Inside the ochre, stucco three-story, I asked to see Walt. I was beginning to get my wits back and, like a trained observer, began noticing details around me. Beth, a pudgy brunette in a French Twist and a little too much eye makeup, rose from the reception desk and straightened the front of her skirt, smiling. She recognized me from previous visits, seemed to have expected me today, and directed me to the Animation Building over on Buena Vista Street.
I found the building, went up the stairs, and spied Walt standing at the back of a large, high-windowed room, addressing more than a dozen artists seated at their work tables. One guy was sketching Peter Pan for a peanut butter commercial. Another sat in the bright sunlight and drew a bucktoothed beaver holding a toothbrush. Maybe I was still a little dopey, after all.
Walt was wearing his reading glasses and calmly assuring a hunched-shouldered man of about fifty that even though live-action movies were now the bulk of the company’s production, he would never abandon animation. “It’s in my heart and soul, Leo.” The studio head spread wide his arms, one of which almost poked a cigarette into the eye of a lean guy in a polo shirt.
Which was another good reason why I’d stopped smoking.
Walt caught sight of me standing at the room’s entrance and came past me into the hallway. “This way.”
I followed his back as he stubbed out his cigarette and opened a door at the end of the hall.
We went into an empty workroom--empty except for walls filled with images from Sleeping Beauty and three wooden desks covered with stacks of similar drawings. No chairs, so I just stood there while he closed the door and went over to look out the window before closing the horizontal blinds.
“Stan,” he said, taking off his glasses and slipping them into interior pocket of his tweed sport coat.
“Walt.”
“Are you all right?”
“Are you?”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Max is dead.” I took the flask from my pocket and set it on the nearest desk. I wobbled a little but stayed upright.
“I know,” Walt said, his eyes glued to the silver surface. “I sent the limo that brought you here, remember. The police will want a statement, but we’ll pull rank on them and cover you for the time being. We’ve got a line on who did this and why.
“I was almost killed by my car!”
“And we’re going to get the man who did it. I know you’re upset--”
“My parents died in their car ten years ago, remember?”
“And we found a bomb in my car, too.”
“Whose fault is that, Mr. Secret Agent?”
Walt waited while the echo of my voice faded. “You seem tired, Stan. Maybe--maybe it would be best, if you went out of town for a while. While the Bureau clears this up.”
“You’re not listening, Walt. There are people out there who are trying to kill us.”
“They term they use is eliminate or liquidate.”
“Whatever it is, I’m not running away.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Look, I’m sick about what happened to Max. But I’m glad that you’re safe. We didn’t know that Reed had a brother. Our records are sketchy at best, but I received a call two days ago saying we were all going to pay for August Reed’s death and something about ‘blood calls to blood.’”
“And?”
“And, we tried to trace the call, but weren’t expecting it to begin with and fully--got nowhere.”
I wondered how the caller knew about Max’s and my involvement in the death of August Reed. “Someone inside the FBI is leaking information.”
“Probably,” Walt said. “Possibly. We’re looking into it. The fact that he called to warn me first tells us that he’s bold and clearly out for revenge. The profiles from Bureau psychologists state that a call like that is designed to instill fear, even at the risk of exposure. When the threat is carried out on any one member of a group, the rest of the members begin to panic.”
“Well, it only motivates me to want to get them before they get me like they did Max.”
“And that sort of reaction is precisely what the psych boys describe as panic. You want to drop everything and run off in all directions at once. We can’t do that, Stan. We have active, on-going cases that have to be pursued methodically. We have to keep our wits. We can’t be stampeded like spooked cattle.”
“Are you going to quote Davy Crockett to me, now? ‘Be sure you’re right and then go ahead’? How do we do that methodically, Walt?”
“By keeping our heads, and keeping them down. You know we have resources to handle this sort of thing. I dealt with something very much like this back in the Forties.”
“Max Beeler was a good man. And you’re not telling me everything--again.”
He sighed. “He’ll be missed. I’d like to have a lengthy conversation with you about it, but right now...” I could see the complexity of conflicting thoughts play across his face. “As you say, there’s a lot I haven’t told you.”
I waited while he weighed how much to explain. “I want to hear it all,” I said. “You owe me that.”
He slumped. “This damn business gets harder every year. Your parents had high-level security clearances while working on projects at Lockheed after the war. They were presented to me one day in 1947 as part of a team to keep the atomic bomb out of soviet hands.”
I clinched my eyes, hoping they didn’t water, and the Noir Man screamed at the back of my throat.
CHAPTER 3
Outside the window in the street below, a bus braked to a stop, hissed its doors, and then revved past on its determined route.
Walt took a moment to light a cigarette and then rested himself on the edge of a desk. “At first, the Bureau only wanted me to advise them of any socialist or communist activities that I found in the unions here in Hollywood. Then a high-level official named Donovan asked me to report on other things--sometimes specific individuals and studios and with operations overseas.”
I stared him down. “Get to the part where my dad and mom worked for you undercover.”
