Hollywood Hang Ten

by Eve Goldberg

  “The fuck you doin’ here, Zorn?”

  “Minding my own business.”

  “I doubt that.”

  I tried to move around him, but he blocked my way.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “And I answered it.”

  “Not to my satisfaction, you didn’t.” Mackie poked me in the chest. “And if you think I’m some moron who buys that we meet here by coincidence, think again.”

  I shrugged. “Think what you want, Detective.”

  He put his red flushed face up close to mine. His breath smelled of coffee and cigarettes. “Keep your nose out of police business.”

  I wanted to tell Mackie to shove it, but the last thing I needed was trouble with the cops. Lou always made a point of getting along with law enforcement. But I knew the goodwill he had cultivated was only going to get me so far. And with Mackie, I figured that wasn’t very far at all.

  “I’ll do my best, Detective,” I said, keeping my sarcasm to a low roar.

  The truth is, it wasn’t just Mackie. I didn’t like cops much. And they didn’t tend to like me. I’m different from Lou in that way. I’m not a vet or a cop-wannabe. I don’t smoke or drink or call girls ‘broads’. I don’t cut my hair short. I’m not one of the good old boys. Some of my buddies like Reno and Skunk even have rap sheets, and the Westside cops all know it.

  Mackie and I stared at each other for a few moments. Mackie scowled, but he finally moved aside.

  I went into the lobby in search of the hotel’s coffee shop where Julie and I had planned to meet. When I asked the desk clerk — a skinny guy wearing the hotel’s trademark orange and aqua uniform — he shook his head and said, “No coffee shop. Now Huki Lau.” He pointed outside towards a covered breezeway.

  He was right. The Huki Lau was no coffee shop. First clue: the gas-burning tiki torches jutting up through the high A-frame roof. Second clue: the artificial rainfall behind the bar. Just what L.A. needed: another joint serving spare ribs and exotic rum drinks.

  The Huki Lau was about half full. But no Julie. I sat at a booth near the front and ordered a club soda. I was sipping the fizzy water, wondering if I should ask the desk clerk to ring Julie’s room, when a dark-haired beauty in tight-fitting white Capris and a sleeveless yellow blouse came into the restaurant.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Julie said as she slipped into the seat opposite me. “A policeman came to my room, asking questions. I didn’t even have time to put on make-up.”

  “You look great,” I said. “What did the cop want?”

  “A million questions about Uncle Oscar. Questions about his past, his finances, did he have any enemies. He even wanted a list of Oscar’s friends — which I told him was none of his business.”

  “You actually said that?”

  “I did. And I had a few questions for him myself. Like when would I be allowed into Oscar’s shop? I mean, I know that’s where it . . . happened . . . but I think I have a right to go in there. Oscar left everything to me, you see. At least that’s what Niles thinks. I haven’t actually seen the will.”

  “Who’s Niles?”

  “You don’t know?”

  I shook my head.

  “I guess you really aren’t in the club.”

  “Julie, you said that club was just for fruits.”

  “Not to be a big lecturer, Ryan, but ‘fruits’ is an insulting word. There’s nothing wrong with homosexuals. I loved Uncle Oscar.”

  “Okay. But you didn’t really think I was one, did you?”

  Julie laughed. “No. Not since I noticed you staring at me at the funeral.”

  “Phew!” I made an exaggerated comic gesture of wiping my brow in relief.

  We both laughed. I was glad to turn the whole thing into a joke, but it was a little creepy to think Julie would ever, even for a second, think I was a homo.

  “Since you’re not in the club,” Julie said, “how do you know my uncle?”

  “I’ll tell you, but don’t freak out.”

  “Why would I?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  Julie tilted her head, assessing me in a new light.

  “I guess this isn’t a date then. You probably want to ask me a bunch of questions — just like the police did.”

  “Well . . . I . . . ”

  “That’s okay, but I’ve got to eat first.”

  The waitress had arrived. She pulled a pencil from behind her ear.

