Widespread Panic
Page 22
Click, click, click. That’s a three-cherry jackpot. Yeah, but it’s turgidly topical, it’s new news, Chessman’s a headline humper, but still—
“Freddy, are you even listening to me?”
I said, “Keep going. What else have you got on Chessman?”
“Nothing. Except who wants to see a vital young stud like Jimmy Dean play Caryl—”
“Whoa, Babs. Hold on. Where’d you get that ‘vital young stud’ line? It’s something I’ve heard before.”
Babs scoffed. “I got it from a would-be criminal mastermind named Robbie Molette. He’s a regular here, and he’s always referring to himself as a ‘vital young stud.’ I used to shtup his daddy when I was a contract kid at Metro. He also works as a busboy, at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and—”
I cut in. “Babs, what? What’s with that lightning-bolt look?”
“Nothing. Except you’re looking for a bait girl, and Robbie was in last night, and damned if he hasn’t put together a stable, and damned if he didn’t show me a merchandise book with some very fresh faces.”
OUTSIDE NICK ADAMS’ RUSTIC RENTAL PAD
West Hollyweird
5/15/55
Stakeout. Eine kleine Nachtwerk. The mad march to 1:00 a.m. and Miss Blind Item. I’d run my radio looooooooooow. I’d hear coins slip-slide down that slot. Nasty Nat would try for a trace. I’d hear Her voice.
Nutty Nick Adams. There’s his chump-change chalet. I’m parked across the street and two doors down. It’s a murky moon-mist nite. I’m cunningly camouflaged. Shade-tree shadows shield the shape of my sled.
It’s peeper peekaboo. I see Nick’s pad. Nick can’t see shit. There’s window lights. Big beams bounce my way. I possess Peepervision. No one else does.
There’s a scurrilous script read. Nick Ray pontificates. Nick A. and Jimmy Dean declaim dialogue.
I hexed the house. I made mental mincemeat of the punks and mocked their motivation. Leave now, feckless fools. I’ve got work to do inside.
I brought my evidence kit. It contained print gear and Ray Pinker’s stop-frame camera. I dunned the DMV. They fed me photostats of three drivers-license applications. I had right thumbprints for Jimmy Dean, Nick Ray, Nick Adams. Pinker’s camera light lit latent prints and magnified tents, whorls, and arches. My game was confirmation and/or elimination. If they touched the B and E swag that Rock described, I’d know.
I turned on the radio. Synagogue Sid serenaded me. Sid’s bass sax sallied forth. The flügelhorn flew with it. The drums drilled a cool counterpoint. Then that cacophonous coin cough cut in.
Adios, Sid. Nasty Nat’s nudged you aside for Miss Blind Item. I ran the radio looooooooow. I listened for tone above text. Talk to me, love. Say something, say anything. Give me your voice.
Miss Blind Item riffed and rang rapport with Nasty Nat. I listened for tone above text. I nite-dreamed as she talked.
Caryl Chessman would be in L.A. As in soonsville. He had a court appeal downtown. Nick Ray wants Jimmy Dean to play the Red Light Bandit. It surged as subtext and nudged me nonplussed. It couldn’t compete with Her Voice. Her vowels suggest the urban Midwest. It’s a seen-it-all city voice.
A door slammed. I orbed the chalet. Mark it: 1:23 a.m. The punks pop from the pad. They bag Nick Adams’ rental ragtop and roll northbound.
I rolled. It’s late, time is tight, you need an hour inside. I ran to the door and laid into the lock.
Lock picks and penlight. It’s up-close, in-tight work. I jammed a #4 pick in the keyhole and massaged the main spring. Two tumblers tipped. I pulled out the #4 and jammed in a #2. The door jerked from the jamb. I shoulder-shoved it and inched inside.
I locked myself in. I penlight-flashed the main room and dug on the details. Bullfight posters, bongo drums, a TV tuned to a test pattern. Natalie Wood nudie pix tacked to one wall.
It’s cheesecake chiaroscuro. Natalie’s backlit by flickering flames and feral faces peering out. It’s the Afrika Korps, the B-boys, the Nick’s Knights Kar Klub. The Führer’s face peers out above them. Nick Ray’s wearing devil horns and torquing a ten-inch forked tongue.
