EQMM, May 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "She's wearing the jade,” I heard him say. “That's handy."

  The mirror behind Ciro's bar had a finish of crackled gold, but I could still make out that the speaker was a light heavyweight, dark of features and suit. His companion, also in a dark suit, had a bluejacket's haircut over a baby face.

  "That's worth eighty thousand bucks?” the kid asked.

  "Every nickel of it,” the dark man replied.

  Dabney, meanwhile, had reached the payoff of his story. “The actual cause of my firing was a piece I wrote about astronomy. At one point, I had to give the distance to the moon in miles. I might have looked it up, but I thought the figure I gave, ‘rather more than ten,’ to be both true and adequate. My editor, the fossil, disagreed."

  He stretched his short arms. “I feel like a change in ambiance, old boy. Let us reclaim our hats."

  * * * *

  2.

  I would like to have stayed and overheard more about that jade necklace, but Dabney was insistent. The next place on his list was the Cafe Trocadero, or the Troc, as it was known locally. The club was what had drawn the stars to Sunset Boulevard in the first place and so had drawn the tourists who liked to bask in starlight. I'd been there often in my studio days, parading some starlet in front of the photographers for the benefit—we hoped—of our respective careers. Those nights were usually as awkward as a blind date for the prom, but every now and then I'd broken through the glamour and met a genuine human being, maybe even a Midwesterner like me.

  Paddy had told me that the Troc was closing after a decade's run, and the rumors he passed on were generally reliable. But I didn't really believe that one until Dabney and I were installed in the grill room. The place was half empty, and the occupied tables contained only tourists, mildly disappointed. The carpeting was as worn as Dabney's tux. The whole interior was. What once had seemed to me a chic Parisian cafe now looked like a bad parody of one. I told myself it was because I'd seen the real Paris—courtesy of Uncle Sam—since my last visit. But then Dabney took up the same theme.

  "The grandeur that was Rome, eh, old boy? What a shame. The nights this place has seen. I'm told Ted Healy died in a brawl in this very bar. Did you know him?"

  Leave it to Dabney to be up on movie comics who drank too much. “Before my time,” I said.

  "Before time itself, perhaps,” Dabney replied. He pursed his lips a little at his first taste of the Troc's idea of a Bronx, but sipped on manfully.

  "Growing old is an odd thing, Scotty. It seems mild enough, incremental, as it were. You notice a gray hair in the mirror and then another, but the head they're sprouting from remains the same. More or less the same. Then you visit a place like this that you remember from a lost time, or you see a person you haven't seen in years, and whammo. I mean to say, look at what happened to Gladys Cooper. She was once the most enchanting creature on the London stage, johnnies at her door every night, staggering under their loads of flowers. And now she's playing severe old ladies with Gorgon's eyes. How did that happen, old boy? When did it happen?"

  Sometime after Dabney had first set sail on the Bronx Sea, I guessed. I noticed that his speech was becoming a little slurred and took it as a good sign. I thought he'd have his fill soon and I could drive him home, maybe in time to squeeze in some drinking of my own. Then he dashed my hopes.

  "We must fight against it, Scotty. We must nail our colors to the mast! Requisition another round, old boy. I'll be right back."

  I ordered his drink and a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes for myself. I was lighting the first one when someone screamed directly behind me.

  A woman built along the lines of Margaret Dumont was rubbing her backside and turning as red as the local streetcars. Her gaze would have made Gladys Cooper's best imitation of a Gorgon look like a come-hither wink. She was directing it at Claude Dabney, who was standing before her with an empty tray in hand and a napkin over one arm. He looked like any of the waiters, except that their seedy jackets were white.

  "I beg your pardon, madam,” he said. “Didn't you order the goose?"

  That got a laugh from everyone within earshot except me, the lady in question, and a guy who was either her husband or a stevedore she'd adopted after her last ocean voyage.

  "Why you...” the man sputtered, using the time-tested formula. He followed that up in a conventional way, too, pushing back his coat sleeves and balling his big hands into fists.

  Dabney closed his not-big eyes, and I wondered if he'd decided to try Ted Healy's cure for old age. Wondered, but didn't wait to find out.

