Hollywood Hang Ten

by Eve Goldberg

  “From Mrs. Flynn’s rug,” I said. “Think it’s blood?”

  Lou peered inside the baggie. He rubbed a bit of it between his fingers. He took the oxygen tube out of his nose and sniffed it.

  “Probably blood,” he said. “But does it matter?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You already know the boy bashed the goon on the head with the frying pan somewhere around the couch.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So there’s a high chance this is Leon’s blood.”

  “Right.”

  “But if even it’s Martian snot, how does that change a thing? It was right that you collected it. Good job in doing that. But what was relevant last Friday is not particularly important today.”

  “Yeah, I see your point.”

  Lou was starting to breath hard. It was a raspy breathing. He gulped for air, grabbed the oxygen tube and pushed it back up into his nose. His breath started to calm down.

  He caught me watching him.

  “Don’t worry about me, kid. I’ll be fine. Now what I’m thinking about is this Dargin big shot. I’ve heard of him. If he’s the source of the photos, even an innocent, unsuspecting source, you’re going to have to dig around there.”

  “Yeah. I plan to.”

  “Good. And another thing: Think there’s any conflict of interest here?”

  “Whose?”

  “Yours.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Who’s your client?”

  “Sutton.”

  “And you tell him Mrs. Flynn has nothing to do with anything.”

  “She doesn’t.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or, are you being protective? Protective of her and the boy.”

  I shrugged. It was as if Lou could read my mind. I hadn’t told him about my mixed-up feelings of wanting to help Mrs. Flynn and Joey. And yet somehow he knew.

  “Oh, yeah,” Lou added, “and about your client wanting to make the past the past? I’ve got news, kid: The past is never the past. It’s been more than twenty years, but every time a car backfires I’m right back at Guadalcanal.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The sign in the window said OPEN. I parked across the street from Tinseltown Treasures, in a spot where I had a good view of the door. I put on a pair of shades and a Dodgers’ cap, hoping this was enough of a disguise in case Panozzo caught sight of me.

  I walked to the end of the block, crossed the street, then headed up the alley that ran behind Panozzo’s shop. Both the Chinese restaurant and the dry cleaners had back doors leading out to the alley. But not Tinseltown Treasures. Panozzo, and anyone else, would have to use the front door to go in or out. Which was an excellent break. Working this job solo would be do-able. Before leaving the alley, I noted that high up on the brick wall was a utility window reinforced with wire-mesh. The window was cracked open. It was probably the john.

  I got back into my car. The summer air was heating up, so I rolled down all the windows. For the entire morning I was bombarded by the clatter and clang of jackhammers, tractors, drills and forklifts at a nearby construction site. It seemed like in L.A. something somewhere was always being torn down, dug up, or built anew.

  At noon, Oscar Panozzo removed the OPEN card in the window and replaced it with one that read BACK SOON. He came out of his shop, locked the door, walked to the Chinese restaurant and went inside. About twenty minutes later, he walked out of the restaurant carrying a white cardboard carry-out box. He unlocked the door to his shop, went inside, changed the sign to OPEN.

  At exactly 6:00 PM, Panozzo flipped the card in the window from OPEN to CLOSED. He locked the door, walked up the block towards Hollywood Boulevard. I’d seen nobody other than Panozzo go in or out of Tinseltown Treasures the entire day. No customers. No deliverymen. Zip.

  I got out of my car and followed the little bald man on foot, staying on the opposite side of the street, and keeping about half a block between us.

  He went into a corner grocery store with display crates of fresh fruits and vegetables stacked at the entrance. He came out a few minutes later, carrying a grocery bag with some carrots sticking out the top. He walked north on Wilcox, turned on Yucca, walked a few more blocks, finally stopping at an apartment building trying to pass as a Swiss chalet. The building had two doors on the ground floor. Between them was a stairwell leading up into darkness. After checking his mailbox, Panozzo disappeared up the stairs. I walked part way up the block to a bus stop. I sat on the bus stop bench and watched the Swiss chalet for a while, but nobody else went in or out of the building, so I walked back to the chalet and checked the names on the mailbox. Panozzo was in #4. I tore off a small strip of paper from my notebook, went up the dark stairwell, pushed the paper into the door jamb of #4.

