Tinseltown Tango

by Phil Swann

  I pulled up to the hotel, tossed the keys to the valet, dashed into the lobby, and was straightaway confronted with a sea of humanity. I struggled to push my way through the throng, all of whom, I decided, were devilishly colluding to make my life harder, like the two elderly gentlemen in wheelchairs who decided the main entrance would be a fine place to park their rides for a while and have a little chat. Or the squealing squadron of teenage girls who were trolling the hotel from top to bottom because they had heard a rumor that the four lads from Liverpool were staying upstairs. Or the rather corpulent woman sporting a beehive hairdo to the moon, who physically grabbed me because she was positive I had to be that famous actor she knew from that famous commercial on TV. I didn’t ask which one.

  And then, just to add some icing to the fruitcake, after nearly getting run down by an overly enthusiastic bellboy pushing a luggage cart, I finally made it to the elevators only to discover a line of people that seemed to go on for eternity. This sinister little slice of sabotage was brought to me courtesy of the fine folks from the Ancient Arabic Order of the Nobles of the Mystic Shrine, aka, the Shriners of Wisconsin, all of whom had just arrived in town for a convention and decided to check into the hotel at the same time. Fantastic! It honestly felt like I had stepped into a Mack Sennett film, and had I not been so desperate to get upstairs to see Clegg, I might have found the whole situation amusing. As it was, I only found it infuriating.

  Eventually, I made it onto the elevator and pushed the button for the twelfth floor. Of course, on the way up we stopped at practically every other floor in between to let my fellow fez donning passengers off at their floor. They were a jovial bunch, gushing with bad jokes and bad cologne. I closed my eyes, remembered my manners, and tried not to breathe too deeply.

  When the door opened on my floor, I darted off the elevator and ran down the hallway toward Clegg’s suite. When I arrived, I took a moment to catch my breath and collect myself. Once I’d regained my famous Callaway cool, I went to knock on the door but found it was ajar. Not being exactly sure what that meant, I hesitantly pushed it open and peeked in.

  Square Head and Tonto were seated in the main room. Both were silent with their chins firmly planted in their respective chests. Not only did they look more morose than usual—which is saying something—they also appeared as if they’d just gone fifteen rounds with Cassius Clay. Their faces were bruised and bloodied, and both were shirtless, save for their white undershirts. That was shocking in and of itself because I would have bet money Square Head and Tonto slept, showered, and plowed fields in their government-issued black suits. Both men held a highball glass in his hand, sans ice, half-filled with a brown liquid. I remember thinking how not only was it a tad early in the day to start imbibing, but also wondered if I’d ever witnessed the two stiff-collared government men ever drinking alcohol before.

  “Hey guys,” I said, walking on in. “Am I invited to this party?”

  Both jerked up their heads. They looked at me, then at each other.

  “Did I say something wrong?” I asked.

  “Callaway,” Square Head whispered. “You’re not…”

  “Not what?”

  Tonto answered, “Dead.”

  “Not as far as I know. Am I supposed to be?” I smiled, but no smile was returned. “And speaking of dead, what happened to you two? You guys look like you got hit by a truck.”

  Neither man answer. Instead, they both simultaneously jumped to their feet, grabbed their suit jackets, and put them on over their T-shirts. Now, I knew something wasn’t right.

  “Come on, guys,” I chuckled out, “Where’s Clegg? What’s going on?”

  “You need to come with us,” Square Head said, grabbing me by the arm.

  Before I could ask to where? I was being escorted out the door I had just entered. Minutes later, I was tossed into the back of Clegg’s black ’59 Caddy.

  With Tonto piloting and Square Head riding shotgun, we peeled out of the parking lot and sped south on La Brea. Tonto never so much as tapped the brake, and when we got to Sunset, he squealed the tires making a hard left from the right-hand lane. He nearly took out a tour bus when he blew through the light at Highland, and I swear I saw a traffic cop dive for his life at the intersection at Las Palmas. Meanwhile, all I could do was sit in the backseat and hold on for dear life. It wasn’t until we came to a full stop at a traffic signal that I had the wherewithal to start asking questions.

