I rang the door buzzer at Blatt's castle and heard chimes play a song that sounded like “We're in the Money,” that catchy tune that was in one of Busby Berkeley's swell movies. Yes, indeed, Blatt was in the money.
I expected a varlet to answer, but it was our host who did the honors. “Come on in, fellows,” he said. He was wearing a big smile on his ugly kisser and sporting a short silk bathrobe around his fat body and a fancy silk scarf around his fat neck. “What's with the outfit?” I whispered to Mumbles as Blatt turned his back and led us to a living room that seemed almost as big as Yankee Stadium. “Is he ready for bed so soon? And what about that scarf? It's not cold in here. Does he have to put out the garbage and he's afraid of getting a chill?” Mumbles poked me in the ribs and said that our host was wearing a smoking jacket and what is called an ascot, both of which were marks of guys whose idea of a depression was a period of feeling blue that lasted more than a few minutes.
“Have a seat, fellows. What can I get you to drink?”
Mumbles said that he'd have a Manhattan, although he had to repeat it three times before Blatt understood what he was saying. I asked Blatt if his Gal Friday had told him what I preferred. He frowned and seemed at a loss for words.
“To tell the truth, she said you'd admitted to being a fairy.” He paused and frowned some more. “But that doesn't bother me, Mr. DeWhiff. There's a lot of those guys here in Tinseltown. More than you'd imagine.”
It may not have bothered him, but it sure bothered me that anyone should think that a he-man like me was a he-man, er…a non-woman-man, er…. I also wondered what he meant by “Tinseltown.” Is this where we get all that silvery stuff that we toss on Christmas trees and then regret having to sweep it up after the holidays? Anyway, I told him that I'd also have a Manhattan, which I hadn't had in years.
“Coming up,” Blatt said as he went over to an open bar and began mixing the libations.
While Blatt was doing his best to play the genial host, I walked around the room to look at the numerous signed photos of movie stars and Hollywood bigwigs. If the fat guy knew all these people and if what they wrote wasn't a lot of malarkey, I could see that I wasn't dealing with just another Joe Schmo. Wasn't that Joan who had her arms around him? And that platinum blond bombshell? And holey moley, there's a photo of Fatty Arbuckle, who looks just like Blatt himself! On second glance, it is Blatt. I made a mental note to have the Hollywood agent take my photo before leaving. I'd sign it, and sure as shooting I'd be immoralized hanging on one of his walls with all these other stars.
I had begun for the first time to feel some real affection for Sheldon Blatt, and I began to feel more when he brought over the drinks.
“Like I am,” Sheldon announced, raising his glass of whatever toward us.
He didn't finish his sentence, and so I asked “Like you are what?”
“Like I am what?”
“You said 'like I am.' ”
Our little dance around the maypole could have continued, but Mumbles, himself a past master at mumbling, explained that what Blatt had actually said was a Hebe expression that meant “ to life.”
“Well, I'll drink to that,” I said to Sheldon, and proceeded to take a swig. It was real good. Obviously our host had not been using some old bathtub gin. I finished the drink with a second swallow and hoped that Sheldon would offer a refill. No such luck. He put his glass down and announced that it was time to finish unfinished business.
“So, my friend, you have something for me,” he said, coming over to me and reaching out with his stubby fingers.
I told him that I did. I shook his stubby digits and said that I presumed he had something for me as well.
“Oh, indeed I do, Mr. DeWhiff. Do you like it?” he asked as he pulled a rod from the pocket of his smoking jacket. “I've wanted to give this to you ever since I met you, you conniving bastard!”
I heard the shot. My whole life passed before me, just as they say. I saw Mom, my ex-wife, Dotty, the Black Llama, my nosey neighbor Mrs. Heidegger, Gardenia Gertie, Sadie Plotz, the elevator man in my office building, the kid who lived next door to me when I was growing up, Polish Phil, and best of all, the lovely Louise Prima. Boy, I thought, this is sure taking a helluva long time for me to kick the bucket. Then I fell to the ground.
“Get up, Dick. I got him.”
It wasn't the voice of an angel, unless it was one who had grown up in the Bronx. It was…Mumbles.
“Get up, pal, and go make sure the shithead's dead.”
I managed to stand up. My shaking knees managed to carry me the few feet where the late Mr. Sheldon Blatt was on his back lying in a pool of blood, his nice smoking jacket now not so nice and, as far as I was concerned, not so nice as the smoke that came out of Mr. Martin Hardy's gun. As an experienced gumshoe, I knew just how to check whether he was a corpse or a corpse-in-waiting. My hand trembled as I reached for his karate artery. Yep, the corpse was officially a corpse.
“Serves him right, don't you think?” Mumbles offered.
“Can't argue with that, Marty, and let me tell you that I'll be eternally grateful to you for having saved my skin. I couldn't want for a better friend.” I felt like giving him a big, fat kiss but feared that he, like Blatt, might think that I was a fairy. So I settled for asking if he thought we should call and wait for the police or scram and bid a not-so-fond adieu to the dead man.
“All in good time, pal. You and I have some unfinished business of our own.”
