Perhaps it was no coincidence that a story appearing on the same page said that several policemen had been placed on what the department called “administrative leave.” In other words, these coppers were supposed to leave their guns at home, as well as their nightsticks, knuckle-busters, shivs, and assorted other devices for keeping the peace for one's friends and disturbing it for one's enemies. The article went on to say that many of Los Angeles's finest were furious. “Mr. Clifford has got it all wrong,” insisted one of them. “We're the good guys. We don't need any Sad Sallies sticking up for the punks who give our great city a bad name. If the D.A. thinks it's such a picnic trying to protect good, honest folks, he should get out from behind his desk and let us get out from behind ours and onto the streets where we belong. Meanwhile me and my fellow brother cops will do what needs to be done.”
Those were fighting words from an unnamed fighting cop, who looked every inch a fighter in the photo the newspaper had seen fit to include. He also looked every inch an ape–King Kong, to be more precise. And now I had a name to go with the big ape: Lt. Harry Hardnut. I only hope that he didn't have a name to go with the guy whose shoulder he massaged in the restaurant. I've heard that for some dopes hope springs eternal. For me, hope usually springs a leak.
The phone rang around 11:00 just as I was piling the breakfast dishes into the sink and giving a thought or two to brushing my teeth and washing my face.
“Marty Hardy's residence,” I announced.
“Oh, Dick, you can't imagine what's happened.”
It was Scarlett, and I didn't want to imagine what had happened.
“My policeman friend came over an hour ago, and it was just awful.”
I knew that he hadn't tried to take her up to the Empire State Building since that was on the other side of the country. Had he had his way with her? Had he offered her his big banana? Had he held her too tight and squashed her goods? Had he growled too loud and broken her eardrums?
“Calm down, Scarlett,” I said. “Now tell me what this big baboon did.”
I could hear her sobbing. Then she blew her nose and nearly broke my eardrums. Finally she composed herself.
“I had my new Silvertone radio on and was listening, just as nice as you please, to that nice Mr. Fred Astaire singing 'They Can't Take That Away from Me.' Then I thought of that cocktail party when Sheldon introduced me to him. What a gentleman! And then I thought of your nogoodnik, rotten, disgusting, vermin, lying, fat slob cousin, and that was that. When is that piece of you-know-what going to finish recuperating and getting his fat ass back into town? I want him to get me a part in a movie, and a big part,” she yelled. Then she calmed down and asked me if I liked Mr. Astaire and if I could sing and dance as well as him. She said that the cocktails were simply fabulous at the party where she met him.
Before I could tell her that I thought Astaire's movies were swell, especially with that Ginger Rogers dame hoofing it with him, she told me to wait a minute while she fixed herself another drinky-poo. Another one? It was before noon, and I was late having my first.
I heard her gulp, burp, and give a sigh of satisfaction. She had downed the hatch with the drinky-poo. A few more of those, I thought, and she'll be down in the booby hatch.
“Where was I, Dick?” she asked.
Now it was my turn to sigh. “You were about to tell me what happened with your cop friend, sweetheart.”
“He's not my sweetheart,” she stormed.
At this point I felt that trying to clear up the little verbiage misunderstanding was about as doubtful as trying to get things straight with my secretary Dotty. It was, in short, a losing game.
“Scarlett, please just tell me what happened with him.”
“When?”
I counted to ten. “This morning, dear.”
“We didn't do anything this morning. And besides, I don't think it's any of your beeswax. Do I ask you what you do with the women you go out with?”
My mother always wanted me to aim for the stars and become something big, like a coal miner or taxidermist. I should have listened to her, but no, I had to become a gumshoe.
One last try.
“Scarlett, I can't help you if you don't tell me why you're so upset. Now what did your friend say this morning that has caused you this grief?”
Scarlett stifled another sob and, I was pretty sure, took another swig of whatever she was drinking.
