Private Eye 2 - Blue Movie

by David Elliott

  Johnny reached up to touch his battered face. "Yeah, makes me kinda stand out from the crowd. Guess I best stand back here."

  "Please do," the owner said, eyeing Johnny’s leather jacket and pegged jeans rather than his battered face. "I got an image to maintain. At least Cooke there dresses with class."

  Johnny slipped on the headphones. "Yeah, I'm get-tin' ready to eavesdrop on this hoodlum bum that you probably think has class, too—no offense to Mr. Sam Cooke."

  The owner thumbed his nose at Johnny.

  By inching out a few feet, Johnny could see D'Rosa's table. The man was sandwiched between two big-breasted party girls, both wearing tight-fitting dresses that left little to the imagination. At that moment, Nicky The Rose was popping the cork on another bottle of high-priced fizz juice.

  "The real life of the party, ain't ya?" Johnny muttered.

  One of the girls—a short brunette in a royal blue dress—was cooing to him, caressing his shoulders with her hands. "Nicky, baby, not to get personal or nothin', but I gotta question..."

  "Anything, babes."

  "Well, I was just wondering... when are you gonna settle down? You know what I mean—like with somebody like me or Charlene here?"

  "Or maybe both?" Nicky said, then belly laughed.

  "What a jerk," Johnny said. He assumed Charlene was the other chick, a bleached blonde in a crimson dress that was cut even lower than the one worn by the brunette.

  "I gotta be honest with you," D'Rosa was saying. "You girls are pure twenty-four-karat gold. You both would be great mothers. That's how I judge women, you know. I'd be a lucky—and happy man—to snag either one of youse, but I did something really stupid awhile back."

  "What's that?" the blonde asked.

  "I fell for this doll."

  "Oh, poor baby," the brunette said.

  "Can you believe it? Nicky The Rose hooked,"

  D'Rosa asked. "Head over heels for a dame. In fact, be sure and tell me when it's midnight. I got a rendezvous planned with her."

  "Holy smokes," Johnny said.

  "You're not gonna leave us, Nicky?"

  "Sorry, but like I said, I'm hooked."

  A waiter, carrying a phone, approached the gangster's table. "You have a call, Mr. D'Rosa."

  "Speaking of the devil," D'Rosa said, "she musta found me."

  The two girls tittered as he took the phone.

  "Yeah, baby—talk to me."

  Johnny watched the boyish smile dram from D'Rosa's face.

  "Frankie? Is that you?" D'Rosa said.

  Nicky The Rose's facial expression had turned very serious. "Hey, Frankie, long time. Where you callin' from? The connection's great."

  Johnny, of course, was denied the other side of the conversation. All he could do was read D'Rosa's face, which didn't appear at all pleased with the caller's answer.

  "Whadaya mean, here? You mean L.A.? Or the club? Say, how'd you know I was here?"

  D'Rosa's head started to turn as he looked around the club. His eyes settled on a big, middle-aged man all the way across the room. He was with another guy, even bigger. The third man appeared to be an old gentleman, almost feeble in appearance.

  "We know everything you do," Frankie Carbo was telling D'Rosa. "It's called takin' care of business, Nick. You're living mighty high these days."

  "Is that Tito Desidero with ya?" Nicky asked.

  "Yeah. Wanna talk to him?"

  Nick D'Rosa had no desire at all to talk to Desidero. The aging mobster was a legend in gangland, and he had outlived most of his more infamous peers because he was careful and ruthless—meaning he killed before he got killed.

  Johnny was pressing the earphone against his head, trying to pick up every word. Although he had no idea who was on the phone with Nicky The Rose, he suspected that either that person was in the club or someone else was, and D'Rosa was being warned about it. Either way, something big was going down, and he knew it. His eyes were still on D'Rosa, who was busy pulling a couple of bills from his wallet. He handed them to the two girls.

  "Here. Grab a cab."

  "Oh, Nicky—"

  "Do it—now!"

  The blonde snatched the money. "Talk about a bum's rush—"

  D'Rosa's attention returned to the phone. "Uncle Tito—it's been awhile. If I knew you were coming, I'd have arranged something special."

  The old man's face was impassive as he talked to a man he obviously considered an inferior. "How are you, Nicholas? Are you happy out here?"

