Misfit by Adam Braver

hysteria when the defendants allegedly broke down her apartment door and flashed lights into her eyes on the night of November 5, 1954.” Kotz asked the Los Angeles Superior Court for $200,000 in damages. She settled for $7,500.
    It took three years for Virginia Blasgen, owner of the apartment building where Kotz lived at 754 North Kilkea Drive, to be awarded a default judgment of $100 from the small claims court in Los Angeles for the damage done to the apartment door. In addition, she received $5.75 for court costs.
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    But that night of November 5, years before any legal settlements, Virginia Blasgen has been looking out her
window on and off for the past hour. She initially sees only two men hanging around the front of her rental property across the street, at 754 North Kilkea. Her father built that apartment house, and now she owns it. Eventually it will go to her boy. She has to keep an eye out. It isn’t just property she’s protecting. It’s a future.
    She parts the curtain further with her right hand; her view is partially blocked by a large elm. The taller man stamps around, looking agitated, slightly unguarded. They seem determined and confident. Almost hammy. The “little one,” she’ll later recall, “was jumping up and down, and looking at me and smiling.”
    The rental is a triplex, with a small studio on the bottom and two larger apartments on top. It’s Mission style, typical of the quiet residential neighborhood, with a brilliant green lawn, not so easy to maintain under the shade of the giant elm. One of the upstairs units is rented out to an actress named Sheila Stewart. She seemed like a nice girl when Virginia showed her the efficiency, responsible and clean. She reported having steady work, and came armed with the first and last months’ rent, ready to take the place. Virginia mentioned some concern about her being an actress, inferring a different lifestyle standard, and Sheila Stewart assured her she was of a serious nature—that when she wasn’t auditioning she prized her classes and her rest. Sheila Stewart has so far lived up to that claim. But seeing the men gather in front of the building makes Virginia wonder if Sheila Stewart hasn’t taken on another prize.

    DiMaggio says he’s not fooling around any longer. He wants to bust right through the door. It’s dark and it’s nearing midnight, and the sky is clear, almost invisible. Under the umbrella glow of a street lamp, he leans against his Cadillac convertible, his shoulders pressed against the canvas top, talking at Barney Ruditsky, a private investigator, and Phil Irwin, a retired cop who works for Ruditsky. They’ve both arrived within the last fifteen minutes, along with Henry Sanicola and DiMaggio’s friend Bill Karen, who wait quietly in the backseat of the car. Warming himself up, Sinatra lounges in the front passenger’s seat, jangling the car keys and tapping his foot.
    DiMaggio’s insisting that if indeed she’s inside there, they might as well go in now. His muscles tense. His entire body constricts. “I don’t know why we just don’t go in and bust this guy up,” he says. Shadows from the lamplight burrow into the lines in his face, aging him. “Make sure he’s the one that gets fucked, and not her.”
    Ruditsky speaks in a low voice, trying to draw DiMaggio closer. Quiet him down. Bring on some calm. He’s trailed enough women to be able to predict a man’s reaction—especially that of one so recently and publicly humiliated. “Better to think out what we should do,” he suggests. “What we’re after.”
    â€œI know what we should do. What I’m after.”
    Sinatra leans out the window, elbow on the door. “I tell you what you should be doing, Philly,” he tells
Irwin. “You should be helping the old detective calm Joe down into a logical plan.”
    DiMaggio snaps