Hollywood Hang Ten

by Eve Goldberg

  She turned and went back into the house.

  “Now where were we?” Max said.

  I had no idea.

  Forget her, I told myself. Get over it.

  CHAPTER 19

  Traffic was light as I drove back along the coast highway towards town. The afternoon sun glinted silver and gold off the water. The surf lay nearly flat, the Santa Anas blown somewhere far out at sea.

  As I drove, I tried to get my mind off Allison. Luckily, I didn’t have to search far for a distraction. Max had given me a lot to chew on: All this HUAC stuff, whether or not it came into play in my case, had me disturbed. People snitching off their friends to save their own ass. Guys losing their jobs due to their political beliefs. Chip Jordan caught up in the middle of it all. And people like Victor Dargin thinking it was all okay. Well, it didn’t seem okay to me. Not one bit.

  When I reached Sunset Blvd., I made a snap decision. Instead of following PCH into Santa Monica and heading to the office, I turned left, and drove into the Palisades.

  I parked under the eucalyptus in front of the Flynn house and rang the buzzer. Cora Flynn answered the door wearing a terry cloth bathrobe tied loosely around her waist. She looked haggard and pale.

  “Oh. Ryan. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  She glanced down self-consciously at the drink in her hand.

  “I called back a couple of times,” I said, “but didn’t get an answer.”

  “Yes . . . right . . . come in.”

  I followed her into the house. All signs of the break-in were gone. We went down the three wide steps to the sunken living room where the glass coffee table stood on the bare cork floor. Mrs. Flynn sat down on the couch, making a big show of adding Coke to her drink. I sat opposite her in a modern bucket chair that was more comfortable than it looked.

  “You cleaned the place up,” I said. “It looks good.”

  “Thanks. Joey helped a lot.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Fine,” she said. But she said it without conviction — and without looking me in the eye.

  “Is he around? I’d like to say hi.”

  “No. And I’m glad he’s not. I don’t want him to worry.”

  “Why would he?”

  “That’s what I called you about. It’s Mr. Dargin. He showed up at the studio yesterday, very upset. He made an ugly scene at the gate. Security had to physically throw him off the lot. I . . . I’ve been anxious and worried ever since.”

  “What was Dargin upset about?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t there. It’s just what I heard.”

  “What time did it happen?”

  “What . . . what time? I don’t know. I heard about it at lunch, so sometime before that. I didn’t ask questions because I didn’t want to seem too interested.”

  “Did you hear anything else?”

  “Just that Mr. Dargin was demanding to get back into his office, but they wouldn’t let him onto the lot. He punched a security guard. They had to wrestle him to the ground.”

  “Was he arrested?”

  “No. The studio likes to handle things on their own. You know how it is.”

  I didn’t, but I let it go. Mrs. Flynn took a sip of her drink.

  “Ryan,” she said, leaning forward and lowering her voice, “did I do anything illegal by taking those photos and selling them?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Because . . . this whole thing . . . with Mr. Dargin coming back . . . it’s got me scared and worried all over again. I can’t afford to lose my job.”

  “You said they tossed him off the lot, so that’s probably the end of it.”

  “But he hit a security guard! I think he might be losing it. And the worst part is I can’t get the thought out of my head that this all has something to do with those photos.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Just a feeling. Maybe it’s my guilt talking, but I’m just . . . well, spooked, I guess. I don’t feel safe in my own life anymore.”

  She looked at me. Her eyes were unfocused. She stood up, wobbled a bit as she negotiated around the coffee table, and eventually perched herself unsteadily on the arm of my chair which wasn’t really an arm at all, more just a curve in the plastic.

  “But you know what?” Mrs. Flynn purred. “I feel safe when you’re around, Ryan.”

  Her leg brushed against mine. No, no, no, no, my mind shouted. I need to get up from this chair and out of the house right now.

  “Ryan,” Mrs. Flynn said, her rum and Coke breath just inches from my face, “do you find me attractive?”

