The Hollywood Starlet Caper

by Robert Muccigrosso

  Blatt was puffing on a cigar that looked at least twice as long as my you-know-what and, I'd bet, at least four times as long as his. What won't I do for money, I asked myself, and promptly answered, just about anything

  “Okay, DePitt, lemme hear what you've found out about Scarlett and make it snappy. I got an important lunch in forty-five minutes with Jack over at his studio. And no one—puff, puff—ever keeps Jack waiting if he wants to do business in this town. Get my drift?”

  Yeah, I got his drift. And the bad smell wasn't coming only from his cigar, which I had half a mind to shove somewhere nice people wouldn't even think of.

  “I had a drink with her late yesterday afternoon.”

  “And?”

  “I had some pretty good sugar-coated nuts, too.”

  Blatt looked at me kind of funny, turned away, and then looked at me again. “Listen, gumshoe, I make the jokes around here. You're not getting paid to be top banana. You're getting paid to keep an eye on a broad who knows some stuff that a couple of local gossip columnists would give their tits to get their hands on. And if they did—puff, puff—you can bet your sweet petunias that they'd put it in the papers and hurt a lot of big, important people. Now if that should happen, don't think for a minute that these big, important people aren't going to ask where the broad got the goods and why wasn't she stopped. And you know what that means? It means that it's my sweet ass and yours.” Blatt pointed his cigar at me. “And you know what, gumshoe? Your ass will be chopped liver before mine. Get it?”

  I got it all right. Blatt was a tad sore, and I had to tread carefully, especially since I was allergic to chopped liver. I explained to him that I had been getting somewhere with Scarlett when Florian hauled her away. She had the dope on certain unnamed people, she freely admitted, but more than that I didn't have time to learn.

  “Well you don't have much time now either. Every day I worry that she's going to drink too much and let it all come out. I want you to keep a closer watch on her. I don't care how you do it, but do it. And call me every day even if there's no news. You got me?”

  I had underestimated Blatt. He had the look of an overweight pansy who lacked the courage of a cockroach, but after this outburst I realized that I was dealing with a dangerous, perhaps even homicidal, man. I was sure he had connections. Didn't everyone who was anyone have them here in the City of Angels? My pal Phil Mazurki had warned me about this before I left home. This job no longer looked like a piece of Betty Croaker cake.

  I left Blatt without saying good-bye and went straight to Hitler's daughter. I could tell she had been listening to what had been said in fatty boy's office by the way she quickly reached for the intercom and tried to appear as if nothing had happened.

  “Had a good earful?” I asked the snoop. “Miss anything? Any questions?” She seemed embarrassed, or at least as embarrassed as a nasty, miserable, to-hell-with-you person could be. “If you can stop butting into other people's business, I'd like you to pay me for the expenses I encountered yesterday and, while you're at, how about an advance on my salary?

  “I'd like you to go for a swim in the Pacific with some weights around your flat feet, but I don't suppose you're any more likely to do that than I am to hand over some money for work which probably wasn't done or was done by one of the world's biggest jerks.”

  She gave me a big smile. I wanted to fix her crooked teeth with a pair of pliers, but I wanted my money even more. “Listen, sister, stop being a pain in my ass and fork over the dough.”

  She stood up. I noticed, with surprise, that she was taller than me and may have outweighed me by at least twenty pounds. “You aren't going to get a red cent from me, you poor excuse for anything you can think of. You get paid only at the end of the month. And if that's not good enough, I suggest you take yourself back to the gorilla house you came from.”

  Now I was good and annoyed. My apartment back East, a few friends and acquaintances had said, did resemble a pig sty. But a gorilla house? Worse still, the dame wouldn't come across with the money and I didn't think that I could beat the living tar out of her, not without my blackjack, which, unfortunately, I had left at Mumbles's place. I made a mental note to carry the weapon with me at all times. Then I knocked over the small vase of flowers that was perched on her desk. She was still yelling when I slammed the door behind me.

