Private Eye 2 - Blue Movie

by David Elliott

  The vicious sarcasm in her voice snagged his attention. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You tell me, Nicky. Isn't there something on your conscience? Or am I giving you too much credit to even think you have one?"

  "I don't understand."

  Rita reached into her large purse. "Maybe this will get it across. Pictures speak louder than words, right? Isn't that something else everyone always says?"

  She threw the wrinkled photo at him. It sailed into his chest and then floated to a face-up landing on the floor. He squinted down at it. Avon's face was grainy, blurred. So was his, but there was no doubt they were about to kiss.

  "For Christ's sake, woman, that's innocent—"

  Rita was waving her hands. "Don't lie anymore, Nicky. Don't leave this world with a lie on your lips. There were other pictures."

  "That bastard Cleary—" But then Rita's words—the implied threat—struck home. "Whadaya mean about leaving this world?"

  Her hand came out of her purse again, this time filled with a small black revolver. "You're scum, Nicky. Everybody was right about you. You've been nothing but trouble to me since we met."

  "C'mon, Rita. Put it up. We can work things out."

  "How!" she screamed. "Will it satisfy Avon to have you all day while I have you all night?"

  "Rita! Think about what you're doing."

  "Oh, I have, hon. I really have. It's gonna work out just fine."

  Frankie used a grimy handkerchief to mop the endless sweat from his face. A veteran of such things, he knew his mark could walk out any minute or hours from now. A guy just had to be patient. His attention, though, was concentrated on the beach house and his own heat-induced discomfort. He didn't notice the figure beside the car until the barrel of the .45 tickled his earlobe.

  "How you doing?" Cleary asked.

  "What the—" He edged his head around far enough to see Cleary's darkly stubbled face.

  "That's a nasty-looking weapon over there," Cleary said. "Why don't you just pick it up, slowly—very, very slowly—and ease it out the window?"

  "You're making a big mistake, pal. Just make the piece disappear and beat it. I'll forget you were ever here."

  Cleary laughed. "Do I look like I just stepped off a bus? You guys may not be swift in the brains department, but you're like elephants—you never forget. Now, lift up the gun—by the barrel."

  The mobster, the perspiration now running in rivers down his face, did as he was told.

  "Let it drop," Cleary said.

  When it struck the ground, Cleary kicked it into the ditch. "Now the piece I know you're carrying. Ease it out, pal, and do the same with it."

  "I got no other piece. I never carry heat when I'm outta my home state."

  Cleary rammed the barrel of the .45 against Carbo's ear. "Whadaya want to bet I can make the slug come right out the other ear? Not that we'd ever know, since the whole other side of your head would be splattered on that window across the seat."

  "Okay, wise guy, keep your pants on. I gotta reach inside for it." He slid his hand inside the heavy coat.

  A second time Cleary pressed the barrel to the ear. "Slow and easy."

  The gun, a .38 caliber five-shot, appeared from beneath the coat.

  "Shift your grip to the barrel and drop it out the window."

  The gangster complied and Cleary shoved that weapon into the ditch, too. "You got any more? Like maybe in an ankle holster or something tucked in your belt?"

  "That's it."

  "Out of the car, fatso. I figure you're the jerk who rousted my office, so I'd love an excuse to ventilate you."

  Carbo didn't answer. Instead, he reached for the door handle.

  "Stop!" Cleary bellowed.

  The man froze. The detective stepped out of the path of the door.

  "Now open it."

  "This is between D'Rosa and us, Cleary. You got no idea just how bad you're stepping on your dick. You can still walk away right now."

  Frankie stepped out of the car. Cleary reached in for the keys.

  "Even if I believed you, Frankie, and I don't, no deal. I gave a guy my word, and you broke it for me. You're not in Chicago or Cleveland. We don't push as easy as some of those folks do."

  Frankie shrugged. "It's your funeral, pal."

  "Move to the trunk."

  "What for?"

  Cleary struck fast, nailing the gangster with a kidney blow delivered by the top of the heavy .45. The man bent but didn't fall.

  "Because, pal, I'll do that again if you don't." Frankie eased around to the rear of the Imperial. "Open it, Frankie." He tossed him the keys, and Frankie lifted the trunk lid.

