I was disappointed and a little sore. No one had ever given me good advice on how to eat sardines properly, and I recalled having once spent hours in the john after I'd put too much mayo on the little things. But I was a professional, and I had a job to do. “You got it, babe. I'll be over around noon.”
The last time I had heard any woman use such naughty language was when my mother had commented on the can opener I had given her as a gift for Mother's Day, not the one for Christmas, which she said didn't deserve any comment.
“Now look, Scarlett, I'm packed and ready to go, but what's the big hurry?”
“The big hurry is that someone had slipped a note under my door that said, “You blab, you die.”
I had to admit that the note seemed a tad troublesome. But I had to know certain facts before I could help her. “Who signed it,” I asked.
“Dick, just get over here,” she yelled.
Poor Scarlett. She was so upset that she wasn't able to read the signature. I told her I'd be over before she could remember the name of President McKinley's secretary of the treasury.
By the time I had calmed Scarlett down and managed to get off the phone, the java had overflowed and made the stove look dirtier than usual, if that was possible. I slurped a cup—not the cup, the coffee– and polished off the entire can of sardines, although I did skip adding mayo. Mumbles had already left for work, so I scribbled him a note, saying that Scarlett and I were heading for a tourist stopover in Morro Bay but that I'd be in touch with him, as he had asked. Following this, I called Blatt's office. It was too early for him to be in, but his secretary promised to tell him that I was departing with his favorite starlet and would call in whenever I could. She said that I'd fit in perfectly at Moron Bay. I guess she hadn't heard the name correctly. Then she told me to be careful and not to get myself mangled in a car accident. I guess the old bag was mellowing toward me. My charm always works. Then I grabbed my suitcase and headed out the door. Half way down the stairs I noticed that I was still wearing my robe and pajamas. I trudged back, changed quickly into street clothes, and raced out into a cool but rainless morning.
Traffic seemed heavier than usual as I drove Blatt's black sedan to the Garden of Allah. My first impression upon arriving in town might have been wrong, and I now admitted that Los Angeles might yet have some traffic snarls in the years to come. But when I finally reached the Garden, there were plenty of places to park. In fact, there were only two other vehicles on the block, both police cars. I guess that a new donut shop had opened nearby.
Scarlett was ready to go. She looked every bit the starlet: cheek clothes, a long scarf wrapped around her lovely head, sunglasses covering her bedroom eyes. I thought I looked pretty good, too, but I don't think that Scarlett agreed. She said that she was surprised that I was wearing a differently colored shoe on each foot and a tie on a flannel shirt. Dames! You never can please them. Then I asked about my retainer. She said she hadn't the cash on hand and hadn't had time to deposit a check. She told me not to worry, and that I'd get my retainer as promised. Sure! And Alf Landon was certain to defeat Roosevelt the next time around.
Without naming where we were heading, my companion ordered me to drive north, promising that she would give directions as needed. One sleepy town followed another: Oxtail, Santa Somebody or Other, This or That. I was too deep in cogitation to pay much attention to signs. And the reason I was cogitating was that I couldn't get Scarlett to have a decent conversation. I tried breaking the ice with small talk, asking her if she had a police record, did she take an extra-large bra, and how many times a week she bathed. She just looked at me and smoked. And smoked. And smoked until I thought that every fire truck on the West Coast would be blaring its horn and pursuing us. I tried to engage her by imparting interesting facts about myself. I told her about my first pair of trousers, my mom's difficulty with her dentures, the time when I almost snitched a chocolate bar from a grocery store. That didn't work either. She just kept smoking.
Then I thought I caught a quick glimpse of a sign that said San Louie Abysmal, or something like that, and I remembered what Mumbles had said about it being a great place to play golf. Of course I had never played the game, never wanted to, and never would. How grownups could spend so many hours whacking at a tiny ball, chasing it, and whooping it up if the ball managed to go into a small hole after a lot of unsuccessful tries, sure beat me. But I told Scarlett what Mumbles had said and asked her if we were getting close to our destination. I was getting hungry and my hindquarters were suffering the fate of the long-seated.
Scarlett seemed to wake from a reverie. “Yes, as a matter of fact we're almost there. Look for a sign that says 'Morro Bay'. It's about a dozen miles from here.”
