Hollywood Hang Ten

by Eve Goldberg

  “Check this out.”

  Tom placed a rectangular machine about the size and shape of a hotel Bible on the dinette table. The top half was silver plastic dotted with a grid of tiny holes like you might see on a microphone. The middle section was a black plastic panel. At the bottom was a silver plastic strip with a few buttons.

  “Remember that buddy of mine stationed over in Germany?” Tom said. “He got this at an electronics fair in Berlin. Runs on batteries.”

  Tom pressed one of the buttons at the bottom of the machine. He fidgeted with the button, pressing it over to the left. I heard a whirring sound. He pressed the button upward, then let go. A second of static, then:

  . . . and gentlemen . . . Miles Davis . . . Huge applause . . . a combo starts up — piano, bass, drums. The combo vamps for a while, until the unmistakable trumpet of Miles Davis joins in. He blows one note. The note sustains, then suddenly cuts off. The band plays on for a few minutes, then stops. After that, some rustling sounds, a few claps, glasses tinkling, nightclub murmur . . .

  Tom pressed the button again and the nightclub sounds stopped. “What’d I tell you?” he said. “One note, then he quits.”

  I picked up the tape recorder and turned it over. “How do you get the tape in and out and rewind and all that?”

  Tom popped open the black panel and removed a small plastic cartridge. A thin strip of magnetic tape spooled through it.

  “It’s called an audio cassette. You’ve got an hour of reel-to-reel in this tiny cartridge. My buddy in Germany, he’s got one also. We record concerts and send them to each other. He just sent me this killer Cannonball Adderley set, the sound quality is shit, but you know anybody else who’s got Cannonball live from Baden-Baden?”

  “That’s wild, man.” I tapped the recorder, thinking how useful something like this would be for my PI work. “So, where can I get one of these?”

  Tom shrugged. “Germany, I guess. Can’t get them in the States. At least not that I know of. You can borrow mine if you want. Any time. But listen, man, that’s not why I came by.”

  I grinned. “Yeah, I didn’t figure you came up here at 2 AM to shoot the shit about Miles. So, what’s up?”

  “It’s the cops, man. They were here looking for you today.”

  I nodded, not surprised.

  “They got the wrong apartment, or pretended to. Tina was freaking until the cop said he was looking for you, not me.”

  “LAPD?”

  “That’s what the man said. Suit and tie. I didn’t ask to see the badge.”

  “Flabby white guy, red face, bad attitude?”

  “Naw, man. Short middle-aged cat with grey hair.”

  I nodded. Terekov.

  “You in trouble?” Tom asked.

  “No, nothing like that. It’s just a case I’m on.”

  “That’s what I figured, but Tina, she’s jumpy. First that big white guy hanging around the Boardwalk near the liquor store, then the cop. She’s always worrying. I keep telling her, ‘This is Venice, baby, not Tuscaloosa. Nobody’s out to get us here.’ Besides, I don’t do a damn thing to get the cops’ attention.”

  “Except smoke a little weed and marry a white girl.”

  Tom grinned. “Well, yeah, there’s that.”

  “So what’s with this white guy?”

  “I dunno. He’s some kind of albino or something. Huge. Never seen him before.”

  “White hair but kinda young?”

  Tom nodded. “You know him?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Weird looking cat,” Tom added. “Tina was positive he was checking us out, so of course she freaks and decides right off he must be the KKK or something.” Tom shrugged and grinned. “Girls. They get scared so easily. At least Tina does. But what the heck.”

  Tom got up to leave. “Well, I gotta go.”

  “Thanks, man,” I said as he made for the door. Thinking to myself: What the fuck is Leon doing in Venice?

  CHAPTER 28

  Julie stood at the curb in front of the Thunderbird hotel, wearing a blue blouse, white Capris, and white sandals. She smiled and waved as I drove up. My stomach did a couple of flips.

  On our drive to Hollywood, Julie chatted away about growing up in Seattle. She told me about her three brothers and six cousins and how all the men in the family — with the exception of Oscar — worked on the docks or in the Merchant Marine. She told me about her girlfriends from high school who were now housewives and moms, and that there was no way she was going to be either. At least not before she had seen the world.