I cut down the hall. I flashed a bare-mattressed bedroom and a bathroom in bad disarray. My light speared the spare bedroom. My beam swung over the swag.
The hip hi-fis. The cumbersome consoles. The fetchingly fenceable TV sets and camera cascade. They were hurled haphazard and carelessly covered the floor.
I left the room lights off. I got out my gear. I made for the mountain of merchandise and went to work.
My penlight put me in close. I went contraband item to item. I marked manufacturers’ ID numbers on my scratch pad. It was all B and E stash. I knew that. It might be traceable to specific burglary lots.
Prints next. That’s the tuff part. Dust touch-and-grab surfaces. Daub contrasting-color powder. Put the stop-frame camera up to liftable latents. Expand the images and look for thumbprint configurations. Count tents, whorls, and arches. Compare them to the DMV photostats.
I went at it. I had at it, wholesale. I kept the lights off. I penlight-parsed and brushed purple powder over every touch-and-grab surface in sure sight. Finger oil brought up smudges, smears, paltry partial and full fingerprints. I went item to item. I dusted hi-fis/consoles/cameras/TV sets. Smudges, smears, and partials popped up. No glaring glove prints stood out. That was gooooood.
I caught two full finger spreads. They popped off a pinewood console. That meant bupkes/zero/zilch. I needed right thumbprints X-clusive.
I worked myself weary. I wound my way down to two portable TV sets.
They had hard-to-hold planes and no handles. They were cumbersome and unwieldy. They were hoist every which way items.
I dusted Set #1. I hit hard surfaces, crevices, cracks. I brought up a right thumbprint. I raised my camera. I zoomed close. I let fly.
The camera magnified. The camera impaled images and brought them up, white-on-black. I counted comparison points. I’d memorized the photostat points. I’d broiled them into my brain. I knew every tent, whorl, and arch.
I counted One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten—
Nick Adams, it’s you. You’re fucked for 459 PC.
I dusted Set #2. It’s hard to hold and pry off the premises. There’s that hard-to-hold tube housing.
I dusted it. I pulled Right Thumbprint #2.
I put the camera up to the print. I magnified it. I counted common points. Six points saddened and sickened me. Nine points nullified me. Ten points pounded James Dean, courtroom conclusive.
* * *
—
Bait girls. Babs Payton shtups Robbie Molette’s dad, circa ’47. Rodent Robbie. He’s running call girls now. No shit, Sherlock. Robbie’s got a merchandise book. Babs reveals fresh faces. It’s a nutty non sequitur. It indicates the brute breadth of my craaaaaaazy crowded life.
I broomed to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Robbie worked the noon-to-nine swing shift. I parked in the employees’ lot and lingered by the locker room door. Robbie rolled up at 11:40. His ’49 Ford fed fucked-up fumes to Beverly Hills and beyond. It laid out L.A. as a lung ward.
I coughed up to the car. Robbie popped the door. I scooched in. Robbie called in some cool.
“Hey, Freddy. What’s shakin’ today?”
I lit a cigarette. Robbie said, “Hey, watch it. Asthma runs in my family.”
“Let’s talk about your family. Like in your dad, who’s a grip at Metro. I see nepotism at work here. Babs Payton and your dad were some kind of an item. And Babs is impressed with your new stable. ‘Fresh faces’ was how she put it.”
Robbie reached under his seat. He pulled out a pink padded notebook. It was embarrassingly embossed “The Young Stud’s Stable.”
I riffled and ran through the pages. “Fresh faces”—yeah. Nepotism—yeah plus. They were Metro contract cooze. The i
nnocent ingénue type. The Hollywood Heartache Class of ’55.
Dad strung strings around Robbie. He passed on his pimp patrimony. I knew the Metro method. The casting cads culled and curried a type. Bryn Mawr, Vassar, Mount Holyoke. This was Ivy League woof-woof deluxe.
“Your dad wants you to keep it localized. The hotel, and nowhere beyond. You suck up to the guests and take it from there. Your dad palms the desk guys and gets the rooms. You do a little matchmaking, and take home your cut.”
Robbie huff-huffed. His dentures dipped out. He’s twenty-two. He’s got dentures. He needs a dad.
