(The following was excerpted from the Los Angeles Times, December 23, 2012, by Kate Linthicum. The original articles is titled, “L.A. City Hall is one of painter’s masterpieces”)

Joe Nicoletti started out painting houses in New Jersey. These days, he paints Los Angeles City Hall.

Since a major renovation of the historic building began nearly 20 years ago, Nicoletti has been the city’s go-to guy when a skilled hand is needed to restore a frieze or touch up a mural.

His most recent assignment — repainting the elaborately decorated ceiling of the Main Street lobby — took the 50-year-old Santa Monica resident two weeks and eight assistants to complete. His crew toiled at night, the better to stay out of the way of city bureaucrats, and Nicoletti livened the workspace with the sounds of Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra and the like. Around midnight, they would break for “lunch,” usually takeout from downtown eateries such as Pete’s Cafe or Cole’s French Dip.

The last night of the job, Nicoletti and some members of his crew were finishing up a few final details. Some cracked plaster needed repairing, and a small section of gold didn’t look quite rich enough. Nicoletti had brought several sheets of gold leaf that he hoped would do the trick.

“It’s $1,700 an ounce,” he said, waving the sheets like little flags. The gold is also edible, he added. “You can sprinkle it on some soufflé.”

He was standing atop precarious-looking scaffolding. An assistant, Luke Adkins, steadied the apparatus down below as Nicoletti excitedly pointed out noteworthy patterns in the ceiling’s design. “This is a medallion, that’s a ziggurat, and I think this is a cartouche,” he said.

Then he dabbed some glue, pressed the gold leaf into place and gently peeled off the backing, as if applying a temporary tattoo.

“That is sweet,” Adkins called up. “That is very nice. Man, you nailed it.”

Nicoletti smiled.

His company, Chameleon Paintworks, has done custom jobs at downtown’s Millennium Biltmore Hotel, an 89-year-old historic landmark, and for celebrity clients including Quentin Tarantino and Sting.

But there’s something special about City Hall, he said. Over the years he has painted its hallways, ceilings and even the City Council chambers. He plans to bid on future contracts for restoration work in the building’s rotunda and other areas.

“I’m really proud of this building,” he said. “I like it a lot.”

With the latest Bond flick now in the cinemas, it’s interesting to take a look at 007’s handgun of choice.

The Walther PP series pistols are blowback-operated semi-automatics. They feature an exposed hammer, a traditional double-action trigger mechanism, a single-column magazine, and a fixed barrel that also acts as the guide rod for the recoil spring. The series includes the Walther PP, PPK, PPK/S, and PPK/E. The various PP series are manufactured in either Germany or the United States. Since 2002, the PPK variant is solely manufactured by Smith & Wesson in Houlton, Maine, under license from Carl Walther GmbH Sportwaffen. In the past, this particular model was manufactured by Carl Walther in its own factory in Germany, as well as under license by Manurhin in Alsace, France, and by Interarms in Alexandria, Virginia.

Originally built in 1929, the Walther PPK remains a popular pistol, used today for concealed carry, V.I.P. protection, and Britain’s MI5, as well as by European and American police. It has also been a popular display pistol to give as a gift to American and British military officers.

The PP was first released in 1929, and the PPK in 1931; both were popular with European police and civilians, for being reliable and concealable. During World War II, they were issued to the German military and police, the Schutzstaffel, the Luftwaffe, and Nazi Party officials; Adolf Hitler shot and killed himself with his PPK (a 7.65mm/.32 ACP) in the Führerbunker in Berlin. More importantly(!), the Walther PPK (also a 7.65mm/.32 ACP) pistol is famous as James Bond’s signature gun in many of the Bond films, (including the latest, Skyfall), and novels. Ian Fleming’s choice of the Walther PPK directly influenced its popularity and its notoriety.

The most common variant is the Walther PPK, the Polizeipistole Kurz (Police Pistol Short), indicating it was more concealable than the original PP, and hence better suited for plainclothes and undercover work. Sometimes, the name Polizeipistole Kurz (Short Police Pistol) is used; however, the accuracy of that interpretation is unclear. The PPK is a smaller version of the PP (Polizeipistole) with a shorter grip and barrel and reduced magazine capacity.

The PP and the PPK were among the world’s first successful double action semi-automatic pistols that were widely copied, but still made by Walther. The design inspired other pistols, among them the Soviet Makarov, the Hungarian FEG PA-63, the Argentinian Bersa Thunder 380, the Spanish Astra Constable, and the Czech CZ50. Although it was an excellent semi-automatic pistol, it had competitors in its time.

