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.
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A PRIVATE DETECTIVE IN EAST LOS ANGELES IN THE 1940s by Robert Nerbovig
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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. 
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