  Neither Square Head, nor Tonto—I’ll use their real names—neither Agent Carson nor Agent Stevens, were talkative sorts under the best of circumstances, but on this occasion, their silence was downright monastic.

  “Guys, where are we going?”

  No response.

  “Is everything okay? Am I in trouble?

  Nothing.

  “Guys, what’s going on? Where’s Clegg?

  Zilch. No matter how many questions I posed from the rear, the response from the front was the same. Not even a grunt.

  I had no clue what was causing Square Head and Tonto to behave the way they were, and since they weren’t talking, I could only speculate. Which I did. Yes, I had been AWOL all morning and that caused them to think I was dead, but they were acting like the whole mix-up was my fault. Like I asked to be drugged, snatched from my apartment, and then driven out to the desert. Also, it wasn’t at all the same as when I didn’t report in before. I tried to report in this time. How was I to blame if nobody was around to take my call?

  But then something occurred to me. How did they know I was missing to start with? When I last saw Clegg and crew, they understood I was going back to my apartment and then over to Miriam’s. They also knew I was scheduled to be in the recording studio all morning, which meant they probably wouldn’t be hearing from me until afterward. So the fact was, they weren’t expecting me to check-in. There was nothing suspicious about them not hearing from me because they weren’t supposed to. Which brought me back to the original question: how did they know I was missing to start with?

  The only answer must have been that something happened in the hours while I was gone that caused them to come looking for me. And when they couldn’t find me, they assumed the worst. Which was odd, and certainly not the methodical federal agents I knew, but it did answer the fundamental question. But it only begged another question: what was the something that must have happened that caused them to come looking for me?

  It was beyond frustrating because if either one of the functional mutes in the front seat would have just talked to me, I could have simply asked my questions, and we could have cleared everything up, but they weren’t talking, so all I could do was sit back, hang on, and endure Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

  It would be a few more nail-biting minutes at Le Mans before Tonto would kick it down to something under warp speed. When he did, I sat up to see why.

  There were a half dozen police cars blocking the intersection at Western, with officers diverting traffic to the left and right off Sunset. Tonto had no intention of turning either direction and coasted into the intersection. A police officer ran toward us. Without stopping, Tonto rolled down his window and flashed his ID. The officer nodded and then motioned to his brothers in blue to let us through.

  A wooden police barricade had been placed on the other side of the intersection, and I thought Tonto was going to plow right through the thing. Happily, two of L.A.’s finest got there in time to move it before he could. Once he had cleared the barricade, he floored it again, leaving a good portion of his Michelins on Sunset Boulevard.

  It was roughly two blocks later I saw the first firetruck parked horizontally in the middle of the street. But it wasn’t until Tonto navigated around it that I truly grasped the gravity of the situation.

  Tonto whipped the car to the curb and skidded to a stop behind one of the dozen or so ambulances I could easily see. Before I had time to put my vital organs back in their proper place, both men were out of the car. Square Head opened my rear door, and though he didn’t
drag me out, per se, he did encourage me with a forceful tug on my arm.

  I was expecting to be led into one of the buildings we had parked in front of, but instead, we stayed put and stood by the car. The air was acrid and smoky. Firemen, cops, and all manner of emergency personnel were running around us. The situation was obviously dire, and the expression on their faces reflected as much. My nerves were now completely on edge, and just standing around wasn’t making them any better. I felt obliged to say as much.

  “Guys, what’s going on?” I demanded.

  Typically, neither responded.

  “Looks like there was a pretty serious fire around here or something.”

  Again, nothing.

  “Damn it, guys, talk to me. What’s going on? Why are we here?”

