Hollywood Hang Ten

by Eve Goldberg

  “I’m getting to that. Anyway, it took a while, but eventually my investments paid off. However, here’s the thing: none of it was satisfying. Real estate is just buy and sell. It’s dead. Just a stupid board game really. Monopoly in 3-D. Know what I mean?”

  He looked at me, waiting for a nod or something like that.

  “Mr. Sutton,” I said, “do you have anything to eat or drink around here?”

  “What?”

  “Food,” I said. “Water.” I sounded like a caveman. That’s about how I felt. Hungry, tired, shaky.

  Sutton opened one of the desk drawers and tossed an Abba Zabba across the desk.

  “Leon practically lives on these. Got me hooked.”

  “Thanks.”

  I unwrapped the candy bar and bit into it. I would rather have had an apple, but the Abba Zabba would have to do.

  “Anyway,” Sutton continued as I munched, “I missed show business. I missed being out in front. Then, a few months ago, some associates of mine got wind of the fact that a developer was scouting around for a spot to put in a new shopping mall — in an area where I have multiple properties. There’s even talk of a sports arena. Great, I thought. I can make a bundle and get out from under the rent collection business at the same time. But there’s a ton of zoning ordinances and political red tape involved in getting it done. So my associates proposed that I run for public office where I’d be in a position to push the whole thing through. At first I thought they were crazy. Me? What did I know about politics? But I thought it over. Why not me? Politics and acting, are they really so far apart? Suddenly, for the first time in a long, long time, I was excited to get up the morning.”

  Sutton’s face clouded over. “Then that little shit Panozzo walked into my life.”

  He opened the top drawer in his desk, took out a manila envelope, and pushed it across the desk towards me.

  I opened the envelope and withdrew three black and white, 8x10 glossy photographs. The first photo showed two men with towels wrapped around their waists sitting by a swimming pool. Both men held champagne glasses. One of the men was a younger Steve Sutton. The other was Chip Jordan. In the second photo, Sutton and Jordan were in the water, their arms resting on the edge of the pool. In the third photo, Chip Jordan lay on his back in the water. Steve Sutton was treading water nearby. All three photos were autographed with identical words: To Steve, Thanks for a wonderful time. Yours, Chip.

  “That little shit Panozzo called me about a week ago,” Sutton continued. “He said he had a photograph that I’d be very interested in purchasing. He mentioned Chip Jordan. I told him I wasn’t in the market to buy celebrity photos, but he insisted I would be interested once I saw it. Something in his manner alarmed me. So we met and he showed me the photo with the champagne. I was shocked, to say the least. I had never seen this photo before. Never knew it existed. That long ago afternoon with Chip had been private. Or so I had believed.”

  “What about these other two photos? There’s three here.”

  “I’ll get to those in a minute.” Sutton sounded irritated. He picked up the tennis ball again and squeezed it a few times.

  “Panozzo estimated the photo’s value at $1,000,” he continued. “I told him that was outrageous. He said he’d have no problem finding another buyer if I wasn’t interested . . . and that he’d appreciate his payment in twenties. What choice did I have? I paid up.”

  I shuffled through the photos and examined them all again. I took an especially long look at the champagne photo. The two men were looking at each other in a certain way. I had seen that look between men and women. Allison and I had stared at each other like that. But I’d never seen it between two men. It gave me the heebies. Just didn’t seem right. After being creeped out for a minute, I let it sink in: Chip Jordan was a homosexual. Chip Jordan!?!

  I put the photos down on the desk. Sutton took the photos and slipped them back into the envelope.

  “Okay,” I said. “So Panozzo shows up with just one photo. Then what?”

  “As I said: I paid up. He came to my house, showed me the photo, and I paid him. I was devastated. Here I am on the brink of a new life, and it’s being snatched out from under me before it can even begin.”