  “What’ll it be, kids?”

  We both ordered Tahiti Burgers, fries, and lemonade. I waited until the waitress was out of earshot.

  “So who’s this Niles?” I asked.

  “Ah, question number one!” Julie teased.

  “It’s my job.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “My uncle’s agency. Southland Investigations. It’s just him and me.”

  “No, I mean right now. Why are you investigating Uncle Oscar’s death?”

  “I can’t say. It’s confidential.”

  “But you are investigating it?”

  “Sort of.”

  “And you expect me to answer a bunch of questions without even knowing why.”

  I nodded. “Pretty much. But think about it: nobody would hire a PI if we didn’t keep things private.”

  I should have stopped right there. But I didn’t. Instead, I added something that I shouldn’t have. I knew I shouldn’t, but I said it anyway.

  “Besides,” I said, “it can actually be in your interest not to know certain things.”

  “What things?” she asked.

  “Like if the cops questioned you again and you tried to hide what I had told you, maybe something that didn’t make Oscar look too good. A cop can smell a lie a mile away.”

  “Are you saying Uncle Oscar did something wrong?”

  “No, nothing like that.” I tried to worm out of it.

  I had only known Julie for half an hour and already I was looking out for her, thinking about what was good for her instead of what was best for the case.

  “I’m just saying I can’t tell you much about my case.”

  “Okay. I get it.” Her eyes sparkled with challenge. “You’re going to be just like that policeman. All questions, no answers. This is definitely not a date.”

  “Hey, I’ll talk about stuff. Just not things that are confidential to the case.”

  “Okay. So if you could go one place in the world where would it be?”

  “That’s easy. Waimea Bay.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Hawaii. North shore of Oahu. Waimea’s got these humongous waves in the winter . . . twenty, thirty feet . . . and a primo pipeline that —”

  “Pipeline?”

  “That’s a tunnel of water you can surf through. The pipeline at Waimea’s supposed to be incredible. I’ve never been there, but I know some guys who have. The swell breaks over this hollow lava reef . . . ”

  Julie was smiling at me in a funny way.

  “What?” I said.

  “You’re a surfer.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t understand half of what you’re talking about, but I can tell you really love it.”

  “Yeah.” I suddenly felt sheepish. “So what about you? Where would you go?”

  “Everywhere.”

  “Now you’re the one without answers.”

  Julie laughed. “I want to become a journalist and go to Africa, South America, China. Really see for myself how things are.”

  “Do you have to go to college to do that?”

  “Not necessarily, but it helps.”

  “So you go?”

  Julie shook her head. “I wish.”

  “Why not?”

  “I work full time. But I’m thinking of going nights. I work for my dad’s union, the ILWU. That’s the longshoremen. Mostly I answer phones and file things, boring stuff like that, but once in a while I get to work on the newsletter. A few months ago, they had me interview an old dock wor
ker who was in the General Strike of 1934. Of course I didn’t get to write up the story, they gave my notes to a real writer, but still . . . I loved it!”

  I nodded, thinking: Another intelligent girl. Like Allison. I had a feeling about Julie that I hadn’t had in a long, long time. Since Allison and I broke up, I had dated plenty of girls. Meeting girls, dating them, wasn’t my problem. My problem was comparing them all to Allison. They never measured up — looks-wise or brains-wise. Allison was smokin’ hot and on top of that she was smart. She had her own ideas. She made her own decisions. She was interested in the world, not just me.

  I looked at Julie. She was sipping her lemonade through an aqua straw.

  “I’ve been wanting to tell you,” I said, “that I’m really sorry about your uncle. He seemed like a nice man.”

  “He was.”

  The waitress came over with our food and put it on the table. My Tahiti burger was pierced by a toothpick with a green plastic palm frond waving at the top.

  “Poor Oscar,” Julie said. “It’s so horrible what happened to him. I’ve thought and thought about it and can’t come up with any reason why somebody would want to kill sweet Uncle Oscar. I just hope . . . ” she trailed off.