  “We’re not going there, Mrs. Flynn.” I began plotting how I could get up from the chair without knocking her off the curved arm.

  “Well, I find you attractive,” she cooed.

  Her body started to sag towards me. I reached out to steady her. In doing so, I managed to maneuver myself out of the chair, simultaneously easing her into it. She had a dazed look on her face. Hopefully, she was too blitzed to get up and make another move towards me.

  “Am I too old for you?” she said. “Is that it?”

  “Look, Mrs. Flynn—”

  “I’m only thirty-six.”

  “Mrs. Flynn, I need to tell you something. Oscar Panozzo is dead.”

  “Who . . . Oscar . . .?”

  “Tinseltown Treasures. The man you sold the photos to.”

  “Wha . . . dead?”

  “He was murdered.”

  Her body tensed up. Her eyes tried to focus. She made an attempt to sit up straight, quickly gave up, and sank back down into the bucket chair.

  “How? How did it . . .?”

  “He was shot.”

  “I don’t . . . Does this have something to do with . . . with the photos?”

  “It might.”

  “Why are you scaring me like this, Ryan? What’s going on?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. It happened yesterday. The police are just beginning their investi —”

  “Police?!” Mrs. Flynn sucked in her breath.

  “I thought you’d want to know.”

  “But I don’t. I don’t want to know.” She shook her head back and forth in short, quick bursts. “I don’t want to know anything. I just . . . ”

  She looked towards the table where her rum and Coke glass sat in a puddle of sweat. She pushed herself out of the chair, wobbled a bit, sank back down.

  “Maybe you want some coffee,” I suggested.

  “I don’t want any coffee. I just want to keep my job. No trouble . . . no police . . . keep Joey with me.. I . . . I know this sounds selfish, but can you do something to keep me and Joey out of this?”

  “What does Joey have to do with anything.?”

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. “Nothing at all.”

  Her face went through a couple of inscrutable arrangements. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to clear her booze-soaked brain, or what.

  “It’s just that Joey and I . . . we don’t need any more trouble.”

  CHAPTER 20

  I woke up feeling pressure. It was like a pile of bricks pressing down on my chest. Each brick had a name inscribed on it. Panozzo . . . Sutton . . . Leon . . . Cora Flynn . . . Victor Dargin . . .

  One of Lou’s favorite sayings floated up into my mind:

  There are no coincidences. Coincidence is just the word people use when they don’t know how things are connected.

  Panozzo’s murder and Sutton’s blackmail. I had to figure out how they connected. Solve one and other would fall into place. I was sure of it. Not sure in the way you know if it’s Monday or Tuesday, or that two plus two equals four, but sure nonetheless.

  As for the bricks pressing down on my chest: it wasn’t just about the blackmail. It wasn’t just about proving I could solve the case — proving it to my client, proving it to Lou, or even proving it to myself. It was about Oscar Panozzo. No matter what Panozzo did or didn’t do in terms of blackmailing Steve Sutton, he didn’t dese
rve to die. What the cops did about Panozzo’s murder was their business. Sometimes they solved a crime, sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes even a good cop like Terekov couldn’t. Besides, in this case I had more of the puzzle pieces than the cops did. Pieces that, for the sake of my client, I couldn’t share with the cops. And that brick was the heaviest of all.

  I drove to the office.

  After half an hour of beeps and disconnects and voices too faint and crackled to hear, I finally spoke with someone who knew English. What I learned about searching for someone through JAT (Yugoslavian Airlines) or through JZ (Yugoslav Railways): Don’t bother.

  Lou knew a PI in London with connections to Interpol who had helped out on a couple of his cases. But Sutton hit the roof when I suggested to him that I use this guy to find Leon.

  “Are you out of your mind!?” he bellowed. “Leave Leon alone. Let him enjoy his goddamn vacation. Find me those photos or I’ll find myself someone else who will.”

  So I got into my car and hit the road.

  The sky was clear and blue. The KRLA Surf Report announced three foot swells at Malibu. But I was headed in the opposite direction.