“What's in a name?” Didn't some famous writer—I think it was Alfred Lord Venison, or something like that—ask that silly question? Well, maybe it wasn't a silly question after all. “Moro Bay.” That was the name of the luxury liner that had caught fire a few years ago after sailing from Havana. If memory served correctly—and mine always did—the ship lost more than one hundred passengers and crew before drifting aground somewhere on the New Jersey coast. The name of the place where we were headed for was ominous. It was scary, too.
About half an hour later Scarlett had me pull over in front of a cluster of cabins. The sign in front of the office indicated that vacancies existed. I wasn't surprised since there were no cars in sight. An older man shuffled to the counter when we entered. He gave me the once-over and Scarlett the twice-over. I was ready to suggest that he wipe the spittle that was cascading from his mouth but settled for asking for two cabins.
“Two cabins, not one?” He looked at Scarlett and then looked at me as if I were nuts, which of course I was for having got myself into this mess. He shook his head and asked us each to sign the register. I whispered to Scarlett to use an alias. She caught on quick. Then I signed as “Richard Egbert DeWitt III.” That way no one would ever know that it was me.
The geezer gave us two keys with cabin numbers attached. The spittle was making rapid progress as he wished “Miss Garbo” a good stay. I asked him where we could find lunch. I had to ask again before he came out of his trance. “Turn right when you leave here and you'll see it about a mile down the road. Name's 'Surf and Turf'. Can't miss it.”
I toted our luggage to our respective cabins, which were side by side, and agreed with Scarlett that we should grab a bite and then worry about unpacking.
The last letter in the small restaurant's name looked more like a “d” than an “f”. I was uneasy, but the food proved passable. I had never eaten either Surf or Turf before. The waitress seemed surprised but explained the meaning of the term. “When in Rome,” I figured—or in Moro Bay, in this case. So I ordered a hamburger mixed with tuna. The waitress seemed startled but said nothing. I forgot what Scarlett ordered, which is surprising since I pride myself on remembering everything that's important.
Once our repast was past, I asked Scarlett what was next. She surprised me by suggesting that we take a long walk on the beach, which was near our cabins. She asked if I had brought along swimming trunks. I confessed to her that I had been somewhat fearful of water ever since my mother had accidentally held my head under the water in our bathtub for a minute or two when I was only five years old. I had asked Mom more than once how that could have happened. She said that she had forgotten that I was there. Poor Mom never did have a good memory. Maybe that's why I determined to have a good one.
Scarlett convinced me that walking on the beach was not only safe but healthy as well. Why, the air was almost as fresh as it is in Los Angeles, she promised. Being a good sport, I agreed to accompany Scarlett on her promenade but insisted that we first return to the cabins so that I could get my galoshes.
I had expected that we'd skip the jawing. We hadn't spoken much on the trip or at lunch. So I figured that we'd remain pretty much with our traps shut and take in what mother nature had to offer, which as far as I could see, l
ittorally speaking, was water and more water. The sound of the waves, I had to admit, wasn't half bad; the sound of distant gulls brought back painful memories of my last meeting with the Black Llama.
Scarlett lit a cigarette and looked hard and long at the rolling waves. “Dick,” she turned to me, “I'm going to talk straight. You think that I'm a little goofy maybe, a little sharp-tongued kid from the boondocks who drinks too much, talks too much, gets herself mixed up with the wrong crowd, and thinks she's going to be a big star when she might as well just go to San Jose and pump gas. Well I guess you're right.”
I had figured Scarlett for many things, but not a mind reader. She was knocking my socks off and, if I weren't careful, my galoshes, too.
“I'm in over my head now, and I want out. I learned too much from Blatt about the dark side of Hollywood and the promises made to girls like me as we lay under some slob on the casting couch. And I learned too much from Hardnut about the way cops prey on the weak and the small-time criminals to cough up dough and favors. When I had too much to drink I shot my mouth off and warned both these bozos that I was keeping a record of all the dirty players and tricks that this so-called City of Angels called its own. And where has it got me?”
I didn't know but thought about it while she was wiping tears from her eyes and snot from her nose. I wasn't pleased that she was using the sleeve of my coat jacket for these purposes.
