5 The Boy Who Never Grew Up

by David Handler

  Johnny hugged his knees and looked up at me vacantly. “I remember you,” he said in his soft, little boy’s whisper. “We met in Homewood.”

  “We did,” I affirmed, thinking how much he made Homewood sound like a real place. Maybe he thought it was. Maybe he wasn’t wrong. Maybe I’d been in L.A. too long already.

  “Matthew likes you,” he said. “You’re Matthew’s friend.”

  “And yours, too,” Bam Bam assured him. “We’re all friends here. Right, Hoagy?”

  “We are.”

  “Can I get anyone a glass of water?” the little agent offered.

  I said I was fine.

  “How about you, John-John?”

  John-John said he was thirsty.

  Bam Bam went bound-bounding down the hall for his drink.

  I took off my straw boater and sat and smoothed the trousers of my white cotton planter’s suit. “Matthew has been telling me all about his early days, Johnny. When he first got started making movies.”

  Johnny stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another one, still trembling. “Where is he?” he wondered.

  “Matthew?”

  “The cop. Where is the cop?”

  “He’ll be here soon, pal,” said Bam Bam, returning with a paper cup of water.

  “I was hoping you’d tell me about when you first met Matthew, Johnny,” I said.

  Johnny sat there with his water.

  “Anything you remember,” I added. “It’s for his book.”

  Johnny drained the paper cup and crumpled it and tossed it on the floor. Bam Bam picked it up and put it in the trash.

  “The wicked witch,” whispered Johnny.

  “The wicked witch?”

  “She heard about it.” He was answering me, in his own way. “That this woman, this casting agent, was looking for a little boy to star in a movie. Only, we couldn’t get in to see her. We were new in town. Just got here from Canada …”

  “The casting agents practically run this fucking business,” conceded Bam Bam. “I’d like you to meet ours, Hoagy. She’s a terrific—”

  “Down, Bam Bam,” I commanded.

  “I’m down. Not one more word.” He clapped his hand over his mouth as proof.

  “So what did your mom do, Johnny?” I asked.

  Johnny sniffled. “Sent Matthew my picture with a loaf of Wonder bread and a jar of peanut butter and a jar of jelly. And a note that said, ‘Let’s do lunch.’ ” He giggled. “And people wonder why I’m so fucked up.” He stopped giggling. Now he was sobbing. “Abel,” he wailed. “I want Abel.”

  “Abel’s gone, pal,” Bam Bam said gently. “How about some more water? You want water?”

  Johnny nodded. Bam Bam scurried off to get it.

  “And that’s how you got the part in The Boy Who Cried Wolf?” I asked.

  He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “He didn’t have me read for him or anything. We just played pinball and rode skateboards and talked. He didn’t even show me the script. Never did the whole time we were filming. Just pages … We filmed it out in Sylmar someplace. I was scared shitless the whole time. I was supposed to be—I saw a murder. I did! And nobody believed me, and they were after me and …” He trailed off, his eyes wide with horror. I wasn’t sure if he was still talking about The Boy Who Cried Wolf or about what had happened last night on Hazen Drive. He swallowed. “Matthew was scared, too. It was his first movie, too. But he looked out for me. Told the wicked witch off. And she couldn’t do a thing. It was great … Matthew, he really cared about me. The other directors didn’t. I did that Stephen King thing in Alaska with Chris Walken and nobody cared. Nobody. I was stuck there for weeks in the trailer with her. Screaming at me, hitting me. I wanted to go to school like a real kid. But she wouldn’t let me. I was making too much money. She made me work. All those other movies. It sucked, man. All of it. Except for Matthew. I’d be dead without Matthew. We’ve always been close. I guess because of them.”

  “ ‘Them?’ ”

  He turned and stared at me. “Huh?”

  “Who, Johnny?”

  His cigarette had burned down. He flicked it onto the floor. “Our moms.”

  “What about them?”

  “We hate them.”

  “He hates Bunny?”

  Johnny rolled his eyes. “C’mon, man, you shittin’ me?”

  “Not intentionally.”

  “She has two hands around his throat, man. She’s choking him. He wants to kill her half the time. Make her bleed.”

  “Like you did?” I suggested.