  Cleary nodded toward the yawning compartment. "Climb in, fatso."

  "I'll fry in there."

  "Hell, you'll just sweat off a few pounds. It'll do you good."

  "Fuck you, too."

  Cleary smiled. "God, I was hoping you'd say that." The gangster doubled over as Cleary's knee slammed into his crotch. With the gun in his right hand, Cleary brought it up hard against Frankie's nose. Blood squirted as the mobster came up and flopped backward, landing in the trunk. Cleary quickly swung the large legs into the trunk well and slammed it. He started across the street toward the beach house.

  SEVENTEEN

  Johnny drove around the central downtown area several times, his eyes trying to pick out Eva's face in the throng of people on the street. The thought of returning to the office—and to Cleary's wrath—prompted him to make one last effort. The traffic continued to move slowly. When the temperature gauge on the Merc's dash started to push toward hot, he decided it was time to give it up and face the music.

  But, as it turned out, Cleary wasn't at the office. Dottie was trying to put her files back into some order following the destructive visit of the night before.

  "Man, they didn't spare nothing, did they?" Johnny said, setting Eva's suitcase containing her clothing on the secretary's desk. Luckily he had at least held on to it, having stashed the small piece of luggage in the Merc's trunk.

  "Inconsiderate," she declared, the word muffled by the wad of gum in her mouth. "They don't think about the hired help that's gotta straighten up messes like this."

  "Where's Cleary?"

  Dottie stopped sorting through the papers and put her hands on her generous hips. "Don't even ask. Golly, that's all I've heard today. Where's Cleary? Where's Cleary? I dunno."

  "Who else has been asking?"

  "Charlie Fontana—at least half a dozen times. Some other cop for Fontana another three or four times. Rita Marlo started calling early, but I guess she gave up. What's that?"

  Dottie picked up Eva Miles's suitcase.

  "I really blew it, Dottie. That's all I have left of Eva Miles."

  Dottie gasped. "She's really dead?"

  "No... no! She got away from my trailer. Course there was a guy there with an axe trying to dissect her, so you can't blame her for making a quick split. I found her collection of private blue movies in a locker at the bus terminal. Then, she hi-jacked me and took the films. I lost it all."

  Johnny was prepared to go into more detail, but Dottie's interest was on the suitcase. "Can I look inside?"

  Johnny threw up his hands. "Sure... sure. Forget my sob story. I shoulda known better anyway."

  She started riffling through the small quantity of clothing and personal effects.

  "Where would you run to Dottie? I mean, if you were Eva?"

  Dottie pulled a thick wool sweater from the suitcase. "I almost was. It would have been so easy. You get so desperate to make it out here—and there are guys who make it sound so easy if you'll just take off your clothes."

  She suddenly seemed revolted by the contents of the luggage. She dropped the sweater. "If it hadn't been for Jack's brother, well, I was lucky. Eva just didn't have that kind of luck."

  "Yeah, he saved me, too. So, any ideas on where she might split to?"

  Dottie's face crinkled. "Split to?"

  "Run to?"
/>
  "Oh, I get it. A person only runs when they've got someplace to go. Everything she owns is right in here, and it ain't too damned much. If I couldn't get out, I'd do the next best thing."

  "What's that?"

  "I'd get even."

  Johnny pondered her answer, snapped his fingers, and did a turnaround on the toes of his worn engineer boots. "Hey, crazy! That's it. She'd go to Kaplan—maybe to try to stiff him for some dough—maybe to do even worse. Where's—"

  "Don't ask!"

  "I forgot, Dottie."

  A red book, familiar in form, had fallen from the clutch of clothing in the suitcase. Dottie picked it up and saw that it was an appointment book. She flipped to the current date.

  "Hey, Johnny, according to this, she's supposed to go to a costume party at Kaplan's."

  Johnny snatched it from her. "Hey, babe, maybe she's still going to make an appearance. Does it say what time?"

  "Right there," Dottie pointed to the big 9 on the side of the page.

  He started for the door.

  "Where are you going now?"

  "To find a costume. If Cleary shows up, let him in on our big find."