“I'll tell you where it got me, Dick. A big-time agent who avoids me as if I was Typhoid Mary, an oversized, ugly cop who threatens to send me back to where I came from in a pine box, and a heart that is broken by Hollywood's promise of fame and fortune.”
Her words upset me almost as much as the fact that she was now plastering tears and snot on the other sleeve. I knew I had to be sympathetic but firm.
“Cut it out, Scarlett,” I demanded. “Here's a handkerchief that's not too dirty that you can use.”
Scarlett smiled at me and knew that I was the understanding type. She said that she knew from the start that I might be only an angler from North Dakota, but I knew all the angles. She also said that she knew that I could and would protect her, even though I didn't seem particularly bright and certainly had the body of one who couldn't keep Charles Atlas from kicking sand in his face.
I took this as a compliment. But if I ever meet that Charles Atlas punk, why…
We continued to walk toward a sun that had begun to set over the blue Pacific. I felt that I could have gone on forever with lovely Scarlett Snitchbottom into the sunset if it were not that my galoshes were killing my feet and hunger gnawing at my innards. Besides, I also had to answer nature's call.
We hurried back to the cabins. Scarlett questioned why we were rushing and why I was walking funny, with my legs held close together.
I told her that it was good exercise for the gall bladder, according to Bernarr Macfadden, or maybe it was Bernard Baruch.
It was getting late once we got there, but Surf and Turf remained open. I was so hungry that I could have eaten a horse. Instead, I settled for a double portion of macaroni and cheese and a side dish of spaghetti and meatballs.
We talked some more over dinner, and she told me that she had made up her mind to leave the city and return to her roots. I hadn't known that she had grown roots, but of course during this desperate depression most people had to do something to eke out a livelihood. She asked me if I was comfortable as a fisherman. I told her that I made a living. Part of me wanted to tell her what I really did, but I refrained from doing so. A bigger part of me, however, wanted to know what I should tell Cousin Sheldon, and after he had fired me, where I was going to get my next job.
Our day together had been a sobering and sober one for us both. But we decided that we should have one for the road, so to speak. Scarlett ordered a Manhattan, which made me homesick; I ordered my usual fare, a Jack Daniel's. We clinked glasses and toasted. Scarlett smiled, “After all, tomorrow is another day.” Then we left. The moon, the stars, and the small light bulbs overhanging our cabin doors made a pretty picture. When Scarlett smiled and gave me a peck on the cheek, the picture was even prettier. When she said that we should leave in the morning, the picture became a Leo da Vinci. And when she had me wait while she went inside and then returned with her two black books, saying I could do whatever I wanted with them, I saw visions of the Pearly Gates.
Chapter 18
I was tired but not unwilling to resist looking through the fabled black books. My eyebrows shot up to the ceiling as I leafed through the gossip Scarlett had compiled in the first book on Hollywood stars and bigwigs, compliments of Blatt. Name the vice, and you found it here. Name the star, director, producer, writer, and you found them here. The biblical Sodom and Gomorrah couldn't hold a candle to this degenerate town. I could see that Hollywood would lose its luster in the eyes of Main Street America if these tales of debauchery got out. And what would Mr. Will Hays's office, the Production Code Administration, and its chief enforcer, Joe Breen, do if they found out about all this? I imagined that the raciest movie that they'd allow in the future—if Hollywood had a future—would be no sexier than Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, which opened here in December. No wonder Blatt was so anxious to get his fat, hairy paws on the book. I grinned, knowing that I had earned my pay. Then I smiled from ear to ear knowing that I could finagle a bonus for returning this baby. Only the last few sentences in the book cast a slight shadow over my sunshine: “Dick and I are going to Morro Bay tomorrow. I'm so scared! I think that he might kill me.” I wondered who “he” was. Blatt? King Kong? The Man in the Moon? Who? Tired as a dog, or at least a dog who is tired since not all dogs are tired, maybe weary but not fatigued, I picked up the second black book. I quickly learned that King Kong was not just corrupt. No. If half of what he told Scarlett was true, he had given new meaning to that word. Let's say he was the corruptedest. Petty graft, major graft, extortion, brutality—you name it, he did it. And he named names, too, names of city fathers, big-time crooks, and small fry criminals. If this ever got out, Kong would become history. Little wonder that Scarlett feared the wrath of Kong, and no less a wonder that I also did.
