Quarry's ex q-9

by Max Allan Collins

  So Licata thought I was gay, too. Skull and Juke must have told him. That might be bad-mob guys weren’t known for being super understanding about alternate lifestyles. But in view of the “jealousy issue,” maybe I better stay gay…

  He sensed my anxiety and raised the hand with the wedding ring, as if in benediction. “Listen, Jack-I don’t make judgments. I would be out of business if people all over this great country didn’t make certain lifestyle choices that were not approved by the powers that be. My grandfather made our fortune in beer when that was illegal. Since then, gambling, narcotics, sex…it’s all entertainment, isn’t it? Loaning people money to help them realize their dreams, isn’t that the American way? And so is making money out of it.” He shrugged elaborately. “Legislation of morality has made my family rich, and never mind what my grandfather and father would have thought… your tastes, your interests, your peccadillos, don’t matter a damn to me.”

  “That’s very open-minded of you, sir.”

  “Skip the ‘sir’ shit. All I look for in my partners is honesty. We traffic in dishonesty, in a way, so it makes it difficult to find people you can really trust. It’s true in any business. That’s why a guy like Stockwell reaches out to an old friend like Kaufmann-trust. It’s key.”

  “I agree.”

  “Can I trust you, Jack?”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s nothing casual about this, Jack.”

  “You can trust me, Lou.”

  “You understand that I’m not just an investor in this project, I am the investor. The money man. The angel. It’s all out of my pocket book.”

  “I get that.”

  “So if I ask you to do something that contradicts instructions from the producer or even the director, will you follow my lead?”

  I shifted in the booth. “That puts me in a tough position. Art and I have mutual friends, and that’s how I was able to hire on here. I owe the guy. He’s paying me personally.”

  “I respect that. But this is an unusual situation. You see, they think I don’t want people knowing that Tiff and I are an item. I’m a married man with children. I’m a ‘mob’ guy, right? Notorious organized criminal and such shit. So of course they assume I want my name out of the press, and anything about Tiff and me squelched.”

  “You…you just asked me to squelch such things yourself.”

  “Yes. Because that’s what Kaufmann expects me to ask. But let’s get back to that word ‘exploitation.’ You’re a PR guy, Jack. You understand. So keep me and Tiff out of People and Us and off the wire services. But slip some photos of us on set to rags like the Enquirer and to the Rona Barretts of the world.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it interests people, Jack. It sells movie tickets and sells video tapes. Curiosity, prurient interest, sells.”

  “What about your family?”

  “Which one? Annette and the kids? Or the family business I run that I inherited from guys who ran with Jack Dragna and Ben Siegel?”

  “Lou…Mr. Licata…you have me thoroughly confused.”

  “My wife knows about Tiff. My wife lost interest in sex maybe two kids ago. She’s fine with me tending to my needs. She also understands I have an image to maintain, to build. I’m a Hollywood animal, Jack. I have to be a star. My guys have to see me sleeping with today’s version of Marilyn Monroe… capeesh?” The last word was delivered with considerable irony. “Rivals of mine need to see that. Flamboyant. A star, a fucking superstar. Like Gotti in New York. If you help me with my image, Jack, I will give you a bonus that…what’s Art paying you, anyway?”

  “Fifty grand.”

  “Generous,” Licata admitted. “How would you like another fifty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then no matter how much shit you get from Stockwell and Kaufmann over it, leak photos of me and Tiff on the set of this flick to the right rags. You okay with that?”

  “I’m okay with that.”

  The very white smile flashed under the dark mustache. “By the way, these rumors that Eric and Tiff are having an affair behind my back? Don’t deny those with the sleazier media types, either. It’s bullshit, but any ink is good ink. Exploitation, Jack. Exploitation.”

  We shook hands on it, then we went back out to the set, Lou’s arm around my shoulder like we were old buddies; he smelled good-some fancy designer cologne, no doubt. The crew was getting ready to move the camera to the other side of the roulette table as we approached.

