Hollywood Hang Ten

by Eve Goldberg

  “Voilà!” Panozzo exclaimed. “One Eyed Jacks! Originally scheduled to be directed by Stanley Kubrick, but Brando took over. Starred in and directed! A tragic tale of betrayal and revenge. The movie, that is.”

  Panozzo chucked, eyeing me to see if I got the joke. I smiled.

  “This poster is dreadfully rare,” he continued. “You’ll be the envy of all your pals with this one.”

  “I never saw the movie.”

  “Which is hardly surprising. American audiences virtually ignored this masterpiece. Now the French . . . ”

  I couldn’t help but like the little guy. Maybe it was his enthusiasm for movies that seemed so innocent, almost childlike.

  “. . . are true connoisseurs of the cinema. Do you know what a full-sheet Cinderfella goes for in Paris?”

  “Nope.”

  “A lot. Trust me.”

  “That’s Jerry Lewis, right?”

  “Correct you are! Now I’ll admit Lewis is no Orson Welles. One might say his is a more subtle genius. Sometimes it takes a foreign sensibility to appreciate—”

  “Actually,” I interrupted, “I’m looking for something autographed.”

  I hated to cut the little guy off, he was enjoying himself so much, but I didn’t have all day.

  “Of course, of course,” Panozzo responded enthusiastically. “Not a problem at all.”

  He scurried off to another aisle, me trailing behind. He tugged open a metal file drawer and pulled out a black and white glossy photo of Brando in his signature tight T-shirt. To Connie. Regards, Marlon Brando, was scribbled across it.

  “Streetcar,” Panozzo said as he handed me the photo.

  “Yes. That’s more like it. What does this go for?” I asked.

  “Well . . . ” Panozzo’s eyes were glowing. He was savoring the moment. “I couldn’t possibly let this extraordinary gem go for less than . . . ten dollars. Minimum. And that’s only because I can tell you are a true connoisseur.”

  “Ten dollars. That’s kind of steep.”

  “Sir, this is Brando!”

  “Well, how about James Dean?”

  “Even more valuable. After all, tragically, Mr. Dean will not be signing any more autographs. Ever. So the supply is finite. I have nothing, absolutely nothing in an autographed James Dean for less than fifteen dollars.”

  “I see. What about Chip Jordan?”

  “Huh?” Panozzo took a sharp intake of breath. His whole body seemed to freeze up. I watched his eyes. I saw fear. Then a quick recovery.

  “Certainly. Chip Jordan. We have several. All quite valuable of course, due to Mr. Jordan’ heartbreaking demise.”

  He filled away the Brando photo, flipped through some folders in the same drawer, handed me a black and white glossy. It was a moody publicity still — Chip Jordan with a black fedora slanted down over his forehead, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. James Dean before James Dean.

  “How much for this one?” I asked.

  “Twenty dollars,” Panozzo replied. “Now keep in mind, this is a rare autographed Jordan. One of a kind. I couldn’t let it go for a penny less than twenty.”

  “Hmmm.” I handed the photo back to him. “Actually, I was looking for something more candid. Maybe Chip Jordan out by a swimming pool?”

  Panozzo starred at me. His eyes narrowed. He squinted at me.

  “Who are you, mister?”

  “A friend of mine sold you a couple of Chip Jordan photos recently. I’d like to see them.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said icily. “This is all we have.”

  Panozzo handed me the folder. I flipped through the photos: all standard publicity shots. None autographed. None with a swimming pool. I handed the folder back.

  “You paid my friend a hundred bucks apiece for those photos. Seems like a lot, given what these others go for.”

  “First, I have not the slightest idea what you are referring to. And secondly, we cater to niche collectors all over the world. You’d be surprised how values fluctuate. Now, is there anything further I can help you with?”

  “What’d you do with the Chip Jordan photos?”

  “Sir, our transactions are private.”

  “What is this — a Swiss bank?”

  We sized each other up. Panozzo was no taller than 5’6” and wore a polka dot bow-tie. I was 6’1” with an upper body hardened by years of paddling through the Pacific surf. Panozzo clutched the pale paper folder to his chest and took a step back.

