Hollywood Hang Ten

by Eve Goldberg

  Knock it off, Ryan. You can speculate later.

  I stepped around Panozzo’s body, picked up the phone on the counter, dialed the LAPD Hollywood Station, and called it in. Then I went to the front of the store and set my .38 on a shelf beside a plastic snow globe enclosing a miniature Scarlett and Rhett embracing by a fence.

  Five minutes later I heard sirens. Two prowl cars skidded to halt in front of Tinseltown. Four uniformed cops converged on the sidewalk. One stayed out front, the other three came inside, guns drawn. The first cop to enter was beefy with a horseshoe mustache. The cop behind him had the look of a rookie catching his first homicide — gangly, wide-eyed, jumpy — trying and failing to stay cool. The last cop zeroed in on Panozzo’s white buckskin shoe and went right to it.

  Horseshoe lowered his gun and approached me, the rookie tagging behind.

  “You called this in?” Horseshoe was gruff, no-nonsense.

  “Yes, sir. I’m Ryan Zorn. Southland Investigations. My gun’s over there.”

  I pointed to the .38 Special.

  “Get the gun.” Horseshoe ordered the rookie.

  The rookie picked my gun off the shelf and dropped it into a plastic bag.

  “Got a stiff here,” the third cop called out, still crouching by Panozzo’s body.

  “Okay. Call off the bus,” Horseshoe said. Then, to the rookie: “Frisk him.”

  As the rookie patted me down, Horseshoe searched through my wallet. He examined my ID for a few seconds.

  “Okay Zorn, we’re gonna take you down to the station.”

  “What for?”

  “Just want to ask you a few questions. You got a problem with that?”

  Before I could answer, he shoved me forward.

  “Come on. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Horseshoe left me in a crummy government-issue interview room. Beige walls, no windows, two metal chairs with a table between them, sickly greenish lighting. After half an hour of nothing but the hum of the fluorescents, an overweight detective entered. He had bags under his eyes, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He wore a cheap suit which only emphasized his gone-to-seed gloom. The name tag on the lanyard around his neck read “Det. Mackie”.

  “Okay Zorn, what the hell were you doing over at Tinseltown?” Mackie asked grumpily.

  “I was on a case.”

  “What case?”

  “Sorry Detective, I can’t say. Client confidentiality — you know how it is.”

  “Oh, right. My apologies. Your client’s privacy certainly takes precedence over a goddamn inconsequential murder. So, let’s start over. What the fuck were you doing over at Tinseltown?”

  “Like I said—”

  “Cut the shit, surfer boy. You’re taking over for the old man now, right? Well, let me tell you: Lou’s got his priorities straight. He plays ball with us, we play ball with him. You got that, Junior?”

  I shrugged.

  Instantly, Mackie lunged across the table. He grabbed me by the front of my shirt, and yanked me towards him. His face, fleshy and red, was just a few inches from mine. His breath reeked of coffee and cigarettes.

  “Look you fucking bottom feeder,” he growled, “I’m trying to solve a murder here. You got that? Now either you tell me exactly what you were doing over at Tinseltown today or else you convince me right here, right now, that you’re not the motherfucker who did the deed!”

  I looked Mackie in the eye and said nothing. I’ve never done well with certain so called authority figures – just ask my high school swim coach – and Mackie was exactly that kind. I was considering my next move when the door to the interview room opened and Detective Terekov entered, a Styrofoam cup in his hand. He took in the scene with a faint chuckle. Mackie let go of my shirt and sat down in his chair. Terekov set the cup down on the table in front of me.

  “Coffee?” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said, not referring to the coffee.

  I sipped the lukewarm coffee.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Terekov said to Mackie.

  Mackie scowled, pushed himself up from the chair, and lumbered out of the room. I knew they were playing good-cop-bad-cop, but I didn’t care. I was glad to see him go.

  “So Ryan,” Terekov said, as smooth and affable as Mackie was tough, “what’s the story here? What were you doing over at the scene?”

  “I’d been surveilling the store owner for about a week. He didn’t close up shop like he usually does, so I went to check out what was up. That’s when I found him.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Six-twenty. He usually closes at six.”

  “When did you last see him alive?”

  “Around twelve-thirty. When he came back from lunch.”

  “Then what?”

  “That’s it.”

  “So Panozzo comes back from lunch, you see nothing else for the rest of the day.”

  “I was gone from about twelve-thirty to three.”

  “Let me get this straight: You’re tailing this guy all week, and in the two plus hours you’re gone he gets plugged?”

  I nodded, hating to admit it. “Probably.”

  “Or, and I love this: he gets plugged right under your nose.”

  Terekov shook his head and chuckled. I knew the entire Hollywood station would get a good laugh at my expense.

  “I realize you’re not going to give up your client,” Terekov said, “but just tell me one thing: Does this homicide have anything to do with your case?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit, Ryan. Help me out here.”

  Terekov raised an eyebrow. He cocked his head to the side and waited for my response. I shrugged.

  “Okay,” he said, “try this one on: There’s been a rash of fruit rolls around the Tinseltown neighborhood, and this guy’s a fruit, right?”

  I shrugged again. “I guess so.”

