"I'm gonna tell you this once, kid. Take it or leave it. Guys like Nicky The Rose are always on the make for a shortcut. Trouble is, there aren't any. He's not happy, Betts. He's always lookin' for more. Nothing is ever enough for him, and he messes up everybody else's life trying to get what he wants."
"Yeah, but he sure seems to be having a high old time." Johnny exited the Eldorado. "Later, man." Cleary watched as the Mercury belched a littie blue smoke when Johnny started it. With its lights still out, it eased away into the darkness. With the window down, there was a damp sea breeze blowing into the car. Cleary leaned his head on the seat and pulled out a cigarette.
But he couldn't get his mind off Eva. Earlier, when he had been with her on Mulholland, she had asked why he was helping her. He had been honest. It had very little to do with Eva Miles as a person. Jack Cleary just wanted to find some way to exorcise his special ghost. Maybe it wasn't even fair to Eva. If she wanted to play the game, why not let her? As she said, she knew the risks.
"The hell with it," he muttered for a second time since he had stopped his car. He flicked the unlit cigarette out the window and turned the ignition key.
Just as he was ready to shove it into gear, the lights of a car spotlighted D'Rosa's Lincoln. Cleary eased his hand off the gearshift. The new arrival rolled into the parking lot and parked near the Lincoln. D'Rosa got out of the car first. The other door opened. Cleary narrowed his eyes, trying to cut the glare from the bright lamp located between his car and the mysterious meeting.
The other man was out and talking to D'Rosa before Cleary recognized him. Lou Kaplan, Mr. Diamond Studios himself.
"I'll be damned," Cleary said, not too softly.
He watched as Kaplan pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to D'Rosa.That was it. No handshakes, not many—if any—shared amenities. Kaplan climbed back in the backseat of the car, and it wheeled back out of the parking lot.
D'Rosa was back in his car. He was moving, too, but not toward the exit of the lot. His headlights were still out. The Lincoln was rolling straight toward Cleary. The detective slumped down a little in the seat as the car came toward him. When it was about twenty feet from the front of Cleary's Eldorado, it stopped. Cleary peeked up over the dash. The lights of the Lincoln flashed on, momentarily blinding him.
He was made.
D'Rosa opened the door to the Eldorado and slid inside. A listening device—one of Cleary's bugs—was dangling by its wire from Nick's fingers.
THIRTEEN
"I'm disappointed in you, Jack. I thought we were pals."
D'Rosa tossed the bug into Cleary's lap.
"A job's a job, Nick."
"I gotta confess, pal. You're pretty good." He paused to light a cigarette.
Cleary wanted one, too, but he didn't dare drop his guard. "Not good enough, I'd say."
D'Rosa grinned. "Don't take it too hard. I make it a habit to check up on anybody I happen to run into more than twice. You were just around too much, pal. Besides, I'm suspicious of any kind of cops, public or private. Did you get everything?"
"All except for the little party out there in the middle of the lot, but that was pretty obvious."
"What about the girl, Jack?"
Cleary was very glad Johnny had taken the photos of Nick and Avon with him.
"You really know how to pick 'em, Nick." Cleary couldn't wait for any longer for a smoke. He reached inside his coat pocket.
"Move easy, pal."
"Just goin' for a cigarette."
Cleary withdrew the cigarettes. D'Rosa provided the light.
"As I was saying, Nick, you know how to pick 'em. Let's see. Avon's—what?—eighteen? She's the daughter of one of Hollywood's biggest sirens. You're a two-bit gangster from Cleveland. Now, how's that ever gonna be anything more than a bad movie script?"
"I got a taste for bad movies, Jack. And I like a little excitement, too."
"Yep, that's Nicky The Rose for you."
D'Rosa stared at Jack for a long time. The light from the distant street lamp twinkled in his eyes. Cleary saw no animosity there, just a thoughtful confusion.
Finally D'Rosa spoke. "This is gonna sound crazy, coming from me—a gangster, like you said—but I love that kid. I'm gonna marry her."
Cleary shook his head. "You're the last guy I ever figured for a romantic."
