The Hollywood Starlet Caper Read online

  Shirley, it turns out, was no dumb blond with a pretty face, spectacular figure, and cream of wheat for brains. No, she wasn't born yesterday, so to speak. Her mamma done told her when she was in knee pants about men, and she had listened. As far as men were concerned, she gave little away, and the leer on Sheldon Blatt's face that day at the soda fountain had convinced her that an eager buyer might be at hand. Bit by bit, she had worked her feminine charms on Sheldon while not offering him much more than the time of day and not at all the time of night. But when she heard about this vamoosed with the wind film, she promised him the moon. In truth, she promised him something else that Sheldon seemed to want much more than Earth's distant satellite. “If only I could play the lead,” she pledged, “why then you can have anything your little heart desires.” Sheldon understood and agreed, although it was a different organ rather than his little heart that consumed his thoughts and cried out for satisfaction.

  But poor Sheldon Blatt had not counted on his boss's reaction. “Cast a hick from the Ozarks rather than a classy dame from England for the biggest part in films to come along in years? Are you totally meshugana, Sheldon? Now get out of here and go tell your girlfriend that she's been sniffing too much glue. Of course if she wants to audition for another part, say, maybe as an extra in a cowboy or jungle film, or for the casting couch (chuckle, chuckle), tell her to come and see me. I'm not a hard-hearted bastard, you know.”

  For three days Sheldon had lacked the courage to tell Shirley that she'd been sniffing too much glue or that his boss had invited her for a twosome on his casting couch. Most of all, he couldn't bring himself to tell her that, despite his best intentions and efforts, she couldn't play Scarlett. During these days he told his secretary to say that he was away on business; at home at night he dared not answer the phone when it rang, as it did persistently. Finally, he summoned the courage to call and invite her to the swank Brown Derby, hoping that a good meal in a nifty joint would make her feel better or at least keep her from creating an ugly scene when he gave her the bad news. Sheldon figured wrong. Shirley, who had already filled out legal forms to change her first name to Scarlett, did not receive Sheldon's disclosure calmly. She threw a bowl of clam chowder in his face, called him a few choice names, and stormed out of the place but not before vowing vengeance. She swore that she would repeat choice gossip about the stars, the studio heads, and other movie big shots that Sheldon had indiscreetly blabbed to prove that he was a man in the know. Before leaving, she also grabbed her order of shrimp cocktail to take home.

  “So what's this got to do with my job?” I asked Marty.

  “I'll tell you what this has got to do with your job, my friend. My client, who shall remain nameless, wants you to get friendly with this dame and make sure that she doesn't shoot off her mouth again. According to him, she's got the goods on quite a few people, who would be ruined if Luella or Hedda or any other columnist got wind of their secrets and shenanigans. By the way, how's twenty-five dollars a day plus expenses sit with you? That's how much my client is willing to pay. And don't forget that getting friendly with Shirley or Sheila or Scarlett or whatever the hell she's calling herself can mean getting real friendly. Catch my drift?”

  I got his drift and felt like telling him to hurry up and take a shower. But I also liked what he told me. It sounded like a real good job, well-suited for a tried-and-true gumshoe like me. If only my pals back at The Slippery Elbow could see me now, I thought. And if only sweet Louise Prima too. She'd be so proud of me.

  “Okay, Marty, when do I start?”

  “Soon as I make myself another batch of eggs Benedictine.”

  Chapter 5

  Shortly after slurping down most of his eggs (the rest took up residence on his terrycloth bathrobe), Mumbles informed me that we had an 11:15 appointment with Sheldon Blatt in his office at the Big Studio. Sheldon would fill me in on the details of my job, Mumbles promised. “Make nice with him,” he added, “because the schmuck has a lot of gout.” I told Mumbles that anyone who had suffered that painful affliction always had my sympathy. Mumbles looked confused. When he repeated his comment, I managed to understand that the schmuck had a lot of clout.

  The studio guard checked his list of appointments, directed us to the guest parking lot and Sheldon Blatt's office, and waved us through the gates. Never a careful driver even when fully sober, which he was not at this point, Mumbles nearly ran down several men dressed as Roman soldiers. They yelled something faintly obscene at him. He told them where a good place for their swords was. I roared with laughter. Good old Mumbles hadn't lost any of his legendary wit.