  It was sunny outside but pitch black in my heart. I had no one here to talk with except a man whose words made me feel that I was on a quiz show and unable to understand a damn thing he said. My employer was as lovable as Joe Stalin, his secretary as pleasant as Ma Barker. Scarlett Stickbottom? Gorgeous, yeah, but what a souse! What was I doing here, I asked myself, as I kicked out unsuccessfully at a mangy cur that barked at me. I was in a word—or is it two?—homesick.

  Then I got a grip on myself. What's the beef, big guy, I asked myself. I got a job, and a good-paying one at that, at a time when a helluva lot of joes don't have a job or a dime. I got my good looks, I'm a snappy dresser, I got a way with words, I got big dreams for Louise and me, and here I am on a new adventure. I began to whistle “Happy Days are here Again” and had lunch at a diner a few blocks away from Blatt's office. A couple of franks smothered with onions and mayonnaise, some mashed potatoes, a slab of pie, and two cups of java, and I was ready to take on the City of Angels and anything it could throw at me.

  Chapter 8

  Mumbles was reading the paper when I returned to the apartment.

  I asked him what was new in the world, and he said something from behind the open paper that sounded like something. I grunted. Then he said something else that wasn't any clearer, and I grunted again. Then I said something about making some long-distance calls, and that got his attention. “Don't worry,” I assured him, “I'll pay for them,” although I was hoping that he would forget to ask for the money when the bill arrived, or that the telephone company would forget to send the bill.

  Mumbles mumbled something or other about having to go out and left ten minutes later. By this time it was early evening back in New York, and I figured that the people I wanted to call, catch up on the news with, and give my phone number to, were at home having a square meal.

  Polish Phil picked up on the second ring. He seemed really pleased to hear from me. Nothing like a friendly voice, I told myself. We pitched a few plattertudes back and forth, I gave him my number, and then I told him about my job.

  Phil gave a long sigh. “Listen, buddy boy, watch out for the Hollywood set. They're not just out to entertain us, you know. They're in it for the big bucks, and don't you forget it. The scumbags hire goons to beat up labor leaders and anyone whose smell they don't care for. So watch your back. And,” he chuckled, “if there's anyone you have to be careful of more than the Hollywood guys, it's the cops… Yeah, you heard me right. You can't believe how corrupt they are. They make those coppers you faced in that Black Llama affair seem like teddy bears…No, Dickie boy, I ain't kidding. They got an honest district attorney in LA who's trying to clean up the mess, but it'll be a cold day in hell if he succeeds. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if the garbage men won't be cleaning the poor sap's body off the streets one of these days.”

  I promised the Polack that I would take his words seriously. If there was anyone who knew the game of police corruption inside and out, it was this past master of the art. Then I got around to asking what was really on my mind: had he heard from Louise. He had. She had written him to say that matters hadn't improved as far as her marriage was concerned. Her husband was still cheating on her, and she vowed that if their marriage ended she would never get serious again unless the man only had eyes for her. Phil said that Louise still had hopes of reforming her two-timing slug of a husband, however. I didn't bother to say this to him, but I had my hopes, too—hopes that Louise would ditch the lowlife once and for all and come running into my welcoming arms. I might not have eyes only for her at this point, but she sure held the strings to my heart.

  We exchanged a few mor
e plattertudes, talked about a big baseball trade that was in the wind, and promised to keep in touch. Phil said that he was going to Florida the next day for a week. He wanted to soak up some sun, tan his big body, and get in a little fishing, maybe in the Keys. He also said that he had to see about going in on some real estate deal as well as a brilliant hush-hush plan to make a few extra bucks. A few extra bucks? Knowing him as I did, I figured that he was about to launch a new Ponzi scheme.

  Mom was next on my list. I was afraid that she was worrying about her sonny boy and how he was doing clear across the country.

  “Hello? For chrissake, what the hell do you want? You know that I play mah-jongg every Tuesday night since the week that your no-good fool father died from drinking too much bathtub gin. Jesus, when are you going to learn?”