I reriffled the girl book. A look lassoed me. She’s tall and lioness lithe. She’s chestnut-haired. She’s heaven-sent in heathered tweeds. She’s Bryn Mawr brought to life.
Robbie said, “That’s Janey Blaine. She went to Smith. She’s gigging with Jack tonight.”
‘Jack’? You mean Senator John F. Kennedy?”
“Well, I call him Jack, and I’m the one who set him up with Janey. He’s meeting her at a Democratic fund-raiser here tonight. It’s my patented ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ scenario, you dig? Janey’s an out-of-town Party functionary, you dig? She sees Jack at the wingding, their eyes meet across a crowded room, and she goes back to his bungalow with him, and stays all night. There’ll be movie big shots at the wingding, and they’ll scope Janey and check out her pedigree at Metro. She’ll get legitimate work out of this gig, you dig?”
I chained cigarettes. “I dig. And I’ll be crashing the gig, by the way. And if I like the way Janey carries herself, I’ll have a long-term gig she won’t be able to resist.”
Robbie sniff-sniffled. His eyes went wet. He trembled. His dentures clack-clacked.
“She resisted me, that’s for damn sure.”
I resisted the riposte. You’ll always have your sister, kid. Chrissy’s a hot sketch. She’s yours as you live and breathe.
* * *
—
Ernie Roll sipped scotch. “Your Rebel Without a Cause summary is boffo. Don’t you think so, Bill?”
Parker sipped scotch. The DA’s sanctum sanctorum featured fishing trophies tricked up on wood-paneled walls. Monster marlin and ossified octopi.
Ernie crapped out at his desk. Parker and I sat in soft leather chairs. The seasick green leather went with the walls.
“It is. We’ll get some indictments out of it, and we’ll get Freddy to improperly vet the magazine’s story, which will give us the double whammy when we put Confidential in the shit.”
“Get us some good dirt on this James Dean kid, Freddy. He’s a big movie star now.”
“Freddy’s tight with the kid, Ernie. We have to assume he’s a source for a lot of this information.”
I sipped scotch. “The Chief’s right about that, Ernie. That said, I should add that I tossed Nick Adams’ pad and took his prints off some hot TV sets. Harry Fremont’s got the ID numbers off the merchandise. If the burglaries were reported, he’ll nail that punk for a whole flotilla of 459’s.”
One more misdirection. One more mercy missive for Jimmy the D.
Parker said, “Freddy Otash. Accept no substitutes.”
Ernie said, “Lay out some story vettings you were remiss or criminally culpable on, Freddy. And, remember, I’m voluntarily offering up that no-file sheet on you when all this goes to court, so you’ll be in the clear on any and all criminal charges.”
I cracked my knuckles. “The two Eartha Kitt jobs were dirty. I slapped Orson Welles around. We paid off Eartha on both of them, all off-the-books cash. The pieces were all lies. Race mixing was a hot topic, so we went nuts with it.”
Ernie went Hubba-hubba. Parker said, “Freddy’s prebriefed me. It gets better than that.”
I scoured my scotch rocks. “Christine Jorgensen and I shook down the Vanderbilt kid for twenty grand. The piece we published was expurgated during the editorial process. I kicked the door down and took pictures. They’ll make good courtroom exhibits or place mats at your next Elks Club smoker.”
Ernie slapped his knees. “Like your stellar photos of Marlon Brando with a dick in his mouth.”
Parker rolled his eyes. “A legendary item.”
Ernie said, “Your legendary tiff with Johnnie Ray. That’s a good courtroom vignette.”
I cringed. “As tiffs go, it wasn’t much. And it’s not like I’m proud of it.”
Parker held one finger up. Ernie ticked that topic off.
“We’re working a two-way street here, Freddy. That means you’ve got a fat credit slip in Banker Roll’s vault.”
I said, “Caryl Chessman’s got an appeal in superior court. He’ll be here soon. I’d like a jail visit with him.”
Parker said, “That evil cocksucker.”
Ernie crossed himself. “Those poor girls. That girl in Camarillo.”
Parker crossed himself. “Consider the request, Ernie.”
I crossed myself. “I promise I’ll behave, and I promise that anything Confidential puts up will atone for that boo-hoo piece we published in ’52.”
