by L. A. Morse
The whole episode scared Sweet shitless, and he stopped going to the club. He still paid a thousand dollars a month, though, and he lived in terror of another telephoned demand.
The one thing Sweet did was talk to the man who had introduced him to the club. It turned out that the man was similarly coerced into enlisting Sweet—not Sweet specifically, but anyone in a position of power and influence. That man had since committed suicide, and Sweet confessed that the uncertainty of his situation, plus all the guilt he felt, had led him also to consider that escape.
Sweet said that of course he knew Simon Acker who had taken part in the negotiations. He was surprised when Acker bought out the owner of Medco after the take-over fell through, but Sweet was deeply involved in his own dilemma and did not think much about it. He didn’t know Acker belonged to the Black Knight and was startled to hear it. No, he repeated, he didn’t have a clue about what was going on.
“Does this help you at all?” he said after he had finished the story.
I thought. Had it? I knew more than I had before, but it seemed that the more I got, the more complicated it became. I didn’t know if I was getting closer to or further from the answers. The Black Knight was sure some operation, though —taking it in from all sides and directions. Money from one end, power and influence from another. Whoever was behind the club must have enough people in his pocket to do just about anything he wanted. Quite a setup. I could see why Ratchitt would fight pretty hard to protect his piece of it.
And what was the situation with Acker? He seemed to be right in the middle, or close to it. Was he being blackmailed? Faro had no pictures, but there might be something else. And if Acker was being blackmailed, what did he have to do? And where did he get the money to buy the company? And why? Too many questions. Maybe Stubby would have some answers when I got in touch with him in the afternoon.
Sweet was watching me closely as I thought about all this, despair, hope, and expectation crossing his face.
“Do you think you can do something?” he said. “It’d be worth a lot to me.” I bet it would.
“I don’t know yet, but I’ll make you a deal. Let’s see, you’re paying twelve grand a year now in membership fees. I don’t want anything up front, but if I can get you free, give me half of that—six K. One time payment, and that’s it. Fair enough?”
He nodded. “But you’ll have to be careful. I mean, I don’t know what would happen if they found out I was talking with you. I’m sure they wouldn’t like it, and I could be in an even worse position than 1 already am.”
“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me, as they say.” And I meant it—if it was possible. I’d sacrifice Sweet if necessary, but I’d try to avoid it. He seemed okay, but, fuck it, I didn’t owe him anything—only a shitty lunch.
I grinned at him in what was supposed to be a reassuring, way. He didn’t look reassured. I’d have to work on that.
I told Sweet I’d be in touch, and got up.
On the way out I saw that André was holding a gin bottle, deep in discussion with the bartender. They both looked daggers at me as I passed. I smiled.
The car jockey didn’t look happy to see me coming.
“I know which one is yours,” he said, trying to make it an insult.
I heard the engine roar, and I saw my car race through the lines of parked cars like a pinball off a bumper. He pulled up with a squeal of the brakes.
The jockey looked real pleased with himself as he got out and held out a hand for a tip. I put a puzzled expression on my face and kind of leaned around to look behind him.
“It looks like you got something on the seat of your pants after all. A big grease stain or something.”
“Oh, no,” he said, and got to looking real worried. He twisted around trying to see what was on his fat butt. Of course there was nothing there, but he kept twisting even harder until he was slowly turning around, like he was trying to corkscrew himself up his ass.
I got in my car and started moving slowly forward. The jockey was so intent on his problem that he didn’t notice he was right in front of the car. I gave a short, loud blast on the horn. He gave a surprised yelp and leaped out of the way, landing in a small mud puddle and soiling his fancy gold trousers. He looked disbelievingly down at his pant legs and then stared after me with his mouth hanging open. Meatball!
FOURTEEN
I made fairly good time back to my office. For a change there wasn’t anyone passed out in the doorway. There was just an old pair of broken-down shoes. That was odd. It was usually the other way around—bodies without shoes. I didn’t bother to figure out if there was any symbolic significance to the change.
Maria was happy to see me. In spite of the heat and the stuffiness, she looked as cool as ever. Charlie Watkins had called again, but there were no-other messages. The insurance salesman had stopped by. Maria said he had chatted her up and tried to get a date.
“Did you accept?”
She wrinkled her nose. “He was a turkey. And besides, I said we were going to Mexico,” She tossed her shiny black hair in a haughty gesture. “... I was thinking, Sam. I know this small village near San Bias. It’s got the best beaches and the best fishing in all of Mexico, and no turistas ever go there. We can rent a house right on the beach. Would you like that?”
“Sounds great.” Perfect, in fact.
“Look. I got this dress yesterday, especially for the trip. Do you like it?”