“Someone pounded on the door until I thought it was going to break. 'Hold your horses, whoever you are,' ” I said. “When I opened up, Harry wasn't holding his horses, he was holding today's paper with a picture of him large as life. He shoved past me, went to my booze cabinet, and poured himself a big one, which he finished in one gulp. Can you imagine that?”
“So why was he mad at you? You didn't put the story or his picture in the paper, did you?”
There was a long pause.
“Well, not actually. But he's suspicious since he claims that he didn't say anything to the paper. He thinks someone's setting him up, and believe you me, he knows plenty about setting people up. He's not sure, but he threw out a lot of names of people who would like to see him in trouble.”
Count me in as one who would like to see the monkey house's prime specimen in trouble. He'd probably like to see me in Dutch, too. I was so relieved that he didn't know my name that I was ready to go back to that old time religion and thump a few Bibles.
Scarlett more or less excused herself, saying that she had to fix another drinky-poo, but only a small one.
She returned a few minutes later to make my day. “I think that I ought to tell you, dearest Dick, that Harry puts you pretty high on the list of suspects.”
I tried to remain calm as I screamed, “What made him do that?”
I could hear the souse sipping her brew. Then she giggled. “I suggested it because I didn't think he knew you. I guess it just sort of slipped out. You're not mad at me, are you, you big hunk of man?”
No, Scarlett, I'm not mad at you, I thought. I'd like to kick your shapely little butt from her to Timbuctoo, but I'm not mad at you. I'd like to slip some formaldehyde into your drink, but I'm certainly not mad at you. Why should I be, you stupid sot?
Those were my thoughts, but I settled for telling her that it was unfortunate, but I was sure nothing would come of it.
“Possibly not, you handsome devil, but he really got burned up when I said that I had hired you as my protector and that you'd beat the living tar out of him if he gave me any more trouble. Aren't you proud of me for standing up for my rights?” she crowed.
Why of course, you nitwit, I said to my scared-stiff self. But what about my rights, especially those pertaining to the safety and continued well-being of my life and limbs?
“You should have kept your mouth shut, Scarlett.”
“Oh, Dick, you're pouting now just like a spoiled little boy. Besides, Harry just laughed when I told him that you were my protector. Now you calm down, and we can discuss this some other time, but now I have to go for my pedicure.” With that she hung up.
Now I had to worry about what kind of disease I might have caught from consorting with someone who had to see about her pedicure. And that appeared the least of it. Harry Hardnut seemed likely to crack a few of my precious parts, and Sheldon Blatt, should he find out that I was playing both sides against the middle, might do worse. And all because of a blackmailing tramp, who's sore because she didn't get the lead in a movie that probably no one will bother to see. Hooray for Hollywood!
I looked outside the window. The rain was pounding on the pavement like the pain in my head.
Chapter 14
I downed some Jack Daniel's to fortify myself. Then I called Blatt's office and told Hedwig that nothing was new and that Scarlett still wanted some time to herself. The secretary said that she also wanted some time to herself, especially from hearing my sweet voice, but that her boss still wanted me to call in regularly. She added that he was getting more and more annoye
d that I hadn't learned anything from his starlet. “When are you going to earn your pay?” the good woman asked.
“When you learn some manners,” I told her before slamming down the receiver as hard as I could.
The rain slackened, but I didn't feel like getting my galoshes wet. So I spent the rest of the afternoon reading the newspaper and dozing, although not in that order. Mumbles returned earlier than usual. We schmoozed and had some liquid refreshment. Though not in that order either. I told him what had happened that morning, both with the newspaper and with Scarlett. He said that I'd better get those black books back in a hurry. He asked if I wanted his help and seemed disappointed when I declined it. Maybe I'll give him a finder's fee when all this is over, I thought to myself. And maybe I won't, I thought better.
Mumbles suggested that we go to Sid Grauman's Chinese Theater that evening. I told him that I didn't speak Chinese, although I did a pretty good imitation of speaking Chink talk. He said that the place had a Chinese look about it but that the movies were in English. I was tempted to tell my pal that he couldn't do a pretty good imitation of speaking English. Since we were going to Grauman's Chinese Theater, we decided to stop off and have a hamburger and fries beforehand. I'm not sure of the logic there, but the food was okay.