  I explained to good old Mom that I called because I didn't want her to worry about me. I heard something that sounded like a cross between a snort and choking, and figured that we had a bad connection. “Hello, Mom?”

  “Yes, I hear you. You don't have to shout. Didn't I bring you up better than that?”

  And of course she had. I owe it to her that I became the gentleman that I am, and I thanked her for it.

  “Don't bother,” she said. “And don't bother to send me one more goddamned can opener. Valentine's Day isn't far away, and if you have the balls to send that contraption to me again, I'll disinherit you. You got that? Now I got to get ready for the girls to come over for our game. I'd have more time if you didn't have your brains up your ass and forget that tonight's the night for mah-jongg…Your telephone number? What in God's name would I want that for?”

  We must have had a bad connection again because I didn't hear her say good-bye. And I didn't worry about Mom disinheriting me. But even if she did, I wouldn't lose out on much more than a couple of can openers and a mah-jongg set.

  I needed to call my secretary Dotty to see if any business was brewing back home and to let her know how she could contact me if it was. Of course I planned to tell her not to give out the number if the person or persons who wanted it might cause trouble. I'd have to rely on her good sense and discretion, neither of which she had or would ever have.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Dotty, this is your boss.”

  “Hi, Cousin Elmer, is there anything wrong at the glue factory?”

  Only that you'd sniffed too much of the product, I felt like telling her. “No, Dotty, this is your boss Mr. DeWitt.”

  “Oh, hi, Mr. D. Nice to hear from you. What's happening in the City of Angles?”

  She might have been right about that one without even knowing it.

  “I just wanted to check up on things, Dotty, and give you my number.”

  “But I've got your number, Mr. D. In fact, I've nearly memorized it. I have been working for you for years, you know,” she huffed.

  That's what I get, I told myself, for trying to have a simple conversation with a simpleton.

  “No, Dotty, I want to give you my number for out here, where I'm staying with my friend Marty Hardy. That way you can always reach me if you need to.”

  “But I don't see why I'd need to, Mr. D. You're there, not here, if you know what I mean.”

  I knew what Little Miss Dumb Bunny meant and carefully explained what I meant. That drew first silence and then a soft “Oh.” I repeated my instructions in a desperate hope that Mr. Edison's light bulb might somehow illuminate the corners of what passed for her mind. Then I asked if any mail had come to the office and if anyone had called.

  “Only a few bills, Mr. D. I paid them. And you did have one call. Some guy said that he hated you and would see about matters.”

  My blood began to run a little cold.

  “Did he leave a name?”

  “Whose?”

  Be a gentleman, I cautioned myself. Besides, if I fire her, I'll have no one to go one day a week to the office and look for mail and catch possible phone calls.

  “His.”

  “His what?”

  “His name, Dotty. Dammit!” I exploded.

  “Oh, no, Mr. D, but he did have a funny accent. Sort of like that Cesar Romeo actor.”

  My blood ran colder. It had to have been the Llama.

  I changed the subject, decided to make nice with ditzy Dotty, but made the mistake of asking about the gulls and her reading.

  “Oh, them. I've had enough gulls, but I'm still reading a lot. It's good to keep my brains sharp, you know. Now I'm into some real serious stuff. In fact a man I met at the newsstand outside the building while I was carrying The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire said he'd give the world if he could come over to my place and discuss it with me. He said it was his favorite bedtime reading. But, gosh and golly, Mr. D, I'm a little nervous. There are so many emperors to remember. Do you think he'll mind if I forget one or two?”

  I assured Nero's number one fan that he was probably of the forgiving nature.

  “That's good, because he's coming here tomorrow night.”

  I wanted to warn her that the learned stranger probably was looking forward to something more than how many people got thrown to the lions, and what emperor royally screwed this one and that one, but I thought better of it. Even if he's a married man out for a little fun, he's going to get more than he bargained for when he has to converse with my favorite ninny. I wished her well, reminded her—probably in vain—of what I expected her to take care of, and said good night.