  "Oh, yeah... yes, sir. This place is great. I really appreciate you sending me."

  Desidero sipped a glass of anisette. "I hear you have a new woman—some big movie star. You keepin' her happy, Nicholas?"

  "Of course, Uncle Tito. You know me. These two girls who just left, they were actresses looking for a break. I was telling them how hard it is. You know, like in all things, it takes a little axle grease "

  The old man finally smiled. "I know that, Nicholas. You remember, I sent you out to this place because you always had class. I passed over Frankie here because he's got too much street in him. You know what I mean?"

  "Sure, Uncle Tito—"

  "Now, don't get me wrong, Nicholas. That's not saying anything bad about Frankie here. He's a good man. Many times he's proved his loyalty to the family—many, many times. You understand me, Nicholas?"

  "Sure, Uncle Tito—"

  "But I'm getting reports about you, Nicholas. They disturb me."

  D'Rosa was sweating as he listened. His finger loosened the bright red tie he wore. "Whatsa matter—"

  "Be patient, Nicholas. Just listen to me. You're drawing a lot of attention to yourself. Your picture, it's always in the papers. That's not good business, Nicholas. We try not to get that kind of attention, Nicholas."

  D'Rosa sucked up his gut. "Uncle Tito, that's the way of things out here. Hollywood's the coming thing. It's the future, but it means you gotta play a little by their games. This town thrives on personalities, Uncle Tito."

  The old man kept talking. "This bloodshed, Nicholas. It's not good. It's unnecessary."

  "That wasn't me," D'Rosa said quickly. "I had nothing to do with the hit on Tomac. I swear, but, if I'm right on who did, it's good for us."

  "You think so?" the old man said.

  "You betcha. The door is half open. If we can make a move after this Tomac hit, it'll open all the way. Believe me, Uncle Tito, Hollywood's the next place for us to expand. I got plans, Uncle Tito."

  There was a pause on the other end, then Desidero said, "I trust you, Nicholas, but don't let all these bright lights blind you. You still have my blessing." Before D'Rosa could answer, the phone clicked dead.

  EIGHT

  The door to Eva Miles's apartment swung open. Cleary held his breath. His hand was on the bulky .45 automatic. The intruder hesitated before stepping inside. The man was humming, and Cleary recognized the tune. "Confidential" by Sonny Knight. The humming turned to a low singing as the man stood in the doorway, surveying the interior of the apartment. If he was a burglar, he certainly was taking his time coming into the sanctuary of his chosen mark for the night. Not too many burglars sang, either, not until they got nabbed.

  "Confidential as a church at twilight..."

  Finally he stepped into the room and paused again, this time to light a cigarette. Cleary saw then that he wore a gray sharkskin suit. A severe flattop gave him the appearance of a cop or a military man. The detective easily recognized the figure. It was the same haircut he had seen that day at McNeil's press conference. This was the guy he thought had been following McNeil.

  Cleary valued his life too much to take any unnecessary chances. Funny, given his depressing thoughts of a few moments earlier.

  His best weapon was surprise. The large caliber pistol would complicate things too much. Besides the fact that he didn't really want to kill the man, he needed some answers. Before the man could close the door, Cleary did it for him. Then, with a swiftness born from years of experience, Cle
ary powered into him with his chest and drove him against the opposite wall. The man kept his balance, but, despite his size, Cleary had no trouble pinning him and slamming his head against the wall several times in succession. With each blow, lung air, tinged with old garlic, exploded into Cleary's face. As soon as the man started to slump, he slammed his forearm against the prominent Adam's apple.

  "Okay, asshole, let's start with your name."

  The man's eyes threatened to cross. Cleary released some of the pressure.

  "God, man, it's Orin—" He tried to steal a breath. "—Schooley... Orin Schooley."

  "You were at McNeil's news conference. Now here. What's your interest in me?"

  "Eva Miles—Jesus, man, let up, huh? You're choking me."

  "Ask me if I care, asshole?"

  Although Cleary continued to push him tightly against the wall, he did ease his forearm from the man's throat.

  "Talk to me, mister. Tell me about Eva, and it'd better be good."

