- Honorable mention: “Come blow your horn” by Ted Anderson
“Bet your ever-lovin’ Fig Newton!” Sal Canizzi needed no prodding to join fellow longshoremen in their ongoing struggle against The Establishment. He didn’t give a hoot if the opposition included his old employer, the LAPD. His cop career was a mere footnote now. And heck, he might even cross paths with Rhett Ryker again.
“Sal, this guy look familiar?” asked Tony Bubic, dangling a large photo of an average-looking male in front of him.
“Vaguely. Why?” said Sal.
“We think he might be a stoolie.”
“Really? Damn! I thought all that Blue Book/fink crap was behind us.”
“It’s not that. He just appeared outta the blue one day. Nobody knows where he’s from. Plus, he tried to instigate trouble between Italians and Slavs out there.”
“So…”
“So we want you to put your cop skills to work and check him out,” said Bubic.
“What’s his name?” asked Sal.
“Josh Knutson. K-n-u-t-s-o-n.”
Sal called his remaining cop friends to see if any knew of a Josh Knutson. While there was a burgeoning labor movement in the LA Harbor, there was a budding one among the scourge of local organizers: the LAPD’s rank-and-file. He never squandered an opportunity to encourage ex-coworkers to organize.
None, however, knew anything about Knutson. All promised to keep their ears perked for any mention of the name.
One friend invited him to a business-sponsored luncheon at the pistol range in San Pedro. He politely declined. Even several years removed from the department he still would not be able to stomach the fawning and genuflecting he’d inevitably encounter.
Information about Knutson began trickling in. He was married and a native of Hackett, Arkansas, a one-horse town near the Oklahoma border. Like so many other couples from the Dust Bowl, the Knutsons came to California seeking work.
Sara Cannizzi called from the Starkist Cannery on Terminal Island. The name Knutson rang a bell with her. She knew of a new hire named Mary-Jean by that last name and believed she was from back there.
Sal and the postman met at the mailbox. He handed over an envelope with no return address. Inside was a very brief, typewritten and unsigned letter: CANNIZZI — Check out Ryker’s ex-partner. Falling out. Knows about Knutson.
He located the ex-partner after a second round of calls. Josh Knutson was Rhett Ryker’s cousin. Ryker lived in Hackett briefly before moving to San Pedro and happened to be at LAPD’s “Bum Blockade” when the Knutsons showed up. From there he used his clout on the “Red Squad” to set them up with jobs and an apartment.
The young officer attended the recent luncheon and became animated describing how his ex-partner schnauzed both executives and LAPD brass alike, knee-slapping after every joke. “Got news forya, kiddo. Schnauzing works. Look what it’s done for that scuzz,” said Sal, alluding to Ryker’s meteoric rise through the ranks despite being a mediocre cop.
“Gotta tell ya, we’ve clashed from day one. At Barton Hill Elementary. On the football field at San Pedro High. Had a fistfight behind EK Wood Lumber the only time we worked together as cops. But somehow I missed he was from Arkansas.”
Ryker didn’t set the Knutsons up out of benevolence, though. In return he demanded Josh serve as a labor spy. His primary duty was to take copious notes on anything an ILWU leader or activist said about the Shipowners Association and mail in a detailed weekly report. Ryker also encouraged him to try and create animosity between groups of union supporters whenever possible, which probably explained the ill-advised attempt to pit Italians versus Slavs.
Sal fantasized about nailing Ryker’s mangy butt. In his view he’d violated the California Indigent Act as law enforcement, pure and simple. Trouble was, he thought the law was a crock. Bringing a relative into the state was a crime? Bullshit! And as for the Bum Blockade, what the hell was LAPD doing all the way out on the Nevada border?
Sara Cannizzi called again. Mary-Jean Knutson was, indeed, Josh’s wife. She was also complicit in his labor spying. When it came time to do the weekly reports, he dictated and she wrote. This was out of necessity. Josh’s handwriting was barely legible, his spelling skills indescribable. Unlike the major dick agencies, Ryker didn’t test Josh to see if he was up to the job.