  I'd witnessed a few brawls in barracks and bars during my time in the service and I knew that guys planning to throw a punch fell into two broad categories: those focused on a specific target and those mad enough to hit anything that moved. I'd learned from hard experience not to play peacemaker with the latter group, of which this stevedore appeared to be president. But Dabney had paid for his babysitting in advance, so I stepped between them. “Excuse him, please,” I said. “He's had a little to drink.” A little more than a gallon.

  As I'd expected, the husband's idea of a counterproposal was a looping left aimed at my head. I stepped inside its arc, grabbed one corner of his black tie, and gave it a quick yank, undoing what had been a beautiful bow.

  That act of vandalism puzzled a little of the steam out of him. Before the pressure could build again, he had a waiter—a real one—on each arm.

  I turned to give Dabney a choice word or two. The borrowed tray and napkin occupied his previous spot on the balding carpet. Of the man himself, there was no sign.

  * * * *

  3.

  When I started to look around for Dabney, everyone who noticed me at it pointed the same way: toward the club's front door. The man in charge of that door confirmed the bad news. Dabney had grabbed another party's cab and sped away. For a crisp new five, the doorman remembered the destination Dabney had given the cabbie. It was another nightclub, Don the Beachcomber's, on McFadden.

  I dallied long enough to collect our hats and then set out in my LaSalle, a sleek prewar coupe that was the brainchild of that genius designer I mentioned earlier, Harley Earl. The drive to McFadden took less than no time, but even that was too long. At Don's, a club that looked like it had been flown in complete from Key West, I learned that Dabney had been turned away due to the damage he'd caused on a prior visit. He'd sawed partially through the seats of several of the club's rattan chairs with his trusty penknife. The weight of their next occupants had completed the gag.

  The guy who had bounced Dabney on that occasion took pity on me and recommended I try Nick's Hideaway, another place from which Dabney had been banned. The bouncer's theory was that the little humorist—whom he called a “bedbug"—would naturally go where he wasn't wanted. I decided to trust his judgment, since the alternative was confessing all to Paddy.

  After the big nightclubs had established themselves on Sunset, smaller ones had popped up on the hills behind the boulevard. These had both fed off the overflow and taken advantage of a wartime tendency among the stars to seek out quieter watering holes. I hadn't been around to follow that trend, so I'd never been to Nick's Hideaway. It turned out to be a Spanish-looking stucco building with an authentic red tile roof and inauthentic striped awnings, all of it spotlit in a way that belied the hideaway part of its name.

  The inside was much darker and quiet, so quiet that I despaired of finding Dabney. The first guy I asked was a thin citizen in a suit whose jacket was overly wide in the shoulders and so long it came down almost to his knees. His trousers were as tight at the cuffs as jodhpurs. He was standing at a window next to the front door, peering through a gap in its gauzy curtains.

  "Don't work here,” he said in a south-of-the-border accent. Then he undercut his claim by exiting through a door marked Private.

  I left my hat on the counter of an unmanned coat check and entered the main room, where a decent combo was playing to a smallish crowd. Their current effort was “Sophistica
ted Lady,” a Duke Ellington song I'd loved ever since I'd heard Lillian Roth warble it in a Vitaphone short. My visit to the Trocadero had made me sensitive to signs of decay, and I saw them all around me at Nick's, which had last been painted around the time I'd landed on Utah Beach. I decided that the place was yet another Hollywood hopeful who would soon be looking for a fresh start, which made us soul mates.

  I asked after Dabney at the bar and was told he hadn't been there and wouldn't get in if they saw him coming. The bartender didn't describe Dabney's past offense in detail, except to say it may have involved Jeanette MacDonald and a seltzer bottle.

  I sat there smoking a Lucky and trying to think of my next move. I could wear out my very valuable tires trying to hit every gin joint in greater Los Angeles. Or I could call the cops to see if anyone had reported a riot. Or I could call Paddy and make a clean breast of things. I was looking toward the phone booth near Nick's entrance when a lady I knew came in. It was the woman of the jade necklace from Ciro's. She was accompanied by the guy she'd been dancing with there, who was peering around now through gold-rimmed specs like he was appraising the joint.

