The Hollywood Starlet Caper

by Robert Muccigrosso

  Scarlett was neither good-looking, attractive, nor beautiful. She was gorgeous, she was a knockout, she was ravishing, and my lebeatto, as that Austrian psychosomething put it, was beating to begin the beguine. But I am always the gentleman, as good old Mom, taught me. “You must be Scarlett,” I cooed, “since I see that you have a chest that's no sunken treasure.” I laughed; she didn't. I guess she was short on a sense of humor.

  “So tell me, Mr. DeWitt, what brought you to town?”

  “A train.”

  “I see.”

  I could tell that either she was being coy or couldn't figure out why I had taken a train rather than traveled by some other means.

  “No, I mean where do you hail from, what do you do for a living, and why have you come to Los Angeles?”

  I had to think fast so that she wouldn't become suspicious. “I come from North Dakota,” I said, “and I make my living as a fisherman.”

  She seemed puzzled. “With your bent nose and cauliflower ears, you look like a boxer to me.”

  Now I was puzzled. Several people had noted that I looked like a bull dog, but no one ever said I resembled a boxer. Then the light went on, and I realized that the picture of pulchertude sitting opposite me had thought I was a prize fighter.

  “I'm no boxer, although I've got good dukes and can take care of myself. When I was a kid I aimed for the stars and wanted to grow up to be a short-order cook, but fate dealt me a losing hand. My mom said she wouldn't serve what I cooked to a dying pig or, for that matter, anyone who was dying. So I guess that was that, and I became a fisherman. But I still prepare and eat fancy meals. You'd be surprised what a goremay I am.”

  The frown lines deepened on Scarlett's gorgeous kisser. “I didn't know there were many fishermen in North Dakota.”

  I had to think quickly. Fortunate for me, I'm good at thinking on my feet, although I remained seated. “Ah, well the state has one kind of fish that keeps us fishermen pretty busy.”

  “And what's that,” Mr. DeWitt, or can I call you 'Dick'?”

  You can call me anything, I thought to myself. “Well, Miss Stickbottom–or can I call you 'Scarlett'?—we catch Bismarck herring.”

  I had never tasted Bismarck herring, but I remembered that my old girl friend Sadie Plotz used to wolf it down like there was no tomorrow or the day after that.

  “Well that explains everything except why you're here. Is there a big convention of Bismarck herring fishermen?”

  I could have told her that I was here just to visit Cousin Sheldon, but since I knew as much about him as I did about the mating habits of polar bears, I decided to play it safe.

  “Yeah, it's a real big convention, and they're promising to give away a lot of fishing gear to whoever tells the biggest fish story.”

  “Oh, maybe you'll take me there one of these days.”

  Now I had really put my size eleven foot into it. “Ah…I'm afraid that's not possible, Scarlett. You see the convention's for fishermen only. Fisherdames can't attend.”

  She seemed hurt and was about to say something when Florian showed his ugly self and asked what we'd like to drink. Scarlett said she'd have a Pink Lady, the specialty of the Pink Pussycat Lounge. I said I'd have a Jack Daniel's with a bowl of sugar-coated peanuts. “And, Florian,” I added, “bring the real stuff and not the rotgut.” Florian bowed and muttered something under his breath that I did not catch. Maybe he and Mumbles were related.

  “So, Scarlett, now that you know all about me, how's about you telling me about yourself? Cousin Sheldon,” I lied, “says you're a real great actress.” There are raw nerves and then there are raw nerves, but I had hit the jackpot. Scarlett's face gave truth to her name.

  “Now listen, Dick, you seem like a real nice fellow, but your cousin Sheldon is a #*&‸%@‸$*. He's been %&$#***&$@!

  I hadn't heard such naughty language since my ex-wife found out about a sweet little dish who had taken a shine to me and had polished and buffed my you know what.

  “Naw, Scarlett,” I lied again, “you've got Cousin Sheldon all wrong. He means to do right by you.”

  “Oh yeah? Then why didn't I get the part in that movie where all those people in Georgia got their asses kicked by all those people from up North? How come a floozie from another country, no less, got the job, when Sheldon said I was a cinch to get it? Do you know what I did for him when he said he could put in some real good words with the producer?”