  “My friend wants you to know,” I said, “that she doesn’t have any more of those photos. She will never have any more. She wants to be left alone.”

  “Excuse me?” He looked genuinely confused.

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I certainly do not.”

  “Just stay away from her. You and your thug.”

  “Thug? This is preposterous, sir. I have absolutely no knowledge of what you’re referring to.”

  “Either way,” I said, “you’ve been warned.”

  I tried to sound menacing, but menacing didn’t come naturally to me. And the look of alarm on Oscar Panozzo’s round pink face almost had me wanting to take it back. Was he telling the truth? If so, then I had just frightened an innocent little man who wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by his Joan Crawford and Rudolph Valentino movie posters.

  CHAPTER 11

  I left Tinseltown, got into my car, and headed south on La Brea. I was still thinking about Oscar Panozzo, still feeling lousy about scaring the guy, when I got the feeling that I was being followed.

  I checked the rear view mirror. Traffic was heavy as cars flowed out of Hollywood and downtown on their evening commute. At the corner of LaBrea and Pico, I hung a right at Lucy’s Drive-Thru. I kept checking the mirror as I headed west on Pico. It didn’t take long to spot the black Cadillac El Dorado about six cars back. Fairfax . . . La Cienega . . . Robertson . . . .the Caddy was still back there. Just past Overland, I hung an abrupt right. I entered a leafy residential neighborhood, the streets lined with small Spanish-style homes.

  I zig-zagged through the neighborhood, checking my rear view mirror every few seconds. No black Caddy. Eventually I returned to Pico. If someone had been following me, they weren’t now.

  I pulled into the alley behind my apartment and parked between a trash dumpster and the speed limit sign that pretty much everyone ignored. Fifteen miles per hour? Forget it. The official name for the alley was Speedway. It was a narrow one-way street that ran parallel to the beach and begged to be speeded on. This was my territory. Home.

  Just as I was getting out of my car, the nose of the black El Dorado appeared up ahead as it turned onto Speedway from a side street. The Caddy came zooming down the alley, going the wrong way on the one-way corridor. It screeched to a halt alongside my car. The barrel of a Colt .45 poked out the driver’s side window, pointed in the direction of my head.

  “Don’t move,” a man’s voice commanded from inside the car.

  The Caddy’s front door thrust open, pinning me between the two cars. A large hulking man with white hair got out.

  My muscles tightened and my heart sped up. I looked this way and that, searching for a way out. The hulk grabbed my shoulders and shoved me inside his car. For a big man, he was quick and agile. My body folded. Crunched face down between the seatback and the steering wheel, I was smothered in the smell of leather and cigarettes.

  The hulk pushed me over to the passenger side as if I were a sack of laundry. I tried to struggle against the massive arm that held me down, but it did no good. Fighting against this guy would be about as effective as fighting the ocean’s spin cycle in a wipe-out. When the surf is churning you up like you’re a sock in the washer, it’s natural to panic. The first time it happens you automatically start to thrash around, trying to get to the surface. But you learn: the thrashing just uses up oxygen. In a wipe-out, survival depends on staying calm. If you relax and go with the wave’s motion, eventually you pop up. Okay, I thought
to myself, relax.

  Then I felt the muzzle of the .45 bury into my ribs.

  “You move, the gun goes off,” the hulk said.

  I didn’t move.

  In all my years tagging along with Lou, never once had a gun been pointed at me. In the last two days, I had one pointed at me twice. It would make a great story to tell Lou, a story that would entertain him in that dreary hospital room. That is, if I was still around to tell it.

  The hulk drove through the city, my face buried in the seat leather. I tried to keep track of the turns for a while, but eventually gave up. I berated myself for awhile: I had been so sure that I had lost the Caddy with my sneaky driving maneuvers in Westwood, so how did he tail me to Venice? Or did the hulk already know where I lived and arrived all on his own? Either way, I was going to have to up my skills and my awareness — big time and quickly — if I wanted to make it through this.