  “The wicked witch got what she deserved,” he snarled. “I’m just sorry she didn’t die.”

  Bam Bam returned now with Johnny’s water. And with Lamp, who had on an olive poplin suit today, and seemed even more alert and eager than usual. Or maybe that was just in comparison to Johnny.

  “Here we are, Lieutenant,” declared Bam Bam. “Here’s Johnny Forget, as promised. He’s anxious to help the department in any way he can. Isn’t that right, John-John?”

  “Nice to meet you, Johnny,” Lamp said warmly, sticking out his hand.

  Johnny shrank from him, terrified. “A-Are there uniforms here?”

  “No uniforms,” Lamp promised. “That was our deal.”

  Johnny wasn’t convinced. “G-Go look, Bam Bam. Go look.”

  Bam Bam obediently stuck his head out into the hall. “Nope,” he reported. “Just Hoagy’s pooch.”

  “I hate uniforms,” Johnny whined. “I hate them.”

  “Sometimes I don’t disagree,” said Lamp. “But they do serve their purpose. I’m sorry about your friend, Johnny.”

  “Abel wasn’t my friend,” he spat. “He was the man I loved.”

  Lamp nodded grimly and turned to me. “What brings you here?”

  “We’re all family here. Haven’t you heard?”

  “I didn’t do it!” cried Johnny. “I didn’t kill them!”

  “No one is saying you did, Johnny,” Lamp assured him, calmly and patiently. “No one is accusing you of a crime. You’re a free man. I simply want to ask you some questions, okay?” In response, Johnny started weeping again. Lamp tried a different approach. “If it will make you feel more comfortable, you can have an attorney here.”

  “Present,” piped up Bam Bam.

  We both turned to him.

  “You’re an attorney?” asked Lamp.

  “Yessir. Third in my class. Harvard, class of ’89.”

  “Did you know that?” Lamp asked me.

  “Nothing about Bam Bam surprises me.”

  “I gotta go to the bathroom,” announced Johnny, struggling to his feet. He wavered there unsteadily.

  Bam Bam took his arm. “Sure, pal. Come on. I’ll go with you. Here we go …”

  Off they went.

  Lamp clucked sympathetically. “Wowie, zowie, what a basket case.” He sat on the sofa, posture perfect, hair combed, hands folded neatly on his lap. He looked as if he should have been running a day-care center for the Campbell’s Soup kids, not a murder investigation. “I checked out the day parkers at Zorch’s garage, Hoagy. They were no help, as I expected. Saw no evil, heard no evil. The murder weapon is no help either. No prints, no registration. Black market gun all the way—they steal them out of the warehouses by the crateload.” He took out his notepad. “Per your suggestion, I also did some backtracking on the death of Rajhib Shambazza, a.k.a. Tyrone Johnson. Exactly how does he figure in?”

  “He may not.”

  Lamp raised his chin at me. “Oh, no you don’t, Hoagy,” he said crossly. “Ix-nay. I’m not doing your legwork for you for nothing. You did this to me before, and I’m not going to let you—”

  “He was hooked up with Toy Schlom. She lived with him.”

  “Norbert Schlom’s wife?”

  “She used to be a hooker.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand these people.”

  “And you’re a lot better off for it.” I glanced at the not
epad. “Okay?”

  “Fair enough,” he said reluctantly, opening the notepad. “Our late friend Shambazza liked to pass himself off as a photographer. Even had himself a studio over on Gower Street in Hollywood. In reality he was an all-around bad apple with a long record. Pornography, pimping, drug dealing … Especially drug dealing. Big time to the show-biz crowd. Got hauled in on the Belushi thing, though they never nailed him for it. County sheriffs found him in his studio one morning with a couple of thirty-eights pumped into his head. They figured it for a hit, drug-related. Never got anywhere with it.” He closed his notepad and leveled his gaze at me. “He the fellow who took Pennyroyal’s nude pictures?”

  “He was,” I confirmed.

  “You’re thinking his death ties in somehow?”

  “I am.”

  “How come you didn’t mention any of this?” he asked sternly.

  “I was going to.”

  “Same way you were going to call me last night if Johnny showed at Bedford Falls?”

  “Shadow told me there were no visitors. Go ahead and ask him.”