She stood up. She was wearing a yellow cotton sundress that beautifully set off her smooth olive skin. The top of the dress was cut in such a deep vee that it was hardly more than a pair of straps that only partially covered her large breasts. She bent forward slightly to make sure I appreciated the design of the dress... and the design of the wearer. I did. She did a quick pirouette, causing the skirt to flare up. It was extremely short and didn’t have far to go. I was treated to a shot of transparent lemon-yellow panties that made my throat go dry. The temptation was very strong to say fuck it and leave that minute for Mexico. As things turned out, it would have been better for a number of people if I had, but I don’t operate that way, I patted Maria’s plump bottom, then dragged myself away and went through to my office.
I poured out a glass of gin and drank it down in an effort to wipe out the taste of the swill I had been served at the restaurant.
I sat down at my desk and was just about to call Stubby at the pool hall when the phone rang. I identified myself.
“There’s something on page seventeen of the afternoon paper that might interest you. If you are wise, you will follow the advice that is obvious, even if it is not stated.”
Before I could say anything the line disconnected. I didn’t recognize the voice, but it somehow sounded familiar. Not from recently, but from a long time back. It’s no good struggling with these things, so I let it drop, and sent Maria out for a paper.
When she brought it in, I immediately turned to 17. It was the traffic accidents page. The lead story was about a big rig that overturned carrying a load of watermelons. The watermelons fell on a sports car, crushing it and killing the two occupants. An interesting photo accompanied the story. At first I didn’t see anything, but in one corner, sandwiched between stories about several multiple fatality crashes, there was a small article.
Private Detective
Hit-and-Run Victim
In the early hours of the morning, the body of Francis Eugene Argyll was found in an alley between Cedar St. and Wilson Ave., the year’s 57th hit-and-run victim.
Police say that Argyll was a licensed private investigator who was something of a local character. His age and current address are not known.
A spokesman for the police said they are questioning residents who might have witnessed the crime, but they are not optimistic about the outcome.
Argyll was the 57th hit-and-run fatality since January 1, making the total to date ten ahead of the record set last year.
I sat for a minute and then got up and poured a d
rink. I raised the glass in a silent toast and tossed it back. That was it for Stubby. No use mourning him further.
Apparently Stubby had been right about some things and wrong about others. He must have been right about finding out something. And he was right about being followed. He was wrong about being able to get away.
He was obviously murdered—in just about the best way to avoid causing suspicion. There was no point in my going to the cops. I had nothing hard to give them, and even if I had, I probably wouldn’t. Partly on principle, mostly because I was afraid of everything getting back to Ratchitt. No, I’d have to take it on my own.
It wasn’t a question of avenging Stubby’s death. I’d known him for years, and we got along okay, but I didn’t owe him anything. We were both in it for ourselves, and if something happened, tough shit. That’s not being hard, that’s just the way the game is played, and Stubby would have been the first to agree. However, I was getting tired of people threatening me and warning me off. I wanted to find out what was going on. If, in doing so, I could settle the score for Stubby, so much the better. If not? Rest in peace, Stubby.
The situation was definitely heating up. The only way to deal with pressure is to meet it with more pressure. I still didn’t know what it was all about, but people were starting to get nervous—Ratchitt’s visit and Stubby’s death made that clear. And when people are nervous, it’s easy to make them more so. The more noise you make, the higher they jump.
I thought for a minute and got a nice idea. I looked up a number, dialed one of the newspapers, and soon got an old acquaintance, Harold Ace. He didn’t have much of a calling for journalism, but with a name like Ace, he figured he had no choice. He answered the phone in the way that always amused him, putting the pause in the wrong place.
“Harold, Ace reporter.”
“Hunter here. Would you be interested in a story about an exclusive private club in Hollywood that sells kinky sex? Some of the members are big-name stars. There are also a few politicos and the heads of some big companies. Not to mention big-scale police bribes to keep the wheels moving. Your paper interested?”
“Are we ever!” It sounded like he was bouncing in his seat.
“I kind of thought you might be.”
“Well, you know nothing sells papers as well as the combination of sex and celebrities, and the kinkier the better. But we really look for those stories where we can adopt a tone of moral outrage.”
“I know. You’re a family newspaper.”
“That’s right,” he laughed. “Some comment on the American family, isn’t it.... But tell me more about this place.”
I told him about the Black Knight. He kept interrupting to shout “Wow!” or “Too much!” or other cogent journalistic remarks. When I finished there was a silence on the other end of the line.
“That’s dynamite,” he finally said. “But can you provide some evidence to back up this story?”
“I didn’t think your paper bothered about things like that.”
“Sam! This is not some sleazy tabloid.”
“I hadn’t noticed much difference.”
“Well there is. We’re responsible journalists, for one thing.”
“You mean you sell fewer papers.”
“That’s right,” he said sadly. “But I do need solid information.”
“How about somebody who works at the club?”
“Great! Can he provide anything to support the story?”
“Photos of the famous enjoying the club’s facilities.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. But you’ll have to come up with some money. A fair amount considering what this will do to your circulation.”
I had a couple of reasons for doing this. Newspapers, like everyone else, place a greater value on what they have to pay a lot for than on what they get for nothing. Also, though I knew I could get Faro to cooperate, I wanted him to be at least willing. His game at the Black Knight was almost played out, and if I could give him a stake so he could get out of town, he might be more helpful.