I told Mumbles that I also could do with another stiff drink after all that had happened, but he laughed and said that wasn't what he had in mind.
“Now reach into your jacket pocket nice and easy and give me Scarlett's book.”
I couldn't believe it. Mumbles had set me up. He and Blatt must have figured me for a patsy who would do their dirty work. But Mumbles was smarter than Blatt and all along had meant to get the book for himself and leave behind no witnesses, one of whom was my best friend in this world, Dick DeWitt.
“How did you pull it off, Marty?”
“It wasn't a snap, I can tell you. First, Blatt and I agreed that I should follow you and the dame to Morro Bay to see if she had the books there. I picked the lock to her cabin that night, told her that I'd splatter her brains all over the place if she made a peep, and demanded the goods. She said that they were back in LA. If I had got them in Morro Bay, I would have killed her then and there, and you'd have been the fall guy. After all, what are friends for? Anyway, I tied her up and gagged her, threw her in the trunk of my car, and headed south.
“Now you're not gonna believe this, but we get back to her place, and the crazy broad begins to laugh hysterically and says that I'll get the books over her dead body. So I slap her around, but she keeps laughing. Then I grab her by the throat. I guess I didn't know my own strength. When her face starts to turn purple, I let go, but it was too late. Blatt was furious when he heard the news. 'You killed her without finding the book?' he screamed. But he didn't know that you saved our asses when you told me that you had what we wanted. And now if you're satisfied, my friend, come clean and fork over Scarlett's treasure.”
I would have liked to have forked over a bullet right between his eyes, but, anticipating no trouble, I had not bothered to bring along my second best friend in the world, my Smith & Wesson .38.
As I handed the dirty rotten scumbag the book, a moan escaped from the apparently not-deceased Hollywood big shot agent. Startled, Mumbles took his eyes off me and directed them to Blatt. Big mistake. I managed to wrest the gun from Mumbles and to deliver a solid right to the jaw that sent him sprawling. I kicked him in the nuts, and then gave those two hangings another good kick for good measure and for fun. Mine, not his.
While he lay writhing in pain, I went over and rechecked Blatt's karate artery. No mistake this time. Fatboy wouldn't ever have to watch his weight again. I picked up the late Mr. Blatt's gun, all the while keeping the other piece leveled on Hardy. He was still doing the hootchy-kootchy on
the rug, making loud, painful sounds, and mumbling things that didn't seem too complimentary to me. I told him not to get his nuts in an uproar, especially since I had to make a phone call to the police. After that, I told him, he could scream in agony all that he wanted. The louder the better, I informed him.
We had a nice but not friendly chitchat while we waited for LA's finest to arrive. I asked him why he had betrayed a friend. He told me that I was not his friend, nor ever had been.
“Remember Bertha Butz? You know, that fatassed German broad that I had a thing going with three or four years ago?”
I certainly did remember Bertha and her bountiful backside, and our nights in bed. Unfortunately, Mumbles had got wind of those nights.
“That was just before I left town, DeWitt, and I didn't have time to take care of you. But I vowed that I would someday pay you back for sticking a knife in my back and something else elsewhere.”
I told him I was ashamed. I wasn't, but I had to say something, given the tight spot I was in.
Marty mumbled a few other comments that presented me in less
than a favorable light. He seemed prepared to continue with the defamation of my good character until I again paid my respects to his gonads. The arrival of several burly policemen put an end to our tête-à-tête. I explained to these gendarmes what had happened. They, in turn, handcuffed Mumbles, carted Blatt on a stretcher to a waiting ambulance, and ordered me to come to the station with them to make a deposition. As we left the late Sheldon Blatt's place, Mumbles startled me by saying that he loved me. Can you imagine? I could feel a few tears welling up. I told the man who tried to kill me that, despite everything, I had some warm feelings for him, too. “What, are you deaf?” asked the cop who was leading Mumbles away. “He said 'I loathe you.' ” I guess that Mumbles had the last mumble on me.
As we drove away I thought of life's hard-earned lesson, one that is as old as the hills: you live, you learn, but in the end you're going to lose.
Chapter 24
I had worn out my welcome in the City of Angels. Or rather, the city had worn out my welcome for me. A month ago I had left my own city with the promise of a job, new adventures, and a relief from the ugliness of the winter months. The promise lay dashed like fresh roses under the jackboots of Nazi swine; the new adventures nearly cost me my life, and did cost the lives of others. And the weather? True, it brought none of the bitter cold and white stuff that every year made eastern winters convince me that spring would arrive at the same time as a smile and kind word from my ex-wife. The month I had spent here? Rain on some days; rain on the others. I thought people living in southern California tanned, only to learn that they probably rusted.
And what about the people I had met? The papers reported a large turnout of Hollywood bigwigs and smallwigs for Sheldon Blatt's funeral. It was an uncharitable thought, especially since I pride myself on charitable thoughts, but I was convinced that the movie community made its presence known only to make sure that the fat bastard was really dead and not on the alert for a sneaky deal. His burial at Forest Lawn Cemetery? I figured that people gathered there to gawk at the names of movie figures who had predeceased Blatt and other known figures who had gathered their share of worms.