  I wasn't surprised to see them. If you went nightclubbing in as small a town as Hollywood, you could expect to bump into the same nomads once or twice in the course of your evening. That reflection made me think that my best plan might be to stay where I was and let Dabney come to me. I was still mulling it over when a guy sat down next to me and asked to share my ashtray.

  "I'm Nick Sebastian, the owner,” he said. “I understand you're looking for Claude Dabney. You his keeper?"

  I gave him my name and Hollywood Security's. I would have shown him a card, too, only Paddy hadn't issued mine yet.

  Sebastian nodded through that and said, “I came by to offer to hold on to Dabney for you, if he should stumble in. I'm guessing the object is to keep him out of the jug."

  "And the hospital,” I said, thinking of the punch the little man had courted at the Troc.

  Sebastian, a sad-eyed, slightly overweight guy, gave his jowls a shake. “If you ask me, a hospital is where he belongs, one with bars on the windows. That liver of his isn't going to last forever."

  I'd been keeping one eye on the front door in case that endangered liver sauntered through. So I caught the entrance of another Ciro's alumnus. It was the kid in the dark suit who'd shared the bar with Dabney and me. The one who'd been told to memorize the woman in the green dress.

  * * * *

  4.

  The kid scanned the main room, spotted the jade woman and her escort at their ringside table, and sat down at the bar a few stools from the club owner and me.

  "Friends of yours?” Sebastian asked.

  "Nope,” I said. And then, “Excuse me."

  The combo was taking a break, and the audience was stirring itself, looking around for the powder room or the coat room or just doing a little table hopping. It was the natural moment for me to say hello to old friends, even ones I didn't actually know.

  These friends were laughing as I walked up to their table, though I thought the woman's titter was less than sincere. That judgment might have been colored by one I'd arrived at when they'd entered, which was that she was far too pretty for her companion.

  "I beg your pardon,” I said when they realized I wasn't the waiter. “I wonder if I might have a word with you."

  I'd addressed the lady, but the wearer of the gold eyeglasses answered me. He had wavy hair and a shade less jaw than he needed to support his attitude. “What's this regarding, Mr...?"

  "Elliott,” I said. “Scott Elliott.” I waited for them to recognize the name and told myself I had to stop doing that. “I guess it's regarding a warning."

  "A warning?” the woman repeated. “Friendly or unfriendly?"

  "Extra friendly."

  "Please sit down,” she said, with a warmth in her voice that convinced me the laughter I'd heard earlier had been pure tin. I didn't often notice a lady's ears, not for the first date or two, but I noticed hers. Her dark hair being up put those ears on display, and it had been worth the effort, as they were delicate, perfectly shaped, and—backlit by the glow of the stage—as translucent as fine china. In contrast, her full lips had been designed for heavy service and rouged for it, too. Her brown eyes, under long, natural lashes, were green around the irises, the color brought out by her gown. And the jade, of course.

  "We should introduce ourselves,” my hostess said. “My name is Evelyn Lantrip. This is my brother, David Beeler."

  She explained the difference in their last names by uncovering her left hand—formerly under her right—and displaying a wedding ring I should have noticed a lot sooner.

  "I'm visiting from Kansas City,” she added. “David is showing me the town."

  A Midwesterner, I thought, suppressing a sigh. “Mr. Lantrip doesn't dance?"

  "Doesn't even travel,” his wife said.

  Her brother was less patient with personal questions. “About this warning."

  "Right. I happened to be in Ciro's earlier this evening while you were there. I overheard two men discussing your necklace. Specifically, how much it was worth. One of them followed you here. The crewcut at the bar."

  Brother and sister exchanged a glance and maybe a ghost of a smile, though I convinced myself that I'd been wrong about that when Mrs. Lantrip's tone became serious. “You're concerned about a robbery? That's sweet of you, Mr. Elliott. I guess it was foolish of me to wear this, but it's the nicest thing I own. A girl from Kansas City needs all the help she can get out here."

  "Not every girl from Kansas City,” I observed.

  Beeler took his absent brother-in-law's part. “Thanks for the warning. We'll keep our eyes open. Please don't let us detain you."