  Dottie, though, followed him out into the hall. "Take me, Johnny I'd love to go. Imagine all the important show biz types who—"

  "Forget it, Dottie."

  "Oh, Johnny—"

  But he was dancing down the steps.

  Cleary reached the door of the beach house and was just about to lift the brass knocker when he heard the sharp crack of a small caliber pistol. He dropped to his knees and whirled to look back at Frankie's Imperial. No way could the slob have extricated himself from the trunk. Worse than that, though, it sounded as if the shot had come from inside the house.

  He drew back to kick in the door, but he saw that it was very thick with a huge lock—what they used to call an ankle buster. He tried the knob and was both surprised and relieved to feel it click open. The .45 was in his hand when he pushed it all the way open.

  The sight brought a deep and mournful cry from Cleary. Rita sat on a couch, staring out toward the unusually calm surface of the Pacific. D'Rosa lay on a circular carpet, blood pumping from a wound in his chest. His legs were starting to twitch. A weapon rested on the floor beside him. Cleary rushed to him and dropped to his knees.

  "Take it easy, Nick. We'll get help."

  "You promised—" Nicky managed to say.

  "I kept it, Nicky. Somebody broke into my office and took the photos. Probably some of your buddies from back East. Now take it easy. Don't talk."

  Even through the shirt Cleary could see how accurate the shot had been. It must have really lacerated D'Rosa's insides.

  He looked up at the actress. "Call an ambulance, Rita! You owe him that at least."

  Nick's hand wrapped around Cleary's wrist. "No, Cleary, let it—let it go."

  He coughed, and blood seeped out of his mouth. Rita still hadn't moved.

  "I tried to get here in time, Nick. I figured the mob was out to get you."

  The gangster managed a smile. "They did, Cleary. The sneaky bastards. Listen to me—"

  He stiffened. Cleary waited for him to die. Somehow, though, Nick hung on. "Listen good, Cleary. I want—I want you to tell the cops that I was alive when you got here."

  "Sure, Nick."

  "Listen, goddammit! I know the score... so... so do you."

  Cleary was sprayed with blood as the man struggled to speak.

  "I'm listening."

  "You gotta tell them that I was alive—that I told you it was an accident. I was loading the gun."

  Cleary glanced up at Rita. There wasn't a trace of emotion on her face—not anger or sorrow. She just continued to stare blankly toward the ocean.

  "It's no good, Nick. They won't buy that. The physical evidence won't support it."

  "You gotta do this for me!"

  "For you? You mean for her, don't you?" He nodded toward Rita.

  "Sure, for her... and for Avon. Let all this mess just die with me, Jack. You gotta promise you'll tell them that."

  At least the man's heart was still beating. With each cycle, it pumped more blood from the small entry wound. Cleary reached out and grabbed her knee. "For God's sake, Rita, if you don't phone an ambulance, I will."

  "No!" rasped Nick. "I've seen enough to know I got no chance. Just promise me, Cleary."

  "It won't make a difference." Those words came from Rita. They were monotone, without the slightest tinge of emotion.

  Cleary glared up at her. "That's what I'm trying to tell him."

  Rita stood. "I meant that it doesn't matter whether you tell them that or not. I'm going to tell them that he came at me with that gun...that we struggled, and I had to shoot him in self-defense."

  Nick chuckled through the foamy blood. "Steer clear of women, Jack. They're trouble."

  Sirens could be heard.

  "The neighbors," Nick said, still joking even at death's door. "They never did have much use for me. Called the cops ever' time they got a chance."

  "I hope they called an ambulance, too."

  At that moment, Nicky The Rose inhaled deeply. Some of the air bubbled up through the wound. The rest came out in a slow, relaxed sigh of breath—his last.

  Charlie Fontana stood on the deck above the beach reading Cleary the riot act. "I got more corpses than a Chinese phone book's got Chens. I told you earlier to keep me up to speed on this crap. I'll be lucky if I don't face a review board hearing over this myself."

  "I need another good associate," Cleary said.

  "What you're gonna need, friend, is a good lawyer. You know that tale you're telling makes you look like an accomplice. Hell, for all I know they might charge you as the trigger man. We'll have to check out the gun."