I slept well that night, although a noise did briefly awaken me at one point. It was probably some form of wildlife native to Moro Bay, say, a moose or a coyote or a turtle in heat. When I did fully awaken, it was nearly ten o'clock. I brushed my teeth, got dressed, and headed for the next cabin to get Scarlett and go for breakfast. Odd, but she didn't answer. I kicked the door a few times, but she still didn't answer. I wondered where she had gone and then realized that in all likelihood she was strolling on the beach. I waited ten or fifteen minutes for her to reappear, but she didn't. By this time my stomach was growling for me to catch something to eat.
I told the geezer in the office to let Miss Garbo know that I had gone for breakfast but would soon return. Having had my fill of Surf and Turf, I also asked him for a good place to chow down. Jimmy's Joint, he told me, was not as awful as locals cracked it up to be. No one had ever died from the food there, he added. Or at least he didn't think so.
The geezer's take on Jimmy's was pretty accurate, although I wouldn't make book on no one ever having died from the slop it served. The orange juice was ample, especially the pits that were swimming in it and soon thereafter down my gullet. The flapjacks were filling, with large unidentifiable pieces of a dark substance embedded in them. The bacon proved less satisfactory. In fact, it tasted less like pork and more like whatever animal had been making noise outside the cabins last night.
I drove back to our lodgings and knocked on Scarlett's door. Nothing. This time I kicked the door harder but again to no avail. I hoped that she wasn't taking an all-day hike on the beach. Back to see the geezer I went.
“No, Mr. DeWitt III, I can't say that I've seen Miss Garbo at all today. Maybe if you had been in one cabin instead of two, you wouldn't have lost sight of her.” He chuckled the chuckle of a dirty old man. “I sure as hell wouldn't have stayed in a separate pl
ace and left a good looker like Miss Garbo alone. Of course I shouldn't complain since you'll be paying me twice as much now.” Then he chuckled the chuckle of a skinflint. I stormed out and gave Scarlett's door another kick just to make sure he'd have to repair it.
The day wore on with no sign of my companion. I skipped lunch and prowled around the area. No Scarlett. Trying to get my mind off her whereabouts, I grabbed a couple of magazines—Collier's and The Saturday Evening Post—from a small stand in the Dirty Old Man's office. One issue was dated 1934, the other 1936. I didn't feel much like reading them anyway.
But by six o'clock I did feel like eating. So, apparently, did the geezer, who was not in the office. I left him a note asking him to tell Miss Garbo that I would be at Surf and Turf and to call me. My concern for Scarlett was growing and my appetite diminishing. Some meat loaf, mashed potatoes, succotash, corn on the cob, buttered rolls, apple pie a la mode, jello with whipped cream, and two cups of java were all that I could manage. I paid the tab, flipped the waitress a nickel, and walked out into a night that was becoming darker in more ways than one.
I went straight to the office and pressed the bell on the counter until the geezer arrived. He was wiping his mouth with a napkin and not too pleased to have been interrupted. Tough.
“If you're so worried about that woman, why don't you call the police?” he asked. “I can't go around opening people's doors.”
I've always resented when someone tries to tell a gumshoe how to find someone, and this was no exception. I told him to mind his own business or he wouldn't receive payment for the lady's bill. Matter of fact, I said, the only payment he might receive from me would be a truss for the double hernia I might give him. He saw my reasoning, reassured me that the lady would turn up, and bid me good-night.
Neither his farewell nor his reassurances did squat for me, as I sat on my bed and killed off a flask of Jack Daniel's that I had brought with me. I knew that Scarlett had enjoyed our walk on the beach yesterday, but she couldn't still be out there, could she? I decided not but still had to calculate my next move. I was out of ideas, out of booze, out of Scarlett, and more than a little out of my mind. I'm not the religious sort, but I did say a short prayer to whoever might be listening up there to protect Scarlett from all harm. And oh yeah, me too. Then I put on my Doctor Denton's and went to bed.
The Hollywood Starlet Caper Page 10