  “Jiminy Cricket, Hoagy,” he fumed, exasperated. “I asked you not to do this and you’re doing it. What is it with you?”

  “I never claimed I was a perfect person, Lieutenant. Only gifted.”

  “That’s just not good enough, Hoagy,” he snapped. “No siree. Nope. No way. Uh-uh.”

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I really am.”

  He weighed this, arms crossed. “Still not good enough. I’m sorry, Hoagy. I’m afraid you’re on my doo-doo list from here on in.”

  I tugged at my ear. “What does that mean exactly?”

  “It means no more running down leads for you, no more trading. It means I close the iron door on you. That’s what it means.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “It’s your own fault, Hoagy.”

  “It generally is. Want me to leave?”

  “No, I don’t want you to leave!” He seemed even touchier today. Definitely the heat.

  John-John and Bam Bam returned. Johnny flopped onto the sofa and lit another cigarette, head bowed like a child waiting to be scolded.

  Bam Bam sat behind his desk. “Okay, Lieutenant, what can my client tell you?”

  “You were seen outside of Zorch’s house shortly before the murder, Johnny,” Lamp began, treading lightly.

  Johnny nodded once, briefly.

  “How long were you there?”

  Johnny shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not into watches, man,” he whispered. “An hour, two hours, dunno. I was there. Then I wasn’t.”

  “Why were you there?” asked Lamp.

  “I w-wanted to talk to Abel.”

  “The housekeeper across the street said you’d been there off and on for several days.”

  “I wanted to talk to Abel. I wanted him back.”

  “Okay,” Lamp agreed easily. “Any reason you left when you did?”

  Johnny didn’t answer. Just sat there chewing nervously on the inside of his mouth.

  “Johnny?” Lamp pressed gently.

  “I felt like it,” he breathed in reply.

  “No other reason?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like maybe you saw something?” suggested Lamp.

  No reaction.

  “Or someone … ?”

  Johnny’s eyes widened in terror. He began to shake again. “Who t-told you?” he stammered, teeth chattering.

  Lamp leaned forward. “Is that what happened, Johnny? You saw somebody there? Is that why you cut out?”

  An unpleasant rattle started coming out of Johnny’s throat.

  “Who was it, Johnny? Who did you see?”

  “Please don’t make me tell you,” he whined. “Please. I didn’t tell. Not even Matthew. I don’t wanna get anybody in trouble.”

  “You won’t get anybody in trouble,” Lamp promised. “Except for maybe yourself.”

  “Hold on a minute, Lieutenant,” Bam Bam broke in. “I think you’d better clarify that last remark.”

  “I’m concerned for Johnny’s safety, to be frank,” explained Lamp. “If Johnny saw somebody there, then that somebody may have seen him, too. And if that somebody is our killer, then Johnny’s life is in danger. But I can’t help him. Not unless—”

  “I don’t wanna die!” wailed Johnny.

  “You won’t, pal,” Bam Bam assured him. “You won’t. The man’s trying to help you. Only, you’d better tell him who you saw. Go ahead.”

  “I’m scared,” Johnny whispered. “I—I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Matthew.”

  “Tell me,” urged Lamp.

  Johnny rubbed his hand over his face. He took a gulp of air. Then he told Lamp who he saw outside of Abel Zorch’s house minutes before the lawyer and his new boyfriend were murdered.

  The House of Wax was a salmon-colored Spanish-style mansion with a tile roof set on a three-acre hillside off Sunset down in Pacific Palisades. Its previous owners included Barbara Stanwyck, Bobby Darin, Xavier Cougat, and Chad Everett. Fifty or so members of the press were herded outside the gate in the hot sun with a couple of cops standing watch over them. Inside the gate there were a lot of lemon trees, very pretty. Also stands of Italian cypress, fig, and olive. A row of evenly spaced palms rimmed the circular driveway, where we left our cars.

  The front door was hand-carved mahagony. One of those yellow Post-It memo tags was stuck to it with the word “Door” written on it, in case there was any doubt. The housekeeper who answered the bell was young and quite pretty. She wore a crisp yellow uniform and spoke only Spanish. But she had no trouble with the word “police.” She led us inside, frowning disapprovingly at Lulu.