  “Why are you so quiet,” she asked when, after fifteen minutes, all I’d added to the conversation were some nods and grunts. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I lied. “I’m fine.”

  I wanted to tell her about what happened to Niles, and holding it back made me not talk at all. But I figured it was Niles’ business to say something . . . or not.

  When we arrived at Oscar’s Swiss chalet, Niles was just getting out of his red MG. He was dressed as stylishly as last night, an expensive-looking leather satchel hanging over his shoulder. But it wasn’t his attire that stood out.

  “Niles!” Julie ran towards him immediately. “What happened?!”

  His face looked like he’d been in a fight. He had — but it was a one way fight. His lips were swollen and puffy. His right eye was bruised and purple. His left cheek was red with abrasions.

  “Oh, this. It’s the latest in fashion,” Niles joked. “I call it the Tippi Hedren After-The-Bird-Attack look.”

  “Really, Niles,” Julie insisted, “what happened?”

  “Let’s go inside,” he replied, no longer joking. “I’ll tell you in there.”

  We followed Niles up the staircase. He unlocked the door and we went inside.

  Oscar’s apartment was a homey version of Tinseltown Treasures. And even more jam-packed. In the living room, nearly every inch of wall space was covered with framed movie posters and lobby cards. Each wall had a theme. There was the Barbara Stanwyck wall, the Susan Hayward wall, the Greta Garbo wall. The mantle above the fireplace was crowded with movie-themed knickknacks. The coffee table was the holding spot for stacks of Screenland and Photoplay magazines from the 1920s and 30s.

  “Voilà!” said Niles, making a dramatic sweeping gesture around the room. “Pure Oscar.”

  “It’s so strange to be here without him,” Julie said. “I really miss Uncle Oscar a lot.”

  “Me too,” Niles murmured.

  “So what happened to you, Niles?” Julie asked once more.

  He told her. I looked down at the floor the whole time. Especially when Niles went on and on about how I intervened and saved him from further harm. I didn’t feel deserving of the praise.

  “That’s so terrible,” Julie said when Niles had finished. “Shouldn’t we do something? Report it to the police or something like that?”

  Even as she said it, we all knew how ridiculous that sounded. Report a lousy policeman to the police. Lots of luck.

  “The best thing we can do is nothing,” Niles said emphatically. “Just let it lie. Not only would a complaint be ineffective, it might cause retaliation. It’s best if we just move forward. I know from experience.”

  “This has happened to you before?” Julie was aghast.

  “Not me personally. But we homosexuals are handy targets. And not just for police. It happens.”

  Time was ticking. And the conversation was making me feel uncomfortable. I didn’t want to think about the problems of homosexuals right now. I wanted to search Panozzo’s apartment and his bank box before I had to drive Julie to the airport.

  “Mind if I look around?” I asked.

  “That’s what we’re here for,” Niles responded.

  It was a two-bedroom apartment. In the study, wedged beside a life-sized cardboard cutout of Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp — bowler hat lopsided, feet splayed in floppy shoes, a puzzled expression on his face — and another wall full of movie po
sters, was an antique roll-top desk. I carefully searched through all the drawers and cubby holes. I thumbed through bills and receipts, domestic and business. I found Late Notices from utility companies, Past Due notes from the landlord. Stapled to the last rent notice for Tinseltown Treasures was a receipt for $3,000 stamped PAID IN FULL

  I explored the entire apartment. I looked under the bed, under the mattress, through Oscar’s clothes and pockets, inside the medicine cabinet and linen closet, behind the toilet tank. I searched the refrigerator and freezer, moved the fridge and checked behind it. I hunted beneath drawers and inside pots and pans. I searched inside the fireplace, running my hand over the sooty brick. I emptied a Laurel and Hardy piggy bank. I picked up books and magazines and shook them out.

  I asked Julie and Niles if it was okay to take posters out of their frames.

  “Go ahead,” Niles said. He seemed tired and subdued.

  I carefully pried open all the movie poster frames and checked inside. When there were no more places to search, I sat down on the couch next to Julie.

  “Did you find whatever it is you’re looking for?” she asked.

  I shook my head. We all sat in silence, surrounded by Oscar Panozzo’s life.

  “I brought the will,” Niles finally said.