Ace thought the request was reasonable but said he’d have to get authorization from the higher-ups. I told him to get on with it and to keep the next afternoon free. I’d make the necessary arrangements, and we would get together with the source at that time.
I hung up. I could feel that my lips were twisted into a grin. There were some people that might not find it a comforting expression.
I called the cop shop and asked for Watkins. Instead, I got Burroughs, his partner. Burroughs didn’t know where Watkins was. Charlie was taking a couple of days off—said he was onto something that might be big, but he wanted to check it out on his own, that he needed to come up with something to compensate for his screw-ups. Burroughs said he tried to get more information, but Watkins just acted mysterious. Did I know what it was about? Why should I? I said. Burroughs said that Watkins had mentioned my name. Fucking Charlie, that was all I needed!
I told Burroughs I’d call later. He didn’t sound enthusiastic. He didn’t much care for me. It happens.
There was no answer at Watkins’s home. Damn.
I looked at my watch. There was still some shit I wanted to stir up before the afternoon ended.
I told Maria to buy some more things, only this time to get some clothes that weren’t so prudish. We were going to Mexico, not fucking Buckingham Palace. I said it looked like we might be leaving pretty soon. Her eyes gleamed.
FIFTEEN
My first shit-kicking stop was a crummy, windowless warehouse off of Santa Monica. The sign on the door said Mound of Venus Films, Starr Monroe, Producer. I had been there once before looking for Linda Perdue. I hadn’t gotten anything from Monroe then, but that time I hadn’t realized there was a connection between Venus Films and the Black Knight. Maybe this time would be better.
You stepped through the front door into a ten-by-ten cubicle that had been partitioned off from the rest of the warehouse with two-by-fours and plasterboard. They hadn’t even bothered to paint the plasterboard, and the manufacturer’s name, repeated at intervals, was the only decoration in the room. Impressive.
There were a pair of flimsy metal folding chairs that didn’t look very trustworthy and a cheap, phony wood desk. Behind the desk sat a plump, gray-haired woman reading a copy of Variety. She wore a balloony, floral print dress from the ‘40s that was partially covered by a faded gingham apron. She looked like everybody’s grandmother until you noticed the hard glint in her eye. The thin cigarillo that dangled from her lips didn’t help much either.
“I want to see Monroe,” I said, standing in front of the desk.
She looked up appraisingly. “Are you the new beef?”
“No.”
“Too bad. You look like you might have potential. Are you well hung?”
“I’m not here for a job. I want to see Monroe.”
“Can’t. Starr’s busy. Shove off, toots.” She turned back to the copy of Variety.
I leaned over the desk. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I just wondered.”
“I like to help out. I’m Starr’s mother.” It figured. “Starr and me are going places. Right to the top.” Christ!
“I’ll give you some advice. If you don’t want to spend your golden years in the slammer, dump the son of a bitch.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole?” She glared at me.
“I’m the guy that’s going to put him there unless he cooperates. Now, I’ll go and see him.”
I was past the desk and through the rear door before she could say more than “Hey!”
The warehouse was large and wrapped in darkness except for a circle of bright lights off to one side. I crossed to this, being careful not to trip over any of the cables that were lying around.
When I got close, I saw that it was a set for a bedroom. The props seemed to consist of a giant round waterbed and not much
more. There was a cameraman and a few technicians. Close to the camera Starr Monroe was calling instructions to the performers on the bed.
The center of attention was a big guy on his back in the middle of the bed. He had the overly developed muscles of a weight lifter and the blank expression of a plastic doll. Two very small girls who looked about thirteen were climbing around on top of him, exploring his body. Like the guy, they were naked, and their breasts had only begun to develop. One of the girls worked her way down his belly and looked surprised to discover his stiff cock.
“Now look at it like you don’t know what it is,” Monroe shouted.
The girl tried to do that, but looked more like a hungry dog eying a bone.
“Now start to lick it,” Monroe said. “No! More slowly. Start at the bottom. Get your tongue farther out. Good. Get the camera in there close. Got it? Okay. Now, Cathy, you come in and start to suck on it. Jennie, you keep ticking the length of it. That’s right. Just like you’re sharing a Popsicle. Harry, are you getting all that? Good. Keep it up. That’s right.”
The girls worked enthusiastically, occasionally kissing one another when they met at the top of his cock. The recipient of all the attentions stared at the ceiling, looking like he was trying to do long division in his head.
I moved forward another few steps and shouted as loudly and roughly as I could. “All right. This is a raid.”
The girls jumped up, startled. All the crew whirled around to face me. Only Muscles didn’t react.
“What the fuck is this?” Monroe said. “Who’s there?” He stepped in my direction. “Who’re you? Oh, it’s you. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“I want to talk to you.” My voice was hard and my eyes held his.
He was about to protest but then saw something in my expression that made him think better of it. He turned back to the set.
“Okay people, take ten.”