Walther’s original factory was located in Zella-Mehlis in the state  of Thuringia. As that part of Germany was occupied by the Soviet Union following World War II, Walther was forced to flee to West Germany, where they established a new factory in Ulm. However, for several years following the war, the Allied powers forbade any manufacture of weapons in Germany. As a result, in 1952, Walther licensed production of the PP series pistols to a French company, Manufacture de Machines du Haut-Rhin, also known as Manurhin. The French company continued to manufacture the PP series until 1986. In fact, Manurhin manufactured all postwar European-made PP series pistols manufactured until 1986, even though the pistol slide may bear the markings of the Walther factory in Ulm.

In 1978, Ranger Manufacturing of Gadsden, Alabama was licensed to manufacture the PPK and PPK/S; this version was distributed by Interarms of Alexandria, Virginia. This license was eventually canceled. Starting in 2002, Smith & Wesson (S&W) began manufacturing the PPK and PPK/S under license.
Walther has indicated that, with the exception of the PP and the new PPK/E model, S&W is the current sole source for new PPK-type pistols.

The PPK/S was developed following the enactment of the Gun Control Act of 1968 (GCA68) in the United States, the pistol’s largest market. One of the provisions of GCA68 banned the importation of pistols and revolvers not meeting certain requirements of length, weight, and other “sporting” features into the U.S. The PPK failed the “Import Points” test of the GCA68 by a single point. Walther addressed this situation by combining the PP’s frame with the PPK’s barrel and slide to create a pistol that weighed slightly more than the PPK. The additional ounce or two of weight of the PPK/S compared to the PPK was sufficient to provide the extra needed import points.

Because U.S. law allowed domestic production (as opposed to importation) of the PPK, manufacture began under license in the U.S. in 1978; Interarms distributed this model. The version currently manufactured by Smith & Wesson has been modified by incorporating a longer grip tang, better protecting the shooter from slide bite, i.e. the rearward-traveling slide’s pinching the web between the index finger and thumb of the firing hand, which was a problem with the original design.

In the 1950s, Walther produced the PPK-L, a lightweight variant of the PPK. The PPK-L differed from the standard, all steel PPK in that it had an aluminium alloy frame. These were only chambered in 7.65mm Browning (.32 ACP) and .22 LR because of the increase in felt recoil from the lighter weight of the gun. All other features of the postwar production PPK/S (brown plastic grips with Walther banner, high polished blue finish, lanyard loop, loaded chamber indicator, 7+1 magazine capacity and overall length) were the same on the PPK-L.

In the 1960s, Walther began stamping “Made in West Germany” on the frame of the pistol right below the magazine release button. The 1950s production pistols had the date of manufacture, designated as ‘month/year’, stamped on the right side of the slide. Starting in the 1960s, the production date, designated by the last two digits of the year, was stamped on the exposed part of the barrel that could be seen in the ejection port.

This is a nicely done story, the real deal, by former LAPD cop and ex-sheriff of Jerome, Idaho, James D. Weaver. Enjoy!

West Los Angeles Division, Bel Air, 1980’s

I’ve just arrived for work when Officer Bob Stout, aka “Fatty,” the guy who coordinates all off duty cop jobs, approaches me. Bob tells me I am up for the next assignment. He maintains a list of officers who want to work off duty – the pay matches the LAPD’s hourly wage, and serves to keep the bill collectors off our backs. Having child support and numerous monthly payments to meet, thanks to my recent divorce, I gladly reply, “I’m your guy.”

“This job only became available because the vice guys are too busy,” Bob says.

He tells me I am to meet with the manager of a hotel who has a prostitution problem. Right there, Bob has gotten my attention. I’m used to high school dances, athletic events, and private parties, that sort of thing.

After filling out a Form 1.47 (Permit for Outside Employment), I call the hotel and am connected to a Mr. Checkers, the manager. I explain the reason for my call.

“I’d like to meet with you, ASAP,” Checkers says.

A short time later, I’m in his office. I sit on the opposite side of his fancy executive desk. As if I can’t tell already, he tells me that his hotel is high-end, very private, and extremely discreet. As part of their service, the concierge obliges those male guests who occasionally request a female companion to accompany them to business dinners, or simply to have a cocktail with.

Checkers says, “Jim let’s cut to the chase. Most of the ladies are high-class call girls.  You know—top of the line. We don’t get too bothered by it, as our policy is what happens here, stays here.”

He isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know. The hotel’s Bistro Lounge is home to the west-side “beautiful” people.

“Jim, one such lady, Misty, is stealing money, credit cards and jewelry from her ‘dates.’ Naturally, the guests she victimizes don’t want the police involved—the embarrassment, you know—and we prefer it that way, but she is posing a problem—risking the hotel’s reputation.”