  Finally, the car stopped and the hulk cut the engine. I smelled car exhaust.

  “Come on. Get up. Boss wants to see you.”

  He had an accent. Was it German? Russian?

  Lou liked to quiz me about accents that we overheard out in public. It was a game we played, trying to pin down the accent, then asking the people where they were from. For Lou the game was about training, honing an important skill for the job. For me the game was a pastime, a curiosity, something I knew Lou liked to do. And, probably because I didn’t really care, it was a game I always lost.

  The hulk tugged at my shoulder. I unfolded my body and sat up. We were in an underground garage. Very few other cars. I guessed it to be about 7:00 PM. If this was an office building, most everyone would have left work by now.

  “Come on” the hulk ordered. “Over to the elevator. Keep your eyes on the ground. No monkey business.”

  The hulk put the gun in his waistband. He adjusted his brown corduroy jacket, making sure it covered the gun. He grabbed hold of my arm, yanked me close to his side, and kept me there as we walked through the dimly lit garage. We took the elevator up. An electronic bell pinged at each floor. I heard five pings. The elevator door opened. I looked up.

  “Keep your eyes down,” the hulk whispered.

  He thumped the top of my head with the palm of his hand for good measure.

  We walked down a carpeted hallway. The carpet, dark green with tiny gold triangles, looked new. New office building. Where? Pay attention, Ryan. Keep sharp. I didn’t feel sharp. Maybe it was the aftereffects of Doc Flynn’s drug, or the grumbling in my stomach, or being pushed around and having a gun aimed at me. I felt shaky. Walking didn’t come as easy as usual.

  The hulk stopped, unlocked a door, shoved me forward. I heard the door lock behind me.

  “Stay here,” he ordered. He let go of my arm.

  As I raised my head, I saw the backside of the hulk disappear through a door. I looked around. I was standing in the center of a small, windowless waiting room. Against one wall was a low-slung modern couch. Against another wall were a couple of chairs and a magazine rack with nothing in it. There were no pictures, no ashtray, nothing else. Someone was either moving in, moving out, or not expecting much company.

  I heard muffled voices coming from the inner office. I put my ear up to the door, but couldn’t hear anything distinct. A few minutes later, the hulk re-emerged.

  “Boss wants to see you,” he said, jerking his thumb towards the open door.

  The office was large, carpeted green and gold like the hallway, and nearly empty. Cardboard moving boxes were stacked against one wall. The only furniture was an outsized desk and the padded swivel chair behind it.

  A man wearing a white tennis shirt sat in the chair. Behind him, horizontal Venetian blinds were shut tight against whatever was outside a big picture window.

  The man in the white tennis shirt was tossing a tennis ball back and forth between his hands. He looked vaguely familiar. He was about 40, with jet black hair and a clean-shaven, angular face. His eyes were dark, nearly black. My wallet lay open on the otherwise empty desk. He put the tennis ball down beside it.

  “Mr. Zorn, I want to apologize for any discomfort you may have experienced on the way here. My associate was only taking precautions. No harm intended.”

  “Who are you?” I said. “What’s this all about?”

  “Before I answer that — if I answer that — I need to know what you were doing at the residence of Cora Flynn, as well as at Tinseltown Treasures.

  “You’ve gone through my wallet, so you know I’m a PI.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I was on a case.”

  “What case?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Won’t. Client confidentiality.”

  “Nevertheless, I need to know.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s crucial to my life.”

  “How’s that?”

  The man plucked the tennis ball off the desk and began once again tossing it back and forth from hand to hand. His ball tossing reminded me of Humphrey Bogart in The Caine Mutiny rolling the metal balls around in his palm. This guy, however, was much more energetic and clean-cut all-American than Bogart.

  The man stopped tossing the ball.

  “Is there anything I could say or do to get you to change your mind?” he asked. “Perhaps a monetary incentive?”

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  “Tough guy, huh.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  The man nodded. “Leon!” he shouted.

  Shit. Not the hulk.

  The hulk came into the room. He stood near the door, waiting for further instructions.