  “Here’s the thing, Ryan — and I know your uncle would agree — we got a serious situation here. A murder. A perp free on the street. This isn’t the time to hold anything back. Whatever you’re working on, that’s gotta take a back seat to this situation. You understand that, right?”

  “I’m not trying to be difficult, Detective.”

  “I’m sure you’re not. I’m sure you want to play ball with us just like Lou would. So if you have information that could help us solve this thing, I’m counting on you to do right. Like your uncle would.”

  I nodded. I didn’t believe for a second that Lou “played ball” with the cops the way these detectives made it out to be, but I knew I had to give something.

  “It must have gone down before five o’clock,” I said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “There’s construction nearby that stops at five. It’s loud and would have made it hard to hear the shots if they happened while I was there.”

  “Thanks but no thanks, Ryan. The M.E. can estimate time of death within two hours. What else you got?”

  “That’s it.”

  “How about the pick-up artist you were tracking at Kelbo’s? That related?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Terekov squinted at me for a long, uncomfortable minute.

  “Alright get outta here,” he said.

  “I’m not a suspect?”

  “Of course not.”

  “When can I have my gun back?”

  “We’ll call you when . . . and if.”

  Terekov stood up to leave. The interview was over. I stood up also.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Terekov said, looking me square in the eyes. “This isn’t a game to me, Ryan. This isn’t about turf or power or earning brownie points with the captain. It’s about a dead guy. A guy who shouldn’t be dead. Believe it or not, I care about that. I just hope you do, too.”

  CHAPTER 17

  I swiveled Lou’s desk chair around and faced the front window. The street was dark and deserted, the nursery across the street closed up for the night. The red neon BAIL B
ONDS sign blinked on and off. I was still amped up from the whole bizarre day. I sat and watched the red light flicker. After a while, my mind start to relax. I dialed Steve Sutton and told him we needed to meet. Tonight. At my office.

  “It’s after midnight,” he said. “I haven’t heard from you in days, and now you wake me up in the middle of the night. What gives?”

  “We need to meet right now. It’s important.”

  “Can’t this wait till morning?”

  “Nope.”

  Sutton sighed. “Alright. But at least you come up here. I’m not even dressed yet. And last time I checked you were working for me.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Before leaving, I checked with the answering service. Mrs. Keplinger had called: Someone was hitting golf balls onto her roof again. A potential new client had called: He was sure his wife was cheating on him, but he needed proof. Cora Flynn had called: No message.

  I wrote it all down. Then I got into my Falcon and drove to West Hollywood.

  Steve Sutton’s house was on Kings Road, just above the Strip. It was a small, Spanish style bungalow — white plaster with a red tiled roof and deep set windows. An archway in front led to a small, enclosed patio filled with potted plants and vines. The low-wattage globe by the door cast an eerie glow over broad waxy leaves and red waxy flowers and a tangle of vines climbing the walls.

  Sutton opened the door before I knocked. He was barefoot and hadn’t shaved, but he had spiffed himself up with a black polo shirt and starched khaki slacks. And he was frowning. I hadn’t told him squat on the phone, but it didn’t take a genius to figure this wouldn’t be a chat about Clemente’s soaring batting average.

  “Come on in,” he said, eyeing me warily.

  I stepped into a small tiled foyer with an antique side table and a carousel coat rack.

  “Well?” Sutton said, after he shut the front door.

  “Oscar Panozzo is dead.”

  “What?!” he gasped. His eyes widened and shockwaves spread across his chiseled, unshaven face. The surprise looked genuine. But, I reminded myself, Steve Sutton was an actor . . . and a wannabe politician.

  “He was murdered.” I added. “Yesterday.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? What happened?”

  I filled him in on the details, wondering if I was only telling him what he already knew.

  “Unbelievable!” he exclaimed when I finished. “I hire you to follow that little shit, to watch his every move, and he’s murdered. Right in front of you!”

  I had it coming. And I was probably going to make it worse.

  “Mr. Sutton, what were you doing between noon and five yesterday?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No.”

  “Why you little . . . I hired you! You aren’t here to question me!”

  “It’s what the cops will ask if they make a connection between you and Panozzo.”

  “Why the hell would they be making connections? That’s why I hired you — to keep this quiet.”

  “It’s their job. They’re gonna be all over Panozzo’s shop, his house, everywhere. They may find photos and start asking questions.”

  “We can’t let that happen.”

  “So where were you yesterday?”

  “Oh, for god’s sake. I was at my office all afternoon. Moving in. You can check with Bekins if you want.”

  “What about Leon?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s your muscle, right?

  “I wouldn’t call him that.”

  “Call him what you want. He does your dirty work. Goodbye Panozzo, goodbye blackmail.”

  Sutton shook his head. “This is ludicrous. I just want the photos, the negatives, whatever is out there. I don’t want to kill anyone to get them. As a matter of fact, my position is significantly worse with Panozzo dead. How are we going to find those photos now?”

  “What was Leon doing yesterday while you were moving in?” I asked.

  “If you must know, Leon is no longer in my employ. I had to let him go.”

  “Why?”