  He opened his leather satchel and took out a single sheet of onion skin paper. The heading, Last Will & Testament, was followed by a single typed paragraph leaving all of Oscar Panozzo’s possessions to Niles Fontenot. The document was stamped by a Notary Public and dated May 3, 1961.

  “Oscar’s birthday,” Julie observed.

  Niles nodded. “Turning fifty will make you take stock.”

  Sitting amidst Oscar Panozzo’s collections of entertainment glamour and cheer, we all seemed blue. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  Julie and I said goodbye to Niles, then drove the few blocks to Hollywood First National Bank.

  “This building looks familiar,” Julie said when we got out of the car. Her mood seemed to have lightened since we left Oscar’s apartment.

  “Did you come here with your uncle?” I asked.

  “No. Never. That’s not what I mean. It just looks familiar.”

  We stood on the sidewalk and both stared up at the enormous, thirteen story, white tower. At the top was a green cone-shaped roof studded with winged stone gargoyles. Like vultures surveying their prey, the gargoyles were perched on a ledge at the base of the green cone, looking down on the pedestrians walking Hollywood Blvd.

  “Metropolis,” I said, suddenly picturing the winged gargoyles in black & white. “It’s the building from Superman.”

  “That’s it!” Julie said. “Of course. Where he would fight those goofy crooks and bad guys. My brothers and I used to watch it all the time where we were kids.”

  She shot me a dazzling smile. Her smile almost put me in a good mood.

  We went into the bank.

  The lobby was old and grand and decaying. Dark wood paneling, high windows, lots of dust. Superman — and nearly everybody else — had left the building. It seemed as if Oscar Panozzo not only had a thing for old movies, he had a thing for old banks.

  I sat on a hard wooden bench near the entrance. Julie crossed the lobby and stood with her back to me, talking to a teller. I watched the teller’s mouth move, but couldn’t hear his words. A short, elegantly dressed man unhooked a sagging velvet rope at the end of the counter. He motioned Julie to follow him into the belly of the bank.

  Ten minutes later she was back.

  “I got everything,” Julie said as she handed me a cardboard file box. “But don’t hold your breath for anything earth-shattering . . . unless . . . ” she lowered her voice in mock seriousness, “unless The Wizard of Oz holds the key to Uncle Oscar’s murder.”

  We sat together on the bench. Sitting this close to Julie was distracting me from everything else. I opened the box and removed a thick stack of 11” x 14” lobby cards. A Star is Born, The Pirate, Babes in Arms, Wizard of Oz, Easter Parade, Listen Darling, Loves Finds Andy Hardy, Into Good Meet Me In Saint Louis, Summer Stock, Old Summertime, Presenting Lily Mars . . .

  Most of the cards were in English, but some were in French, Italian, even Japanese.

  “I didn’t know Judy Garland made so many movies,” I said.

  “And I’ll bet Uncle Oscar has every single one.”

  “I wonder why he kept these cards in a safe deposit box.”

  “Maybe they’re worth a lot of money,” Julie suggested.

  “Judy Garland?” I looked at her skeptically. “Besides, if your uncle had money problems and these were worth something, wouldn’t he sell them?”

  “You don’t know Uncle Oscar. He loved movies and everything related to them. Sometimes I think he ran his store not to sell things but just so he could be around all this.”

  CHAPTER 29

  We drove back across town to the airport. Julie talked about Oscar and her first time visiting him when she was ten years old.

  “I’ll never forget that trip. He took me to see Sunset Boulevard, All About Eve, and Born Yesterday. And then Sunset Boulevard for a second time. One movie each day! And they were all grown-up movies!! After that, I begged my parents each summer to let me visit Uncle Oscar again. Usually I got my way.”

  I listened. Nodded. Grunted.

  “Ryan, are you okay?” Julie finally asked. “You’re so quiet, just like this morning.”

  We were headed down Sepulveda, getting close to the airport. I could keep silent, drop her off at the terminal, and probably never see her again. Or I could talk.

  “It’s what happened to Niles,” I finally said. “I’m still upset about it.”

  “Me too,” Julie said. “I really like that you’re concerned about Niles. And that you’re not prejudiced against homosexuals. Most people are.”

  “That’s the thing.”

  “What? What’s the thing?”

  “It’s embarrassing. No, it’s worse than embarrassing. It’s something I’ve never told anybody.”