  She proceeded to tell me what she did for that lucky, undeserving, fat bastard. “You did all that?” I managed to croak, as both my eyes and trousers began to bulge. I was about to tell her that Cousin Sheldon was just another slimeball, but then I thought of the job and all the salary and expenses that the slimeball was paying me, and that convinced me to keep my big fat trap shut. After all, these were hard times.

  And these were drinking times, too, as Florian showed up with the hootch. “A Pink Lady for the lovely lady,” he said, “and a Jack Daniel's for the…” He couldn't get the words out of his mouth. I don't suppose it had anything to do with my stepping on his foot with as much force as I could muster. Florian went away muttering again. He definitely must be related to Mumbles, I concluded.

  “Here's looking at you, kid,” I said to Scarlett as I hoisted my glass.

  “You know, Dick, you've got a way with words for a small-town fisherman from North Dakota. I bet some movie writer could use those words.”

  I took a belt from my Jack Daniel's, while Scarlett drained her Pink Lady in one swallow and called for another. I could tell that this boozing bimbo had real class. She was my kind of broad, even if she had something going with Cousin Sheldon.

  Scarlett leaned across the table and petted my hand. “You know, Dick, there's something about you that could send shivers up and town a lady's spine. I'm not sure what it is yet. You're certainly not movie-star handsome. In fact, you sort of look like—who's that guy who played in the vampire movie a few years back? But you've got that certain something that a lady could lose her self-control over. You know what I mean?”

  I didn't have the slightest idea of what she meant, but I nodded and told her yes. This was too good to pass up, I thought, especially since she was now running her foot up and down my leg. I told her that I would like it even more if she took off her shoe and was careful not to ruin my trouser crease. She smiled and made a kissing gesture with her lips. I made one with mine, too. Unfortunately, I was drinking my Jack Daniel's at the time, and some of it squirted across the table. Gallant gentleman that I was, am, and ever shall be, I was at the point of reaching over and brushing the booze off her chest with my semi-clean handkerchief, when I heard a voice say, “Well if it ain't Mr. D. What a small world!”

  It was a man's voice, so I knew it wasn't Mom. And it was an understandable voice, so I knew it wasn't Mumbles. I had told my secretary Dotty to pay the rent and other bills while I was out of town, so it probably wasn't a bill collector, although with Dotty's ditzy ways, I could not be sure. I pivoted in my seat and saw none other than Light Fingers Louie, the small-time criminal whom I had known for Lord knows how many years. When I had left home, Louie was on the lam. Apparently the lam had taken him all the way to the City of Angels.

  Now I had to think fast before Louie blew my cover and asked me what a private dick like me was doing clear across the country. I could have said that it was a case of mistaken identity, but Louie was no fool, even if he had once managed to get caught cracking a safe and spending time in the pen. If I knew Louie, he would keep insisting that he knew me and bring up our mutual acquaintances who wet their whistles at The Slippery Elbow. He would keep spilling the beans until the can was empty.

  I got up and threw my arms around Louie's shoulders. “Louie, I'd like you to meet Miss Stickbottom. Scarlett, this is Louis—ah, Armstrong—he's a fisherman from back home in North Dakota.” Before the two-bit crook could claim that it was a fishy story, I whispered to him to clam up before I put the mussel on him. He began to say somethi
ng, but I spun him around, and we headed for the door. “Listen, Louie, I'm doing undercover work here and don't want the dame to know who I really am. Give me a number where I can reach you and I'll call you soon. Got it?”

  Louis looked confused but said that he had got it. I took out a pen and wrote the number on his shirt cuff, which I then ripped off. “I'll make it up to you, my friend,” I lied.

  When I returned to the table, Scarlett was on her third Pink Lady and beginning to look a little worse for wear. Her pretty blue ones were beginning to cross, her pretty head beginning to nod. I figured I'd better learn more about her while she still remembered who she was. I had to have something to report to Sheldon Blatt if I was going to get paid. Besides, I was hoping that she'd continue rubbing her foot against my leg, especially upwards.

  “So why don't you tell me more about your sweet self, sweetheart?”

  (I was always good in school at illiteration.)

  Scarlett downed the last of her drink and motioned for a refill to Florian. She drinks like a fish, so maybe she really does believe my phony fisherman's story, I told myself.