  "Eva Miles was my high school sweetheart. I'm from her hometown. I wanna know who killed her."

  "What makes you qualified?"

  "Huh?"

  "You're not a cop."

  "Oh, no." The man cautiously lifted his hand to massage his throat. "I just wanna know who killed her. That's all."

  "And you think you're going to find out by tailing me?"

  "I wasn't tailing you. I swear to God. At the news conference, I was interested in McNeil—not you. Tonight was... I guess you might call it a coincidence."

  "You might call it that. I'd call it a major screwup on your part, pal. What was your name again?" Gradually Cleary was easing his hold on the man.

  "Schooley... Orin Schooley."

  "Schooley, huh? And you're from?"

  "Modesto."

  "It sounds pretty unbelievable to me." Cleary tried to read the man's face.

  Orin Schooley's eyes didn't flinch. "To be honest, Mr. Cleary, I spent all day riding around L.A. I made a lot of promises to myself. Somehow, I can't get it outta my head that it was my fault. Maybe if I had come here sooner? I don't know."

  For the moment, Cleary decided to believe him. He backed away from the man. "Schooley, go back to Modesto or wherever the hell you're from."

  "Not until I find out what I want to know."

  "What do you know about McNeil?"

  "He's a politician. What's to know?"

  "Why were you interested in him?"

  "A friend of Eva's said she'd gone out with him once or twice."

  The kid from Modesto didn't know McNeil was Eva's father. Probably very few people did. Given McNeil's position, discretion had to be a prime concern. That probably hadn't set too well with Eva. Schooley seemed straight enough to Cleary, but, contrary to most people, Cleary never trusted his first impressions. They had been wrong too often. He fished into his jacket pocket

  "Here's my card. Meet me at my office in the morning."

  The man squinted at the card in the darkness. "You're gonna be a big help, Mr. Cleary. I mean that"

  "I am, am I? Then you know something I don't. I'm not even on the case anymore."

  "Then what are you doing here?"

  "Let's just blame it on good intentions and bad judgment. Get the hell outta here."

  The man limped toward the door. "Christ, you really rung my chimes."

  "Consider yourself lucky. It could have been worse."

  Cleary didn't follow the young man out the door. Instead, he settled on the couch and closed his eyes. On the screen of his weary mind, he saw a Greyhound bus with the words Hollywood on its destination display. Another young girl stepped off. She carried a small suitcase. Her face was aglow with wonder and excitement The voice, though, belonged to Eva. They were words she had written.

  . ..all I could think of was finding some sunny, warm place to start all over again.

  Sam Cooke had ended the set and walked right by Johnny. Any other time, he would have cornered the singer, maybe asked for an autograph, but at that moment he was too busy trying to locate the party in the crowded club who had been so interested in D'Rosa. With the entertainment on a break, there was a lot of movement on the floor. Johnny risked easing out into the crowd.

  By that time, the three out-of-town hoods were on their feet. Johnny pushed his way through the crowd, trying to get a view of the men. He wanted to be able to identify them. Cleary would have his ass if he let them go unseen. He saw them. No doubt about which ones they were. In the svelte show biz crowd, they stuck out even more than Johnny did. Other than their varying sizes, they looked like peas shelled from the same hooligan pod. Dark suits and shirts, shining black leather shoes, obvious bulges beneath their coats.

  Johnny's eyes singled out one of the members of the gangland trio. He was big and tall, towering above his fellow gangsters and the standard Hollywood crowd.

  "I'll be damned," Johnny said, stopping in his tracks. He was looking at the son of a bitch who had pulled him through the Merc's window—the guy whose fist had rearranged Johnny's face. He memorized the coarse features.

  * * *

  The glass of bourbon sat on the desk. Cleary stared at it. After the useless showdown with the department and the subsequent review board hearing, he had turned to the booze for comfort. For a while, it had worked. Not well enough to save his marriage or his job, but at least he hadn't killed anybody who hadn't needed it during those agonizing weeks—and then it had been self-defense. It took the death of his brother to knock some sense into Cleary. Since then, he had avoided the booze. Not that he didn't think he could handle it. He was about to find out if he was right.