  Then I went home.

  Early the next morning I parked across the street from Panozzo’s apartment building and walked quietly up the stairs. The strip of paper I had stuck in the door jamb last night was still there. I walked to the bus stop and waited. At 8:30 AM, Panozzo came down the steps from his apartment. He was wearing a white linen suit, white buckskin loafers, and a blue polka dot bow tie. I followed him on foot to Tinseltown, watched as he unlocked the door, went inside, and flipped the sign in the window to OPEN. I hightailed it back to my car, drove the few blocks back to Tinseltown Treasures, and settled in for another day of surveillance.

  For five days, Panozzo stuck to the same schedule. Walk to work. Chinese for lunch. Return to shop with leftovers box. Walk home. Each night I put a strip of paper into his doorjamb. Each morning it would still be there. The one thing I knew about him so far: Oscar Panozzo was a man with a routine.

  The other thing I knew: For five days, not a single customer came into Panozzo’s shop. How the heck did this cat pay the rent, I wondered. I had a lot of time to wonder. And what did he do for fun? Was his life all work, sleep, and Chinese for lunch? What kind of life was that? Did he have any friends or family? Of course these days, if someone had been tailing me, they might be asking the same thing. When was the last time I’d hung out with my buddies, or hit the waves, or dated a girl? Which, as always, got me thinking about Allison. Was she home for the summer, or still back East? No, Ryan, I told myself. Don’t go there. It’s over. Don’t think about her.

  Day 6 began as another repeat. Without Lou to shoot the shit with – or at least to trade off shifts – the job was starting to get boring. So were the cheese and tomato sandwiches I’d been bringing along every day for lunch. Part of the deal, I told myself. Suck it up. I’m on Steve Sutton’s dime. He wants me to watch this cat, I’ll watch.

  At noon on Day 6, when Panozzo went into the Chinese restaurant for lunch, I decided to stretch my legs. I walked past the bustling construction site at Sunset and Vine, source of the racket that had been hammering relentlessly into my head all week. A signboard at the edge of the site displayed a sketch of a round white structure covered with dimples that looked like a UFO more than a building. “Coming Soon,” the sign said, “The Cinerama Dome.” The words below said the Cinerama Dome was a movie theater where three projectors run the film so that it stretches across a wide curved screen. I would definitely check it out. But there was no girl right now that I wanted to take with me. Except Allison. The sign said that the Cinerama Dome right here at Sunset and Vine was the first of six hundred more to be built around the world.

  I got back to my car at 12:15 PM. Ten minutes later, Panozzo walked out of the Chinese restaurant carrying his usual carry-out box. As always, he entered his shop and flipped the sign to OPEN.

  Then I took a calculated risk. I pulled away from the curb and headed to Beverly Hills.

  If today was like the last five days, I’d have ample time to take care of business and be back long before Panozzo closed up. If today wasn’t like the last five, I was fucked.

  CHAPTER 14

  Victor Dargin’s house was white and massive, with stately columns,
and windows framed by black lacquered shutters. It looked like the kind of place Thomas Jefferson might have called home. But bigger. The house was set back from the street by a rectangle of lawn big enough for a Rams game.

  To the right of the house was an open two-car garage. A silver Rolls Royce was parked in one spot. What else would you expect for a big shot movie exec like Dargin? The other spot was empty.

  I drove past Dargin’s mansion and over to downtown Beverly Drive. My stomach was growling, and being around all this money made the thought of my tomato and cheese sandwich seem lousy. So I went into Nate ’n Al’s and ate a fat pastrami on rye while enjoying the air conditioning and the cute blonde waitress who was serving the counter. After lunch, I went back to my car and rummaged through the canvas duffle bag in the trunk, pulling out a pair of non-prescription glasses with thick black rims.

  Seated inside the car again, I took off my Dodgers cap and shades, combed my hair back, and put on the black rims. I checked myself out in the rear view mirror. Even combed back, my hair was still shaggy, hanging over my ears. “Too long, too recognizable, not good for sub rosa,” Lou had commented many times.