Mary-Jean, however, had undergone a transformation at Starkist. In the beginning she was something of an outcast and actually clashed with the Filipino and black women in the cannery. No more. Now she regularly attended off-work functions and had become a staunch supporter of the cannery’s union.
Sal opened the San Pedro News-Pilot. Earle Kynette’s mug greeted him. The Red Squad captain was accused of planting a bomb in an investigator’s car and suspended indefinitely. Sal knew Kynette would have to testify in the ever-expanding LAPD scandal and waxed optimistic that Ryker would, too.
Wishful thinking! The next day he heard on the radio that none of Kynette’s underlings would have to appear in court. The recently-passed LA City Charter gave them this legal protection.
“What now?” asked Sal in a semi-dejected voice, pulling on his Myers’s Rum and orange juice.
“What now?” said Bubic with volume befitting his Bunyanesque stature.
“Yeah.”
“Ya goddamned garlic snapper! We’re going after the big fish!”
“The big fish?”
“The Shipowners Association. The Red Squad. Mayor Shaw. That godforsaken rag the LA Times. Ryker’s a friggin minnow!”
With perspective back in order Sal began mulling possibilities about how to get the word out. Bubic could inform local unions. Young EPIC organizer Ralph Dills could talk to the Gardena Valley Democratic Club, maybe Upton Sinclair. Woody Guthrie could bring it up on his “Lone Wolf” show on KVDF…Sal quickly nixed all this. The upcoming LAPD trial would command the city’s undivided attention for the next month, possibly two. Somebody would have to spill the beans on the witness stand, ideally Mary-Jean Knutson.
Sara convinced him to contact Buron Fitts, the LA District Attorney. Sal knew Fitts from his days on the 77th Division. He, too, had won a Purple Heart in Argonne, taking a bullet in the knee that required several surgeries. But while he listened intently to Sal’s account of how Ryker used Josh Knutson as a labor spy to advance his career ambitions, Fitts would not commit to calling either of the Knutsons to the witness stand.
The trial began. Fitts came out blazing. LAPD had pissed him off with some of its public comments. He called Chief James Davis first.
“You call these people criminals?” he asked incredulously, referring to the politicians and entertainers that comprised the department’s “Enemy List.” Davis said all had criminal records. Doubly annoyed, Fitts shot back, “Parking tickets constitute a crime?” Davis fumbled for an answer.
Fitts called the equally burly Kynette next.
“Have you ever received compensation from an employers’ advocacy group in your duties as law enforcement?” Kynette hesitated, then said he hadn’t.
“Have you done any favors for such groups?” The captain of the Red Squad remained silent even longer before saying “no” again. Sal’s spirits rose. Something had to happen now.
Over the weekend he contacted the Knutsons to see if they’d received a subpoena. Neither had. Sal’s heart sank. Deep down he began to wonder if contacting Fitts was a good idea.
When he walked into the courtroom on Monday morning there was Rhett Ryker sitting at the defense table. It turned out he ranked too high to be exempted from testifying. Fitts resumed the same line of questioning.
“Have you ever done any favors for an employers’ advocacy group?” Ryker breathed deep and answered “yes” to gasps in the courtroom. “Were you compensated for those favors?” Ryker answered “yes” again. Fitts spent the rest of the day extracting specifics from both Ryker and others.
“Where’s Sara?” asked Bubic in Antes Restaurant, anxious to commend her for suggesting Fitts.
“Union meeting. She’ll be here later” said Sal.
“Got good news.”
“Let’s hear it, animal.”
“Kynette got 10 years–in Alcatraz!”
“No shit?”
“No shit!”
“Where’d you hear this?” said Sal.
“Just now on KVDF,” said Bubic.
“And Ryker?”
“I knew you’d ask that! Held onto his job…”
“I’ll bet he received only promises, not money” interrupted Sal. “Demotion?”
“They suspended ‘im for a month and transferred his mangy butt outta Harbor Division. To Granada…or some damn place in the Valley.”
“So he can’t do anything to the Knutsons?”
“Nope!”
“What about the Red Squad?”
“Dismantled it. Great day for labor, too, eh?” said Bubic, flashing a wide grin.
“Bet your ever-lovin’ Fig Newton!” said Sal, taking a long, healthy pull off his Myers’s and orange juice. B