“They worked with me, let’s say.” He plucked a bit of tobacco from his lip. “Your mother was very adept at figuring things out and keeping secrets. I mean that in a good way, of course. Your father was very patriotic. He always had high principles. Wanted to become a priest or something, if I recall correctly. I could be wrong about that, but he was the one who made me swear to look after you, if anything ever happened to them--off the books, you understand.”
“No, Uncle Walt,” I said with a taste of sarcasm. “That’s the problem.” No need for the Noir Man here. Things were dark enough. “Explain it to me.”
He appeared to be counting to ten before going on. “Look, Stan. You’ll have to extrapolate some of my meaning. Even now, I can’t--”
“Dammit, did you send them out to be killed? Did you cause their deaths?”
“No. God, no.” He wanted me to believe him. “If anything, it was the other way around. You see, the Lockheed plant has a hidden manufacturing area we called the Skunkworks, where advance-designed aircraft were developed and tested for defense. That’s how I first got involved with the OSS--through your parents and what they were doing there to foil our enemies.”
I kept my voice level. “Foil our enemies. You mean the Communists?”
“Yes--for the most part. Your parents were loyal Americans, Stan, but their work had to be kept secret, even from you. When they, uh, passed away, you were starting college. I did all I could to help you through your loss. I wanted to do more, but my hands were tied by the Bureau. We couldn’t risk exposing you to the dangers that had taken your parents.”
“The less I knew, the safer I’d be. Is that it?” He gave me a half-smile and started to speak, but I cut him off with, “That’s obscene, Walt. You kept me in the dark and fed me horse shit, like one of your cartoon toadstools.”
“No. I gave you a dream. A second chance. You wanted to be an investigator
, so I set it up that you could learn from one of the best. ‘A dream is a wish your heart makes--‘”
“Stop with the silly symphony lyrics.” I raised my voice. “You’re telling me that Mr. P took me on because you asked him to?”
“Actually, no. He didn’t like the idea at all and hesitated at first, but you were eager and showed strong promise. That determination and dedication has allowed me to employ you un-officially on assignments over the last few years, which is why I want you to have this.” He reached into his coat pocket and held out a thin wallet.
I stared at the FBI credentials that displayed my name.
His voice softened. “I know you lost your PI license, so perhaps this will--”
“You had this faked up by someone in one of your art departments, didn’t you?”
“Lord, you’re suspicious.”
“Do you blame me?”
He waited for me to calm down and then further extended the black leather thing. “I had a devil of a time getting that approved. You’ll still need to go through some formal training before it’s official, but you’ve earned it, Stan. A reward for services rendered thus far.”
The lines of his face deepened above his broad square jaw. His eyebrows wrinkled his forehead. Mustache neatly trimmed. Hair combed straight back. Breast-pocket handkerchief sharp enough to cut cheese. The picture of American free enterprise.
I tossed the wallet onto the desktop where it went flup. “And what if I no longer what to be played?”
I think I heard his teeth grit. “Then I’ve done all I can for you.”
The statement hung in the air. He had done a lot for me, but it had always been from the shadows and for our mutual benefit. I got a case and he got results. By rights, I should be mildly grateful, but I still couldn’t bring myself to completely trust him. I felt like a hired gun--which was part of the business I was in and we both knew it.
I pushed the Noir Man down and said, “I’ll need some time to think it over.”
His expression didn’t brighten. He was all business and matter-of-fact when he answered. “Granted. And in the meantime, I’d like to hire you as before at double rates to check in with an acquaintance of mine who’s in town and needs your expertise.”
“My expertise,” I said, “for what?”
He brought something else from his pocket and handed it over--slip of paper with While You Were Out printed at the top. “He’s staying at the Biltmore for a day or so in the room written there, registered as a Mr. Birds from England. Birds is not his real name.”
“What’s his problem?”
“He’s an interesting novelist, but his books have relied on organized crime as the villains. The Mafia doesn’t like that, I hear, and they want him to stop. They’ve become very image-conscious lately. I know you have a few solid connections with the local mob, so you can possibly advise him how to deal with the problem.”
It all sounded lame to me. Walt could be like that. As if he was giving me something to distract me from more critical issues.
“Like I said,” I told him, moving to the door, “I’ll think about it. I’m going down to the street. Call your chauffer and get me out of this puzzle palace.” It felt good to leave him standing there surrounded by images from his own fantasies.
Back out on Buena Vista, I waited for the limo. The sun warmed the back of my neck and a slight breeze cooled my temper. It was another beautiful California day, but I still felt ugly and manipulated.
I looked down at the note Walt had given me. The name written there rang a distant bell, but I had more important things on my mind than the woes of some British writer called Ian Fleming.
***
I directed the limousine driver to drop me off up in the hills near the Hollywood Bowl. Suzi’s apartment was my home away from home and I’d been spending more time here lately than on my boat.
Still ruminating over what Walt had said, I noticed two small birds were roosting on the roof antenna of her simple two-story brick building. There was dark blue wooden trim at every entranceway. Her mailbox displayed the word “Sunset” in white letters impacted into a strip of red label tape. I had a key, but rang the bell to show that I cared.