  Eva Miles deserved at least one toast. Not for what she had become, but rather for what she had been. A young girl with a dream. Hollywood did that to people. It nurtured their dreams, turning them into a kind of cancer that became a nightmare.

  Cleary took a small sip of the booze. It scorched a path all the way to his stomach. Maybe that was it. The booze was a kind of self-flagellation.

  "Got one for me, Cleary?"

  The detective nearly choked on his shock. Andy Milchik, the columnist, stood in the doorway.

  "Damn, Milchik, you move quiet for a fat man."

  "You left the door open, chump. Not a smart thing to do for a man in your business."

  Milchik held a large, sloppy hot dog in his hands. He lifted it to his mouth and shoved half of it inside. A combination of mustard and sauce dripped down on his shirt.

  "You're a slob, Andy." Cleary slid the pint of bourbon across the desk.

  Milchik stepped into the office and picked it up. He made a face at the brand. "You're a cheap drunk."

  "I bought it during less prosperous times. Take it or leave it."

  "Where's a glass?"

  Cleary nodded to a bookshelf that housed a small collection of cloudy glassware. "You might wanna dust one of 'em off."

  Milchik laughed. "Screw it. I don't mind a little dirt."

  "I forgot. That's your stock and trade."

  "You're a real wise guy, Cleary." Before he poured the drink, the columnist tossed a manila envelope on the desk. "Take a peek, pal."

  Cleary looked at the envelope, then back at Milchik. "Maybe I oughta pass?"

  "Suit yourself, chump."

  But the envelope was a mystery he couldn't tolerate. It was after midnight. Milchik wouldn't have been running around so late if it wasn't something important. Cleary opened the envelope and pulled out a collection of eight by tens. They had been taken at the premiere of Dangerous Summer, more specifically, at the scene of the "accident" after the premiere. The first one showed the "old man" just before the yellow taxi clipped him. The second exposure was an eye-opener. It left no doubt that the first apparent victim had actually hustled out of the way of the cab. In the third, the man was taking a fall while slamming the cane against the cab's headlight. A fourth showed D'Rosa and Tomac, the former with his finger in the face of the union man.

  "The guys down at the photo la
b owed me a favor," Milchik said as he tested the booze. "Damn, this stuff is rotgut. Anyway, I set them up with this hooker friend of mine. She needed some new publicity shots, and , they needed—well, suffice it to say, they got more than they needed."

  "The bastard's wearing a fake beard," Cleary said. "He looks maybe thirty years old in the face."

  Milchik, sporting a smug grin, jammed the rest of the hot dog in his mouth and plopped down on Cleary's couch.

  "But he's good," Milchik mumbled, his mouth crammed full of hot dog and booze.

  "This clinches it. The thing was a setup from square one. You know this creep?"

  Milchik grinned. "Maybe. A year or so ago. I did a column on a frustrated stuntman who made a pretty good living scamming the insurance companies. The way I hear it, this guy clipped them for better than a hundred large ones in a dozen or so personal injury cases. Finally somebody wised up. The guy there bears a striking resemblance."

  "You got any line on him, Milchik? Where can I—" Cleary saw the twinkle in the reporter's eye. "Milchik, what's the price, you double-dealing bastard."

  "Sticks and stones, buddy. I'm a reasonable man, Jackie boy. I want an exclusive on Nicky The Rose... tapes, photos, everything."

  "Take a long hike on a short pier, Milchik."

  "Think about it, Cleary. It's big news. The mob back East wants to make a move out here, and he's the mob's point man here in Lotusland. On top of that, he's Rita Marlo's prime stud. He's gonna be big when it blows."

  "I got an obligation to my client. Besides, it hasn't got a thing to do with my case, Milchik."

  The reporter shrugged. "So, you're telling me you don't give a rat's ass? I'll find somebody who does."

  "Damn you, Milchik." Cleary's rationalization had been true so far as it went, but just because Cleary wasn't on the case didn't mean he had no interest. Some bastard had just about rolled over the top of him, and he wanted to know why.

  "To quote you, Cleary, take it or leave it."

  The detective scraped his hand across the dark stubble on his face. He yearned for a little shut-eye. "No photos of Rita, Milchik... or anything of her on tape. That gets cleaned up. She doesn't deserve a black eye because she's got bad taste in men."