Hard Case Crime: Fade to Blonde

by Max Phillips

  “A little bodyguarding, maybe, to start. I don’t know. I’m thinking it through. I might be able to use a guy like you in my business.”

  “The movie business,” I said.

  “I think you know what kind of movies I make,” he said.

  “I guess I do. Much money in that?”

  “Enough,” he said. “Worried about your pay?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Sounds like an entertaining business. What other lines of work you in?”

  “Why should there be anything else?” he said.

  “I dunno. I guess some movie producers hire bodyguards. I was just wondering if the movies was all there was.”

  “Doesn’t seem like enough?” he asked softly.

  I said, “I just wanted to know what my duties might be. Am I just protecting you from irate older brothers, or was there something else you needed done?”

  For some reason, he didn’t like that at all.

  He didn’t close his eyes, like Rebecca said he had, but they changed, all right. I saw a little light come on way back in them, like the pilot light in an oven.

  “You worry about the little sisters, champ?” he said.

  It was still a nice voice, but now it didn’t match the eyes. Maybe it wasn’t so nice.

  “I don’t worry much,” I said. “I thought it was a pretty simple question.”

  “Maybe you’re a bit of a Galahad after all. Is that it?”

  “If we’re going to work together, I ought to know something about the business.”

  “We weren’t talking about working together, champ. We were talking about you working for me. Right now I don’t think we’re talking about anything.”

  “And a minute ago you were full of charm,” I said sadly.

  “I’m still full of charm, champ. Maybe I spread it around too thick. Maybe you’ve already had your share.”

  “Maybe I could get tired of hearing you decide what my share is.”

  “I don’t think I can use you after all,” Halliday said. “I don’t really have a spot right now for someone with your manners.”

  The hell, it was over now.

  I said, “When I need lessons in manners, junior, I won’t come to you. And don’t think you can give me one on the house. You’re better at running than hitting, remember?”

  Halliday nodded slowly, then got up. There’s not many people who can get up off a barstool and look graceful, but he did, sliding the stool gently out of the way behind him with one foot as he went, so he wouldn’t have to bump into it or edge around it. It didn’t seem like a performance, especially, or any more of one than everything else he’d done. He had both hands on the bar, so that his rings made one glittering row, and he looked at them for a moment. He nodded to himself.

  “I guess that concludes our program for tonight,” he said.

  He got out his wallet and dropped some money on the bar.

  “See you, Halliday,” I said. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said, looking past me. “So long.”

  “So long,” I said.

  He walked down to the end of the bar. There was a side door there that led out to the parking lot, and he went out and closed it behind him.

  I sat there and finished my drink. I was pretty hot with myself. I’d pushed in too fast and then lost my temper. I ought to have myself under better control than I do. Well, five gimlets. But Jesus, whose cheap date was I that I had to drink them? I guessed it was worth something to have seen that little light in his eyes. To know it was there. It made it that much easier to buy Rebecca’s story. He could get mean, or anyway, look like it. And he could control it better than I do. What else? He didn’t like people thinking he was small-time. Who does? There was something else there, too, about when I’d asked what he wanted me for. But it’d gone by too fast. He was hung up about combat. So are a lot of guys who haven’t seen any. He was pretty bright. Pretty sensitive, for a hood. He thought he was some kind of amateur shrink. So do a lot of people in L.A.. He knew how to get off a barstool without snagging his nylons. I counted the money on the bar. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t a piker. I sighed, shoved my chair back, and headed for the door to the parking lot.

  When I got outside, I saw Halliday sitting alone in his car across the lot, the motor running, and two guys in suits standing to my right. I kept walking. Halliday nodded pleasantly and started backing out toward the exit, his elbow on the edge of the open window and his forefinger resting on the top of the side mirror, and the two men in suits stepped in close. One of them wore a watch that was big even for him, with dials and knobs all over it, and the other one had clear brown eyes and the kind of shaped mouth that made you want to trust him. The one with the big watch put a hand on my chest, and I stopped and looked down at it.