  “Now I’m really curious. You have to tell,” she teased.

  We crossed Manchester. I turned onto a side street and parked under a magnolia tree.

  “It happened when I was in high school,” I began. “My buddy Skunk had gotten a job painting houses on the weekends so he got to use the boss’s truck. We were all stoked because he was the first one of us to have wheels. This one day we heard the surf was up at Zuma, so me and Skunk and our buddy Reno headed up there in Skunk’s truck. But when we got to Zuma, the surf was mush. The weather was cold and cloudy and nobody else was at the beach. So we just hung out in the truck for a while, shooting the shit. Then this awesome car drives into the lot. It was an Austin Healey, a British car. I mean you hardly ever see them in the States. And this one is a silver-blue convertible, chrome wire wheels, hard top. We’re stokin’ out on the Healey as these two guys get out of it. They walk to the beach. We’re just there, watching, shooting the shit, when all of a sudden the two guys hold hands. Ugh. I mean my philosophy is live and let live, but seeing it like that . . . well, at the time it seemed kind of disgusting to all of us. And Skunk, he got it the worst. He goes ape, talking about ‘those fuckin fairies’ and stuff like that.

  “ ‘I’ll show those fuckin fags,’ Skunk says, and he jumps out of the truck. The two fair– uh, homosexuals, are way down the beach now where we can’t see them anymore. Skunk, he goes around the back of the truck and grabs a can of paint. I’m thinking: oh, no, don’t do it, man! Finally, I yell, ‘Leave it alone, man,’ something like that, but he waves me off. He runs over to the Healey and paints these big sloppy white letters across the side of the car. F-A-G-G-O-T. Then he runs back to the truck and we book outta there.”

  I look at Julie, waiting for her to tell me what an asshole I am and how she was wrong about me being an okay guy.

  “That’s awful, Ryan,” she says.

  “I know. I feel lousy about it. Really, really lousy.”

/>   “You weren’t the one who did it.”

  “I could have stopped him.”

  “You tried.”

  “Not really. Not very hard.”

  “Well, it was a long time ago. I mean: high school. We’re all different now.”

  I shrugged. Was I different? I sure wanted to be.

  “And since I’m telling you the whole thing,” I admitted, “here’s how low my thinking can go. While Skunk was painting those letters, I was more worried about messing up the Healey than about the two guys.”

  Julie laughed. “Men. You are a weird bunch.”

  At least she was laughing.

  Julie looked at her watch. “Hey, we’ve got to go. I don’t want to miss my plane.”

  As we drove to LAX, my mood had improved 100%. Julie didn’t hate me. And I didn’t have to hold onto that secret anymore.

  We circled passed a white flying saucer on spider legs, otherwise known as the LAX restaurant. I’d never been inside, but according to Lou the drinks were watered down, the steaks decent, and the 360° views were the best in town.

  I pulled to the curb at the Western Airlines terminal and we got out of the car. I lifted Julie’s suitcase out of the trunk.

  “I can take it from here,” she said.

  We were standing close to each other. The air was soaked with the smell of jet fuel.

  “I’m glad you told me about that day,” she said. “I feel like I know you a little bit.”

  “Yeah” I said. “Thanks.”

  “Well . . . bye.”

  I put down the suitcase and kissed her. She kissed me back. We stood at the curb kissing for a while. Then she picked up her luggage, flashed me a smile, and walked toward the terminal. When she got to the smoky glass doors, she turned and waved. The door whooshed shut behind her.

  Usually, I don’t feel alone. I might be alone, but it doesn’t bother me. As soon as Julie left, it did.

  I drove to an abandoned onion farm at the north edge of the airport. I parked in the middle of the field, got out of the car, and hoisted myself up onto the roof of my Falcon. I lay down on my back, legs dangling over the windshield. I shut my eyes and listened to the cars whiz by on Sepulveda. Cool damp air drifted in off the ocean and settled on my skin. A jet engine started revving up, its high-pitched whine electrifying the air. I listened as the plane taxied up the runway, getting louder and louder . . . until . . . I opened my eyes and stared straight up into the steel underbelly of the jet as it passed over me, its engines roaring like a massive fire. The air wrinkled with fuel and heat.