  “I realized that he’s become a . . . a liability to me. Leon may be loyal — as a matter of fact, loyalty is probably his outstanding characteristic — but he lacks the diplomatic touch. If I’m serious about this political run, and I am, Leon is only a detriment. His handling of Mrs. Flynn proved the point. My life is changing and Leon just doesn’t fit in.”

  “How long has he worked for you?”

  “Many years.”

  “And you fired him? Your loyal Leon? Just like that?”

  “I’m not so callous. Leon is a good man – whatever you might think of him. I’ve known him for a long time. As an excellent long-time employee, I rewarded him with an all-expense paid vacation to his home town. An extended vacation. He was very grateful. He hasn’t been back to Yugoslavia since the war.”

  Suddenly I felt sorry for lumbering, hulking, loyal Leon, sent away because he had become a liability.

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll never come back,” I said.

  “One can dream,” Sutton answered, not catching my sarcasm.

  “What day did he leave?”

  “How are these questions getting us any closer to solving my problem? You can’t truly be thinking Leon has something to do with this.”

  I shrugged. Waited for an answer. A clock dinged once somewhere in the house.

  Sutton sighed. “Okay, okay. Let’s see . . . He left on Wednesday. There was space on a flight to London. I gave Leon plenty of cash and traveler’s checks to get home from there.”

  I pulled out my notebook and a pen. “What’s Leon’s last name? And I’ll need his address. And his flight number.”

  Sutton scowled, but reluctantly gave me the information. I didn’t necessarily believe that Leon had killed Panozzo. Maybe, just as Sutton said, he was already out of the country before the murder took place. Or maybe not.

  “Leon isn’t a killer,” Sutton said. “I know him. He’s had a hard life. He may be a little rough around the edges, but he means well.”

  “You might be right, but I’ve got to at least cross him off my list.”

  “List?! What list!? You’re supposed to be helping me with my situation, not solving that vile little man’s murder.”

  “I’d bet odds they’re connected.”

  “Well, I don’t see it. And I don’t want you going off on some wild goose chase. Not on my dime. Just find me those photos.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  Sutton sighed again and ran his hand through his hair. “Do you want to sit down?” He motioned towards an archway that lead into the living room.

  “No thanks. I gotta go. But about the photos, one thing we need to do is figure out who shot them.”

  “I told you, I didn’t even know they existed, much less who took them.”

  “What about the agent? The one who set up your, uh . . . your meeting with Chip Jordan?”

  “Dargin? No way. He wouldn’t know a lens cap from a knee cap.”

  “Is this Victor Dargin you’re talking about?”

  “Yes. You know him?”

  “Not really. I thought he’s a studio big wig, not an agent.”

  “We’ve all got to start somewhere. Mail room, casting couch, talent agency. Same road, different pit stop.”

  Victor Dargin. I hadn’t told Sutton that the photos originated in Victor Dargin’s office. Before this moment, I didn’t think it was relevant to the case. Plus, to be honest, just like Lou had warned me not to, I was being protective of Cora and Joey Flynn. Bringing up Dargin naturally led to Cora Flynn.

  Now I told him. I thought Sutton would be surprised, or angry, or ream me out for not telling him sooner. Instead, he just scowled.

  “Dargin,” he muttered, “that son-of-a-bitch. So he and Panozzo are in this together. With that Flynn woman as the middleman.”

  “No, she has nothing to do with this.”

 
“That’s not how it sounds to me.”

  “I’m gonna have a talk with Dargin,” I said. “I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  Sutton looked up abruptly, an expression of alarm on his face. “Is that absolutely necessary? You have to bring Dargin into this?”

  “Yes.”

  Sutton twisted his head around, cracking his neck.

  “Uh, I probably should have told you this before,” he said sheepishly, “but I’ve already spoken with Victor Dargin.”

  “What? When?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess . . . Well, I’ve been in a state . . . my nerves are shot. The days go ticking by and you haven’t come up with anything and I just . . . I just couldn’t sit still and do nothing. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense that Dargin had some involvement in all this. I mean, to my knowledge nobody knew about that afternoon except me and Chip . . . and Dargin. So I called him. I asked him about the photos. He denied knowing anything. I kept pressing. He told me to get lost. Then he hung up.”

  “Did you tell him about the blackmail? That Panozzo was putting the squeeze on you?”

  Sutton nodded.

  “You mentioned Panozzo by name?”

  “I might have.”

  “Might have?”

  “Yes. I guess I did.”

  “And Tinseltown Treasures?”

  He nodded.

  “I wish you hadn’t done that, Mr. Sutton. I wish you’d let me handle the case in my own way. I had a plan for Dargin.”

  “Well, you didn’t tell me about any plan” he snapped. “I haven’t heard from you all week. You just left me dangling in the dark.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “I guess you’re right about that.”

  “Look, Zorn, if you’re not up for this, maybe you’re in over your head, just tell me now. This is my life we’re talking about. From what I hear, Southland is tops. Maybe there’s someone else at your outfit who’s . . . who’s more seasoned.”

  I felt my cheeks warming; tried to will my face not to turn red. I was embarrassed. And pissed off at myself. And I didn’t like Sutton condescending to me – even if I deserved it.