D'Rosa turned more squarely to Cleary. "As one man to another, Jack, I'm asking you to hold off telling Rita about Avon and me. I figure you got photos ... tapes for sure. Hold on to 'em for a couple of days. Give her and me a few days head start. That's all I ask."
Cleary was shaking his head. "C'mon, Nick. I've already cashed Rita's check."
"I understand, and you're a man of honor. I can tell that. You think you know me, Jack, but what you've got on those tapes and those photos, they don't sum me up by a long shot. Gimme a few minutes to fill in the blanks."
Cleary looked away, inhaling deeply on the cigarette. The breeze had picked up. It made the ash on the end of the smoke glow brightly.
"I'm a neighborhood guy from Cleveland," D'Rosa was saying. He was talking fast, as if he didn't have much time to make his point. "I never made it through the sixth grade. I worked my way up runnin' numbers, doin' favors, and muscling for the loan sharks, but I always kept my eyes open. Yes, sir. Nicky The Rose was always payin' attention."
Cleary tossed the cigarette out the window.
D'Rosa went on. "The wise guys had big houses in the suburbs. They married beautiful broads... drove nice cars... full of big families. That's all I ever wanted. I was just what you said, Jack. When I was in Cleveland, I was a two-bit mobster. Then, I got sent to Hollywood. Things changed."
Cleary was looking at D'Rosa now, a little startled by the tremolo of emotion in his gravely voice.
"I never really knew how it worked till I got out here. All of sudden, Nicky The Rose is the main course. I'm gettin' the best women, the best food, all the booze I can stand to drink. I should be feelin' good, right? I'm Nicky The Rose, right? Bullshit, pal. I felt like less than nothing. Then I met that eighteen-year-old girl you mentioned awhile back. She really knew how I felt—and when I'm with her..."
His voice trailed off as he gathered himself together. His eyes were pleading when they came up to meet Cleary's. "Didn't you ever wonder what it would be like to start all over again?"
The question knifed Cleary's heart.
... in a warm, sunny place. The words of Eva Miles.
D'Rosa had a habit of glancing over his shoulder. At that moment, the caution paid off. He saw the big Packard pull in behind them, the man throw open the door, his hands full of machine gun. He saw, too, that it was Frankie Carbo.
"Down, Cleary!" D'Rosa wrapped a thick arm around the detective and hauled him down to the floorboard just as the rear windshield of the Eldorado exploded.
"Son of a bitch!" Cleary shouted, his voice muffled by the carpeting into which it was pressed.
"We gotta get outta here," D'Rosa said. "I'm gonna make a play out the passenger side. You follow me." Another rip from the machine gun tore into the trunk and rear quarter panel of the Cadillac.
Cleary saw D'Rosa pull out his gun. He couldn't reach his own piece, not until D'Rosa got off of him. "Here goes, Jack. See ya around, I hope."
Somehow, D'Rosa had opened the passenger side door. He rolled out onto the ground, his gun blazing. Cleary pulled out the .45 and jacked a shell into the chamber. He made sure D'Rosa was out of the way, then spilled out onto the ground, too--just in time to see the Packard wheel around the bullet-tom Eldorado. Cleary emptied the clip at the fleeing car.
"You okay?" D'Rosa asked.
Cleary was brushing the dirt from his suit. He turned his attention to the Cadillac. "Dammit it to hell. Will ya look at her?"
D'Rosa started toward his car, but something—some last thought—caused him to stop. He turned to Cleary, "We're even, pal."
Cleary's mind raced as D'Rosa turned to leave. "Hey, Nick—"
D'Rosa kept walking.
"About the photos," Cleary said, "no one will see them for two days. You've got my word."
The departing figure raised his hand and waved. Cleary watched as Nicholas D'Rosa—formerly Nicky The Rose—climbed into the Lincoln and drove away.
From the eastern window of his apartment, he saw the first faint light of the new day peek over the ridges. The glass Cleary held in his hand contained nothing but the aroma of bourbon. He had allowed himself a single shot glass of it, just enough to take the edge off his nerves. A few feet away, the figure on his couch stirred, moaned softly—as if she had suffered some momentary pain—and became still again. What had disturbed her sleep? God knows she'd gone through enough to supply her with nightmares for the rest of her life.