  I don’t know why, but for some reason, at that moment, I happened to glance at the business we were standing in front of. It was a small market, but it wasn’t the market itself that got my attention. It was the address above its door. Something registered. Then, I looked at the address on the dry cleaners located next door to the market. The addresses seemed familiar. But why? Then, it hit me. We were in the fifty-two-hundred block of Sunset Boulevard.

  I took out my wallet and removed the business card Levine had given to me on my first day at the television studio. When I looked on the back, a chill went through my body. On the back was the address of the recording studio for Gabriella’s prerecord. It was at 5270 Sunset Boulevard. I looked up at the address of the market again. It was 5267. The dry cleaners beside it was 5269. That meant the recording studio was across the street. Right behind an armada of firetrucks and ambulances.

  I stepped off the curb and started to across the street, but Square Head grabbed my arm.

  “Let me go!” I shouted, struggling to pull free.

  The words had no sooner come out of my mouth when Clegg appeared from around one of the firetrucks. I was about to call out to him, when he looked over, saw the three of us, and stopped in his tracks.

  Agent Peter Clegg is not the type of person one would describe as being overly demonstrative. On a scale of one to ten, his emotional spectrum stays fairly closely calibrated somewhere between a five and a five point one. That’s why when the man’s face lit up like the Golden Nugget and he screamed “Trip!” at the top of his lungs for God and J. Edgar Hoover to hear, I was properly shocked.

  “Clegg,” I yelled back.

  He ran across the street, causing a police car pulling out to lock up its brakes to keep from hitting him. Once he got over to us, I had the uncomfortable feeling he wanted to hug me. Happily, for both us, he didn’t.

  “Lieutenant, you’re…”

  “Alive. Yeah, I know. What’s going—”

  “They’re all dead, Trip,” he stated flatly.

  “What?” I responded, sure I’d misunderstood what he’d said.

  “There was an explosion.”

  I still wasn’t comprehending his words. “What are you talking—”

  “It looks like it was a bomb,” Clegg said. “But we’re not sure yet.”

  My mouth went dry, and my guts started shaking.

  Clegg continued, “It happened a couple of hours ago. It’s a mess in there, so it’s going to take some time to identify all the victims but…”

  “Who’s ‘everybody?’” I asked, trying like hell to hold it together.

  “Everybody, Trip,” Clegg replied, his voice low and solemn. “We thought you were in there. Can’t tell you how happy I am you’re not.”

  Suddenly, everything was moving in slow-motion. I heard my own voice, but it was as if it was coming from somewhere else, when I asked, “Clegg, when you say everybody, do you mean even the band?”

  Clegg put his hand on my shoulder and nodded. “I’m sorry, son.”

  “But how do you know?” I shouted. “You said it’s going to take time to identify the victims. You don’t know for sure the band was in there. You don’t know…she was in there.”

  Clegg looked at Carson and Stephens and nodded.

  It was Carson who spoke, “We watched them go in, Callaway.”

  “All of them?” I begged, my voice cracking.

  “Yes,” he replied, with no emotion. “All of them. Including Miss Kaplan…including you.”

  Chapter 11

  Clegg and I sat in the backseat of the Caddy. Carson and Stephens remained outside on the street. I felt nauseous and could barely breathe, much less talk, but Clegg was persistent. He wanted to know what had happened to me. So I told him. I began from the time Gabriella appeared at my apartment, to waking up in the desert, being as specific as I could be, given my state of mind. After I finished, he said nothing, and only responded with a simple nod. Then we both fell silent.

  The firetrucks had moved, and I could clearly see the burned-out shell of the building across the street. There was hardly anything left of it. Just a blackened cave of rubble. I let my head fall back, and I closed my eyes. Of all the things that had happened on this case, none of it surprised me that much. Some of it was downright predictable. But this, this I never saw coming.

  After several minutes, Clegg finally spoke. His voice was slow and deliberate, as if what he was saying he was hearing for the first time himself.