  “Well, Dick Dimwit, it's like this. I was a poor girl with rich looks. I thumbed a ride to the Coast and dreamed of making a hit in the movies. I thought the dream was going to become real when I met Sheldon Blatt. The putz was less than nothing to look at, but he promised me the moon, or the sun, or whatever. He said—and get this—that I was a cinch to play Scarlett in that movie people are making such a fuss about. He even had me change my name! So I wait, and then I wait, and then I wait some more. And here I am, still waiting, while the little prick refuses to take my calls. Can you imagine that, Dick Dimwit?”

  I could imagine slugging her for screwing up my name, but that wasn't going to get me any simoleons from the little prick, aka Sheldon Blatt. So I bit my tongue—I should have chewed the sugar-coated peanuts that Florian had brought over more carefully—and tried to assure Scarlett that Cousin Sheldon had every intention of contacting her and furthering her career once he returned from out of town with his painful piles pulled. (I was on a roll with my illiteration.)

  By this time Florian the creep had brought Scarlett the souse her fourth drink in well less than an hour. In between slurps, Scarlett leaned over and said, “Tell your cousin, Dickie boy, that if he doesn't do right by me and fast, I'm going to take a poker and put something up his big fat ass to replace those piles.” Her pretty face took on a look that would send Frankenstein, the Son of Frankenstein, and the Wolfman packing. “And, tell that schmuck of your cousin that I remember all those juicy stories about this star and that star, and this director and that producer. In other words, I got the goods on him. And…it's all in a little black book.”

  Blatt was not going to be a happy man when I told him this. I was about to press Scarlett for more details when Florian arrived and announced that the car was here for Miss Stickbottom. I asked him what car was that. Scarlett had put her pretty little head on the table by this time, but Florian, his breath reeking of marinated spiders, whispered in my ear, “Mr. Blatt has a standing arrangement with us. Whenever Miss Stickbottom has had, as they say, one too many—which is almost always when she is a patron of our fine establishment—we arrange to drive her home, a service for which he pays handsomely.”

  So much for my squeezing some more dope from the sleepy starlet, who was now snoring, at peace with the world and, at least until she sobered up, with Cousin Sheldon.

  Florian made it a point to hand me the check. I felt like saying that Mr. Blatt would take care of that, too, and handsomely. But I realized that I could not let the bum guess that I was in Blatt's employ. I fished for some dough to pay the tab and demanded change. For his time, trouble, and tip, Florian received a well-deserved snarl as I vacated the premises and slammed the door.

  Chapter 7

  A black cloud hung over me as I left the Pink Pussy Cat Lounge. I hadn't got squat from Scarlett in the way of news that would satisfy my employer. Worse, I had left in such a huff that I had forgotten to polish off the last of the sugar-coated peanuts. I felt like going back inside and getting them before Florian got to them, or demanding that he give me some more to take with me. A stranger to the city, I had no idea of how to get back to Mumbles's place except for a cab, which I hailed without much difficulty. The cabbie was the talkative kind and offensively personal. He asked if I was new to town and if so, what I thought of it. I told him to shut up and keep his eyes on the road. I could tell that he was sore from the way that he braked and nearly sent me flying into the front seat. I offered him a few choice words and slapped the back of his head, promising that there was plenty more of where that came from. He was sulking, and I was pissed. He got me home without further fuss, and I paid him. He asked about a tip, and I slapped him again. I was beginning to think that there were no angels in the City of Angels.

  It was going on seven, already well past my suppertime. Hunger pains were beating a tattoo inside my stomach, but I didn't know whether Mumbles was at home, let alone cooking something. Besides, guilt, usually a stranger to me, was saying that I should buy some food and fill the ice box, even though Mumbles hadn't asked such. I didn't like the idea, but I've always been known as a good sport and free spender. So I went to a filthy-looking bodega that disgraced the corner of the block. A sign hanging next to the cash register said “We spoke Anglish hair.” I chirped “hello” to the fat senora who was guarding the till and received a puzzled “como?” for my pains. By the time I finished selecting this and that—peanut butter, sugar-coated peanuts, kosher dill pickles, pig's knuckles, donuts, and a roll of toilet paper—I figured I had done my duty—and then some. I handed the Queen of English some dough, received some change, and bid her—well never mind.