  As we made our way to Blatt's office through a crowd of people who seemed dressed for Halloween or had recently escaped from the booby hatch, I thought I saw some of the big stars. Wasn't that Judy and Mickey over there? And could that be Greta lurking in the shadows? If only my biggest hero, Jimmy Cagney, would show his Irish puss, I thought.

  Sheldon Blatt's secretary had the puss of Winnie Ruth Judd, the first woman to get the electric chair, and a disposition to match. She informed us that Mr. Blatt had no time for people who showed up late for an appointment—we were less than five minutes late—and less time for people who looked hung over from the night before. Grudgingly she called her boss on the intercom, and more grudgingly she said that he would see us. My sidekick mumbled a thanks; I gave her the bird.

  The agent's office was smaller than I expected, perhaps because wall-to-wall signed photographs of stars hugging Blatt crowded the joint. (I learned on a later visit that all but a few were the same photo, and that the “stars” who appeared repeatedly were his brother Max and sister-in-law, Adele, who had co-starred in some blue films that had nearly given movie censor Joe Breen a coronary.) Two large pieces of furniture further dominated the room: a badly stained sofa that sagged in the middle like a swaybacked nag and a desk that held a cup of something, a pen, a pad of paper, and a pair of handcuffs. The handcuffs were a nice touch, I thought. Blatt must have wanted two gumshoes like me and Mumbles to feel at home.

  Like the room and the furniture, Blatt himself was both small and large. He was sitting behind his desk when we entered, but when he came around the desk to shake hands, I realized that he had been standing all along. But what he lacked in height he sure as hell made up in weight. The last time I had seen a tub of lard that size was a Japanese sumo wrestler who was touring the country. The yellow-and-black checked suit Blatt was sporting helped give new meaning to the word obesity. I thought about him in the sack with Scarlett. Then I thought about throwing up.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen. Can I get you fellows something?”

  I thought of asking for a second chair since Mumbles grabbed the only available one, which was across from Blatt's desk. That left the swaybacked sofa for me.

  “Nice of you to offer, Mr. Blatt. I'd like a vodka martini, shaken not stirred, if it's no trouble,” the chair thief said.

  “No trouble at all, Mr. Hardy. And what about you, Mr. Dishwit?”

  After informing Fatso that my name was “DeWitt,” I told him that it was a bit early for me to have a martini, but I wouldn't mind a Jack Daniel's. Oh, and yeah, some sugar-coated nuts would be nice too. Then, to make sure I got the refreshments, I informed him how sorry I was to hear about his gout. “My Uncle Jasper,” I said, “developed gout in his big right toe just a few weeks after his wife, Mercy, ditched him for a Fuller Brush salesman, who, oddly enough, had gout in his big left toe.” I was about to ask Blatt how he came by his gout, and in which toe, but the odd look on his face gave me pause.

  “Let's cut the crap, Ditwit.”

  Blatt then transmitted our orders via the intercom to the Bride of Frankenstein and suggested that we get down to serious business.

  “Look, Mr. Ditwit, I don't know how much our friend Marty has told you, but let me give it to you straight from the horse's mouth.”

  Fatso reached inside his jacket pocket and took out a cigar—a big one like you see well-to-do
Spics from south of the border puffing on– bit off the tip, and lit up. You'd think the cheap bastard would offer us one, especially since he can't get my name straight. But these are hard times, and I need a job.

  The agent proceeded to brag about all the nobodies he had helped climb the ladder of success to stardom. “They'd still be serving up sundaes and banana splits at Schwab's or some other soda fountain joint, or maybe they'd be pumping gas in San Jose if it weren't for me.” Puff, puff. “Lucky for them I got brains, a heart of gold, and more than my share of chutzpah.” Hah, hah. “Then along comes this little dish from the sticks. I try to be nice to her, if you know what I mean. And what does she do?” Puff, puff. “She threatens to open her big fat kisser and blab a few indiscretions I happened to let slip. How's that for an ungrateful broad? I'm telling you, I'm sure glad I didn't climb into the sack with that one.”