  “Carson and Stephens arrived at Miss Kaplan’s house at sunrise. Your car was parked in front. They took up a position and waited. At oh nine hundred they witnessed Miss Kaplan and a man they thought was you—obviously, we now know it wasn’t you—come out of the house, get into your car, and drive away.

  “They followed them here to the recording studio. The unknown man and Miss Kaplan parked in the studio’s small lot, got out, and went inside—by the way, we have your car. It’s going to need some body work.”

  He stopped for my reaction. I had none.

  He continued, “A few minutes later, two other men arrived on foot, and entered the studio. Carson and Stevens confirmed these men were Daniel Glass, the trombone player, and Sidney Bern, the drummer.”

  “Daniel and Sid were walking?” I asked.

  “We’re assuming they parked up the street. We’re checking into it.”

  I nodded.

  Clegg went on, “Shortly after ten, Gabriella’s band arrived in a green station wagon. They parked beside your car, got out, and went into the studio.”

  “Was Goetz with them?” I asked.

  Clegg held up his hand, implying there was more. “Two minutes after that, Ricardo Goetz arrived via a black Lincoln. The driver of the Lincoln stopped in front of the studio, got out, and opened the rear door for Goetz. Goetz got out of the car and went inside.

  “At that point, Carson and Stephens approached the studio on foot. They decided to enter would make them too conspicuous, so they assumed a discreet position near the front door. Shortly after eleven, kaboom! They were blown into the street. It’s a miracle either of them is still alive.”

  A face appeared in my mind, and I straightened up. “Gabriella?”

  Clegg shrugged. “Carson and Stephens never saw her go in, but it’s possible she arrived before they did. For now, we’re considering her MIA, along with any of the regular studio staff.”

  I sat back and let out a long breath of air. “What’s going on, Clegg?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “And where’s Colson? Why isn’t he here?”

  Again, Clegg shook his head. “I don’t know that, either. He’s not answering my calls, and nobody knows where he is.”

  “I can’t believe she’s gone,” I said softly.

  This time Clegg didn’t respond.

  “I can’t believe they’re all gone. Why would somebody do this? It doesn’t make sense. Was it Cabaneri? Is he responsible? Because if he—”

  “The question, Trip,” Clegg interrupted, “is why weren’t you in there?”

  I looked at him but said nothing.

  “Somebody saved your life today, Trip. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to ma
ke sure you weren’t anywhere near this recording studio. They also went to a lot of trouble to make it look like you were. Why would they do that? Why would Cabaneri do that?”

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Why don’t we go ask him?”

  I thought Clegg was going to say I’d lost my mind, but he didn’t. “Yes. Why don’t we do just that,” he said, opening the car door. “Let’s go,” he shouted at Carson and Stevens.

  The two men hurried into the car, and with no further instructions from Clegg, Stevens started the engine, and we sped off.

  When we arrived back at the hotel room, Clegg went straight to the phone and started dialing. Square Head hustled off into the adjoining room, where I suspected he was doing the same thing on a separate line. Tonto, oddly, whispered something to Clegg and then disappeared back out the door we had just entered. I, in contrast, fell onto the couch and proceeded to wrestle with some not too attractive inner demons.

  It would be easy for me to write off the way I was feeling because of what had happened to Miriam. And I’ll admit that was a large part of it, but there was something else going on inside me, too. Something even more profound. Something more personal. There was an aspect of my life I had grown comfortable with, or at least had gotten good at ignoring. But now I could no longer do that. Now it was smacking me right up beside the head.

  Death was nothing new to me. Mom died when I was young, Pop when I was in college. Both losses were hard on me, especially Pop. But since going to work for Clegg, something had changed. I had just come to accept death as part of the job, a by-product of my day-to-day with him. I had gotten used to it. I had callously come to believe that the demise of people, both good and bad, was part and parcel to the kind of work we did. I had not only come to accept it, I even anticipated it. Like it was all some kind of game where it was expected rules would be broken and penalties appropriately dispensed. I had basically turned life and death into a Saturday afternoon football game.