The Hollywood Starlet Caper Page 7

  I sat up for an hour or so, pondering what had happened at Scarlett's and what Phil had said. Tomorrow was decision time, and I needed a clear head. So I limited myself to only a couple of glasses of booze. I would also need my strength, and so I skipped brushing my teeth and headed straight to bed. I knew I could handle myself…but not tonight.

  Scary dreams. Fatboy Sheldon had hired Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi to kill me. They were chasing me down a blind alley, as was King Kong, who was wearing a cop's uniform. I woke up in a sweat, maybe because I hadn't remembered to take off my clothes.

  The morning brought the morning and a new outlook on this sometimes funny, sometimes not so funny thing we call life. I joined Mumbles at the breakfast table and told him what had expired the previous evening. He kept nodding his head and gesticulating wildly with his hands. Unfortunately, he kept feeding his face with slabs of pumpernickel bread, which didn't do much for my understanding his views. But I had made up my mind already. I would tell Scarlett that I would act as her bodyguard and keep an eye on who might be tailing her tail. I hadn't figured out what I would tell Blatt, but I'd come up with some story or another on my way over to his office to collect my pay and expenses.

  Scarlett was at home when I called. She said she was glad that I saw matters her way. She also said that we had to test out whether her suspicions panned out that either Cousin Sheldon or her cop friend, or both, were having her followed. We're going to the Brown Derby for dinner tonight, she announced. Cousin Sheldon had given her Blanche's Cart, or something like that, to have dinner there once a week at his expense and at his table. She said that it was a fancy joint and that I should dress appropriately. “Meet me at my place around six,” she ordered.

  I hadn't liked her insiduation that I didn't always dress appropriately, but I had let it pass. I couldn't afford to get off on the wrong foot with this dangerous tootsie.

  I hotfooted it to Blatt's office and my paycheck for services more or less rendered. His good-for-nothing, miserable secretary gave me the fish-eye as soon as I walked in. “I suppose you want your pay?” she asked.

  “You suppose right, Gal Thursday.”

  She glared at me and told me to hand over the list of expenses that I had incurred. I gave her the list, which I had compiled before leaving my place. Everything was more or less kosher. More or less. She peered over her glasses and warned that her boss was not going to like these large taxi charges. “Where are the receipts?” she asked.

  “What receipts?” I shot back.

  “The receipts that any self-respecting, intelligent private detective knows enough to keep. That's 'what receipts,' ” she snarled. “Next time, no tickee, no payee.”

  I looked around for something to spill on her desk, like maybe her teeth, and informed her that that was not the way we did business back East. I lied. I had forgotten to ask for the receipts, but she needn't know that. I told her that I would keep better track of all expenses in the future, and that she should fork over what I had asked for, pronto. She reached into a desk drawer and took out a checkbook. No, I informed her, I wanted cash on the barrel. She protested until I told her that I had not opened a bank account here since I hadn't had time and didn't know if the city had a bank that I could trust. She said she had her doubts that any of the city's banks could trust me. She took out money from a tin box that was in another desk drawer and paid me. She also said that I had to sign a paper saying that I had received payment. She thrust a paper at me, and I signed. She looked at it and said how surprised she was that I could sign my name, and that she had expected only an “X”.

  “Watch your mouth, sister,” I said, “or you might be waving to nurses from a hospital bed and sipping your food through straws for a month.” I also told her to tell Blatt that I had seen Scarlett yesterday and would have dinner with her tonight at the Brown Derby. Gal Thursday expressed a wish that I would not get food poisoning. I guess that was her way of apologizing.

  Feeling flush with my first payment from Cousin Sheldon, I decided to have my suit pressed for my rendezvous with Scarlett. I reluctantly left it at a French cleaners a couple of blocks from what I was temporarily calling home because I didn't see any chink laundries. I knew that Chinamen had the know-how when it came to cleaning, but it turned out that the Froggies weren't bad either. I scrounged around my suitcase and managed to find a shirt and tie. My shoes badly needed a shine, but since the weather report hinted at rain I'd be wearing my galoshes. I shot the breeze with Mumbles for half an hour and then headed for the Garden of Allah.