The movie was You Can't Take It with You. I seemed to recall that it had been a big hit on Broadway a while back. It had a lot of big movie stars in it, people like Lionel Barrymore and Jean Arthur. It even had Jack Benny's radio darkie, Rochester. It was supposed to be a comedy, but except for the darkie, I didn't find anyone funny. Maybe it was my fault, but probably not. Mumbles didn't laugh much either, especially since he slept through the whole film. I had to admit, though, that the place did look like an authentic Chink place. Although the ushers seemed like one hundred percent white people like us, I suspected some were scoring opium and selling broads into white slavery. Otherwise, why would this Sid Grauman fellow design the joint in Chink style? Mumbles was still sleepy, so I drove the car back to the apartment. He went straight to bed without a nightcap—that says something for how tired the poor mug was—but I was still wide awake. Too many thoughts, bad ones, of my situation.
I fixed a drink and called Light Fingers Louie. I asked him if he was brushing up on accounting; he said he was brushing an old coat and studying the betting forms for the next day's races at Hollywood Park.
I told the widely acclaimed safecracker and snitch that I might have some problems with a cop named Harry Hardnut.
“Mr. DeWitt,” Louie pleaded, “you don't wan't to have anything to do with that bum. I ain't been here that long, but I know he's trouble. Big trouble. People tell me that it's a fast trip to the morgue if you look cross-eyed at him.”
I patiently explained to Louie that I was not cross-eyed and indeed had twenty-twenty vision. “Look, pal, I need you to scout around and keep me in the know as to what the scoop is on this bum. Okay?”
“Mr. D, you was always good to me, and I'll never forget it. I'm all loyalty. You can count on my help.”
Good old Louie. I was glad that he volunteered to help. Otherwise I would have had to remind him that there was a warrant back East for his arrest and that someone might let slip that he was now residing in LA. That someone would have hated to do that since he had on another occasion done his civic duty and turned in Louie for a safecracking job. What had he expected? A fellow like me could use the reward money during the dark days of this depression.
I enjoyed some good shut-eye after conversing with Louie and knocking back a final drink. I didn't have to count sheep or a Black Llama, and I slept soundly until I heard Mumbles making a call early the next morning. He seemed upset about something and slammed the door on his way out. End of shut-eye.
The next few days came and went. Likewise the rain. In between downpours I saw a couple of movies, a Charlie Chan one and one starring my favorite actor, Jimmy Cagney. I remember in one of his earlier films how this tough guy pushed a grapefruit into some dame's puss. I jumped out of my seat and yelled, “Let her have it, Jimmy!” The people sitting around me weren't too pleased. But who cared? I paid for my ticket, didn't I?
One evening, when the weather was pretty good, I strolled over to the Biltmore Hotel on Pershing Square. What a swell joint! It was fancier than even the new Le Grand Rien back East, where I met my poor sap of a client, Uneeda Biscuit. He had hired me to rescue his broad from the foul clutches of the notorious Black Llama and his gang. The Biltmore had five restaurants, all of them filled with what seemed the crème of the crème.
I also had a yen to visit a swanky nightclub called the Cocoanut Grove. I'm not sure what held me back, but I felt a shiver go up and down me, sort of like that elite watering hole was in for big trouble, someday, somehow.
I had all this spare time because nothing was cooking with my troublesome trio: Scarlett, Blatt, and Hardnut. The souse still wanted time to herself; Blatt, so his snooty secretary informed me, was pitching his clients' values to various producers (Scarlett should only hear this, I guffawed); and Hardnut was presumably beating the crap out of some unfortunate schnook who managed to cross his shadow.
