through the back had been blocked. The gunmen on the inside fired a significant number of rounds through the rear entrance just as officers entered. A random slug from the volley unleashed by the assailants struck the policeman in the abdomen puncturing his kidney, the officer dying in the hospital from his wound the following day.

Witnesses as well as ballistics connected a specific gun to one of the shooters, the gunman being convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to one to 10 years.

Personally I hold the belief that my stepmother was on the other side of the law on this one. Her concern for the slain police officer may have stemmed from the fact he may have been on her payroll --- or not --- and that he tried or did warn her of the impending raid. As I look back at it all now as a grown adult with a much wider perspective, there is also a chance my stepmother had some sort of a wider connection back to the police officer, possibly even inter connection, financially or otherwise, with the Chinatown gambling den so alluded to such as anti-raid bribes or maybe as an owner of the building, or providing hostesses, backing high stake players, or any number of things.

So too, in sort of a sidebar here, the whole raid could have been a set up. While it is true Chinese gambling ran outside the law it also operated outside the mob's purview. L.A.s official illicit gambling trade was run by two major warring mob factions. Bugsy Siegel and his lieutenant Mickey Cohen on one side with Jack Dragna and Johnny Roselli on the other, with both sides often overlapping, sometimes ending in adverse consequences. The Chinese ran their own. My stepmother's involvement in any of the three, if at all, wink, wink, is not known.


For the record, the aforementioned mobster Bugsy Siegel, who was shot to death in 1947 in a clearly Mafia related hit, had a girlfriend, a moll by the name of Virginia Hill, pictured above. In some connection my stepmother knew Hill through one Dr. Margaret Chung, a woman of some notoriety herself, some very positive, some considered somewhat more on the negative side, re the following:

"Before my stepmother and dad got married, every year she would go on weeks-long elaborate vacations, alternating them yearly between three locations. One year she would go to Hawaii, the next Mexico, and the third Canada's northwest territory. She mentioned one of those vacations to me when the two of us first met. After she noticed my interest in the Flying Tigers she told me that she had been on vacation in Mexico and while there had gone down to Mexico City. In Mexico City she had dinner with a 'former physician to Chennault's Flying Tigers named Dr. Margaret Chung' and two movie actresses, Virginia Hill and Sophie Tucker --- all of which was confirmed to me by her much later in my life. I did, however, have good cause to remember Virginia Hill, and not because she was said to have been a movie star but because of an incident that happened a few years later."

JOHNNY ROSELLI: Mafioso (Footnote [6])


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"My stepmother, who you may recall was quite wealthy, in her new found motherhood role, noticed my younger brother and myself, along with a bunch of other neighborhood kids, spent an inordinate amount of time 'playing cowboys' --- with cowboy hats, capguns, holsters, boots, etc., and in doing so we often ended up in the street. Using her logic, she thought, what could be better than having their own real ranch to play on, especially so, not in the street."

THE WANDERLING AND HIS UNCLE: Their Life and Times Together

So that's what she did, she bought a ranch. A whole section of land in size, that is, one square mile, with twenty acres set aside on one corner for the ranch house, barn, horse corrals, you name it. Then off we went to ride real horses and shoot real guns, of which the ranch house had a number of them --- some on the wall and above the doors such as a lever action 30-30 Winchester, a shotgun or two, a couple of .22 rifles, and a genuine antique 1847 Colt Walker handgun in a case. Every once in awhile I would take the 4.5 pound Colt out of the case and run around playing cowboys with it, sometimes even mixing genres by wielding the colt in one hand and a Buck Rogers Disintegrator in the other. In that the Colt was a black powder revolver and since nobody knew how to load it and everybody was afraid to, it was never loaded. In my later teenage years the Colt was sent to a gunsmith for some reason or the other and while there the gunsmith let me fire three rounds through it.

No sooner had we moved onto the ranch than my dad started to look around at tractors and such. Instead he decided on a four wheel drive World War II jeep to tool around in. Even though none of us kids were old enough to drive legitimately on any of the paved roads around or near the ranch, on the dirt roads and the scrub bursh desert lands surrounding the ranch, as well as on the ranch itself, we drove all over the place.

My dad actually bought the Jeep after answering an ad similar to the one below. The ad offered surplus Jeeps for $278.00. After looking into it he discovered he could actually purchase a brand new, or at least never used, World War II Jeep for $225.00 cash right off the docks in San Francisco, which in reality turned out to be not docks in San Francisco, but across the bay in the naval ship yards at Vallejo or Alameda.

I still remember as a boy showing up with my dad and brothers. The whole place turned out to be a huge labyrinth of buildings, cranes, railroad tracks, and narrow between the structures roadways. On the docks were literally hundreds and hundreds of jeeps lined up row after row along with all kinds of other military hardware and equipment. The jeeps themselves had been taken right off the factory assembly line to the docks months before for transshipment to the South Pacific just as the war ended and when I was there with my dad as a kid, all of them were still just sitting there gathering dust and getting flat tires.

Other than learning a new word and having it added to my vocabulary, i.e., cosmoline, except for one thing, I don't recall anything specifically about the logistics of how or what my dad had to do to get the jeep, how long it took, how much paperwork he had to shuffle, or how the jeep was prepared so we could drive it home, only that it was and we did --- drive it home, that is. The one thing I remember is that the man who sold my dad the jeep told him he couldn't pick it up until the next day because of some longshoreman rule. The thing is, my dad brought two longshoremen with him and the man who sold my dad the jeep gave it to him. The two longshoremen were provided by a longtime old friend of my stepmother named Johnny Roselli.

During the heat of the summer my dad didn't want to drive down California's central valley on Highway 99 or cross over the Sierras to use the 395, although once to either highway it would have been the most direct to the ranch. Instead he chose to drive down the California coastline on Highway 1 --- and what a trip it was no matter what highway we would have used. A jeep, no top, my dad and three kids, no real back seats and all before seat belt days. At first the jeep wouldn't go over 45 miles an hour. When we stopped for gas for the first time and with my dad complaining, the attendant, who had been in the Army and knew about jeeps said it was because of a "governor," a device or some such thing the Army put on vehicles to ensure they weren't driven too fast. The attendant took a screwdriver, fiddled with a few things, and the next thing we knew the jeep could do over 60! A couple of days later after camping along the way we were back at the ranch.

Living on the ranch in the high desert of the Mojave in those days were heady times. With the war finally over almost everything was doing nothing but going upward. All kinds of things were happening, especially in the aircraft and automotive fields and happening in the desert besides. The ranch was located not far from Muroc Dry Lake the same place Edwards Air Force Base was located. So too, the ranch wasn't far from Mirage Dry Lake either. On the ground at Mirage were nothing but numberless hot rods and belly tank lakesters. My uncle would take us out there to watch some of the hopped-up Ford flatheads hitting 150 mph. In the air, flying right over the ranch, were B-36s and flying wings. Higher up they were testing the Bell X-1 and breaking the sound barrier.

For us, we went from a bunch of kids tooling around the ranch to chasing locomotives out across the raw desert land at 90 miles per hour all the while watching B-36s and flying wings and hearing and sometimes feeling the sonic booms from the X-1.




"The ad offered surplus jeeps for $278.00. There were literally hundreds of scams around right after the war saying you could buy surplus jeeps from $50.00 and up and that's what most of them were, scams. After looking into it my dad discovered he could actually purchase a brand new, or at least never used, World War II Jeep for $225.00 cash right off the docks in San Francisco, which in reality turned out to be not docks in San Francisco, but across the bay in the naval ship yards at Vallejo or Alameda."


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