  I wished them a good evening and returned to my seat at the bar. Nick Sebastian was still occupying the one beside it. He took up our conversation where we'd left off. “No kidding, I'll be happy to sit on Dabney for you. Just give me a number I can call."

  Between Sebastian handing me my hat and Beeler's bum's rush, I was beginning to feel unwelcome. “You're not afraid he'll wreck the joint?"

  The club owner shook his jowls again. “We're closing to remodel in a week. I've picked up a silent partner with a pocketful. Dabney's welcome to tear down anything but the bearing walls."

  We were seated with our backs to the padded bar, so when Beeler whistled up a waiter and paid their check I noticed. I looked down the row of stools in time to see the kid with the crewcut toss some bills on the bar.

  I started to get up, and Sebastian put a hand on my arm. “Then again,” he said, “if you're here when Dabney shows, it'll be easier on me."

  Evelyn and her brother were at the exit by then. They used it without a backward glance at me. The kid followed them out.

  I removed Sebastian's hand from my sleeve. “When you make up your mind,” I said, “wire me collect."

  * * * *

  5.

  I didn't waste any time at the hat check; my best black snap-brim was on the counter exactly where I'd left it. Still, I barely made it outside in time to see the brother and sister team pulling away in a cab. Before I reached my LaSalle, a dark blue Plymouth coupe left the curb in the wake of the taxi.

  I joined the parade, which wound through the hills without climbing much or descending to the boulevard. Eventually, I spotted the red neon sign of another nightspot, one I knew, the Arbor Supper Club. Either by design or accident, Lantrip and Beeler were moving to increasingly discreet establishments. The Arbor was so discreet it couldn't be seen from the street. It was reached by a path that climbed through a long archway of trained bougainvillea. The cab stopped at the foot of this chute, and the lady and her escort got out. The Plymouth had pulled to the curb well before the club's shield-shaped sign. I parked even further back.

  The man who got out of the blue coupe wasn't the one I'd been expecting, the kid I'd followed out of Nick's. It was his shorter, broader friend from Ciro's. He'd be
en using his junior partner to keep tabs on Lantrip and the jade, I decided. Now he was moving in himself. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, he yanked his hat brim down almost to his nose. If he'd covered half his face with a black bandanna, I wouldn't have been any more sure that the feature was about to start.

  To keep up with him, I had to pass within plain sight of the Plymouth and its driver. I weaved a little as I walked and whistled a few bars of “Sophisticated Lady” so I'd pass for a Dabney-in-the-making. I hadn't forgotten about the real Dabney or my real job, though I was trying my best. But nothing, not even Paddy's certain disapproval, could get me to put a pint-sized practical joker ahead of a damsel in distress.

  The bougainvillea tunnel was inadequately lit by a series of paper lanterns. Though the ground rose steadily, there were no steps, just some flags set here and there in the grass. Muted Gershwin came down from above, sounding no louder than a neighbor's gramophone. I started up at a trot, trying my best to step on the grass and not the stones. I hadn't gone very far before I saw my man. He was standing still and—it seemed to me—listening. I listened too, hearing a voice only a little louder than the distant music. I had a second's impression that the voice was familiar. Then I swung into action.

  Due to the wetness behind my ears, Paddy hadn't issued me a gun, which suited me, as I'd had my fill of them. But a gun would have been a comfort just then. I made do with my right hand stuck in my jacket pocket, supplemented by a fountain pen I'd gotten in the habit of carrying back when I was hoping to be asked for my autograph.

  "Don't move,” I growled. “You're covered."

  The light heavyweight froze, hands at his sides.

  "Forget about the jade,” I said. “The lady's taking it back to Kansas City."

  I had more to add, maybe something about how crime didn't pay. But just then somebody grabbed my pen arm and whirled me around.

  It was the kid I'd left behind the wheel of the coupe. If he'd clouted me from behind, we would have been done. Luckily, he'd chosen to do the sporting thing and brace me face-to-face. He'd even spotted me a slight advantage, since I was above him on the hill. I counterpunched his left jab aside and landed most of a right cross.