  “What?”

  “This might sound naïve to you, but I hope he didn’t suffer at the end.”

  “I don’t think he suffered. From what I’ve heard, he died really fast.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Just around.”

  “What else have you heard . . . around?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “At least nothing you’re going to tell me.” Julie grinned. Then her face darkened. “Uncle Oscar was such a sweet man. Why in the world would anybody do this to him?”

  “Julie, how well did you actually know your uncle?”

  “I feel like I knew him pretty well. At least better than anybody else in the family.”

  “When’s the last time you talked with him?”

  “Well . . . I haven’t visited him in a few years, and we hadn’t talked much recently, but still, I know his basic character. He and Niles were both such dear people.”

  “So who is this Niles? You still haven’t told me.”

  “He’s Uncle Oscar’s lover.”

  She said it matter-of-factly. No judgment. I liked that.

  “Is Niles a member of that club you were talking about?”

  “Of course. He and Uncle Oscar started it.”

  “What’s your opinion of Niles?”

  “I don’t know him that well, but I always liked him. If you mean, do I think he killed Uncle Oscar — absolutely not! They’ve been together for years, like a regular married couple. Except for some reason they always kept separate apartments. Niles is a set designer for the movies. He’s traveled all over the world and has wonderful stories. But mostly I guess I like him for the simple reason that he made Uncle Oscar happy.”

  “Any chance you could introduce me to Niles?”

  “I’m meeting him tomorrow at Oscar’s apartment to go over some things. Right after that I’m flying home.”

  “So soon?” The words just slipped out. If I sounded like an over-eager hound dog, Julie either didn’t catch it or let it go.

  “I’ve got a regular job,” she said. “I punch the clock, nine to five. I’m not a glamorous, independent private eye like some people I know,” she teased. “Anyway, there’s no reason for me to stay in L.A. any longer. Niles will let me know if he needs help going through Oscar’s belongings.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “It’s strange just thinking about that.”

  “What about us meeting up with Niles tonight?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to talk with him before the cops do. Cops have a way of spooking people, making them clam up. He might know something that could help us figure out what happened to your uncle.”

  “If you’re trying to con me with this ‘we’ stuff, forget it. I’m on to you, Mr. Private Eye.”

  We both grinned.

  “You got me,” I said. “But it’s true we both want to find out who killed your uncle.”

  “And you’re going to do that better than the police?”

  “I’ve got one murder to solve. They’ve got dozens.”

  Julie finished off her lemonade.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll call him.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Niles Fontenot glided toward us across the lobby. Black turtleneck, camel hair sports coat, expensive leather loafers. He moved so gracefully that he almost seemed to float.

  “So good to see you again, my dear,” he said to Julie, grasping her shoulders and kissing the air near both of her cheeks.

  Niles was about 50, sleek and trim, with a pencil-thin mustache and salt-and-pepper hair that was meticulously cut and combed. I recognized him right off as one of the mourners at Panozzo’s gravesite.

  Niles nodded to me and smiled. “And you of course are the mysterious private investigator whom Julie absolutely insisted I meet tonight.”

  Niles extended his hand to shake. I expected his grip to be soft like a girl’s, but it wasn’t.

  We took the elevator up to the third floor. Julie’s room had two twin beds, a low dresser with a bamboo-framed mirror above it, and a folding rack with her suitcase on top.

  Niles alighted on the edge of one bed. Julie sat on the other. I leaned against the wall. Niles plucked a cigarette from a sleek silver case, fit it into a silver holder, snapped open a matching silver lighter. He inhaled and blew a perfect smoke ring.

  “So,” Niles said, “Julie informs me that you intend to solve the deeply upsetting death of our dear departed Oscar. How may I be of assistance?”

  “I’d like to find out more about his life.”

  “That’s quite a broad topic. Perhaps you could be more specific.”

  “How was he doing money-wise?”