  Sutton paused and scowled. “What I did next wasn’t very smart.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I had Leon follow Panozzo when he left my house. Followed him straight to his shop in Hollywood, Tinseltown Treasures. Now I knew who I was dealing with and where to find him. The next day I drove there myself. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. I hadn’t slept at all that night. I was beside myself. I didn’t have a plan, I just went. I parked on the street and sat there. I thought about going inside to confront the little bastard. What I really wanted to do was strangle him. Snap that pretentious little bowtie right off his neck. But I didn’t do a thing. I just sat in my car.”

  He paused. His pupils were dilated; beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.

  “So that’s what I was doing, just sitting and stewing, when I saw her. An average looking woman in a dress. Brunette. High heels. In one hand, she carried a pocketbook. In the other, a manila envelope. It was the envelope that got my attention. She walks into Panozzo’s shop. A few minutes later, she comes out. No manila envelope.”

  “So no manila envelope,” I said. “Panozzo runs a memorabilia shop. People must bring stuff in to him all the time.”

  “It’s hard to describe, but it wasn’t just the envelope. It was something else about the woman. When she came out, she looked this way and that. Kind of furtive, as if perhaps she was afraid someone was following her, or she was feeling guilty about something. Whatever it was, her manner struck me as odd. Maybe it’s my acting background, learning to read people, or maybe it was just a hunch, but I followed her. All the way out to the Palisades. I watched her go inside her house. After a while, sitting in my car, I started to feel pretty ridiculous. What was I thinking? This was just an average housewife going into her average suburban house. So I turned around and went home. The next day, Panozzo calls. More photos. Bingo.”

  “Cora Flynn,” I said.

  Sutton nodded.

  I thought about the three photographs. As weird as it was to see two men look at each other like that, it seemed like pretty weak stuff for blackmail. Which is what I told Steve Sutton.

  “Panozzo intimated there were more,” he said. “And of course I knew those would get worse. Much, much worse.”

  He picked up the tennis ball and thumped it against his desk a couple of times.

  “That’s why I put Leon on it. I asked him to talk with Cora Flynn. Find out if she had more photos. Not a great move, I’ll admit, but I was desperate. Who else was I going to turn to? Obviously not the police. The last thing in the world I wanted was for any of this to be made public.”

  “Who took the photos?” I asked.

  “I have no idea. I didn’t know they existed until Panozzo showed up.”

  “How could you not know that someone was snapping photos when you were right there?”

  “How the hell do I know! Don’t you think I’ve asked myself that a thousand times over this past week?”

  “No idea at all?”

  “We’re talking movie people here. They’re all crazy. Hell, I’m an expert on that — I was one of them. Maybe Chip was into kinky stuff . . . taking pictures of the guys he . . . well, you know. Maybe he had some kind of hidden camera. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  I thought about that. Would Chip Jordan, a movie star, risk taking photos of himself in a homosexual act? Now that would be crazy.

  “So,” I ventured, “you were Chip Jordan’s . . . uh, boyfriend?”

  Sutton let loose a huge laugh. “That’s a good one! Boyfriend! Hardly!” He paused and looked right at me. “Ever heard of the casting couch, Mr. Zorn?”

  “Yeah, I know what it is.”

  “Well expand your idea beyond Harry Cohn getting his afternoon blow job f
rom aspiring starlets.”

  Sutton looked at me, like he was trying to figure out if I understood what he was driving at. I nodded. I didn’t want to think about this too much. If someone was homosexual — Chip Jordan, Steve Sutton, or anyone else — I figured that was their business, but I didn’t want to dwell on the details.

  “I’m not queer,” Sutton said, as if he was reading my mind. “It was just one of those things. My agent set it up. Told me Chip Jordan wanted to get to know me better. Chip was a big star. I knew the deal. I thought — stupidly in retrospect — that this might be my big break. Little did I know. And now this.”

  He banged his fist down on the envelope containing the photos.

  Just then, there was a knock at the door.

  “Boss?” Leon called out from the waiting room.

  “Come on in,” Sutton said.

  Leon lumbered through the door, walked over to Sutton, and handed him an envelope. It was unsealed and bulky.

  “Thank you, Leon. Job well done.”

  The big man nodded solemnly before leaving the room. Sutton pulled a wad of cash from the envelope. He counted the bills, then put them back into the envelope.

