A Fish Story

December 6, 1947
La Jolla

A secretary, in heels and hose and a neat little updo, catching big game fish? That’s crazy, kids! And yet it happened today off the beach in La Jolla.

Folks spotted a big fish swimming erratically between the two breakwaters, as if it had been injured. The exquisitely-named Mrs. Dymple Axtell, 28-year-old secretary of the La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club, watched for a spell and then couldn’t contain herself. She enlisted Harry Grimm to row her out, and promptly gaffed a 512 pound, 12′ broadbill swordfish. which they pulled back to shore. A San Diego fish market paid them $81.82 each for their share of the fish, which will handily cover any damage to the lady’s coiffure or manicure.

An Ill-Mannered Con

December 5, 1947
Los Angeles

There were two distinguishing features of the man who robbed the Bank of America branch at Seventh and Broadway near closing time today. He had a very dirty face, and he was no gentleman.

Teller Paul V. Glowczewski of 2939 Covina Street told police that the man came to his window, showed a revolver through his Army raincoat’s split pocket, and snarled “Gimme money.” Glowczewski placed some cash on the counter, and Mr. Grubby snapped “Gimme more!” He was right; Glowczewski had been holding out on him.

Then the man took his money and strolled casually out of the bank, leaving one shaken teller and several dozen oblivious customers to finish up their business.

Bank of America, Seventh and Broadway

Ah, Broadway. (Here, looking west on 7th across B’way, the Bank of America on your far right at the NE corner.)

Scroll back to November 29 for Ms. Bertha getting a little loot lifted. And today Vets, without even the decency to toss a little water in their faces, are sticking pistols at people. In the future, of course, bank robberies will be graciously moved to the Valley.

I’ve been on the wrong end of a piece, and while it’s unpleasant, it’s nothing compared to the terror you will feel at the horror you are about to witness:

If you dare-scroll down to see what happens when we turn to peer back east on 7th at the Bank of America building-


1947project in new Best of Blogs book

We are honored and delighted that our little experiment is featured in the upcoming book Blogosphere: Best of Blogs by Adrienne Crew (of LAist) and Peter Kuhns. 1947project kicks off the chapter titled “Pushing Boundaries of the Blog Format.” Do visit the Blogosphere website for bonus chapters and to learn more about the book.

No Impulse Control

December 4, 1947
Los Angeles

Mark Lima, 16, could hardly dispute mother Estelle’s opinion that he was a lousy student: his latest report card showed failing grades in spelling and in math. But why did she have to harp at him like that, first about school, then about leaving a door open?

Barely thinking, he loaded the .22 rifle his father Alfred, a Tijuana chemist, had given him when he turned 14 and he shot Estelle once in the back. Then, horrified, he called the ambulance to their little home at 412 1/2 W. 68th Street.

Even in her agonies, Estelle, 41, sought to protect her son, “Don’t hurt Mark… he’s a good boy!” Her condition is critical, and Mark is in juvenile custody.

412 W. 68th To-day

Seems like just a few days ago there was some attempted matricide up on 46th. ‘Course, that was a middle-aged shmoe wielding a washboard. Here we’ve got a juvie shooting his mother in the back. And to think, in just a year and a few days, Burbank’s own Every Mother’s Son, Edmund Kemper, will be born.

So I set out to see where Mark, this budding Nero, grew up.

But here, in 1947, in what was known as Los Angeles Judicial Township, a stone’s throw from the Goodyear Rubber Plant, there was no “South Flower” or “South Grand.” Just a stretch of homes from Figueroa to Broadway:

And that, children, explains where 412 W. 68th Street went–that’s 428 in the picture, and as far as the addresses go.

The Sad Case of the Model and Her Baby

December 3, 1947
Toluca Lake/ Hermosa Beach

It took police some time to piece it all together, but when they did, they found that familiar tragedy of a man of mature years, the young, troubled model he married, a love that burned but briefly, the child caught between them, and money. Always money.

The tale unraveled when Sam Wartnik, 45, sportswear manufacturer with offices at 1020 Wall Street, had his attorney ask Wartnik’s partner Al Hirschfeld and employee Clifford Jones to drop by the house where his wife and son had been living solo since the he filed for divorce last week. Wartnik, in San Francisco on business, had been unable to get Lena Mae, 30, on the phone, and was concerned she might have done something rash.

This was the gal, after all, who he painted in his divorce suit as a drunk and drug abuser, a person who had once tried and several times threatened to kill him. All the same, he’d left baby Neil Ellis in Lena Mae’s care.

On the door of the little Cape Cod-style house at 4545 Clybourn Avenue they found a note: “Have gone to spend week-end with friends.” They broke in.

Lena Mae was big on notes. Along with the blood splattered in every room they found the one that said “Sam, here are the keys. Now you can sell the home and gloat over your MONEY.”

And the one on the back of Lena Mae’s summons to a custody suit that was to be held this morning. It said “Sam, this summons is my reward for standing by you through thick and thin. Well, this is what you’ve often begged me to do so I’m doing it–and taking my sweet, precious Neil with me. Too bad, cause we both did love life since you left us broke but happy together. We got well together with your beat-up presence away. Good bye…”

And they found Neil, dressed only in a diaper and his own congealed blood, strangled on a bed. He’d been that way for a couple of days. Propped on another bed, a whimsical book for expectant fathers.

The hotel manager found Lena Mae in the Hermosa Biltmore, covered in hesitation cuts, ultimately dead perhaps of poison. And more notes. “Bleeding to death is so slow but I do want my baby buried in my arms.” And in her wallet, beside the season pass to Santa Anita, on the back of a mailing receipt for something sent to her husband at his office on November 10, a day after they separated, “I am Mrs. Sam Wartnik. Notify Los Angeles Police.”

Sam and Lena Mae were married in Las Vegas on May 19, 1946. Baby Neil was born on January 24, and died around December 1.

2005 intrudes, happily

1947project got a little contemporary notice today, in a piece in the L.A. Times exploring the bloggers of Los Angeles, and in a pre-nomination for an Urb Award from Gridskipper. To stay in the running for that Best L.A. Blog Urb (Urbie?), we need to get seconded and thirded, so if you like this blog, please drop by Gridskipper and let them know, in an email or comment, that you think 1947project deserves to be considered in our category.

We thank you. And now, back to your regularly scheduled 1940s.

Cops Clean House in Watts

December 2, 1947
Watts

Police at the 77th Street Station are wrapping up a two-day sweep of neighborhood nogoodniks, having dragged 31 suspected robbers (male) and 8 grand theft person suspects (female) out of bars at 10218 and 10224 Graham Ave. A number of those arrested were armed with knives. No additional details were provided.

Further neighborhood reading:

Bars of Graham

Knives have their jobs. And the knife’s custodian has his. Things to do. Getting popped in a Watts bar isn’t on either’s list.

The bars were here, just across those tracks.

Washington Court, aka Washington Village Park Apts., have taken up the area, wiping out the 10200 block north of 103rd.

Judging by what I saw go down there, I’d say the community was better off with the cocktail lounges.