  “That’s a mistake,” I said. “Undo it.”

  “We need to talk a minute, Mr. Rose,” he said.

  “You don’t look like much of a conversationalist. Take that hand away.”

  “Listen, friend,” he said. “We need to talk about how you talk to people.”

  I knocked his hand off.

  He leaned in and took hold of my necktie. He got some collar, too. “Listen,” he said.

  Maybe it’s because I was such a lousy boxer, but I don’t see the point of going move and countermove with people who ought to know the moves as well as you do. What I’d rather do is upset the board. I gave out a sort of groan and began to sit down, as if I were tired or having an attack, and without thinking the pug tried to pull me back up again by the tie. All two hundred forty-odd pounds of me, one-handed. I almost felt sorry for him. But by that time it was out of my hands, or anyhow, like I’ve said, that’s what I always tell myself, and I came up again fast, grabbing the back of his neck as I went, and broke his nose with my forehead. The pug fell back clutching his face and screaming way back in his throat, and his buddy moved in, but glancing over at his friend instead of tending to business, and I kicked out sideways and broke the buddy’s knee. That would have settled me for a while, but he looked like he wanted to get up again somehow, and I kicked him in the belly, which made him more introspective. By this time the first guy had gotten out his gun and lit off a couple, clutching his face and firing half-blind. That was just plain bad taste. When you’re close enough, you treat a gun like you’d treat a right hook: if you can’t shrug it off, you get inside it. I got inside and yanked his arm the way it was already going and gave him a couple of elbows in the body as he went past, then brought my elbow down on his collarbone when I had a chance. It dropped him on his belly. I stamped on the back of his head and he let go the gun. I dragged him backward until his gun hand was trailing half off the curb of the sidewalk, and then I stamped on his knuckles and felt them go. I stamped again on his fingertips, hoping to get the thumb, or at least break some of his fingers twice, and then I felt something move by my ear and heard a shot from a .38. I stopped.

  “You goddamn psycho,” said the guy with the knee. He was down on one elbow with his gun leveled at my chest. “Don’t you move. Don’t you move a lick. I put ‘em where I want ‘em, and the next one’s yours.”

  He had the floor.

  “You goddamn psycho. What’s the matter with a guy like you? What’s the matter? We weren’t supposed to kill you. We weren’t even supposed to mark you. We were just told to give you a shove and a warning, and look. Look what you turn it into.”

  “He threw down on me,” I said.

  “None of this had to happen.”

  “He threw down on me,” I said. “Next time he’ll have to do it lefty.”

  “You’re a goddamn psycho. I had a dog like you, I’d have it put down. The only reason you’re living is, Halliday wouldn’t like I killed someone he didn’t say to. You come at him again, or me, and I’ll forget what Halliday wouldn’t like. Now get going.”

  I let him have the curtain line. He hadn’t said anything inaccurate. His colleague was still out, making
wet snoring noises. I turned and headed back for my car. In front of the entryway, I saw what looked like a little brocade package on the sidewalk. Lotus Blossom had run out when she heard the shots, hadn’t liked what she’d seen, and had hunkered down hugging her legs, her head tucked against her knees. As my footsteps came closer, her head came up slowly, like someone was pulling it up on a string. Her shiny black eyes were the size of hubcaps, and her mouth was open.

  “I think your right profile’s your best,” I said as I went by.

  8

  Scarpa

  I had a card for an after-hours place in Gardena, and I went there and stayed until past three, drinking and trying to cool down. I was still asleep next morning when someone started hammering on my front door. I opened my eyes and watched the knob shiver. I was too tired to swear. The drapes were shut. A smart guy, even a half-smart guy, would have pretended nobody was home. I pulled on some pajama pants and opened the door. Two neatly dressed men with guns backed me smoothly into the room. Neither of them stood higher than my chin, but they didn’t seem to have a complex about it. One had a very round head and the other had light green eyes with rusty brown hair, the kind that makes ridges. Aside from that, they were nondescript, the way men like that ought to be. “Someone wants to talk to you,” the round-headed one said, almost pleasantly. “Let’s go.”