  Scarlett was a knockout. She wore a tight-fitting red dress that showed all the bumps and curves that any red-blooded man could wish to gape at. She was wearing her hair in a fashionable upsweep, just the right amount of paint on her face, and a perfume that that Cocoa Channel dame must have made specially for her. Lucky me was to escort this starlet to a hoity-toity restaurant.

  The Brown Derby was just that: a brown derby. I reminded myself that if I ever won the Irish Sweepstakes I'd build a restaurant and call it The Green Fedora after my favorite chapo, as the Frenchies would say. A mug holding a bunch of menus immediately recognized Scarlett and told us to follow him. As he led us to a table, it seemed like all the heads in the joint looked our way. I was sure that I recognized a few movie stars. One of them, a well-known actress known for her sharp tongue, took one look at Scarlett and said, “There goes the good time that was had by all.” That was some swell compliment as far as I was concerned. I tugged at the menu man's suit and asked him to get me her autograph. I don't think I had farted, but he looked at me as if I had.

  While we were seated and waiting for another mug to let us know what was for chow, Scarlett gave me some background on the Derby. It was built in 1929, that awful, awful year, with Cecil B. DeMille's design in mind. Since then it had become a mecca for movie stars and had attracted the town's two biggest movie mouths, Hedda and Louella. It was here, Scarlett informed me, that Clark proposed to Carole.

  Scarlett seemingly could have gone on forever, but I was getting famished. I tried to catch the waiter's eye but couldn't. So I gave a loud whistle and told him to get his ass over here or he'd be sorry. Most of the crowd fell silent, and Scarlett gave me a funny look. I guess she didn't like being interrupted.

  One look at the menu would have taken my appetite away if I were footing the bill. Sheldon Blatt didn't exactly perspire warmth in people, but I'll say this for him, he was springing for a good meal at a swell joint. First we ordered drinks. Then Scarlett ordered some kind of bird under glass. Never heard of anyone wanting to eat anything that was sitting under glass. As for me, I told the snooty waiter that I wanted the best Filly Mignon in the joint, and make it snappy.

  Meanwhile a little floosie, dressed in a skimpy outfit and toting a big box that was strapped around her neck, kept making the rounds, saying “cigars, cigarettes.” When she got to our table, I asked Scarlett if she'd like a cigar. (I always was a great kidder.) She nearly floored me when she said she'd like a pack of Camels. Then I laughed and got the joke: a pack of Camels for the Garden of Allah. I laughed so hard that people again fell silent. Then she repeated that she wanted a pack of Camels. So I sprang for it. I told her that I hadn't seen her smoke before. She said that she only did it when she was in a room filled with celebrities. “Anybody who's anybody smokes,” she said.

  While we ate our meals and slurped our drinks, Scarlett kept asking me to look around very casually to see if anyone seemed to be keeping an eye or two on us. I told her that the only suspicious character was the waiter who I had yelled at and who was making obscene gestures at me whenever he thought no one else was looking. But otherwise…I ordered apple pie and a cup of java at the end of the meal; Scarlett ordered a double Scotch. I hoped that the booze would loosen her tongue or at least get her to speak more freely, but she didn't say anything more about her two precious little black books. She did, however, spend a lot of words telling me what creeps Cousin Sheldon and her boyfriend
copper were. I urged her to have another Scotch. She got mad and asked if I thought she was a lush or something. “No doubt about it,” I was tempted to reply.

  There was no tab to be paid, at least by us, and so we headed for the exit. The coat check girl gave us what she called our wraps, which we normal folks called our coats and hats—I had kept on my galoshes for fear someone would falsely claim them. Then she held out her hand. I shook it and told her to go see Cousin Sheldon.

  I figured that I'd see Scarlett back to the Garden of Allah and have a nightcap. She said that we should take separate cabs since her place lay west and mine was east, and that she had a busy day ahead. I didn't mind the brush-off, but I could have used the nightcap.