  “I need your help,” he said, “If these photos, and the others you can be damn sure were taken that afternoon, get out, they’ll ruin my chance in politics. They’ll ruin my life. I need you to find the rest of the photos. And of course any negatives that exist. I need you to put a stop to this whole rotten situation. A few grand to shut up Panozzo I can pay, but I’ve been around long enough to know that this blackmail thing, once it starts, is never over. I can’t keep paying out for the rest of my life.”

  Sutton pushed the cash-filled envelope across the desk towards me. “Five hundred dollars. Just a retainer. I’ll pay whatever your fees and expenses are, of course.”

  I glanced at the envelope, but didn’t pick it up.

  “Go on. Count it. It’s yours. That and a lot more if you help me.”

  I still didn’t pick it up. I thought to myself: Do I want to work for a guy who uses a thug like Leon to do his dirty work? On the other hand, a job is a job. Bills have to be paid. And blackmail is an ugly racket. Blackmail stinks.

  “Okay,” I said. “With one condition.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Mrs. Flynn stays out of this. I guarantee she has nothing to do with it.”

  “Seems to me she’s Panozzo’s partner.”

  “She’s not.”

  “She brings him the photos. She’s got to be in it with him.”

  “She’s not.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “You said you admire professional discretion, right?”

  Sutton nodded. “She’s your client?”

  “Was. Lay off her.”

  “Okay. Just find me the photos.”

  I picked up the cash-filled envelope and stuffed it into my back pocket.

  “Anything else you want to tell me before I get started?” I said.

  “I’ve laid all my cards on the table. And don’t think it’s been easy for me. I’ve made my share of mistakes in the past. I’m just asking you to help me make the past the past. And keep it there.”

  I thought to myself: Is the past ever the past?

  I followed Leon to the underground garage. I got into the back seat of the Caddy, and Leon drove us out of the garage and onto Wilshire. We crossed La Brea, heading west. Just past the tar pits, was an enormous hole in the ground that was someday going to be an art museum. Right now it was just dirt and re-bar. I stared at the back of Leon’s thick neck for a while, wondering what made a man’s hair turn white before he’s 40.

  “Hey, Leon,” I said. “Wanna stop for a bite to eat? It’s on me.”

  He shook his head and kept driving.

  We pulled into the alley behind my apartment where this all began a few hours earlier. Leon cut the engine. He turned his massive bulk around to face me.

  “So you’re working for the boss, huh?” he said.

  “Looks like it.”

  Leon’s gaze was steady. His eyes bore into mine. “Don’t fuck it up.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I crawled into bed and slept until the squealing brakes of the garbage truck in the alley work me at dawn. I pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of cut-offs, and headed out to the beach.

  The Boardwalk was empty except for a drunk slumped against one of the columns in front of the St. Marks Hotel. The column was scratched up with graffiti. Crumpled food wrappers, cigarette butts, and broken glass had collected in the gutter. Venice smelled like Venice: one part ocean, two parts decomposing trash.

  I walked across the sand towards the ocean. Seagulls swooped and squawked above the water. Down at the shoreline, a guy in black baggies stood gazing out at the surf. A red pintail Weber stuck upright in the sand beside him.

  “Hey, Reno,” I said.

  He glanced over at me. “Shoulda been here yesterday, man.”

  I looked out at the waves. All gutless, ankle busters breaking up on the sand.

  We both stood there for a while, staring out at the soup. Reno was one of the guys I had grown up with — Reno and Micki and Skunk and Ollie and the rest of our raggedy Venice Beach crew. With working parents and little supervision, we had spent our summers surfing, chasing girls, and living just on the edge of trouble. Sometimes going over the edge. Reno had done a couple months in Juvie for breaking and entering a beach house in Malibu. Turns out the house was owned by a movie director. When the director came home, he found Reno passed out on the bathroom floor cradling an empty bottle of Chivas. A few years after that, Reno did six months in County for possession of weed. Now he worked for Dewey Weber, shaping the boards that were flying out of Dewey’s shop ever since Gidget and the Beach Boys craze hit.