“Here, take this,” she said, after I’d been with her for a few minutes.
“What is it?”
“Four-Way Cold tablet.” Her earrings were tiny blue disks that matched her eyes.
“I don’t have a cold. I have a four-way allergy to your dumb cat.”
“Phooey’s not dumb. He’s lovable. Now swallow that and you’ll feel better.”
To me, Suzi was a combination of the best parts of Julie London, Lola Albright, and Tuesday Weld. Obviously, I was mixed up about her.
I got the pill down with a swig of tap water, but it still tasted bitter. I sneezed to prove her wrong about the cure and stared hard at the golden fur-ball who sat curled in a living room chair, clogging my sinuses. “He’s a public menace. I’m the one who’s lovable.”
She leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “Yes, you are, Standy.” Her eyes crinkled when she lingered on my pet name. “When you’re asleep.”
I let her get away with the gag and only said, “Hey!”
“I know you’re upset about what Walt told you.”
“Or didn’t tell me.”
“But you’ve got to work through it. It’s not all that bad.”
I took a breath. I hadn’t told her about the explosion and Max’s death. It felt better to keep her out of it for now. Maybe tomorrow.
She had changed her hair again. It was still blonde and neatly trimmed, but now there were delicate bangs caressing her forehead. Seemed like a good idea to me.
“So,” I said, still waiting for the pill to kick in, “how was your day?”
She gave me her patented killer smile and plunked down playfully next to me on the lounge in front of the TV. She had the most modernly-furnished apartment I’d ever seen and a pair of eyes sometimes innocent and sometimes bottomless.
“I’m working on an inquiry for Bill Crump.”
“Who?”
“You probably know him as Blake Edwards.”
“The guy who writes Peter Gunn and Richard Diamond?”
“And a bunch of other things like, Mr. Lucky.”
“Oh, yeah. I like that Andamo character. What’s the case about?”
She smiled with pools of sleepy blue. “Someone’s holding his dog for ransom.”
“Yikes. A dog-napping case. Alert the media.”
“Hey, they can’t all be high-profile gang-busters, you know. At least, it keeps the lights burning at the agency.”
Suzi had once been my competitor in the investigation racket, but lately we’d worked together and played together so often that we were almost partners. In fact, she had taken me on as an op at her agency after, and even though, the cops had pulled my PI ticket. Even more to the fact, we planned to get married soon, which was why her place felt like home to me.
“So, who done it?” I asked. “And what are you going to do about it.”
She punched a button on the remote and the TV started to hum. “I’m not sure yet. There seems to be a young actor involved named Clu Gulager.”
I said, “A name you can clean your teeth with.”
She ignored me as we caught the commercials at the end of the Perry Como Show. “I think he’s related to Will Rogers.”
“Hmmm...” I said, watching a fascinating ad for cheese-spread. My mind kept going back to what Walt had told me about my parents.
I repeated the key points again to Suzi, who listened quietly and then handed me her new Princess phone.
“What’s this?”
“Call him.”
“Who? Mr. P? It’s early afternoon in Hawaii. He’ll be out, or napping, or out in the Hawaiian sun--napping.”
“Call him anyway. It’s the only way you’ll know if Walt was telling the truth.”
I still hesitated. What bothered me was that I just
might learn that Mr. P had been hiding the truth from the start. If so, I’d feel even more betrayed.
Suzi took the phone back and said, “What’s his number?”
Somebody, perhaps the Noir Man, got out my notebook and showed her the long distance information scribbled there.
She dialed and we waited, watching the TV. A woman on What’s My Line stumped the panel with her job selling tickets to the World’s Series.
“You’re not mad at them,” she told me, while the circuits hummed. “You’re mad at yourself for not having pieced it all together from the start.”
“Some detective, I am,” I said as the phone stopped ringing in my ear and the old man picked up with an “Aloha.”
“Hey, boss. It’s me.”
Mr. P had taken me under his wing almost a decade ago and now I told him that I finally knew why. At the time, I was a dumb kid who idolized detective work. I’d read Chandler and Hammett and a bunch of others and thought that being a private eye was the next thing to heaven. When my folks became senseless victims of a car crash in the Hollywood Hills, I’d desperately sought a way to escape circumstances and rushed to the one dream I’d had that made the world seem right.
My family had known Mr. P for several years, so it wasn’t surprising that I’d gravitated toward him after the funeral. I’d told him how I felt about detective work and he seemed to understand. Soon, he had me sifting through files and digging out information that helped him solve a couple of cases. It wasn’t glamorous work, but I took to it like a fish takes to smelly bait. I was hooked.
Now, live, from his retirement home in Honolulu, the old man admitted the truth. He confirmed Walt’s story of taking me on at Disney’s request. “I didn’t know all the details about your situation, but I could see that it was the right thing to do, Stan. You were a whiz. And frankly, it came at a time when I wasn’t doing so well. I needed an operation on my back and you helped pick up the load while I was down.”
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