  I couldn't imagine even Gravel Gertie or Lady Macbeth getting it on with Blatt. Meanwhile Mrs. Frankenstein arrived with our drinks and sneered as she served Mumbles and me our libations. Before she could leave the room, Mumbles told her to hang on until he finished his drink, which he did in a single gulp. He said he wouldn't mind having another one. It would be good for his psoriasis as well as his digestive system.

  Blatt, who had been clipping his nose hairs while the drinks were being served, resumed his tale of woe once his lackey left the room. “So you see, Mr. Depitt, I need someone to protect my interests in this case, and our friend Marty says you're just the sort of guy to do it. He says you're not completely lacking in brains, and you can be more or less trusted. But most important, you're new to town, so no one knows your face or anything about you. In other words, you're a complete nobody.”

  Blatt had a way with words, I'll give him that, although I wasn't completely sure about the sincerity of his compliments. He seemed to think a lot of me, but then maybe he was just trying to butter me up. I knew I had to be careful, and I knew that I had to make clear that I wasn't just anyone's piece of toast, with or without jam.

  “Now here's the plan,” Blatt continued. “I want you to call this pain in the tookus and tell her you're my cousin.” Puff, puff. “Tell her…tell her,” he looked at the ceiling, “tell her that I had to go out of town for an operation on my hemorrhoids—a pain in the tookus like her should understand—and that I've asked you to look after her while I'm laid up. You'll take her to nice places and do what she wants to do, but you'll be making sure she doesn't go blabbing to anyone about any movie gossip she's heard. That bimbo could be dangerous to a lot of people, and I'm counting on you to make sure she don't open her goddamn yap.”

  Blatt looked at his watch. “Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a luncheon appointment with Irving. I got a deal that I think he'll like. I just hope Norma doesn't want the role for herself. Nice meeting you, gents. Hedwig will give you our would-be Scarlett's number, address, and photo on the way out. Oh, yeah. She'll also handle your expense vouchers, but make sure you give me reports regularly.” Puff, puff. “And I do mean regularly.”

  The sneer on Blatt's secretary's face reappeared as soon as we left his office and approached her desk. It deepened when Mumbles asked what happened to the second Martini he had asked for.

  “We're not in the business of recruiting for Alcoholics Anonymous. If you need a second drink that badly, I suggest that you and your friend, Mr. Dimwit, stagger over to skid row. I'm pretty sure that some wino will be willing to share his hooch with you. And now, unless there's something I can do for you, I'd like to take my lunch hour.”

  I was ready to ask her for her Nazi party card, and both Mumbles and I were ready to tell her what she could do with her lunch hour. In fact, Mumbles may have done just that, but neither she nor I could understand what he said. Remembering that Mom had instilled good manners in her son, I politely asked for and received the info and photo that Blatt had promised. Then I accidentally knocked over the cup of java that was on her desk onto her plaid skirt and thumbed my nose at her as she complained.

  Mumbles and I decided that it was best to wait until evening to call Scarlett. He suggested meanwhile that we have lunch and take a look at the La Brea carpets. I asked him what was so special about these carpets, especially since the one in his apartment looked decent enough. He finally made me understand that it was the La Brea Tar Pits that he wanted to show me and that we could have lunch first at a nearby kosher deli. Fine, I told him.

  Lunch filled us and then some. Mumbles had a pastrami on rye, French fries, and a coke. I told the waiter that I'd have a corned beef on white toast with plenty of mayo. The waiter said he couldn't let me have mayo on my corned beef. I stepped on his foot to encourage him, but he still said that he couldn't let me have the mayo and called me spaghetti or shmeggegie or something odd like that. I don't know what's the matter with these Hebes, but I sure wasn't pleased. I told him to bring me the same thing as Mumbles ordered. It was real good, but I didn't leave him a tip. Frankly, I hadn't intended to even if he had brought me my corned beef drenched in mayo.

  The Tar Pits was another matter. I didn't see any big deal in looking at footprints that some big dumb creatures made a few years before I was born. Hell, I'd seen enough dirty footprints on carpets already. I still get pissed every time I think of how my ex-wife's freeloading brother would never wipe his size twelves when he came over to cadge a meal. But Mumbles said the Tar Pits were famous and that I should stand in awe of them. Five minutes of standing and looking at them was all the awe I could take.