  I drove back to Victor Dargin’s mansion and rang the bell. Chimes echoed from within. A hit of nervousness floated up inside me. I had to play this thing right. Besides Panozzo, Victor Dargin was my only connection to the blackmail photos. Cora Flynn found them in his office. He must know something about them. But I needed to question him without throwing any heat on Mrs. Flynn.

  A middle-aged Negro woman in a pink maid’s uniform opened the door. Her hair was streaked with white and pulled back off her smooth, unblemished face into a tight bun.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “Is Mr. Dargin home?”

  “No, sir.” Her voice was so soft that I had to strain to hear it.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Will he be back today?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t say.”

  She stood in the doorway, passive, saying nothing. She looked at me, blank and serene, like she could wait here quietly for the rest of the day.

  Just then, a hunter green Jaguar Mark II pulled into the driveway. Sweet. The Jag glided into the open garage. A moment later, Victor Dargin got out. He was about 50, my height, and starting to thicken around the middle. He had a large head, bushy eyebrows, and a trim beard flecked with grey. His suit jacket fit a bit too tight.

  “What’s this, Althea?” Dargin barked when he got to the front door.

  “This gentleman would like to speak to you, sir.”

  Dargin glared at me. “Do I know you?”

  “No, sir,” I said, taking my cue from the maid. “I’m a collector.”

  “What?” Dargin snapped. “A collector? I pay my bills. I’m a millionaire.”

  “No, no. Not bills. Can we talk inside, sir?”

  Dargin sighed. “Right here will do. Thank you, Althea. That’s all for now.” He dismissed the maid with a wave of his hand. She went inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  “Okay,” Dargin said. “What’s this all about? I’m a busy man.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand. I collect movie stuff. It’s kind of a side business. I got a tip from a friend who heard you recently left Pinnacle Studios, and sometimes people like you, people in high positions in Hollywood, well, they accumulate things, things that mean nothing to you, things you’d just as soon get rid of, but for people like us . . . well, like I said, it’s a business.”

  “Sorry, but your friend gave you a bum tip. I don’t have anything like that.”

  “Darn. I drove all the way up from San Diego. I hate to go back empty-handed.”

  “Look, like I said, I have nothing for you. Why don’t you hunt around the studio trash cans. MGM and Fox are practically around the corner. The art departments toss out lobby cards, posters, mock-ups, like they were banana peels.”

  “Our specialty is photographs, sir,” I said. “Photos of movie stars.”

  “Got nothing for you.”

  “Especially autographed ones.”

  Victor Dargin squinted at me. “What’s your name?”

  “Ryan, sir.”

  “Ryan, you’re persistent and I admire persistence. But you caught me on a bad day. Matter of fact, you caught me on perhaps the worst day of the worst month of my entire life. So I’m going to ask you to leave now.”

  “I guess I could come back at another time. Maybe by then—”

  “Ryan.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Scram.”

  I drove back to Tinseltown Treasures and resumed my watch. The sign in the window said OPEN. Steam rose from the roof vents of the dry cleaners next door. I thought about Victor Dargin. He seemed like an okay guy. I wondered what made this the worst day in the worst month of his life. Getting fired would be a drag for anyone, but for a millionaire it didn’t seem like it would be worst thing in the world. And what was so bad about today?

  As usual, the hammering, drilling, sawing, and other assorted construction noises continued all afternoon. As usual, no customers came in or out of Tinseltown all afternoon. As usual, the construction workers quit for the day at 5:00 PM. As usual, a few minutes before 6:00 PM, I put on my shades and Dodgers cap and rolled up the windows, ready to tail Panozzo up to his Swiss chalet. But he didn’t come out of the shop.

  At 6:10 the sign still said OPEN. If I was surveilling someone else, I might not think anything of it. Maybe the guy was on the phone, or busy with the books. But this was Oscar Panozzo — Mr. Routine.