The Eva Miles on his couch, her face relaxed in sleep, was the same Eva Miles in the high school photographs. The naive young girl, alive with dreamy ambition, hadn't been lost yet—not completely. Earlier, he'd just about decided to let Eva go her own way, but not now, not after having observed that last vestige of innocence in her face.
The booze was working. He let the thick shot glass drop to the carpet. He took one last look at Eva Miles, just to be sure she was all right, then he closed his eyes.
The year was 1948, and Jack Cleary wore his uniform with the spiffy, pressed pride of a rookie. He'd been patrolling on Wilshire with his training officer when the call came in on the radio of the black-and-white.
"All units in the vicinity of the Belwood Motel, please respond to assist in a possible 10-47."
His partner, Mel Tramel, switched on the lights and siren and wheeled the car around in the middle of the street. It was four a.m., and there wasn't much traffic to dodge. They made good time, squealing into the parking lot of the Belwood just eight minutes after getting the call.
It was Cleary's first homicide call, and his guts were churning.
"Stay with me, and do what I say," Tramel said as he checked his flashlight.
As quickly as they arrived, the camera crew had gotten there ahead of them.
"We'll stand by to disperse any gawkers," his partner said, "but first we oughta take a look. You need to get a feel for a murder scene. I'll never forget my first. It was nineteen—God, let me think—"
"I'd just as soon pass," Cleary said.
"We'd all just as soon have passed, but it don't work that way. You gotta get a stomach for it sometime. Go on up the steps."
There wasn't any doubt about the room location. Plainclothes units, sipping coffee and looking bored by it all, stood outside the door of a second floor unit. The bright explosion of flashbulbs spilled out the doorway. Cleary stopped at the top of the steps to allow his senior partner to take the lead. Tramel, though, shoved the butt of his flashlight in the small of Cleary's back. "After you, youngster."
"Hiya, Tramel," a detective said. "Who's the new face?"
Tramel put a hand on Cleary's shoulder. "He's not so new—just about to finish his first year. He's never seen a homicide scene. Wanna give him the tour?"
The detective laughed. "No way. I hate to see grown men puke."
The comment brought a nervous smile to Cleary's face.
Tramel saw it. "One thing, Cleary. If you do get sick, hold it till you're outta the room. Nothing makes the detectives any madder than having to step in—or around—somebody's supper."
"I'll manage," Cleary said.
"C'mon then." Tramel had been with Cleary for most of his first year. As was often the case, they had developed a relationship that was almost paternal, at least on Tramel's part. They had become friends, too. Tramel spent the long nights on patrol telling Cleary about his kids, about his money problems, and his bitchy wife. Cleary had told the older cop a few secrets, too.
The plainclothes officers stepped aside as Tramel pushed Cleary into the room. The room's lights burned brightly. The body lay at the foot of the bed, covered by a coroner's sheet.
All except the feet. They stuck out from beneath the sheet. Women's legs—adorned with black fishnet hose and stiletto high heels.
"A hooker," Tramel said.
A uniform stood by the motel room's bed. "Yeah, looks like she got a john who liked it awful rough. I'd say she tried to get away, and he lost his temper. The bastard got a freebie."
Cleary stared down at the exposed feet, then back up to the officer who had just spoken. The one thing he didn't like about his job was the callous attitude so many of the older cops seemed to develop. That wouldn't happen to him. It was a promise he made to himself.
"Let's have a look," Tramel said. He stepped behind Cleary, pushing him to the front.
The uniform bent down and grasped the corner of the sheet. Cleary held his breath, prepared to close his eyes if it was bad enough.
"There she be." The cop uncovered her with a flourish.
Tramel saw her face and said, "Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven."
Cleary took one look at the battered, swollen face, then clamped his hands over his eyes. He nearly knocked Tramel down rushing from the room.
The uniform allowed the sheet to float back onto her face. "Jesus, what's eating him? She was just a hooker."
Tramel was staring down at the lifeless lump. "She wasn't a hooker when he met her."