Checkers leans forward, elbows on his desk.

“Bob Stout assured me he would send over someone like you, Jim, to work Misty—catch her with the goods, so to speak . . . and so, I went ahead and set up a date with her for next Friday night at 9 o’clock, here at the Bistro Lounge. I gave her the name Wally Woodstock. Misty told me she would be in a white dress, and would wear her red hair down over her shoulders. I told her which suite went along with the Woodstock name.”

Sitting back, he adds, “I’ve arranged to have a BMW in the garage for your disposal, should you need it, and I will provide you beforehand with $1,000 in marked bills—also, dinner reservations in the Lounge have been made under the name ‘Woodstock.’”

Checkers then says, “If you make the arrest, please be very discreet.”

“No problem, sir, but I will need a partner as a backup and witness.”

Checkers quickly agrees to pay for the second officer.

Later that day I meet with my long-time partner, Ron, and give him the scoop. He’s up for it, saying, “I’ve never been in the fancy joint.”

“Yeah right. OK, Ron, when I get the violation, I’ll say ‘fantastic,’” and then you bust on in. OK?”

He nods, his face forming a Cheshire cat grin. “I bet it will be, too.”

We review the legal elements needed for a violation of 647.B (Prostitution) in the California Penal Code—basically: naming the type of sex act, and hearing the offered price for said act.

Friday night, Ron and I arrive at the hotel, right on schedule. As expected, the suite is “top floor” quality. I hand Ron a key. Without having to say a word, I know he will watch my back and be ready for any problems. Even though he’s a carefree character, he knows how to take care of business.

We go down to the bar and take up our positions. The barroom is doing a good business, a place where guests relax while waiting for their table in the Lounge.

Around 9:15 pm, I spot the redhead, my date. Who wouldn’t? She jounces into the bar wearing a low-cut white dress, allowing her small breasts to rise visibly. Her hair hangs to the center of her back. Over her shoulders?

As she approaches the bar, several men’s eyes follow her sashaying hips.

I step up. “Misty?”

“Mr. Woodstock?”

“The one and only.”

I take her arm and lead her to my table. It’s set up for two. Candlelight flickers between us as our drinks are served. Soon, her leg is against mine. She also squeezes my hand.

“I’m sorry I’m late—you know how horrible LA traffic can be.” Her emerald-green eyes, twinkling from the golden flame, gaze at me longingly. “May I call you by your first name?”

“Sure . . . it’s Wally.”

“Wally . . . I like that. Well, Wally, I promise I will make it up to you.”

Casually, I scan the bar. Ron holds his favorite drink, a Glenlivet, neat. Typical Ron, he’s jawboning with a busty cocktail waitress.

After several vodka-and-Seven’s, the maitre d’ escorts Misty and me to our table in the dimly lit Bistro Lounge. I have to agree with what I’d heard: it is an ideal place for a rendezvous like the one we’re supposedly having.

Once seated, Misty again presses her leg next to mine. Her tongue peeks over her ruby lips, moistening them as she bends slightly toward me, enough to give me an eyeful of milky breasts, a smile on her made-up face.

She orders a lobster; I smile and do the same. I also order a bottle of Dom Pérignon.  We chat about what is going on in our lives over dinner. During dessert, Misty gets down to business.

“Wally . . . I think I’d like to have an after-dinner drink.” Her tone is questioning.

“I would like that,” I quickly say, admittedly feeling a rise in my groin.

“Wally . . . I like you. Would you mind if we had it in your room?”

As we walk out of the Lounge, I look for Ron. He’s nowhere in sight. I should be concerned, but I’m not. The drinks, the mood of the evening, and my groin have me feeling no pain. It’s about show time. I must focus on the bust—not hers, Jimbo! 

We enter the suite and I immediately ring room service for another bottle of Dom. Misty is sashaying in front of me, giving me a seductive stare. Thankfully, the bellhop soon knocks at the door. After he wheels in the cart with the bottle settled in a bucket of ice, I ask him to open the champagne. He does, and fills two glass flutes. I tip him and he departs.

Simultaneously, Misty throws her arms around me, blows in my ear, nibbles my earlobe, and kisses my neck. I’m getting tumescent.

Things are moving way too fast.

I quickly untangle myself. “Let me wash up, hon—enjoy your Dom.”

When I return she is on the sofa, down to her pink underwear and lying on her side. One of the best bodies I have ever seen.

“Come and get it cowboy,” she purrs then empties her stem glass.

Having no vice experience, I only know I need to get a violation. But she hasn’t even hinted about wanting money. I can’t expose myself, especially not with a hard-on—then she saves my ass.