  Chapter 12

  Rain. Torrents of it. The City of Angels was suffering from a collection of badly water-logged wings and a need to dry out its angelic robes. What's with this town? I swear I've never seen so much rain. And if I lasted here a full forty days I would bet that the wet stuff would still be coming down.

  But I couldn't complain too much. The days passed, and I was still in one piece. I called Scarlett regularly, but she said that she needed time to herself. She didn't mention her copper friend, and she didn't inquire about Cousin Sheldon. I figured that a combination of rain and alcohol had numbed her brain.

  I did call Blatt daily, however. You betcha. I wasn't going to disappoint my meal ticket or, if I did disappoint him, have him send out his goons to make a meal out of me. I never spoke to Blatt himself. Miss Miserable, took messages. I explained to her that Scarlett, after our meal at the Brown Derby, had wanted time alone. This pimple on my bottom sniffed how she wasn't surprised that she wished to remain in communicado after a few hours with me. I told her that I took exception to both her and her comment. I also told her that Scarlett was not in Communicado but was still at the Garden of Allah.

  I had a better phone conversation with Light Fingers Louie during one rainy afternoon. I caught him at home a short time before he was due at work. I asked if he was working at the Pink Pussycat Lounge.

  “Oh no, Mr. DeWitt. When you seen me there I was collecting my last pay. I took out garbage, washed dishes—except for those that weren't too dirty—and swept up. But this week I got something better. I'm still sweeping up, but that's only until they let me try my hand at accounting.”

  Louie, I knew, had not gone beyond the fourth grade at school and had been kicked out by popular demand, that is, by his teacher, principal, truant officer, and, I wouldn't be surprised to learn, various law enforcement officials. Louie wouldn't hurt a flea, of course, but he would rob it blind.

  “Louie,” I asked, “who's hiring you to be an accountant?”

  “The Pacific Terrific Trust. It's on the same block as the Pink Pussycat. You can't miss it.”

  “Well, I missed it, Louie.”

  “I didn't say it was a big building, Mr. DeWitt. But it is going to be a big bank someday, and I'm going to be the chief accountant.”

  If you don't run off with all the loot that's stashed in the vault, I told myself. Louie as an accountant? There's no accounting for the dumbness of this bank that hired him.

  “Louie,” I said, “I wish you all the luck in the world, even though we know there's not much of that. Just remember to keep your nose clean.”

  “Oh I will, Mr. D. I still got some of those Kleenex I brought from back home.”

  On one of those rainy days Mumbles stayed home from his office, which he kept promising to show me but never did. Business was currently slow, he confessed, so he suggested that we go shopping for some duds that wouldn't make me stand out like a sore thumb. “You got to dress like a Los Angeleno if you want to be one.”

  I never told Mumbles that I wanted to be a Los Angeleno. I was a tried-and-true easterner. Always was, always would be. But he had a point: my wardrobe could use some new togs and some new clothes as well.

  We took Mumbles's Packard to Bullock's, the well-known department store. We could have gone to the branch on Wilshire Boulevard, but that catered to those who had big bucks, like Blatt and his Hollywood set. We settled for the original store at Seventh and Broadway near the Civic Center. Mumbles convinced me to purchase a pair of jeans and two flannel shirts. He said that I'd need them during the winter months. I drew the line on his suggestion to buy a cowboy hat and boots. My green fedora and galoshes were just fine, thank you.

  After my shopping spree, we went for lunch at Clifton's Brookdale Cafeteria, which wasn't far away. According to my companion, it was the world's biggest cafeteria, and once inside, I found no reason to dispute his call. This wasn't any local Horn & Hardart Automat or Bickford's Cafeteria that I sometimes ate at back East. The grub wasn't bad either. A helping of meat loaf and a tuna-noodle casserole hit the spot, although the casserole could have used more tuna and fewer noodles. But I poured on a lot of catsup and mustard, and that helped.