  One more call remained, the one to Scarlett Stickbottom. I had half a mind not to call the luscious-looking lush, but my employer had insisted that I call him every day to report on what I had learned or, as had been the case, not learned. So I called her.

  “Yes, this is Scarlett the Starlet. To whom am I speaking?”

  What's this dame up to, I wondered. Maybe the booze had debrained her, or maybe she likes putting on airs.

  “It's me, Scarlett, Sheldon's favorite cousin, Dick DeWitt. I just thought I'd give you a ring and see if we can't get together real soon, say, like tonight.”

  “You don't waste any time, do you, Sheldon's favorite cousin? I'm busy tonight, but why don't you come over tomorrow night. We can have an itsy-bitsy drink or two, and you can tell me when your cousin is going to get his fat ass back in town and start hunting again for a good film for me. Tell him and his piles that I'm not putting up with any more of his bullshit, or I'm going to start spreading some stories, which happen to be truths.”

  I guessed that Scarlett was not putting on airs. I asked when I should come over and where. She said around five, because she didn't like to eat on a dry stomach. She gave me her address, which was at something called the Garden of Allah Apartments. She asked if I knew where it was. I laughed and told her that I supposed it was next to the Garden of Eden shantytowns. She didn't think that was at all funny, but she gave me directions and told me again that she expected news about that lying bastard Cousin Sheldon.

  I don't get shocked easily, although I do painfully remember the time I dropped a lamp into my bathtub when I was washing it out. The bathtub, that is, not the lamp. That taught me a lesson, and I've never washed the tub out since. But I had to admit that my chat with Scarlett, if it didn't actually shock me, sure as shooting puzzled me. What was a good-looker like her doing in some Arab's harlem? Should I tell Blatt about this or wait until I saw for myself?

  I decided to wait. Meanwhile I fixed some grub since I didn't want to go out and didn't have anyone to go out with even if I did want to go out, which, as I said, I didn't. Want to go out. I flicked off some colorful green growths from a few stray pieces of chicken with my fingernail, spruced them up with a tangy combo of vinegar and Tabasco sauce, and polished them off. I found a donut from a few days ago lurking next to the toaster and finished it as well. It had been a meal fit for the economic depression that President Roosevelt keeps promising will soon end. Well maybe, but then maybe not. I pondered that mighty thought. Then I pondered the various calls that I had made before
supper. Two questions raced to the front of my mind: What was I going to give good old Mom for Valentine's Day, and would Louise Prima ever by my Valentine?

  Chapter 9

  The next day dawned with a leaden sky. I had nothing in particular to do, and so I figured it was high time to start exploring the city, or at least those portions that I could manage on foot. Blatt was paying only for cabs relating to my work, and I wasn't about to spring for cabs to haul my body on a sightseeing tour.

  I lingered over a couple of extra cups of coffee until Mumbles, groggy-eyed and grumbling, showed his ugly mug at the breakfast table. We chewed the fat, but my pickings were lean as far as understanding what he was saying. He must have a devious septic, I thought. Mumbles fully alert was difficult enough to figure out. Mumbles still half asleep….But he did give me some suggestions for catching some of the high life and low life that neighbored our Bunker Hill. He also gave me a map of the city's streetcar and bus systems. I figured to familiarize myself with them sometime, someday.

  The sky had turned a deeper shade of gray by the time I was ready to go on my adventure. Naturally I put on my galoshes, just in case.

  My first stop lay right at my feet, both so to say and in fact. This weird machine, which Mumbles said was a funicular and which, amazingly, I had understood him the first time he spoke, had a couple of cable cars that took people up and down. I later learned that it was called Angel's Flight, which I suppose was as good a name as any and certainly better than Funicular's Flight. I rode it down. Then I rode it up. Then I rode it down again. I was having almost as much fun on this ride as I had on those my father had taken me on in Atlantic City when I was, as they say, knee-high to a locust. (Or was it a beetle? A mosquito?) I was starting to get a bit tired with all this riding up and down, and so after about an hour and a half, I headed for my next stop, Little Tokyo, which was located not far from the Civic Center, the heart of downtown.