by Phil Swann
Tinseltown Tango
Phil Swann
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Published by Cygnus Road
Tinseltown Tango
Copyright © 2020 by Phil Swann
All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Tinseltown Tango by Phil Swann
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
About the Author
Tinseltown Tango by Phil Swann
Lights, camera, Trip!
Los Angeles, 1966. Hot off the heels of his last adventure in Mekong Delta Blues, Trip Callaway, the young, wise-cracking musician with dreams as big as The Golden State itself, takes a break from his steady gig on the Vegas Strip to do some easy undercover work in Hollywood for his secret agency benefactors. It’s Hollywood; how dangerous could it be? But as Trip quickly discovers, The Dream Factory can also be a nightmare.
A ruthless gangster, a dubious district attorney, a cantankerous tango band, and a sexy singer from Argentina who elevates the word diva to a whole new level, force Trip into a malaise of love, lies, revenge, and a twenty-five-year-old family secret that will change his life forever.
For Trip Callaway, Tinsel Town Tango is a dance where one misstep could prove fatal.
Chapter 1
Hollywood, California — 1966
Her name was Debbie Stubbs, but she was better known to the world as Tiffany St. James. Better known, I should say, if you were one of those people who enjoyed your cinema while sitting in a car consuming food from an eatery referred to as The Snack Shack. I am not, nor have I ever been, one of those people. But if you were of that ilk, then Debs—sorry, Tiffany—was your Katharine Hepburn. She was the girl you’d see being chased by a monster with two heads from a swamp, or vaporized by a monster with no heads from outer space, or eaten by a monster from Lord knows where with so many heads you weren’t entirely certain how the misunderstood beast did it. In fact, the number of heads an antagonist sported in any given film was a staple of Miss St. James’s less-than-remarkable career. A career, I might add, she was quite proud of. As far as looks go, Tiffany was no Ava Gardner, but she was no Phyllis Diller, either. She had a lovely round face, a smile fresh off an Iowa farm, and a body lifted from the fuselage of a World War II bomber. I was neither Masters nor Johnson, but I suspected Tiffany St. James had ushered many a teenage boy though his teenage boy-dom.
I sat up in bed and looked over at Tiffany. Dreamland suited her. She appeared almost angelic. I ran my hand through my mop and let out a long, regretful sigh. It was not the most prudent thing I’d ever done, but no one ever accused Trip Callaway of being prudent, just talented.
I got out of bed, put on some clothes, and then quietly made my way down three flights of stairs to the first floor living area. Tiffany’s Hollywood Hills home wasn’t big, but it was impressive, in an odd sort of way. The builders had somehow used struts and stilts to adhere the structure to the side of a canyon. The result was a floor plan considerably more vertical than horizontal. It boasted four floors in total, making climbing from the bottom floor to the top floor not for the weak of knee. However, a lovely by-product of Tiffany’s tower was that it did offer a striking view of the L.A. Basin, a feature I took full advantage of by gazing out over the lights of Hollywood via a large picture window.
I’d been in Tinsel Town for two weeks, and though it hadn’t gone the way I’d always dreamed my first visit to Hollywood would go, it wasn’t a total bust, either. I had met some first-class musicians, as well as many prominent folks within the industry. I figured if I played my cards right—which I always did—I could parlay those relationships to my benefit the next time I was in town. And hopefully, the next time I was in town, I wouldn’t be spending every waking moment sorting out some devious business for Clegg.
Special Agent Peter Clegg was a government spook who had recruited me to do some undercover work for him. I’m still not sure what it was about me that appealed to the G-man, except he often complimented my clever mind, along with my ability to be flexible with the truth. He also liked the fact I could get into places his regular cast of creepers never could. Whatever the reason, I accepted the compliment and the job, especially since the gig came with a generous stipend and Clegg’s assurance he could help advance my music career. And even though the work had frequently turned out to be more perilous than I had been led to believe, and I was surreptitiously enlisted into the U.S. Army without my permission, it was not without its reward. The least of which being that warm and fuzzy feeling one gets from righting the wrongs of this world perpetrated by the most rotten among us. Who knew I was so altruistic? Anyway, that’s how I ended up in L.A., in a ridiculous house, looking out of a not-so-talented starlet’s picture window in the wee hours of the morning.
Clegg had somehow attained a leave of absence for me from my regular gig at the Sands in Las Vegas to come out to Hollywood and play my trumpet in the orchestra for a low-budget movie musical called The Girl and the Sailor. The movie was not good, and the songs were even worse, but I wasn’t there to be a critic. I was there to gain access to the studio’s backlot, and to find out how a small movie company was making so much money by making such god-awful pictures. I figured I was spying on movie people, so how dangerous could it be? As it turned out, quite dangerous. But in the end, I unraveled the who, the how, and the why, as well as the person who offed the head of the studio. Done and done. Clegg was happy. I was happy, cue the music, roll the credits.
So why couldn’t I sleep?
I walked into the kitchen to get some water. I opened the cabinet for a glass, and that’s when I spotted the tin of tea sitting next to the kettle. It was an exclusive brand called Gentleman’s Agreement, a brand one could only acquire in merry old England. I knew this because it was the same tea Lionel Benbrook, the fourteenth Earl of Covington and a partner in Galaxy Studios, had offered me two evenings earlier. I remembered how Lord Lionel went on, in his absurdly affected English way, about how it cost him an arm and two legs to have the beverage flown over from “across the pond,” as he put it.
My brain cells began lighting up like Liberace’s candelabra. There was only one reason Tiffany could have had that specific brand of tea in her kitchen. She knew Lionel Benbrook. And I had a sneaking suspicion she knew him very well.
I hurried back into the living room to the telephone. I picked up the receiver and dialed. The call was answered immediately.
“Peter Clegg,” the deep, baritone voice said on the other end.
“Clegg, it’s me,” I whispered, cupping the receiver with my palm.
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“Trip? I can barely hear you, speak up.”
“I can’t. Listen, we’ve got a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I think Lionel Benbrook had an accomplice.”
“Who?”
“Put down the phone, Trip.”
I turned and saw Tiffany standing in the middle of the room. Her blue eyes glistened, her blonde hair looked like silk, and her pale pink negligée would have made the most ardent atheist reconsider his position on the Divine. It might have gone down as one of the top three most superb images I’d ever cast my peepers upon—had it not been for the gun she was pointing at me.
“Tiffany, what are you—”
“Put down the phone,” she reiterated, pulling back the hammer.
I placed the receiver in the cradle.
“Get your hands up.”
I did as she ordered.
“Get them up!”
“They’re up, they’re up,” I barked back.
“Why couldn’t you have just let things be, Trip? Why’d you have to go and stick your snout where it didn’t belong?”
“So, how long have you and Lionel been an item?”
“Me and Poopsy? Since Creature from Planet Zero. He showed up on the set and took a shine to me. How’d you figure it out?”
“The tea,” I answered, matter-of-factly.
She gave a slight chuckle. “It figures. I never liked that rancid stuff.”
“Also, a couple of things have been bugging me from the moment Lionel Benbrook was arrested for Frank Jennings’ murder.”
“Such as?” she asked.
“Such as how did Lionel know Frank was going to be on that bridge? I didn’t know until Frank phoned and told me where to meet him. Frank called me here. You were listening on the line upstairs. You alerted Lionel after I left, didn’t you?”
She didn’t react. “And the other thing?”
“How did Lionel Benbrook know Frank Jennings was planning to sell Galaxy Studios? The answer again is you told him.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Simple. You were with me when we saw Jennings having lunch with the head of National Pictures. In fact, you even commented on how you were surprised because you had heard Frank took great pains to avoid National Pictures due to their persistent attempts to acquire Galaxy. Afterward, you told Lionel what you saw. Lionel realized Frank, as the controlling partner, had decided to accept the National deal and sell the studio after all. Lionel couldn’t let that happen because then the company’s financial records would come under scrutiny, and it’d be discovered the studio was laundering money for the Cabaneri family. That was all Lionel’s doing. Frank knew nothing about it. So, Lionel figured killing Frank was preferable to going to jail and facing the wrath of the Cabaneri clan if he was forced to turn state’s witness, which of course he would have been. The only thing I don’t get, Tiff, is why did you help Lionel Benbrook? And don’t tell me it was love. I know better.”
She chuckled. “You’re smart, Trip. Smart, but wrong.”
“Are you saying that’s not what happened?”
“No, you got most of it right. All except for one important thing. I wasn’t helping Poopsy. Poopsy was helping me. He’d do anything to make me happy.”
And with that, everything made sense. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it sooner. “You’re working for the Cabaneri family. You’re their inside girl.”
She only smiled.
I went on. “You’ve been playing Lionel Benbrook all along. You needed him to kill Frank Jennings to protect the Cabaneris. Why, Tiffany? Why get into bed with the mob?”
“These looks aren’t going to last forever, sweetie. A girl needs to look out for her future. Besides, with Poopsy and Frank Jennings out of the way, Anthony Cabaneri is considering making me the new head of Galaxy. I’d be the first woman to run a movie studio. I’ll be more famous than Garbo. Golly, little ol’ me just might go down in the history books.”
“You won’t get away with it. It won’t take much for Benbrook to talk. He’ll tell the authorities everything. Sorry, Tiff, but you’re just not that good.”
Tiffany chuckled. “Don’t be crass, darling. Besides, Poopsy won’t be telling anybody anything.”
It took me a second to understand what she meant, but eventually, I got it. “The Cabaneris are going to kill Lionel.”
“You have to admire their efficiency, don’t you?”
Before I could respond, the front door flung open. A man entered wearing a black suit and a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes. My heart stopped, and I took a step backward. Tiffany, however, wasn’t the least bit startled by the man’s sudden appearance.
“Can you do it somewhere else?” she asked, lowering her gun. “I just had these carpets shampooed.”
The man said nothing. He removed a handgun from his jacket and lifted it. My entire body tightened. I closed my eyes, and then I heard the shot. I opened them just as Tiffany collapsed to the floor.
As blood began pooling around her blonde hair, the man took out a handkerchief, wiped off his gun, leaned over Tiffany’s body, removed the weapon still clutched in her hand, and replaced it with his gun. Then, without looking at me, he said, “Get out of here.”
I heard him, but I couldn’t move, rendered stock-still by the sickening, heart-wrenching sight I saw crumpled on the floor.
“I said get out of here,” he ordered.
I snapped back into my body.
I can’t recall if I said anything, or what I was even thinking. I only remember bolting from the house, leaping into my convertible without bothering to open the door, and tearing off into the night.
Chapter 2
“Trip, wake up.”
I opened my eyes and saw Clegg’s formidable face looking down at me. It took a moment for me to remember where I was and why I was there, but soon enough everything came back. I pulled myself up in the chair, rolled my head in a circle, and struggled to bring the world into focus. “How long have I been out?” I yawned.
“Long enough,” Clegg answered. “Get in here. We’re ready for you.”
Clegg had ordered me to make myself comfortable in the outer office while he and the D.A. met privately. I probably heeded the command a bit too literally and was sawing logs before he was out the door. Now it was time for the enigmatic Trip Callaway to make his grand entrance.
After speeding away from Tiffany’s house the night before, I raced to the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, where Clegg had set up HQ for our operation. He was relieved to see me, but that didn’t stop him from pointing out the stupidity of me getting romantically involved with Tiffany St. James. And even though romantic was not how I would have described my fleeting tryst with Tiffany, it was a reprimand I deserved. I offered a heartfelt—if not completely sincere—apology and then proceeded to tell Clegg all the horrors that had transpired at the house, including how Tiffany alluded to the fact Lionel Benbrook’s days on this earth were numbered. Clegg was on the phone before I had completed the sentence. Benbrook was being held in general population at the county jail. It was a twenty-second phone call, if that, and abracadabra, Clegg was assured Benbrook would be moved into protective custody, posthaste.
The next order of business was about me. Clegg concluded that since my fingerprints were all over Tiffany’s house, the local authorities would have to be told about our little project before too many questions started getting asked. He wasn’t happy about having to divulge the identity of his number one super-spy but saw no other option. That took most of the morning and more than a few phone calls back to D.C., but ultimately a line of communication was opened, and by noon, Clegg and I were downtown at the offices of Sebastian Colson, District Attorney for the County of Los Angeles.
A lesser man might have been nervous, but I’m not a lesser man. Besides, I had come face-to-face with Mr. Reaper himself only hours earlier, so it was going to take a lot more than a fancy office and some legal eagl
e in a three-piece suit to rustle my roost. I calmly straightened my tie, ran a comb through my hair, and followed Clegg into Colson’s office.
There was a time in my life—not that long ago, really—that I wanted to be an attorney. Actually, that’s not true. There was a time in my life when I wanted to be Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. Actually, that’s not true, either. There was a time in my life that I wanted to be Atticus Finch, as portrayed by Gregory Peck, in the movie To Kill a Mockingbird. Okay, actually, I just wanted to be Gregory Peck. Kind of still do. Be that as it may, the legal profession had always fascinated me, especially the practice of criminal law. Maybe it was all those Erle Stanley Gardner books Pop let me read when I was a kid, but the idea of two opposing sides pitted against each other with someone’s life hanging in the balance just appealed to my sense of theatre. Provided, of course, the life in the balance wasn’t my own. I expressed this latent desire once to an attorney who was a regular at The Jam Jar. The man always seemed to have an exhausted, world-weary expression on his face, so I wasn’t at all surprised when he moaned back to me how his job was seldom, if ever, as much fun as people thought it was. Then he added, “That’s probably true for being a musician too.” I didn’t have the heart to tell the old fella being a musician was exactly as much fun as people thought it was, maybe more.
Sebastian Colson stood up from behind his desk as Clegg and I entered. The office was the quintessential lawyer’s digs: dark wood furnishings, leather chairs, and bookshelves filled with imposing looking tomes. The lawyer himself, however, looked anything but quintessential. Colson appeared to be slightly younger than middle-aged, but with the aura of a Moroccan prince. He was square-jawed, tall, tan, and wore a pinstriped suit like nobody’s business. Wisps of gray shot through his perfectly parted black hair and his dark eyes were so piercing they hurt my face. In my expert professional show business opinion, Colson should have been under contract to one of the movie studios. I couldn’t help but be envious of the man. He was Gregory Peck.