  “Why on earth would you be interested in Oscar’s pecuniary circumstances?”

  Niles was a sharp character. I wasn’t going to be able to run a bunch of nosy questions by him and expect answers without doing more explaining than I wanted to do. I wanted answers, but even more than that, I wanted access to Panozzo’s apartment, his store, his personal effects. Niles was my way in. I had this one evening to convince him to let me in.

  Lou had a way of getting people to talk. It seemed to come naturally to him, but he taught me that some of it was pure technique. One way to put a person at ease, to get them to trust you without them even knowing why, is to get in sync with them. You copy their movements, their gestures, even their breathing. Tap your foot if they tap their foot. Sit hunched if they do. Blink often if they blink often.

  Well, I sure as shit wasn’t going to copy anything Niles Fontenot did. I definitely wasn’t going to cross my legs in the pansy way he was doing right now.

  So much for technique.

  “It’s possible,” I said cautiously, “that Oscar was involved in a, uh . . . a sketchy financial situation.”

  “Sketchy?” Niles exclaimed. “I hardly associate that term with Oscar.”

  “People do all sorts of things if they’re desperate,” I countered.

  “Oscar? Desperate for money?” Julie blurted out. “No, not Oscar.”

  “You’re sure?” I said.

  Julie nodded. “Oscar and Niles were fine. I already told you at dinner: Niles works for the studios.”

  She turned to Niles for confirmation. But he looked away, refusing to meet her eyes. Instead, he leaned his head back and blew another perfect smoke ring. Finally, Niles turned to Julie.

  “When we spoke recently, my dear, I failed to mention an issue of significant personal magnitude. I saw no need to burden you with my private affairs. Now I see that it may be relevant to Oscar’s demise.”

  “What is it?!” Julie demanded.

  “We broke up.”

  “You and Oscar? But . . . but you were so . . . so together.”


  “Indeed. And as with any couple, it sometimes becomes necessary to go one’s separate way.”

  “When did this happen? Oscar never said a word to me.”

  “About six months ago.”

  “I thought you were happy together.”

  “We were. And then we weren’t. At least I wasn’t . . . . Oh, it’s all quite complicated, as relationships always are. Essentially, I met someone else.”

  “That’s not complicated.” Julie’s eyes flashed with anger.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Niles sighed.

  “Who is this . . . this new person?” Julie asked. “Was he at the funeral?”

  “No. This ‘new person’ as you call him is already ancient history.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The pertinent data, I’m embarrassed to admit, is that he was twenty-five and hot. I fell hard, but it didn’t last long. Sometimes it’s the most minuscule incident that elucidates everything. We were having drinks at the Crown Jewel one night when I asked if he would like to accompany me to an Artie Shaw performance. He said, ‘Who is Artie Shaw?’ I was flabbergasted! Who is Artie Shaw?! In that instant, I knew it would never work between us. Of course in hindsight it’s all so dreadfully obvious and unoriginal. You know, love is blind and all that clichéd tripe.”

  “But Niles,” Julie said, “what does any of this have to do with Oscar’s murder?”

  “It’s the pecuniary aspect, my dear. We all know Oscar loved the cinema. He loved his collections. He loved his shop. But fiscal matters were, shall we say, not his strong suit. Essentially I subsidized Tinseltown Treasures for years. The shop had its vicissitudes. I helped out during the difficult times — which were not infrequent. After our break-up, however, Oscar completely withdrew from me. I knew through friends that in recent months he was struggling financially. Of course he could have come to me. I would have been more than happy to assist. But he never did.”

  “Why not?” Julie asked.

  “We’ll never be certain, will we. However, I presume it had to do with pride. I imagine the thought of coming to me for help after such a rejection was just too much for his dignity, his sense of manhood.”

  Julie looked at him skeptically.

  “Yes, my dear, even we homosexuals fall victim to pernicious false pride. It’s been drilled into us as little boys. An unfortunate cultural phenomena. But there it is.”