Parker beady-eyed me. “Here’s a reminder to go with that request. The next time you witness Nick’s Knights, or the Afrika Korps, or whatever you’re calling them, committing first-degree felonies, you are to intercede with all due and vigilant force.”
* * *
—
Match the voice. Make a voice print. KKXZ to the 1946–47 yearbook. She’s not the noted Kim Hunter or Barbara Bel Geddes. She’s not Shirley Tutler/aka Miss Third Victim. She’s probably Unknown Actress #1 or #2. She might be the lissome Lois Nettleton. Her picture might not have popped on that page.
Babs bought me in. She called ahead and relayed my request. She artfully audited Actors Studio West classes and muff-munched member Mercedes McCambridge on occasion. She explained my kooky conundrum. A clearheaded clerk caught it quick. She snagged her yearbook copy. She found the faces. She rigged a TV clip/film clip/scroll-the-screen machine.
Unknown Actress #1 was Marjorie McConville. Unknown Actress #2 was Lana Linscott. Shirley was Shirley. Lois was Lois. The machine socked sound out of side vents.
The clerk cozied me up in a cubicle and cut the lights. I scrolled the screen. Miss McConville mangled Major Barbara. She stormed a stage in Belfast or Ballymora. She shoved Shaw at me in a brutal brogue. I rescrolled the screen.
Lana Linscott laid it on light. She played some doofus Doris in a dithering Dinner at Eight. Her voice wasn’t The Voice. She was a salt-lick soprano. She came off as a comedienne.
I knew what was next. I scrolled the screen and got to it. There’s Shirley Tutler, pre-Chessman.
She looked L.A. She talked L.A. She had the flat vowels and the vibrato drawl. She essayed Stella in Streetcar. She simpered and saw how it played. She started over and notched up her native dignity.
I replayed the nite we met. Her blood-soaked blouse dripped. I brought her a blanket. She said, “You’re very kind.” I brought her a cup of water. Colin Forbes and Al Goossen took over from there.
I touched the screen. I scrolled the screen. Lois Nettleton mainlined Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
It was Her Voice. She had The Voice. She jumped geography and subsumed a southern belle’s timbre here. She withered her weak willy/bottle baby/homo-haunted hubby and begged him to sire her child. She pinnacled the pathos and wrapped back to the rage. Her Deep South diction dipped north to Chitown shaded with Sheboygan. I was glad. It was Her Voice, The Voice.
Lois, it’s you.
* * *
—
Janey, it’s you.
For Jack, it is. Tonite, at least. You look goooooood. You move magnetic. You roil the room and mug the men moving at you. You’ve got droves of dreary Democrats drip-dried. You might bag the bait-girl gig. I’ll call you Rambunctious Rock’s Squeeze, then.
I circulated. It was a b
ig-room bash. It was committedly corny and panderingly partisan. Note the crepe-paper bunting. Note the coarse cardboard cutouts—Democrat donkeys at graze.
I’m crawl-crammed in with two hundred people. The women wear god-awful gowns and show too much shoulder. The men sport spring-weight suits and sweat them straight through. I’m sweating. I’m a Lebanese camel fucker and prone to the sweats.
Jack’s immune to sweat. Janey’s immune. Jack’s got cucumber-cool chromosomes. Janey’s loose-limbed in lavender linen. I’m tall, Jack’s tall, Janey’s tall. I’m a periscope. I’m peering over the heads of the heaving hoi polloi. Come on, kids. It’s Some Enchanted Evening. This bum bash is one hour in. Orb those eyes. Orbit the room. Let’s see you cull contact.
Some nudnik nudged me. Oh shit—it’s Robbie Molette. He’s passing out puffed cheese and seared tuna on toast. He slipped me a note. I brusque-brushed him off. The rodent rambled away.
Ooooga-booooga. There it is. Jack’s moving her way. Janey’s moving his way. It’s a slow slog and a deep detour through dowdy folks. He’s laughing. She’s laughing. They move their hands in sexy sync. It’s fate—what can you do?
There, they’ve met. They shake hands. They’re speaking. Here’s my speech balloons. She’s calling him “Senator Kennedy.” He’s calling up his killer comeback: “Come on, call me Jack.”
I watched them. The Pervdog of the Nite’s a peeper from waaaaaaaay back. What’s going on here? What’s with this jungled-up juju? What is it that you two have got?
It’s this: