Tinseltown Tango

by Phil Swann

  Clegg looked at me suspiciously. “You saying they’re getting serious?”

  “Well, I don’t know if the organ’s getting oiled up and wedding bells are being polished just yet, but yeah, Betsy seems pretty serious.”

  Clegg thought for a second and then nodded. “Okay. Probably a good precaution. We’ll look into him. What’s his name?”

  “Rodney Eugene Bullard. He’s a captain…or almost one, I think.”

  As Clegg wrote down the name, I considered how lucky the world was I only used my powers for good. I stood and headed for the door.

  Clegg stood as well. “Should I be sending Carson and Stevens with you?”

  “Why?” I replied.

  “Because you were attacked today, and you said you thought you were being followed tonight.”

  “Yeah, I’m not so sure now. I’ll be fine. Besides, I think it’s unlikely whoever clocked me today will come back, don’t you? Not even Cabaneri’s that brazen.”

  “Your call,” Clegg replied, throwing back his drink.

  Despite my confident and decisively machismo declaration, I must confess that as I drove back to my apartment, I spent more time looking in the rearview mirror than I did where I was going. It’s a style of motoring I don’t recommend, by the way, as I’m sure three horrified tourists and one outraged city bus driver would wholeheartedly concur.

  I pulled into the carport and leapt from the Falcon. Before going upstairs, however, I gave a good look up and down the dark street in front of my apartment. There were plenty of cars parked on both sides of the road, as well as a few folks leisurely strolling along the sidewalk, but I spotted nothing unusual or unduly suspicious. Again, just the right amount of paranoid.

  I was exhausted, and my head still carried the afterglow of getting rattled around earlier that afternoon. I knew if I was going to be any kind of company for Miriam later on, it was imperative I give my weary peepers a rest. Even if it was only for an hour or so.

  This was not to be.

  As I put the key in my door, the sweet smell of lilac mixed with a hint of citrus filled my nostrils. I spun around.

  “I like your automobile,” the overly feminine voice all but whispered.

  “Gabriella,” I said, stating the obvious. Though in truth, it wasn’t obvious, and had it not been for the unmistakable accent, I’m not sure I would have recognized her at all. She had on a black cotton sweater over tan denim slacks and white sneakers. Her head was completely covered with a paisley print scarf that concealed her flaming red hair. She also donned a pair of dark, large-framed sunglasses, which given that the sun had set two hours earlier, I considered it to be more than a bit pretentious, even for Hollywood.

  She placed her hand on my shoulder and flicked my earlobe with her finger. “It’s masculine, yet not so masculine to look like it’s overcompensating for something. And, of course, the color is fantástico.”

  “Ma’am, what are you doing here?” I asked, taking a step back. “How do you even know where I live?”

  She giggled. “You work on my show, Trip,” she answered, pronouncing Trip as Treep. I believe it was the first time she called me by my first name.

  She continued, “I’m here for my music chart writing lesson. You said we could resume it anytime. I wish to resume now.”

  “But—”

  “Invite me inside, Trip. I’m afraid I might be recognized out here.”

  Despite her optimistic opinion about her current level of fame, I opened the door and extended my hand. She entered, and I switched on the light.

  She strolled into the middle my living room, took off her shades, and spun around. “It’s lovely,” she said, opening her arms. “Minúsculo, but so perfecto.”

  “Gabriella, ma’am, I can’t—”

  “Please, call me Gabby.”

  I’m as casual as anyone you’d ever meet, but calling Gabriella Gabby was a level of familiarity I wasn’t prepared to rise to. “Ma’am, I can’t give you a music lesson right now. I have someplace I need to be tonight. I just came by my apartment to—”

  “A date?” she asked.

  “What?” I replied.

  “The someplace you need to be. Is it a date?”

  “Yes, it’s a date.”

  “Is she your girlfriend?”

  “She’s a girl. And a friend.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “Ma’am, I—”

  “What’s her name?”

  “That’s not important. What is important is—”

  Without warning, Gabriella grabbed the back of my head and planted a bigtime, grownup, call-the-cops kiss, square on my lips. I was so taken aback, I probably allowed the kiss to go on considerably longer than it should have. Eventually, though, I came to my senses and gently pushed her away.

  “Do you not like?” she asked, pouting out her bottom lip.

  What her perfume had managed to cover up, the kiss promptly revealed. The distinct, slightly piney taste of gin. That’s when I realized the woman wasn’t just being overly forward, she was properly soused. What was up with these people? I couldn’t help but think Were they all a bunch of boozers?

  “It’s not that I don’t like,” I answered, calling upon my inner Bogey. “it’s that I’m positive Mr. Cabaneri would not like. Besides, Gabriella, I don’t—”

  “Why won’t you call me Gabby?”

  “I…just—”

  “Does Tony scare you?” she asked.

  “Well…yes. He does. But that aside, I don’t fish in another man’s pond.”

  She laughed, “Fish in another man’s pond. That’s funny.”

  “Gabriella, I think you need some coffee. I’ll make you a cup.”

  “No, let’s have a real drink,” she answered, falling into an armchair.

  I made a hasty retreat into my kitchen. I turned the fire on under a kettle of water, and then opened the jar of instant coffee I kept on the counter. I put two heaping teaspoons into a cup.

  “I’m sad,” she whined.

  I hesitantly stepped back into the living room. “What are you sad about?”

  Her head had fallen back into the chair. “Nobody likes me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true. You must have lots of friends.”

  “I have no friends,” she mumbled back.

  “Not even back home?” I asked.

  She didn’t respond.

  “Mr. Cabaneri likes you.”

  She made a guttural noise, and then said, “Tony doesn’t speak to me unless we’re at the studio, and only then when he needs me to do something. He won’t touch me. He doesn’t think I’m pretty. Do you think I’m pretty?”

  Good Lord, this just keeps getting worse. “Of course I think you’re pretty,” I answered, sounding like a fifth grader. I quickly located my big-boy voice again. “And I’m sure Mr. Cabaneri does too. He’s probably just focused on making your show the best it can be. That’s his job, after all.”

  She stared into the middle of the room and mumbled something I couldn’t make out. And then she said, “Make love to me.”

  “Excuse me?” I replied.

  “Make love to me, right now.”

  “I—”

  Thankfully, as if on cue, the kettle on the stove began to whistle.

  “I need to get that,” I said, hightailing it back into the kitchen as fast as my size tens could take me.

  I poured hot water into the cup and began to stir. I stirred for several minutes while attempting to conjure up some pithy response to Gabriella’s outrageous request. Once I surrendered to the fact that I had no such response in my arsenal, I picked up the cup and reluctantly trod back into the living room.

  I was expecting to be faced with the task of rejecting Gabriella’s advances relying only upon my superior improvisational skills. Instead, I saw that Gabriella had moved from the chair to the couch. She was on her side, in the fetal position, with her hands tucked under her head, eyes shut, and breathing deeply. The woman was dow
n for the count.

  I sat in the chair, chewed on a fingernail, and watched Gabriella sleep. I prayed at any moment she’d miraculously wake up, be completely clear-headed, and totally mortified by her actions. I imagined how she’d apologize profusely, and I would naturally accept the apology without hesitation. I’d then attempt to assuage her embarrassment by telling her that I, too, had been in her position on several unfortunate occasions. A complete falsehood, of course, but I’d say it anyway. I would go on to say she should write the entire incident off to the unfathomable stress she was under, combined with a batch of bad hooch. She’d thank me for being the perfect gentleman, and I’d humorously say there was a first time for everything. She’d laugh, I’d laugh, we’d shake hands, and then she’d leave with both of us vowing never to speak of the incident again. Once she was gone, I’d quickly don new duds, skedaddle out the door, and be at Miriam’s with time to spare. At a quarter past nine, I was forced to resign myself to the unhappy truth that fantasy was not going to happen.

  As I saw it, I had three options: option one was to leave Gabriella passed out on the couch and head off to Miriam’s as planned. Gabriella would eventually come to and let herself out. A low-class move, for sure, and one I never seriously considered—okay, never might be overstating it some.

  My second option was to call Miriam and tell her I wasn’t feeling well, but quickly decided that might make me look weak and girly. This was an image I absolutely didn’t want to project at this stage in our relationship.

  I suppose I could have just told Miriam the truth, which was option three, but as I’ve stated before, I have an uneasy relationship with the truth. In general, I believe it to be overrated and thus tend to avoid it, especially when a harmless fib can get the job done just as efficiently.

  I was at a loss and becoming increasingly frustrated, when suddenly, from that mystical place where great ideas come from, I had a Trip-like stroke of genius. I swear, I’m amazed at how my brain works sometimes. The idea was brilliant because it was not only plausible, but it was also a story Miriam, specifically, would totally understand, and easily accept.

  The phone was on the table next to me. I picked up the receiver and dialed the number I had committed to memory from practically the moment Miriam had given it to me. She answered on the second ring, greeting me with that lovely accent that still made all my tentacles tingle.

  “It’s Trip,” I moaned, being conscious to not overdo it.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten where I live,” she said.

  “Never,” I replied. “But, unfortunately, I do have some bad news.”

  “Bad news? Oh no, what?”

  “Catastrophic news, actually. I must bail on tonight. I just got a call for a recording session. One I can’t pass up.”

  There was a brief silence. “At this hour? Who records at this hour?”

  “Frank. And he only records at this hour.”

  It took a second, but she ultimately responded as I expected she would. “A Sinatra session!” she exclaimed. “Wow, Trip, congratulations. I mean, I knew you played for him at the Sands, but a recording session? That’s big.”

  “Yes, it is. And if it were anybody else, I’d pass. But seeing how it’s…”

  “No, no, don’t be silly, love, of course you have to do it.”

  She called me love. “Thank you, Miriam. I knew you’d understand. Can I get a raincheck? Maybe we could get together tomorrow night?”

  “Of course we can,” she replied softly.

  I smiled. “And I’ll see you in the morning in the recording studio for Gabriella’s prerecord. Right?”

  “Right,” she answered. And then she added, “But in the recording studio, we will need to be on our best behavior. Tomorrow night at my place, we won’t.”

  I nearly dropped the phone and sprinted out the door, leaving Gabriella to fend for herself. “You say the best things, Miss Kaplan.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Callaway.”

  We both giggled like teenagers.

  “You better get going,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Right. Until tomorrow. Goodnight, Miriam.”

  “Goodbye, Trip,” she replied.

  I hung up the phone and looked over at the comatose woman sawing logs on my couch. In that moment, I didn’t exactly hate her, but I wasn’t feeling a whole lot of love either.

  I decided that since I wasn’t going anywhere, I should take the opportunity to be productive. I got up, went to my trumpet case, and retrieved my journal. I returned to the chair, made myself comfortable, and after shooting another leer at Gabriella, where I might have mumbled a mild oath or two, I began writing. I jotted down all the events that had occurred since my last entry, being as specific as I could be, and leaving nothing out. I wrote for over two hours until the limitations of being a mere mortal caught up with me.

  I opened my eyes to the sound of running water. For a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was, or how I’d gotten there. Once the fog cleared, I unfolded myself from the awkward position I’d struck in the chair and glanced down at my Timex. It was a little past three in the morning. My shoes were off, and I my journal was on my lap. The lamp in the corner was still on and cast enough light through the room for me to see Gabriella emerge from the bathroom.

  “You okay?” I asked, attempting to stand.

  “Don’t get up,” she said. “I’ll be leaving now.” The timbre of her voice was flat and hollow, complete void of any inflection or emotion. It didn’t have the tone of someone who was embarrassed, but more like the voice of someone who had lost all will to go on.

  “All right,” I said back.

  She nodded and headed for the door.

  “Gabriella,” I said, causing her to stop. “Are you okay?”

  She looked away, and I thought she might start crying. She took a deep breath and exhaled. “All I ever wanted to do was make music.”

  “Me, too,” I replied.

  “Why must life be so complicado?”

  It took me a second to translate. “You mean complicated?”

  “Yes. Sorry, complicated. Why must life be so complicated?”

  I couldn’t tell if it was a rhetorical question, or if she was seeking an answer. I chose the latter. “I think life can be as complicated, or as uncomplicated, as one makes it.”

  She shook her head and looked away again. “I don’t believe that’s true. My people have a saying. It translates in English to something like, He who is born to be hanged shall never drown, but you can’t escape destiny.”

  I didn’t immediately respond. Instead, I recall thinking how it was a rather saturnine if not downright morbid saying to have at one’s disposal. Was this a direct reference to her father? Was this the kind of thinking life with Chuckles had borne? That’s when the obvious question hit me. Did she know about the smuggling operation? For some reason, until that moment, I hadn’t considered the possibility. Then, it struck me that she could possibly even be complicit in the scheme, but that seemed highly unlikely. I didn’t know Gabriella well, but I knew her type. She was a born entertainer. Show business consumed her, and nothing was more important than the show. No, she probably wasn’t involved in Goetz and Cabaneri’s criminal enterprise, but did she know about it? That was the question. And I didn’t have the answer.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said, “Perhaps some things are out of our control. I just know that in my own life, when the wheels start coming off the bus, I’m pained to learn that I’ve played no small role in loosening the lug nuts myself.”

  She smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “You have a wonderfully poetic way of saying things, Mr. Callaway. I swear there’s Latin in your blood.”

  I smiled back. “That’d be nice.”

  She opened the door. “Buenas noches…or, I suppose, buenos días?”

  “I’ll see you in a few hours, ma’am.”

  She nodded and then walked out the door.

  I didn’t
get up. Instead, I sat in the chair and mulled over the conversation that had just occurred. It was, to say the least, enigmatic.

  Eventually though, I did get up, lock the door, and move to the bedroom, where I promptly disrobed and was between the sheets in seconds, eager to return to the land of Nod. Unfortunately, no matter how many sheep I counted and named, that blissful journey eluded me.

  The case was solved, and for all intents and purposes, my job was done. Clegg and I had fulfilled our obligation to District Attorney Colson and atoned for our sins against the city of Los Angeles, as ordered. All that was left for me to do was to keep my head down and blow a little brilliant trumpet in a tango band before the feds swept in and put an end to the whole charade. So why couldn’t I sleep? Why was Satchmo screaming at me that something was terribly wrong? What was worse, why did I know Satchmo was right? Perhaps, had I returned to my journal and thoroughly studied all I had scribbled down, I would have seen it. And then maybe I could have done something to prevent the horrific events that were about to unfold. But alas, that’s all hindsight, and as they say, everything is twenty-twenty perfecto in hindsight.

  I heard a knock on my door. My first thought, and only thought, if I’m honest, was that Gabriella had forgotten something. I jumped from the bed and slipped on my trousers.

  “Coming,” I grunted, trotting into the living room.

  I opened the door, but no one was there, so I stepped out into the hallway.

  The attack was quick but relatively painless.

  I felt a hand take me by the shoulder and then effortlessly spin me around. The hand then covered my mouth and an arm wrapped around my chest. I began kicking and jerking in a futile attempt to break free but was gently coaxed to the ground by someone who obviously knew how to handle an uncooperative adversary. It was as if I was an inept dancer made to look elegant by the expert lead of Fred Astaire. Once on the ground, with the full weight of my assailant on top of me, my head was pulled to the side, and I felt a slight pinch at my neck.

  It happened fast. A warmth swept through me, and my body relaxed. After that, for the second time inside twenty-four hours, everything went black.

  Chapter 10