  “Leon, please escort Mr. Zorn to the waiting room. I need to make some calls.”

  I had no desire to hang out with Leon in the waiting room — or anywhere for that matter — but I didn’t seem to have a choice. I followed him into the waiting room. Leon lowered his enormous body onto the couch. When he sat, his knees came up as high as his chest. The couch suddenly seemed ridiculously low and puny.

  I stood by the empty magazine rack.

  “Where are you from?” I asked.

  “Shut up,” he answered.

  “Germany?” I said.

  He shook his head “No” and looked down at the floor.

  Ten minutes later, the man in the white tennis shirt opened the connecting door. He hooked a finger at Leon who followed him into the inner office. A minute later, Leon re-emerged.

  “Go in. Boss’ll see you now.”

  “Haven’t we been through this before?” I said.

  “Shut up,” he replied.

  I went in. Leon shut the door behind me, but didn’t follow. The man in the white tennis shirt came around the desk and gave me back my wallet.

  “Steve Sutton,” he said. “Let’s take this from the top, okay? Fresh start.”

  Sutton smiled and shook my hand vigorously, as if we were congratulating each other after a friendly game of tennis. I must have looked at him oddly.

  “You can stop staring.” he said. “If I look familiar, it’s no doubt due to my brief and now defunct career as a bit player in movies. The less said on that subject the better. Just thought I’d save you the trouble of wondering.”

  “Okay,” I said. He did look familiar, but the name didn’t ring a bell.

  Sutton walked behind his desk, picked up the tennis ball, squeezed it, began pacing back and forth in the narrow space between his desk and the big, shuttered window. Finally he sat down and faced me, his fingers drumming on the desk.

  “I’m in a jam, Mr. Zorn. I’ve made a couple of calls and Southland checks out. And I admire the professional discretion you displayed earlier. I’d like to hire you. I think maybe you can help me out.”

  “Southland doesn’t do business at gunpoint.”

  “As I said, I apologize about Leon. He’s a loyal associate, just trying to be cautious. But I suppose I do owe you an explanation.”

>   Sutton drummed his fingers on the desk again. “Where shall I start?”

  The guy was trying to be nice, but I was still feeling grouchy from being pushed around and having a gun stuck in my ribs.

  “How about starting with Cora Flynn,” I said, “who your loyal associate harassed, assaulted, and probably burglarized.”

  Sutton sighed. “An unpleasant situation with that woman. Completely uncalled for. I am truly sorry about that. Leon is not accustomed to the delicacy required in this kind of situation. Which is why I need your help.”

  “What kind of situation are we talking about?”

  Suddenly, I felt shaky again. I needed to sit down, but there was no chair.

  “As I mentioned earlier,” Sutton said, “once upon a time I was in pictures. Had a six-year contract at Fox. I was young, ambitious, and, I like to flatter myself, not completely lacking in talent. I got bit parts. Thought I’d be the next Clark Gable. Ha, ha. Anyway, cut to the chase: things didn’t work out. I found myself out of a job, out of the industry, still ambitious, but without hope or direction. Have you ever played Monopoly, Mr. Zorn?”

  “When I was a kid.”

  “Well, one day I’m playing Monopoly with a couple of friends, all of us out of work actors with time on our hands, and it hits me: any child with an IQ higher than a plant figures out the way to win Monopoly is to buy buy buy. At the start of the game, buy every property you land on. Low income properties are fine. Only dopes pass on Baltic and hold out for Park Place. Just buy.”

  Sutton picked up the tennis ball, tossed it a few times from hand to hand. Then he put it down again. He beamed at me, as if he was that little kid who had just figured out the secret to Monopoly.

  “So that’s what I did. Took the savings I had from my Fox contract and started to invest in real estate. It wasn’t much. I could only afford to buy cheap, run-down properties in out-of-the-way places like Compton, Boyle Heights, you get the idea. That’s where Leon came in. Collecting rents can be tricky in those kinds of neighborhoods. Leon is . . . persuasive. You understand?”

  “What does any of this have to do with why I’m here?”