  When Tiffany in her white Marilyn dress spotted Lou, she practically ran into his arms. They didn’t kiss, but they were openly affectionate. He did not seem like an uncle greeting a favorite niece, either, unless it was the kind of uncle Marilyn herself used to run into, time to time. Licata certainly made no pretense of separating himself from her. Some local photographers were catching shots of them, before Ginger and several P.A.’s chased them off.

  I made sure Licata saw me approach one of the photogs and ask for a card.

  Ginger had told me that the change of camera set-ups meant at least half an hour, and I got to Stockwell’s side and said I needed a moment. The director seemed anxious to get some fresh air-the smoke-laced air conditioning was nothing human lungs had been designed for-and out back we leaned against somebody’s Mercedes Benz and talked.

  In the t-shirt and jeans, with his short unbrushed hair, his leading-man features puffier than ever, he looked like anybody but the general of the small movie army carrying out his orders indoors. He lit up a cigarette, which defeated the purpose of fresh air, but the director was tense and tired, and I would hardly deny him any small relaxation.

  “We’re halfway there,” I said.

  “How so?”

  “I caught our guy in your room trying to switch your Percodan with his own.”

  “Christ. Poison?”

  “Or a concentrated overdose.” I shrugged. “Same difference. Point is, the two guys sent to take you out are out of it themselves.”

  “What do I need to know?”

  “About what I did today? A guy down the hall from you had an accident in his bathroom. Fatal one. I don’t look for the hotel or the cops to make much of a fuss.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a casino town. Resort town. Dead guests aren’t good for business. You have any idea, Art, how many people die in hotels in this country every year? Neither do I, because the hotels quietly haul the stiffs out the back way. The local cops are goodwill ambassadors for Boot Heel, too, so knocking on a lot of doors asking guests questions isn’t very likely.”

  “You take this so…so dispassionately.”

  “Do you jerk off when you’re shooting a nude scene? I plan to stick around a day or two, and try to figure out who was behind this-okay?”

  “Yes! Christ, yes. Do you think it’s Licata?”

  “Maybe. I just had an interesting conversation with him. I’m happy to say he seems to like me. We hit it off.”

  “Lou is a likable guy. But I never forget who he is and where he came from.”

  “That’s good. Because we had an in-depth talk about Tiffany Goodwin. He actually doesn’t mind that people know he’s banging a Playboy playmate. Including the missus. He’s kind of proud of it, and he even asked me, strictly sub rosa, to feed photos and leak info to the Enquirer and other shit rags.”

  “What? That’s crazy.”

  “Not the way he explains it. What’s most interesting, I think, is that he referenced the rumors that Eric Conrad is having an affair with Tiff, but not about you and her.”

  “Eric? He’s queer as a two-dollar bill.”

  “That’s a dollar less queer than I was thinking, but yeah, tell me about it. Why wasn’t Licata concerned about you and his mistress? You really did have an affair with her.”

  “Maybe…maybe he doesn’t know…”

  “Maybe he does know,” I said. “And that’s why he didn’t mention it.”

  “Because…he’s the one who wants me gone?”

&
nbsp; “Maybe. I have a hunch to play out, and then we’ll see.” I gestured around the parking lot. “Where’s your honeywagon and the two Winnebagos?”

  He sighed cigarette smoke and gestured with his cigarette-in-hand. “We don’t need them here. Eric and Tiffany are staying at the Four Jacks, and have suites far nicer than their Winnebagos. And there’s restroom facilities and anything else we might need on site.”

  “How’d you wrangle the run of the place?”

  “I thought you knew, Jack-Licata is one of the owners of the Four Jacks. How do you think we got to shoot in a casino? That’s a notoriously hard location to secure. Nobody in charge of a casino likes anybody hauling cameras in. Privacy issues if nothing else. We were able to clear some press photographers today, but…why do you ask?”

  “It’s helpful information.”

  “Helpful how?”

  “Helpful for playing my hunch. You better get back on set. You go deal with your melodrama, and I’ll deal with mine.”