  Mumbles was not at home. So I fixed myself a good shot of Jack Daniel's and carefully prepared a gourmet meal for myself. I'm not sure if I had ever had pig's knuckles smothered with peanut butter but made it a point to have it again. The kosher dills added to the feast, and the jelly donuts gave it the coo de grass, as the Frenchies say. I put the dirty plates and silverware into the sink—I wasn't sure if Mumbles wanted me fooling around on his turf—fixed myself another Jack Daniel's, and settled back with my [sugar-coated] peanuts for a little relaxation with the radio. Unfortunately, it wasn't the right time or day for my favorites. Too bad. I was really in the mood for “The Shadow.” It was a great program, and the guy who played The Shadow, some mug named Orson Welles, had a real swell voice, although I doubted he'd ever make much of a name for himself. Then I thought I'd hear some soothing music. First I landed a bunch of dames calling themselves the Andrew Sisters and singing some dopey song that's been making the rounds these days. I didn't catch the title, which was in some foreign language. It sounded like “Beer, Mr. Shane.” Can you imagine some nice, clean-cut, white American broads singing in a foreign language and asking some schmo to give them some suds to gulp down? Sort of sickens you. Then I turn the dial and catch a jerk who called himself “Wolfman Jack,” and who played records that would send even wolves running for cover. That guy, I told myself, wouldn't last more than a couple of weeks before listeners demanded that he be sent to the loony bin. Mumbles did have an old, tattered copy of The Black Mask, and I got a couple of good reads out of it before belting down another Jack Daniel's and deciding to call it a day. I skipped brushing my teeth since I had brushed them in the morning. Or at least I think I had. Anyway, I was pretty sure that I had given them a going over sometime yesterday.

  Slept like a poor Jew who hasn't managed to get out of Hitler's Germany. Indigestion all night long. Must have been the toast I had for breakfast. Bad dreams, too. Florian and I were dancing in one of them, and the slob kept stepping on my feet. The second one was worse. I ran into my old nemesis, the Black Llama, who drew his gat[rod] and was about to make Swiss cheese out of me until my pal Polish Phil Mazurki, told him to hold it right there or he'd slice and dice his cojones.

  I never did find
out if the Polack sliced and diced the spic because I heard the ring of the phone from the other room. I figured Mumbles would get it, but I figured wrong. I staggered to the damn nuisance, picked up the receiver, and asked if the caller knew what ungodly hour it was to wake up respectable, God-fearing people.

  “Listen, Mr. DeWitt, as far as I can tell the only respectable thing about you is your left eyebrow, and the only thing that you fear is that Prohibition might return to put you on the wagon, where you badly need to go. It's now 9:30, and if you're not already too soused to know your left leg from your right, Mr. Blatt wants you over here on the double, more precisely, by 10:30.”

  It was my employer's charming secretary, Hedwig. She hung up before I told her that I knew my left leg from the right one. And what the hell did she mean about my left eyebrow? This wacko was fast getting on my nerves. But I couldn't afford to keep fat Sheldon waiting. I took a shave, skipped a shower, munched on a piece of leftover pig's knuckle to which I added some fresh peanut butter, and since I couldn't find where Mumbles kept the java, had a snort of Jack Daniel's, and was out the door. Then I remembered that I had forgotten something important. I raced back up the steps, went to the ice box and got a few dill pickles, which I promptly wolfed down. Then back out to hail a cab. It was once we were headed for Blatt's office and I was chomping on a pickle that I had second thoughts about not having bothered to brush my teeth.

  I arrived at Blatt's office a few minute early. His sweet secretary asked me at which Salvation Army I had stolen my clothes, and whether I always wore them badly mismatched or only when I knew that people were looking. Then she told me to sit down, preferably on the floor, or better yet, wait in the bathroom until her boss was ready to see me. Another angel in the City of Angels. I asked myself why I had left the city of my birth and all subsequent days for a place like this. I must have been muttering to myself because Hitler's daughter asked what I said. I told her to mind her own business and go back to reading the comics. One look told me that she regretted having asked. She was about to say something else when the intercom buzzed with a message that summoned me to the boss's lair.