  I drove south, past the monster oil drums of the Chevron refinery in El Segundo, cut east on Rosecrans and drove inland. I passed dairy farms and oil derricks, rusted farm equipment and decrepit sheds. Then miles and miles of new tract homes with neatly mowed squares of lawn. The further east I drove, the hotter it got. Finally, I reached my destination: a swath of desert some developer had paved over, put up some traffic signals and tract homes, and named Norwalk.

  I pulled over at Rosecrans and Pioneer, where a goofy metal tower trying to look like an oil derrick rose up from the middle of a humongous parking lot. At the top of the tower was a red sign that said Norwalk Square. Along one edge of the “square” were some spindly palms and a line of stores including a Market Basket and a movie theater playing Bye Bye Birdie. I took off my sports coat and flung it into the back seat. I would have preferred to look professional for this visit, but the heat won.

  I cruised further up Rosecrans, turned onto a treeless side street. Leon’s apartment building was a two-story stucco job with a narrow walkway running along the second floor. Each unit had its own parking space marked with numbers on the pavement. The place looked like a motel without the ice maker.

  Leon’s apartment was on the ground level, right under the outdoor staircase. I rang the buzzer just as two small boys were coming out of the unit next door, tugging their tricycles over the threshold. They looked at me for a moment, giggled, then hopped on their bikes and began zig zagging around the driveway.

  I rang the buzzer again. I knocked. The door to the next unit opened again and a chubby woman in blue stretch pants and a pink apron with ruffles, stuck her head out.

  “Boys! Stay away from those cars!”

  Then she caught sight of me.

  “He’s not home,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “The manager. Mr. Leon. You’re at his door aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Okay, thanks. I’ll come back later.”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “A lot of good that’ll do you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Mr. Leon hasn’t been around all week, and I’m at my wits’ end. So don’t hold your breath, that’s all I’m saying.” She started to shut the door.

  “M’am?”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, I came a long way, and I don’t want to drive out here again unnecessarily. You say Mr. Leon hasn’t been home all week?”

  “That’s right, and he couldn’t have picked a worse time. Our bathroom sink’s stopped up, probably something the twins did that they won’t admit to. What’s the good of a manager if he isn’t around to fix things? My husband tried, but no cigar, so we’ve been using the kitchen sink for everything. If Mr. Leon doesn’t come back soon, we’re going to have to call a plumber. And cross our fingers that the landlord will reimburse.”

  “When’s the last time you saw Mr. Leon?”

  The woman squinted with one eye and looked at me closely. I must have sounded too interested in Mr. Leon. To recover, I went for my wallet, pulled out a business card, and flicked it up rapidly — too rapidly to read — covering most of it in my hand.

  “Mitch Randall, Electrolux Vacuum Cleaners. I’m following up on an order placed by Mr. Leon Vanek for our top of the line Automatic Diamond Jubilee Canister model.”

  The woman brightened and reached for the card. I drew it back before she could grab it.

  “I’ll just drop this into Mr. Vanek’s mail slot. He has to return eventually.”

  I palmed the card, pushed open the mail slot in Leon’s door, and pretended to drop it through.

  “So you sell vacuums,” the woman said. “I wouldn’t mind a new one myself. I love our Kirby, but it is getting old.”

  “Kirbys are excellent machines.”

  “But Diamond Jubilee . . . that sounds special.”

  “Top of the line. I’m sure Mr. Vanek will be quite pleased. He must be a man who values cleanliness.”

  “I wouldn’t know. He never lets anyone inside. You knock and he comes out. You drop the rent through the slot. He’s very quiet. I never hear a peep coming from his apartment, not even the TV. I think quiet people tend to be tidy, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I grinned at her. She grinned back. We were having a bonding moment over tidiness.

  “So, is Mr. Leon gone a lot?” I asked.

  “He comes and goes. But I don’t remember him ever being away this long.”

  “And he’s been gone . . . did you say a week?”