  NINE

  I hung around the casino watching them shoot for several hours. I overheard the director tell Eric Conrad and Tiffany Goodwin that a major camera move was required for what would be the last shot of the day, and they might want to go up to their suites until they were needed.

  Tiffany, however, hung around signing autographs for fans and being attended by Licata. The smooth, mustached mobster from California continued to show no signs of wanting to distance himself from his protйgйe, much less the prying eyes of onlookers.

  Meanwhile, Eric Conrad was escorted to the elevators by a pair of the biker boys, who kept autograph seekers back while Eric nodded and smiled and promised fans he’d sign for them at the end of the shooting day.

  I didn’t follow him up, not immediately. I waited until I saw the bikers come back down and resume their security posts. Then I sought Ginger out and got the actor’s room number from her.

  Eric was in a suite on the top floor, but fortunately this was not one of those hotels where you needed a special elevator key to reach the heavens, and the stars dwelling therein. His room was

  1201, off the elevator to the left and down a short private hallway of its own-a small scrolly gold plaque identified this as THE PRESIDENTIAL SUITE.

  It was so fancy it had a buzzer, which I utilized. I had to be a little bit persistent, but finally I heard Conrad’s radioannouncer voice behind the door, slightly irritated. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Conrad-Eric? It’s Jack Reynolds. The publicist?”

  The door opened a crack. The diminutive, bronzed, buff actor was in the jeans but not the denim vest of his costume. He smiled up at me, any irritation vanished. It was a shy smile.

  “Well, this is a nice surprise, Jack.”

  “Can I come in for a second?”

  “Sure.”

  He showed me in with a generous sweeping gesture, indicating the living room of the Presidential Suite, with its Early San Francisco Whorehouse decor. Lots of plush red with gold trimmings-couch, drapes, brocade wallpaper, all about as subtle as a velvet whoopee cushion. A door was open onto the bedroom where the decor was similar but with red trimming gold. For variety.

  “Can I get you something?” he asked. He indicated a red faux-leather wet bar. He was looking at me with a handsome smile and eyes that were a little too eager. Now I knew how Little Red Riding Hood had felt.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  On a small antiqued gold-and-light-pink table just inside the door a few things had been deposited-rental-car keys, sunglasses in a soft case, a pack of Marlboros, and a room key. I put myself between him and the little table.

  “It’s just…I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” I said. “After yesterday morning. I couldn’t help but think you were…that you might be interested in me.”

  This wild speculation was based upon him dropping his robe and waving his hard-on at me.

  He shrugged. “You aren’t wrong. I felt a real connection between us yesterday. I’d love to get together.”

  “Great.”

  Now the eagerness went out of his expression as something occurred to him. “But, Jack-this is awkward. Not a good time. I could get called down to the set any second now, and well…I am seeing somebody right now, and while it’s more an understanding than a relationship, I just can’t…Let’s just say I have a date tonight and leave it at that.”

  “Sure,” I said. “No problem.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder. “But there’s weeks to go on this shoot, and you’ll be around that whole time, right?”

  “Right,” I lied.

  “I promise you we’ll get together.” He leaned in and gave me a tender kiss on the lips. “I promise, Jack.”

  I touched his face and smiled. “You just name the time.”

  And he let me out.

  In the hall I pocketed the room key I’d lifted.

  After the film crew had wrapped for the day (the last shot being called the “martini,” why the fuck I have no idea), Tiffany made a beeline for Licata, and the couple caught the elevator arm in arm. Again, the elegant mobster was making zero effort to avoid anyone’s eyes, although the media was gone now and unapproved cameras were a nono, as more than occasional signs with big screaming letters informed the tourists who were the casino’s customer base.

  The Four Jacks had a steak house, Bronco’s, that was as close to fine dining as the resort offered. The only dress code was that men had to wear jackets and women dresses. I was fine with the male requirement, because the nine millimeter was in my waistband now.