  Reno and I walked back across the sand, then parted ways at the Boardwalk, me going north, Reno going south.

  I went upstairs to my apartment, changed into slacks and a plain blue button down shirt. Basic PI-according-to-Lou look: Bland, unremarkable, middle of the road. Good for surveillance.

  I drove to the office and called Cora Flynn. I told her about my talk with Oscar Panozzo and that I didn’t think he’d be bothering her anymore. She thanked me, but sounded more skeptical than grateful. I couldn’t blame her. I hadn’t told her anything about Steve Sutton and Leon and how Oscar Panozzo had never even been to her house.

  “Mrs. Flynn,” I said causally, “were there any other photographs in that Pinnacle office like those three you sold to Panozzo?”

  That brought a long silence.

  “Why are you asking me this, Ryan?” she said.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Now you’re being cryptic. You’re scaring me.”

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to. It’s just that a lot’s happened since yesterday. There’s some weird stuff going on with those photos. I got hired to look into it.”

  “Hired? Hired by who? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with you. Really. Don’t worry. I just need to know if there were any more photographs.”

  Another long silence. “No,” she finally answered. “There weren’t.”

  “You went through everything in that office?”

  “Yes. Mr. Dargin had already taken away his personal items. Probably on the day he was fired. His desk drawers were empty, except paper clips, pencils, things like that.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Ryan, I don’t know what this ‘weird stuff’ is all about, but if it has nothing to do with me, with me and Joey, good. I just want this whole thing to be over. I want our life to get back to normal. I’m not saying that ‘normal’ was so peachy and perfect. Matter of fact, it’s been pretty lousy since my husband left, but still . . . ” she trailed off.

  “I understand,” I said. “How is Joey, anyway?”

  She hesitated. She hesitated way too long. “Fine” she said. “Joey’s fine.”

&nbs
p; I hung up the phone, glad that the awkward conversation with Mrs. Flynn was over. I thought about Joey. From the way Mrs. Flynn said it, I knew things were not fine. But I’d have to let that go. Nothing I could do about it. At least not right now.

  So I drove to the VA hospital in Westwood.

  Lou was sitting up in bed, reading the Evening Outlook. He seemed small and shrunken in the faded hospital gown. A pale blue cotton blanket draped over his legs. His complexion was pasty and his hair was matted. The plastic oxygen tube ran up into his nose. He grinned when he saw me.

  “Hey, Ryan.”

  “Hey, Lou.”

  He flicked the back of his finger against the newspaper. “Dodgers beat the Cards. That Drysdale’s got some arm, huh?”

  “You bet.”

  “Best righty in the National League.”

  “I’ll take Gibson over Drysdale any day.”

  “Okay, maybe a toss up. Hey, can you believe Mays getting a hundred grand this year? If anyone deserves it, he does. Just never thought I’d see the day they’d pay that much to a Negro player.”

  “Times change.”

  Lou nodded. “Better late than never.”

  “So how you doing,?” I asked.

  “Can’t complain. Still breathing. At least I don’t have to wear that damn mask today. Cute nurse on swing. Beth’s her name. I told her about you.”

  “Jesus, Lou.”

  “Maybe you’ll thank me later. Say, can you get me a radio? Koufax versus Gibson coming up. Don’t wanna miss that one.”

  “I thought you had a transistor?”

  “Gone. I’m pretty sure the orderly on night shift lifted it. Screw it, though. If he’s that hard up to steal from an old sick vet, let him have it. So, how’s biz? Your mother said you’re working your ass off. My phrase, not hers.”

  “We got a new case on Friday.”

  Lou folded the paper and set it beside him on the bed.

  “Details, kid. Details.”

  I filled him in. I told him about Mrs. Flynn and Joey and Doc Flynn. He frowned when I told him about taking Flynn’s drug. I told him about Oscar Panozzo and Leon and Steve Sutton and the photographs. I told him the whole thing, all the details, everything I could remember. Then I pulled the plastic baggie from my pocket and handed it to him.