“But first, cowboy, it’ll cost you $500 for a half-and-half (street vernacular for a blowjob and a straight lay.)

Sighing in relief, I say, “OK, lady—but first, let me see that fine body of yours.”

Misty eyes the swelling in my crotch, and quickly slips out of her bra and panties.

“Misty, you’re fantastic,” I say loudly with my head facing toward the hallway door.

I stand stupidly waiting for Ron to bust into the suite.

No Ron.

I repeat, even more loudly, “yeah, you’re really fantastic!”

I hear a scraping noise at the door, then a banging.

Misty sits up, obviously startled.

Ron staggers in and shouts, “Los Angeles Police, you’re unner arrest.” His words are slurred.

Misty immediately puts on the sob scene, like she’s been here before. “Can’t we work something out?”

I read Misty her legal rights.

“I got nothin’ to say to you fuckin’ assholes,” she spits out.

I landline Dispatch, and request a radio car to transport her to the West Los Angeles Station.

Later, while completing the necessary reports, Ron joins me.

“Misty just beat us back to the streets, pardner—she made bail.”

“Sorry I’m so slow.” Ron knows that report writing isn’t my favorite piece of police work.

“No problemo. I’m heading out, Jimbo—see you at Westside Frank’s for a nightcap.”

“OK, give me thirty.”

Arriving at Frank’s, a cop bar, I see Ron sitting with Fatty Bob. Feeling magnanimous, I announce, “I’m buying gents.”

I open my calfskin wallet to pay for the round.

“Oh shit!”

Saturday mornings on occasion found me at the Polar Palace, a block south of Melrose Avenue at the corner of Van Ness Avenue and Clinton Street. I was a teenager, no longer riding the red car from the San Fernando Valley into Hollywood. When I was fourteen, Mother decided I was old enough to take care of myself while she was at work.

So the Polar Palace it was, with its painted mountain scenes on the end walls, a neat place to meet girls. It was the largest indoor ice surface in the world—110 by 230 feet. It cost 75 cents to enter, 25 cents as a spectator. A lady named Gracie sat at the cashier’s booth. She’d been a Mack Sennett bathing beauty years before.

One Saturday when I was there, the pretty blonde actress, Vera-Ellen, was skating at the rink. She was practicing for her upcoming film, White Christmas. She played the role of Judy Haynes. Rosemary Clooney played her sister, Betty. Bing Crosby as Bob, and Danny Kaye as Phil, pursued them.

In the finale, Bob and Betty declare their love, as do Phil and Judy. The background of the set is removed to show the snow falling in Pine Tree, Vermont. Everyone raises a glass, toasting, “May your days be merry and bright; and may all your Christmases be white.”

That reminds me. Christmastime found my mother meticulously decorating a silvertip pine with tons of tinsel. My wife, Barbara, says I inherited Mother’s idiosyncrasy. She laughs whenever I walk through the kitchen and can’t resist straightening items on the counter, or the times I walk through the garden and have to pull a weed or two.

Anyway, the Polar Palace with its hanging incandescent lights was a fun place, but it wasn’t insulated, so a sort of fog misted inside. I dressed for the cold conditions. Oftentimes, in the summer, as much as four inches of water accumulated on the surface. I recall little lumps of ice that formed from condensation caused by an overhead pipe that dripped rusty water. The pipes held the lights. At least the rust stains alerted skaters to the crusty deposits that were hazardous.

The Polar Palace, a huge wooden structure, burned down in 1963. The cause: faulty wiring in the coffee shop. After the fire, it was discovered that permafrost went as deep as forty feet into the ground. For many years the property was not suitable to build upon.

The coffee shop was where all the non-skating action occurred, where I flirted with the pretty girls. They made hot and cold sandwiches, including a great hot meatloaf sandwich, but my favorite was a bear-claw heated on the grill in sizzling butter.

What I called the professional skaters, paid 50 cents a month for personal lockers.

The guards, a guy named Dick and several others, resurfaced the ice (this was pre-Zamboni) with hand scrapers and a device that looked like a ten-gallon drum with a wide strip of chamois hanging from it. The drum contained water and fed the top of the chamois, which laid a smooth surface on the ice. The corners used to have a big buildup of ice from the hoses.

Cliff Oddson was manager of the skate shop, and was one of the best sharpeners in town. He’d skated in Sonja Henie’s shows and a couple of her movies. He had a great collection of antique skates which all went in the fire. A guy named Bob also worked there.

In 1954, the U.S. Nationals were held there. Tenley Albright was crowned national champion for her second women’s singles title.

I have wonderful memories from those Saturdays—the music, the smell, the cold, the sounds of skaters whizzing past me. The Polar Palace seemed so huge back then.