  At 6:20 I walked across the street and peered into Tinseltown’s front window. I scanned the interior, my view partly obscured by the posters plastered to the glass. I caught glimpses of the rows of filing cabinets . . . the cash register on the back counter . . . a bit of the back wall . . . I scanned down to the linoleum floor . . . where a white buckskin shoe attached to a leg in white linen trousers jutted out from behind the counter.

  CHAPTER 15

  My throat tightened and my heart started pumping faster.

  I crossed the street to my car, grabbed my .38 Special from the glove compartment, dashed back to Tinseltown. Slow down, Ryan. Pay attention.

  The door was unlocked. Cautiously, I opened it. Despite my best effort, the bells jingled. I shut the door, dropped to a crouch, and listened. The only sound I heard was the muffled hum of traffic along Hollywood Boulevard. Gun pointed forward, I crept through the store.

  The door to a back room was slightly ajar. I nudged it open with my foot and looked inside. Empty. I turned to the main attraction.

  Oscar Panozzo lay crumpled against the wall behind the counter. His face, or what was left of it, was covered in blood. A bullet had gone straight into one eye socket. A chunk of brain and skull lay on the floor beside him. Blood had spattered onto his white linen suit and onto the wall behind him. Hanging above Panozzo’s body was a Bette Davis poster, a spray of red nearly obliterating the title — Payment On Demand.

  For a moment, I thought I was going to puke. It was the face. It was death. A wrong and sickening death. I swallowed hard. I turned away from Panozzo and took a deep breath, blew the air out slowly.

  I forced myself to bend down and touch his wrist. No pulse, but I already knew that. His skin was cold and tight. I tried to remember what that meant. This wasn’t the first corpse I’d seen. I’d gone to the county morgue with Lou a few times and stood around while he and the M.E. discussed this and that. I had looked at the rigid bluish bodies on the cold metal carts, torsos and chests sewn up with thick black thread, toes tagged. And there was that crazy woman who lived a few doors down from me in Venice. She was stabbed one night by the liquor store, somehow managing to drag herself through the alley, blood trailing the whole way, to the foot of my rickety stairs. That’s where I found her in the morning, her head resting on the bottom step.

  For some reason, though, this felt different. I didn’t want to look at Oscar Pa
nozzo, almost couldn’t. Only a few days ago I had been talking to this little man about Marlon Brando and One Eyed Jacks and his love of silent movies. We had been standing, talking, just feet from where he now lay. Now, Oscar Panozzo’s life was gone . . . forever and always. And the last thing between us? I had threatened him. Maybe he had it coming, if in fact he really was a blackmailer, but I had liked the guy nonetheless.

  Now, kneeling here, NOT looking at the mangled and bloody corpse on the floor beside me, the worst thought of all bubbled up into my mind: Was I somehow responsible for Oscar Panozzo’s death? I hadn’t pulled the trigger, didn’t even know who did, but I had threatened him, I had followed him, I had inserted myself into the shadows of his life. And today, at the very time I was supposed to be surveilling Panozzo but was in fact in Beverly Hills, he had been killed. If I had played it differently, if I had simply walked away after Joey was safe at home, if I had stayed in my spot across from Tinseltown Treasures today, if if if if . . . . .

  I couldn’t think about this anymore right now.

  Later for that, Ryan. Time to take care of business.

  That’s when I realized I was still holding Oscar Panozzo’s wrist. Skin cold and tight. What did that mean about time of death? My mind was blank. Fuck it. That was the cops’ problem, not mine.

  My job was to pay attention and log it all in my mind.

  I stood up and looked around. Just past the counter, the iron door to a wall safe hung open. I looked inside the safe, careful not to touch it. Empty.

  I went into the bathroom. Tiny, barely room to stand. Sink, toilet, linoleum floor — all immaculately clean. On the sink was a Snow White soap dispenser. Snow White wore a blue blouse and a long yellow skirt; she had rosy porcelain cheeks and held an apple in her porcelain hand. The toilet lid was down. Above the toilet, the high transom window was wide open. Shit. Did the shooter enter and exit through that window while I was on watch? With all that construction racket, would I have heard the shots? Maybe not. No way, if a silencer was used. Or did the whole thing happen while I was interviewing Victor Dargin in Beverly Hills?