  She thought for a moment. “Well . . . I’m pretty sure it was last Monday that the sink overflowed. So, yes. It’s been a week. One whole week of Crest and Burma Shave and god-knows-what else in my kitchen sink!”

  “Sounds unpleasant.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” I said. “Well, thank you, m’am. I appreciate your help. I’ll try back another time.”

  I turned to go, but the woman wasn’t finished with me yet.

  “When you come back,” she said, “could I have a free demonstration of that Diamond Jubilee? The Kirby man gave us a free demonstration.”

  “Sure. I’ll do that.”

  “Thanks!” she beamed. Then she glanced over my shoulder into the driveway and frowned.

  “Boys!” she shouted. “I want you both in right now! I warned you. You’re too close to the cars.”

  I waited until the woman had herded her kids back inside before peering into the mail slot in Leon’s apartment door. I could see part of a low table with a portable Zenith radio and a couple of magazines lying on top. The Zenith was the kind with short wave, marine weather, the whole bit. At the extreme lower edge of my vision, I could see a pile of mail scattered on the floor just inside the door.

  I walked around the building, counting windows and doors until I got to the window that matched Leon’s unit. The metal mini-blinds were down, but the slats were just horizontal enough so that I could peek through. Inside was a spartan bedroom with a bed, dresser, and single chair. The bed was neatly made. The dresser drawers were shut. An extra-large, brown corduroy jacket hung neatly over the back of the chair. Tidy.

  CHAPTER 21

  I couldn’t put it off any longer. I drove back from Norwalk and straight into Beverly Hills. I walked up to the white mansion and rang the bell. The maid with the soft voice opened the door.

  “Is Mr. Dargin home?” I asked. No goofy black-rimmed glasses, no slicked back hair, this time.

  “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

  “No, but if you could just give him this, I think he’ll want to see me.”

  I handed her my card. She took the card and studied it. Her eyebrows arched slightly and I thought I saw a small, tight-lipped half-smile. She looked at me and chuckled.

  “One moment, sir.
”

  After the housekeeper went inside the house, I turned to survey the front yard. Tall box hedges bordered both sides of the lawn. A driveway ran along the south hedge. In the garage, the Jaguar and the Rolls were keeping each other company.

  The door jerked open behind me. I pivoted, coming face to face with Victor Dargin. He was wearing a velvet smoking jacket with a silk handkerchief poking out of the breast pocket. In his hand was my business card. He tapped his finger on the card and glared at me.

  “What the fuck is this?” he barked.

  “I was here the other day, and—”

  “I’m not senile. I know you were here. But who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m a private investigator,. My name is—”

  “I know your name. It says it right here.” He tapped his finger on the card again. “Why the fuck are you here?”

  “It’s about the Chip Jordan photos. I’m working for Steve Sutton.”

  Victor Dargin stood stone-faced for a moment.

  “Alright, come in,” he said, resigned and more subdued. “Fucking Sutton. Let’s go out back. I don’t want to disturb the wife with this unpleasantness.”

  I followed him down a gloomy hallway with dark, polished-wood floors. I caught brief passing glimpses into a carpeted billiards room with a green felt table, the balls racked and ready to go; a kitchen with fancy copper pots hanging above the range; a formal dining room with a china cabinet and a chandelier dripping with crystal. Two other doors were shut. The hallway ended in a sitting room with heavy upholstered furniture and thick, burgundy drapes keeping out all but a sliver of the light. Dargin pulled back the drapes and unlatched the French doors that led to the backyard.

  We threaded our way through a geometric maze of low boxy hedges clipped into unnatural geometric shapes. Beyond the hedge matrix was an expanse of lawn, and beyond that a swimming pool. Chaise lounge chairs were arranged neatly around the pool on pink cement. To the right of the pool was a tennis court. We sat poolside on metal chairs at a round, glass-topped table.

  “Loved the amateur hour act you pulled the other day, Zorn,” Dargin smirked. “Now if only you could juggle, tap dance, or twirl a baton I’d get you an audition for Ted Mac.”