  During this rainy period Mumbles and I made an arrangement. First he talked me out of finding digs of my own, and that was fine with me. And next we agreed on how much I should pay him for room and board and booze. And while that wasn't fine with me, it was fair. We usually ate supper together in the apartment, except when his work detained him. One night, however, he suggested we go to a nearby place that one of his poker cronies said was terrific. I would have preferred a quiet meal at home, but Mumbles insisted and I accepted. I would later swear that that would be the last time I listened to him. The food, it turned out, wasn't bad. It was who was eating it.

  If there was one guy who wasn't a copper, he must have been hanging out all night in the john. The place was awash with uniformed cops and suits. Granted, a few guys looked out of place—dirty clothes, long hair, and a lot of hair on their ugly pusses. But I had been a gumshoe long enough to know that these hotshots worked undercover.

  Understand that in general I've got nothing against coppers—Polish Phil was a great friend and help—but a whole brigade of them in one big room? Come on! You didn't have to be one of Ma Barker's boys to feel the sweat rolling down your armpits.

  The food, as I said, wasn't bad. In fact, it was pretty darn good. I was enjoying the chow and trying my best to catch what my eating partner was mumbling about, when I felt a hand grip my shoulder. Make that a vise because I thought the shoulder would have to be set back in place or maybe need surgery. I turned to see who felt behooved to cause me such discomfort.

  “Ain't you the guy I saw last week in the Garden of Allah?” he asked.

  It was King Kong himself.

  I had to think fast.

  “No, pal, it wasn't. I don't cotton to Arabs and wouldn't go near any place where they had picnics.”

  He was big, say, six and a half feet at least, and must have weighed in at three hundred pounds. And he was uglier than he was big. A couple of tiny pig eyes smoked at me from a face whose chief feature was a scar that ran from its right ear to below its left chin. I would have asked him how he shaved, had the circumstances been different. I had seen hairy-knuckled guys before, but the hair on this ape's paw was so thick that you could braid it and have some left over for a French twist [roll].

  His grip tightened on my poor shoulder as he again questioned if last week I had been on the premises of the Garden of Allah.

  I managed to squeak a “no” through painfully gritted teeth.

  “Sure you were,” piped up Mumbles. “Don't you remember that you went to see that Scarlett dame? You know, the one you said was a souse and a slut.”

  Now that my pal showed what true friendship was all about, I had to think even faster before King Kong took me up to the Empire State Building and dropped me head first.

  “No, Marty, you must have misunderstood. That was my twin brother, Nick, who went to see that woman and who called her such disgraceful names.” I smiled as best I could and told King Kong that I'd give Nick a good talking-to next time I saw him. I was not sure if my clever ploy would work, but a couple of cops and a suit came over to Kong and s
aid that they had business to discuss. The hand let go of my shoulder, reluctantly, I was pretty sure. Then the pig-eyed ape said that I'd better have that talk with my twin, and that if he ever saw the foul-mouthed lowlife again, I'd become an only child.

  Once the law enforcement gang had gone off to discuss their business, I glared at Mumbles. He gave me an innocent look that said, “What did I say?” I was tempted to ask the jerk why for once he had spoken clearly when he fingered me and let the cat out of the bag. But I didn't. It was probably raining outside, and I needed a ride home since I hadn't bothered to wear my galoshes.

  Chapter 13

  If you want to enjoy your breakfast without getting a bad case of indigestion, don't read the morning newspaper. I learned that lesson the hard way. Normally, I read only the sports page after a quick glance at the front page. Oh yeah, I also scam the obituaries to see if I lost any friends or, with luck, enemies. I didn't figure to see any names in the list of “gave-up-the-ghost” out here since I had been in town for only a short while. But for some reason I lingered over the morning rag and read a couple of more pages. It was then I concluded that another name might soon appear in the obituaries: mine.

  The city's outspoken, reform-minded owner of Clinton's Brookdale Cafeteria, young Clifford Clinton, announced that police corruption and the violent intimidation of possible witnesses had to stop, and that he was going to make sure that it did stop. Clinton had announced his campaign to root out corruption within the police department and in city hall the previous year. He had enlisted the help of a private investigator and former policeman, Harry Raymond, who nearly escaped death last month when a car pipe bomb exploded and implanted more than one hundred and fifty pieces steel and glass in his body.