The shrill cry of the phone woke Cleary. He had gone to sleep in the chair. Bright morning sun spilled into the room. His first thought was of Eva Miles. She was on the couch, still asleep. He grabbed the phone. "Oh, Jack—"
Cleary held the phone away from his ear. He wasn't sure what he was hearing, or even if he was really hearing anything. Maybe it was a continuation of the dream. Even at a distance of six inches, he could hear the woman crying.
"Who is this?"
"It's me!"
"Who's me?" Then it dawned on him. "Dworski?"
"We got troubles, Jack." He could hardly make out the words.
"Hell, Dottie, slow down, stop blubbering, and tell me what's wrong."
"I—I—oh, Jack—"
"Is it Johnny?"
"No," she blubbered. "Johnny's fine, I guess."
"For God's sake, Dottie, what is it?"
"The office... somebody tore it apart last night." Cleary closed his eyes and dropped his head.
"And Charlie Fontana, he's mad as a wet hen. I know he's gonna arrest you, Jack. You didn't call him back." When she wasn't hysterical, her high whine of a voice was hard to take early in the morning. With the force of her emotion, it was unbearable.
"That's no crime, Dworski. The hell with Fontana. Go check the middle drawer of my desk."
"But everything's tom—"
"Just do what I say, okay?"
He could hear Dottie pushing her way through what had to be clutter, cringing as he heard the sound of a collision followed by the tinkling of breaking glass. Eva was stirring on the couch, probably disturbed by his voice. A few minutes later, his secretary picked up the phone on his desk—or wherever it had ended up.
"It's dumped out, Jack."
"I guess there's no manila envelope lying around there."
Another brief pause. "There's a lot of them, Jack—all over the place."
Yeah, he thought, there would be. A sudden thought brightened the sour look on Cleary's face. "Call Johnny. Maybe he didn't do what I told him to do. He usually doesn't."
"What should I ask him?"
"Forget it. Just give me his number. I'll make the call. What does Charlie want?" Cleary said.
"That body wasn't Eva Miles—"
"I know. She's here with me."
"With you? Jiminy Christmas, Charlie's really gonna be bent out of shape. Did you hear about Congressman McNeil?"
Cleary thought about his answer and chose to ask, "What about him?"
"Somebody turned out his lights last night. It's all over the news. Charlie wants to talk to you bad because of that, too."
"When I get ready, Dworski. What bout Violet Films? You have any luck tracking something down on them?
"
He heard her opening some gum. "Don't put that in your mouth until you're through talking to me," he warned.
"Huh? How did you know—"
"About Violet Films—"
"Oh, yeah. Wow, boss, your phone bill is gonna go through the ceiling this month. I had to call everywhere. From New York to Geneva—even to someplace called Antigua. Those foreign operators are real gripes, too. One of them—"
"Dworski!" He hadn't meant to shout. Eva Miles stirred, and this time raised up on the couch. Cleary smiled at her. She stretched.
"I managed to trace down the bankroll behind it," his secretary was saying. "You ain't gonna believe this, Jack, but it turns out the overseas accounts for Violet Films are also used by Diamond Studios."
Cleary glanced at Eva Miles. "Lou Kaplan. I shoulda known."
The mention of the executive's name wiped the soft morning smile from Eva Miles's face.
"You say Fontana may be on his way over here?"
"He sure wants to talk to you, boss."
"Give me Betts's phone number."
"I gotta go back to my desk."
"So, go!"
After he finished with Dottie, he dialed the kid's number. Betts's phone rang half a dozen times before a sleepy, irritated voice answered it.
"You awake, Betts?"
"I am now."
"Can you get in touch with Schooley?"
Cleary heard muffled sounds on the other end of the line. "Betts?"
"I'm here... I'm here. I'm just trying to get outta bed."
"Then answer me. Can you get in touch—"
"I heard ya the first time. I can call his motel."
"Do it. I'm gonna deliver some merchandise I want you two to guard—and I mean guard."
"What is it?"
"Who," Cleary said, correcting him. "It's a who. Eva Miles."
"Jesus, she oughta be pretty putrid by now."
Cleary closed his eyes in exasperation. "She's alive, dammit. I want you both there, one of you with her at all times. She's hot property right now."
"Eva Miles is alive?"
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