  I stood there scratching my belly and staring. Then I turned around and walked back to my bed. “Nuts,” I said, climbing in. “You didn’t come to shoot me, or it’d be done. So you must want to tell me something or ask me something. Either way, I can hear you from here.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “They told us you were a cutie,” the green-eyed one said. “I guess we were warned.”

  “If you came here to tell me I’m cute, consider me told. Close the door on your way out, and tell your boss I’m tired of waltzing with his punks.”

  “We’re not Halliday’s boys,” the round-headed one said. “We’re not as easy as Halliday’s boys. C’mon, let’s go.”

  I fixed up the pillow again and got comfortable.

  “You know your problem?” Round Head said. “One of ‘em? You make more of things than you oughta. My guess is, what we’re discussing here? Is ten minutes of conversation. No lie. You could be back in your own little bed while the blankets’re still warm.” I heard him hit a few licks at random on my typewriter.

  “Don’t do that with no paper in,” I told him, opening my eyes. “It’s bad for the platen.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m always after my kids to quit monkeying around with ours.” He picked the typewriter up one-handed by the frame, swung it around, and held it out at arm’s length. The floor was linoleum over concrete slab. No give. Ten bucks would’ve bought me another typewriter just as good, but this was the one I’d used to write everything I’d ever tried to write. And I didn’t have ten bucks to spare. I climbed back out of bed and said, “Let me get some clothes on.”

  “You’re beautiful just the way you are,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Green Eyes walked beside me and Round Head followed behind as I slopped out the front door and past the office to the parking lot, barefoot and naked except for a pair of old pajama bottoms. It was a pretty day. I had that feeling in my gut you have when somebody’s about to do something, maybe you, maybe not. There was a long cream Caddy in the lot, the windows tinted almost black. Green Eyes opened the door and I climbed inside. Through the murk I could see Round Head leaning back over the front seat, tracking me with his gun. The man in the back seat was about thirty-five, a solid, compactly made man whose face didn’t fit. It was narrow and all jaw. You could have plowed the North Forty with it. He wore a sharkskin suit with lapels that were almost too wide, but not quite, and a look of mild disbelief that seemed to be permanent. The door thudded shut behind me and the Caddy eased away from the curb and slipped into traffic like it was slipping into a warm bath. The man said, “What happened last night at the Jade Mountain?”

  I said, “What makes it your business?”

  The look of mild disbelief didn’t change. “You know who I am?”

  “No.”

  “I’m Lenny Scarpa.”

  “Okay, I know who you are. Everybody says the nicest things about you, too.”

  “What happened last night?”

  “What the hell makes it your business?” I said. “You drag me out of my bed, eight in the morning, the head nun come to spank me with a ruler. C’mon, buddy, youse are goin’ fer a ride. Jesus, you must love old movies. Ask me a civil question and I might answer it, but right now? I’ve got no reason in the world to talk to you.”

  Scarpa glanced at Round Head, amused.

  “What,” I said, “the gun? What good’s the gun? All you can do with it is shoot me or club me, and either way, your question goes unanswered.”

  “You think I couldn’t make you sorry?”

  “If you’re Lenny Scarpa, I hope to God you got better things to do than ride around Hawthorne making me sorry.”

  “These guys,” he told the roof of the car. “There’s a place someplace, and out comes these guys, and they come to me.”

  He began to laugh.

  “Mister Corson,” he said. “It’s so good to have you with us this morning. My name is Leonard Scarpa. I hope we haven’t caused you no inconvenience?”

  “Not at all, my son,” I said. “And what can I do for you today?”

  “What the goddamn happened at Jade Mountain?”

  “Job interview.”

  “Take him someplace and hurt him,” he told Round Head.