  It was midafternoon by the time we got back to Mumbles's place on Bunker Hill. We had a couple of drinks and then napped for an hour or so. After another quick drink, Mumbles threw together dinner. Then we got down to serious business and discussed how my call to Scarlett should play out. “I'll use my charm,” I told Mumbles. For some reason he looked concerned.

  Ring, ring. “Hi there, babe. You don't know me but I'd sure like to know you. Hello? Hello?” Must have been a bad connection because the line went dead.

  “Hey, DeWitt, that ain't no way to address a broad. You gotta be more formal, you know what I mean? Now try it again.”

  Ring, ring. “Hello, is this the residence of Scarlett Stickbottom?… Yes? Well, I'll be darned. This is Sheldon Blatt's cousin Dick DeWitt…. Now wait just a minute! I haven't heard language like that since I last spoke with my mother…. No, Sheldon is out of town having an operation on his ass…. What?… Yes, I know he can be a pain in the ass, too, but he's suffering from those things that, well, you know, stick out. That's why he hasn't called you. But he has asked me to look after you while he's getting better…. Yeah, I know that you can look after yourself, but I'd sure like to meet you. I'm new in town and I could use a friend to talk with every now and then. It's pretty lonely being a stranger…. What?…Yeah, I enjoy an occasional drink…Sure, tomorrow at 5:00 would be fine.…The Pink Pussycat Lounge just off Hollywood and Vine?…I'll find it….Oh, I'll recognize you. My cousin gave me a swell photo of you…What?…Well, let's see, I'm sort of average height, a little on the hefty side but no dame's complained so far. Ha, Ha. I have a mole under my left arm, but I guess you couldn't notice it unless I came without a shirt. Ha, Ha. Oh yeah, I'll be wearing galoshes since the radio predicted rain…What do you mean you never heard of anything so stupid? I always play it on the safe side. If I know there's a chance of rain, I take no chances…No, I'm not sore, Scarlett. We're not getting off on the wrong foot, or maybe feet. Ha, ha…. No, I'm also looking forward to tomorrow.”

  After I hung up the phone I asked Mumbles how he thought the conversation had gone. He mumbled something or other, which I didn't ask him to repeat.

  Chapter 6

  Mumbles was busy on a case of his own, tailing some parking varlet who supposedly was screwing the wife of the mater d at the Brown Derby chow house. But my pal and rooming partner did have time to drop me off at the Pink Pussycat Lounge. At first I thought that Scarlett had jerked me around. The place looked like a dump
for unwanted garbage, human and otherwise. It looked seedier than The Slippery Elbow, my favorite watering spa back east. And that was saying something. The building, which had seen better years, maybe better decades, was neither pink nor any other single color, but a blend of some crazy artist's nightmare. And as for the Pussycat, the only cat I saw was a colored dude wailing on his sax at the end of the block, and the only pussy I saw loitering on the street wouldn't be treated by any vet or doctor who worried about getting a good case of the clap just by saying hello. I tried looking into the lounge from the outside, but the windows were dirtier than my cousin Prudence's mouth. But the sign said “Pink Pussycat Lounge,” and I had a job to do. I yanked at the doorknob and went inside.

  Holy Moley! You could have knocked my threadbare socks off. The place was, as the Frenchies say, tray sheik. The lights were dimmed, but you could see paintings on the wall, tablecloths on the tables, and no sawdust on the floor. Meanwhile some guy in a penguin's suit strutted up to me and gave me the once-over.

  “You're Mr. DeWitt, are you not?” I asked how he knew. “The young lady seated at the table at the rear of the lounge said that you'd be wearing galoshes. May I check them for you?”

  Now this was a fancy place, all right, but I was not about to let a guy whose name I didn't even know go off with my galoshes. “Naw,” I told him. “I'd better keep them in case you got a leaky roof.” He glared and seemed about to say a nasty word or two until a dame's voice barked out, “Cut the crap, Florian, and bring Mr. DeWitt to me.”

  Florian showed me to her table and yanked out a chair for me. Had I sat down, I would have needed a megaphone to communicate with Scarlett.