  The entry hall was quite grand. Two stories high, curving staircase. The living room, where we waited, was grander. Also two stories high, with a vaulted ceiling and tall leaded windows offering a panoramic view of the Pacific. The cool, elegant decor had that just so quality that professional decorators tend to leave behind, like fingerprints. A matched pair of low-slung bone-colored sofas were set before the fireplace. The coffee table between them was a massive slab of glass set upon four brass urns. Magazines, books, a bowl of fruit, a pitcher of dried flowers were arranged artfully on it. A second conversation area was situated around an ornate backgammon board, which I thought had stopped being fashionable on or about when the Bee Gees did. Maybe it was staging a comeback. Still, I doubted whether Matthew or Pennyroyal ever played it. Or the grand piano that was over by the windows. Maybe that was for Georgie, when he got big enough. The only personal touch in the room was the “George Lassos the Moon” needlepoint from It’s a Wonderful Life over the fireplace. I was surprised Matthew hadn’t taken it with him when he moved out. Possibly he was still figuring to move back in.

  There were more yellow Post-Its in here. Affixed to just about every object in the room—a word of identification scrawled on each in big letters. There was even one on the tile floor. It said “Floor.”

  Lamp paced while we waited, nervously smoothing his neat, blond hair and drying his palms on the thighs of his trousers. Lulu watched him curiously.

  “Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” I said. “You look stunning.”

  “I’m not speaking to you,” he muttered, scowling at me.

  “Is that part of being on your doo-doo list?”

  He wouldn’t answer me.

  “Here …” I went over and straightened the knot in his tie for him. “There you are. Now you’ll knock her dead.”

  “I’ll get you for this, Hoagy,” he vowed, reddening.

  “That’s the spirit. Fiery. Women like that. And don’t forget to smile—you have nice teeth.”

  “You’re succotash, Hoagy. Succotash.”

  The housekeeper returned and led us out through the French doors to a brick terrace, where there was a weathered teak dining table and chairs and a built-in barbecue grill. A faint breeze was coming off of the ocean. A flight of steps took us down to the pool, which was set off from the
rest of the yard by a privet hedge. Rosebushes and camellias had been planted in front of it for color. The mistress of the house was in the pool, swimming laps with a steady, determined crawl. Cassandra sat at a round table under a bright green market umbrella watching Georgie, who was wriggling around in his playpen in the shade next to her. Cassandra wore a white tank top, hot pink leggings, gold gladiator sandals, and her usual shocked expression. Her bare arms and ankles were unnaturally pale, almost waxen. She had no yellow tag stuck to her, but there was one stuck to the table. It said “Table.”

  Pennyroyal waved to us and swam over to the edge and pulled herself up out of the water, sleek and shiny as a porpoise. I could hear Lamp draw in his breath. He stopped breathing completely thereafter. She had on the tiniest of white string bikinis. Her body was magnificent—slender, shapely, smoothly muscled, ripe, firm. There was no hint of spread in her haunches, no sag to her breasts. Her skin was golden and flawless. She shook the water from her hair, then went over to the table and got a towel, moving nimbly and gracefully on her dainty bare feet. She dabbed at herself with the towel and then showed Lamp her two-million-dollar dimples. “Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant,” she said huskily.

  He nodded dumbly, said nothing.

  Cassandra looked him up and down. “You’re cute. Ya really a cop?”

  He nodded again.

  “I could just eat ya up,” she said, flirting.

  “And she would, too,” I pointed out.

  Cassandra treated me to her upraised middle finger.

  “We’ve been working and trying to pretend we’re not prisoners here,” Pennyroyal informed us. “Would you guys care for some iced tea?”

  I said that would be fine. I said it for the both of us—Lamp seemed incapable of speech.

  She turned to her housekeeper. “Maria, could you get us two more glasses, please?”

  Maria frowned, not comprehending.

  Pennyroyal held up a glass and two fingers. “Glasses, por favor.”

  Maria nodded eagerly. “Si, señora.” She went off to the house to get them.

  “She’s wonderful, but she’s only been in the country two weeks,” explained Pennyroyal. “That’s what all of the yellow tags are for—I’m trying to teach her English.”