  It was early enough to get right in, and I dined alone, at a corner table, and ate light-a salad and steak sandwich. I drank Coke on ice, no beer or mixed drink.

  The decor was again San Francisco Whorehouse, lots of red-and-gold brocade wallpaper, only with brass trimmings and smoky etched glass panels. I was playing a hunch-call it a small hunch inside a larger one-and the smaller one paid off just about when I had given up on it.

  Licata, still in the white sport coat, black t-shirt and white slacks, strolled into the restaurant with Tiffany on his sleeve. Despite a number of parties who were ahead of them, they were immediately swept to a private booth. Tiffany was in a low-cut black mini-dress, similar to the white Marilyn one but much shorter, and couldn’t have displayed her Playboy credentials more openly unless she’d been nude with staples.

  Since they were just getting here and I’d already had my meal, I ordered some cherry cheesecake and poked at it endlessly, irritating people waiting for a table. Thankfully Tiff and Lou did not linger over dinner, and when (forty minutes later) they left, I left, too, signing my dinner to Eric Conrad’s room.

  Surreptitiously, I watched them step into the elevator, and then I moved back into the casino where I bumped into Ginger.

  “Hi Jack,” the little redhead said. She had nice blue eyes that went well with the freckles. “We’re torn down and ready to go. Some of us are going out to a little blues bar tonight. You wanna join the fun?”

  “Prior commitment, Ginger,” I said. “Rain check?”

  “Sure,” she said. She looked a little disappointed. It was one of those moments when I wished I was someone else.

  I took a few minutes to watch her go, because that well-shaped behind in a pair of jeans was enough to make me believe in God again. For a few seconds, anyway. Then I found my way to a poker machine that had an angled view on the elevators. I wasn’t really expecting to see a familiar face, but my hunch was just a hunch, and any intel at all that I could gather might prove helpful.

  About half an hour later, Tiffany exited the elevator. Alone. She was very much dressed down-white hair ponytailed back, zip make-up, a loose yellow blouse that downplayed her formidable chest, and jeans that weren’t loose but neither did they allow bystanders to make a visual gynecological exam, like other jeans I’d seen her in.

  This provided just enough corroborating evidence to make me feel like I was on to something. Another twenty minute
s should do it, and it was a good thing I waited, because just when I was getting ready to ditch the poker machine and head upstairs, I hit a royal flush and made $85.

  By the time I’d cashed in my quarters for folding money, half an hour had passed since Tiffany exited that elevator and gone wherever the hell she’d gone. Maybe to join Ginger and the gang at the blues club.

  Half an hour passing might be just fine for my sketchy purposes. This was something of a crapshoot, but what the hell? It was a casino wasn’t it?

  I took the elevator up to the twelfth floor, Top of the Mark where the Four Jacks was concerned, and took out the key to Eric Conrad’s room and got the nine millimeter into my hand-my left hand, while with my right I worked the key in the lock, quietly-and I slipped into the Presidential Suite.

  Nobody was in the living room with its red plush sofa and red-and-gold drapes, but sound was coming from the ajar door to the bedroom. Make that sounds: two voices, both grunting, but in different ways. One grunting forcefully, the other mingling pleasure and pain.

  Here’s the funny part. Funny ironic, I mean.

  Eric was up on the brass bed on his hands and knees facing me, and Licata was behind him, delivering the male shall we say, both naked, their position a direct echo of that moment when I entered Joni’s bedroom back in La Mirada and found her getting her bottom pounded by that mechanic, Williams.

  There was no significance to the similarity, just an odd resonance. I guess I’m not experienced enough to know whether that’s standard for rear-entry fun-and-games, but in my experience, my partners and I (females all, I’ll have you know) were on the bed facing the headboard. But Joni and Williams, and now Eric and Licata, had their backs to the headboard, conveniently facing the doorway.

  Which was fine with me, because I would rather look them in the eye, anyway.

  Both froze, Licata in mid-thrust.

  Eric’s shocked expression was almost comical, but there was nothing funny about the sneering anger on the mobster’s face.