  Cleary shrugged. "I'm not giving D'Rosa's story any seals of approval. I don't know what the hell happened. I just know what he told me."

  "Because of which no jury would ever convict the glamorous Miss Marlo."

  Cleary flicked a cigarette from its pack and turned away from the ocean breeze to light it. "Between you and me, Charlie—"

  The cop held up his hand. "Stop right there! Don't say it, Jack. I don't wanna know anything I can't put in the report"

  "Suit yourself, Charlie. By the way, you're gonna find a two-bit thug from back East locked in the trunk of a big black Imperial parked several hundred feet south of here."

  "Another croaker, I guess."

  "He wasn't when I jammed him in there. Now? Well, it was a mighty hot day."

  Fontana gaped at his former partner. "Dammit it to hell, Cleary. You waited long enough to tell us."

  "He was here to hit D'Rosa."

  "Maybe he did."

  "Naw! He had a high-powered rifle. No way would he get himself dirty by making the hit close up. Besides, I told you what I found right after I heard the shot."

  Fontana sent two uniforms down to check out the Imperial. "I guess you're off the case, Cleary."

  "Just this part of it. Did you know that there was a tie-in between this and the Eva Miles thing?"

  Fontana buried his face in his hands. "Oh, sweet Jesus! That's all I need. Does that also mean it's tied into the McNeil killing?"

  "You got it"

  "Wanna make me really sick and explain?"

  Daylight was quickly vanishing, and the tip of Cleary's cigarette glowed under the caress of the Pacific breeze. "If you got time."

  "If it'll save me any more homicides, you can have all the time you need. The guys downtown are really getting steamed, pal. You're right in the middle of a crime wave."

  Cleary considered his words of explanation. He wanted to make the links as clear as possible. "The common denominator in both deals is that guy Lou Kaplan."

  The familiar voice came from behind them, from the sliding door into the living room. "You're compounding your troubles, Cleary."

  Fontana and Cleary both whirled around. Lou Kaplan himself stood glaring at Cleary.

  "Speak
of the devil. Charlie, meet Mr. Big," Cleary said.

  Fontana's lips curled a little. "We've met."

  Kaplan came out on the deck. "Really? I don't recall."

  "It was at the premiere of Dangerous Summer. I handled the investigation of the Tomac killing, remember?"

  "Oh, yeah. What a coincidence. Kaplan here," Cleary said, "arranged the Tomac killing."

  "You're full of delusions, Mr. P. I." Kaplan's voice became angry. "Tomac died in a car accident. I want you to arrest this man, Officer. He trespassed on my property this afternoon. He assaulted me. For all I know, he killed poor Nick in there."

  Cleary tossed the cigarette off the deck and watched it float down to the sand. "They say the air at the beach is clear and clean. Right now, it stinks."

  Kaplan smiled. "You're a pitiful individual, Cleary."

  "I was just about to tell Detective Fontana here about your involvement in the recent rash of homicides."

  The studio exec settled down into a lounge chair. "Continue then. I like fairy tales. They make me a good living."

  "Tell us about it, Kaplan," Cleary said. "Tell us about all those little female fairies from Modesto or Nowhere, Nebraska, that you turn into stars in your dirty movies. Oh, excuse me. I mean your erotic classics."

  Fontana nudged Cleary. "C'mon, Jack. I'm suddenly very curious. What's the story on this guy?"

  "Mr. Kaplan here is a greedy man. The money he makes off of legitimate films isn't enough. As a sideline, he bankrolls blue movies."

  Kaplan was shaking his head. "I deny that."

  Fontana grew mad. "Keep it shut, Kaplan. If you don't wanna hear it, then get the hell back inside."

  "You're fouling up royally, Officer. I have friends who can make your life very unhappy. For your information, I know—"

  "I've heard that before," Fontana said. "It didn't scare me then, and it doesn't scare me now."

  "I was just getting ready to tell you how Mr. Clean here influences those friends he just mentioned. The blue movies provide a way of double dipping. Besides the money he gets off the porn, he uses it as a way to get dirt on important people—like Tom McNeil. He films them in compromising situations, then uses the films to exert influence—maybe even direct dollar blackmail."