  “That’s the house number,” I said, grinning. “Why wouldn’t it be? Halliday thought he could maybe use me. My own manners must’ve been poor. He told his punks to lean on me. I leaned back.”

  “You tailed him there from the Centaur.”

  “I wasn’t going to make my play in front of a room full of people who think he’s an independent producer.”

  “Why would you want to work for him?”

  “I need a job.”

  “It adds up,” he admitted. “You’re just the kind of Mau-Mau Halliday likes. Wild. No control. You know, those guys, they’re both still in County General, and one of ‘em’s prob’ly ruined.” He sat there, thinking it over. He gave me the look while he was at it. He did it pretty well. I still thought I should be getting a professional discount. Then he fished in his breast pocket, brought out a deck of cards, and shuffled them expertly without looking. He fanned them and held them out to me.

  It was a Tarot deck. The card I picked showed a man standing on one foot in front of a tree. Then I saw I had it wrong way up. The man was dangling head-down from a branch by a rope around his ankle, his hands tied behind his back. He looked like he wanted to go back a few bars and take it from the bridge. “That’s your significator,” Scarpa said. “The Hanged Man, reversed. Huh. I would’ve guessed the Fool.”

  “You think those cards’ll tell you the truth?” I said, handing it back.

  He shrugged, tucking the deck away. “I never heard of anything or anybody that’ll tell you the truth. But I’ll buy your story.”

  “Good. What does the Hanged Man mean?”

  “That you’re not as smart as you think you are.”

  “Aw, I never thought I was as smart as I think I am. My turn for a question?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Why would you care what I do with my nights off?”

  “I don’t. But if Halliday’s making some bonehead play, I got to care.”

  “What’re you, his babysitter?”

  “Yes, friend,” he said grimly. “That is exactly what I am.”

  “Why would he take that, from a rival organization?”

  He made a sharp sound between his teeth. “He thinks he’s got an organization. He thinks he’s a rival. Lance Bejesus Halliday. For my sins. Some bottle-blonde rube from Porter, Michigan.”

  “Porter, huh? You’ve been doing some study
ing.”

  He shook his head. “A guy like Halliday, you wind up knowing all kinds of things about him you wish to God you didn’t know.”

  “I don’t think the hair’s a dye job.”

  “Great. Now that’s another thing I know.”

  “Why does Burri put you to the trouble?”

  “Grandpa Burri,” he told the ceiling, eyes closed, “is a nice old grandpa who loves children. He wants them to learn. Me, I’m a bachelor.”

  “Why don’t you give me a job? I could use one.”

  “Friend, a Mau-Mau like you is the last thing I need. But after last night, I’ll tell you. You ever wanna pick up the gloves again, let me know. You ain’t too old.”

  “How do you know I used to fight?”

  “I told you,” he said. “This town’s full of little punks you wind up knowing things about. This is your stop.”

  I peered out through the black window. We were back in front of the Harmon Court. I got out and said, “Well, don’t be strangers. Now that you know the way.”

  I shuffled off, leaving the door open. It was childish, but I was tired of being hey-you’ed by hoods.

  The phone was ringing as I came up the walk. It stopped as I was opening the door. The clock said 9:25. I always sleep later than I think I do. I picked up the phone, called Mattie Reece, and said, “Listen. I need a favor from your cop friends. Halliday’s from Porter, Michigan. I don’t know what name he had back then, but a guy late twenties, his looks, tailback on the high school team, you think you could see what they’ve got? Can’t be that big a place. Why don’t you talk to Mc Donald? He knows a few things, and doesn’t mind telling what he knows.”

  “Why would I bother?” Mattie said.

  “I’ll tell you how it was with Rebecca.”

  “Jesus, don’t. I got to go home to my wife,” he said, and hung up.

  I sat there a while, thinking about the Hanged Man. Then I got out a sheet of paper and wrote down Scarpa’s license plate number, before I forgot.

  The phone started ringing again as I got into bed.

  I let it.