No news was not necessarily good news, but no news in this case wasn't bad news either. But one thing was gnawing at my insides. I had sensed that I was being followed after I left the Biltmore. At first I played it straight and was real casual about it. But someone, about half a block behind, kept pace with me. After five minutes of this, I turned and yelled, “You got a match, scumbag?” The guy turned heel and ran off as fast as he could go. I would have pursued him, but I had on my galoshes and didn't want to wear them out. Was I being pairannoyed? I wasn't sure. But I did resolve to carry my Smith & Wesson .38 on future occasions.
Chapter 15
The call came the next morning. I had been reading the sports section of the paper, and should have let the damn phone keep chirping. But I answered it and opened up a hornet's nest, or some other pest's nest, since I didn't know if hornets had made their way this far west.
At first I couldn't make out what the muffled voice was saying. I knew it wasn't Mumbles because he was snoring in his bed.
“Speak louder,” I said. “Who is this?”
“Pack your suitcase,” she said. “We're going away and I don't know for how long.” It was Scarlett.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I can't tell you now,” she said in hushed tones, “but I'll tell you when we get there.”
The fact that I'd know where we were going once we arrived relieved my growing anxiety. But I still didn't know why we were going where we were going.
“You're not making sense, Scarlett. Why do we have to go anywhere?
“Because, Dick, I think that someone is out to kill me. And…and,” she began to sob, as only a sob sister could sob. “You have to protect me.”
Why me? Was I ready to lay my life on the line for a souse who's shacking up with a couple of lowlifes and, for all I knew, half of Hollywood? Would I do this for honor's sake? You got to be kidding. Would I do it for money? Well…
“Scarlett, as your protector, I haven't received any retainer yet. If I'm going to continue providing my expert services, I'll need some dough up front. After all, I have the integrity of my profession at stake. It's a matter of principle, and I think that you know by now that I'm a man of principle.”
“I know you are, Dick. I'll take care of all the expenses while we're away and give you a good-sized retainer when you pick me up. By the way, you'll need to lay your hands on a car. I don't know how you'll do it, and frankly, Dick, I don't give a damn. And, Dick, one last thing. Don't tell a soul about this. You can't trust anyone in this stinking town.”
I asked her when we were leaving.
“I don't know. It could be tomorrow, it could be a few days. I have to see about certain matters. Just keep your bags packed and your powder dry.”
I was puzzled more than ever. I rarely used powder. How had she found out about th
ose times that I had?
Mumbles stumbled out of his room. I decided to tell him what the story was with Scarlett. She was probably right: trusting people in this town was asking for trouble. But Mumbles? Besides, if he blabbed, no one would understand him.
“Pal,” he said, “you need to be very careful. I don't have to tell you that this dame could be setting you up for something very nasty. If I was you—which thank God I'm not—I'd go see Mr. Blatt and tell him what's doing. You don't need to tell him you're working for Scarlett, unless, of course, you fancy having your kneecaps introduced to some goon's baseball bat.”
Mumbles laughed at his joke, but I didn't think it was anything to laugh at, especially since it didn't seem like a joke. I guess that jokes are in the ears of the bee holders.
“The more I think about it, my friend, you're in like Flynn. Tell Blatt you need a car and tell him you need cash up front for the trip. If he balks, remind him that Scarlett might be leading you to her little black book. You never can tell. And,” he chortled, “Scarlett is going to pay you and pay for the trip. Lemme see,” he said. He had his mouth full of a stale taco when he suggested that I might convince Scarlett to head for a getaway in San Louie Abysmal, or some such place I never heard of. “That way you can get in a little golf and maybe,” he winked, “a little something on the side from a little someone, if you catch my drift.”
I caught his drift, and it wasn't only because he wasn't on intimate terms with soap and water. Scarlett was an eyeful, all right, but I didn't plan on making her a handful because of the way I felt about Louise.
No, the relationship between the starlet and me would continue to be purely tectonic. When I told him this, Mumbles looked at me with disbelief.
“Hey, buddy, have you turned to liking guys? If so, you can pack your suitcase and clear out right now. I ain't prejudiced, you know, but I'm not going to have any faggot living with me.”
The Hollywood Starlet Caper Page 8