But I did have kind thoughts for Scarlett, whose only mistake was wanting too badly to play Scarlett O'Hara. She may have served as a punchboard on the casting couch for too many men and certainly downed too many drinks, but she meant no harm. But meaning no harm is not the same as not getting in harm's way. Dead, her decomposing body now lies abandoned in some potter's field for the friendless poor after the fellows at the morgue got through slicing and dicing her.
And I also had good thoughts for Light Fingers Louie, who also rested in potter's field. He wasn't much, but he was my much when it came to snooping around and playing stoolie. Bank safes and jewelry boxes could now breathe a long sigh of relief; I could only breathe a sigh and say “so long,” you good-for-nothing likable bastard.
And there was one other likable bastard I had to say good-bye to. As I think of it, I owed Mumbles a lot. Unfortunately, most of it was an assortment of ill wishes. He was chummy and a good drinking companion, but his greed got in the way. When the state got through trying him for the murders of both Blatt and Scarlett, and maybe even Louie, he would be frying on all four burners. I can't help chuckling over what his last words will be and what the warden and witnesses will understand them to be.
Oh yes, then there's Harry Hardnut, a.k.a. King Kong. I didn't know what was going to happen to him, and although I definitely would like to see some things happen to him—all bad—I wasn't about to pursue matters. Maybe I would anonymously mail the little black book that Scarlett had kept on him to the authorities. But that would be at some future date when I had left the city and was reasonably assured that Kong or his pals would not pay me an unfriendly visit. However, the more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed that the book would ever get posted.
I hung around the city for a few days to clear up some matters. I spoke with Wellman, the ADA, who told me that I was free to leave now that it was clear who had murdered Scarlett.
I went to Blatt's office to collect what I thought was my rightful payment. Unfortunately, a sign on his door announced that his office was for lease. Too bad I had never thought to learn the name of his secretary. I was certain that she would have done right by me.
And then there was the matter of a rent-due notice for Mumbles's apartment, along with a telephone bill that seemed astronomical, thanks to the long-distance calls I had made. I had no intention of paying either, naturally. Let them try to collect from Mumbles. After all, he owed me big time after having tried to cut short my natural life span.
In those few days during which I remained in town I visited a few places: the Santa Monica Pier, the Pantages Theater, and the La Brea Tar Pits, which brought me back to my first days here. I also took in a few bars and looked for quality dames. I didn't find them. The quality dames, that is. But I did find a theater that featured the hit new movie Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. I'm not ashamed to say that I shed some tears during the movie, until the handsome prince came for Snow White. My only disappointment was that there didn't seem to be any dwarfs in the audience. That was a shame, since dwarfs always gave me a big laugh, although I don't find them nearly as funny as midgets.
But it was now time to leave. I checked the train schedule, packed my grip, and headed home on Valentine's Day. Before leaving, I sent Mom a card. Call me a bad son, but it was really Louise Prima that I ached to send a card to.
“Last stop. Everybody out,” the conductor twanged. I was back home at last. I breathed in the cold, snappy air as I left the train station in mid morning and hailed a cab. I watched the city go by as we drove to my apartment. It—the city–hadn't changed since I had left it: tall buildings, cars honking, people hurrying to and fro. It had its je ne sais squat, and that was good enough for me. Always had been.
Like my city, my apartment hadn't changed. Sure, more cobwebs had accumulated, but they seemed to be getting on well with the older ones.
I decided to call those nearest and dearest to me and let them know that I had returned. First came Mom, who wanted to know why I was calling. She sounded upset.
“Why did you call to say 'hello'? My neighbors say 'hello.' I have enough 'hellos' without having to rush to the phone every time you feel like calling…What's that?… Of course, I got your Valentine's card… What?… No, it wasn't pretty. It looked like it was left over from a fire sale at Woolworth's, but at least you didn't send me another damned can opener.”
Mom, I could sense, was not in the best of moods, even though she was relieved that her sonny boy had arrived home safely.
Next on the list came Polish Phil. I called and learned from his pal
Freddie the Freeloader, who was still there in the apartment, which the Polack was returning to later in the day from his prolonged stay in the hospital. “Give him a ring tomorro
w,” the pal suggested.
Last on my list was Dotty, but she wasn't at home. She may have been at work or, as likely, at the library reading the collected works of Charlie Dickens. How she can read so much and remain an idiot continued to puzzle me.
Brimming with pleasure to be back, I went for lunch at Ma's Diner, which featured some of the poorest food and certainly the worst waitress in town. But it was in my blood, although I tried not to think what it put into my stomach.
“Well, well, well,” announced Ma's pitiful excuse for a waitress. “What have we here? What's that old saying about an ill-wind blowing in? Where've you been hiding your carcass? I thought we'd seen the last of you, but you know how it goes. Old cheapskates never die, they just fade away.”
She hadn't changed. Same old Betty. I told her that I'd been on a big case in Hollywood. Then I ordered a platter of ham and eggs done over lightly.
“I could use some java now,” I told her.
“I could use some of a lot of things,” she informed me, “but I ain't goin' get them.”
She took her time filling my cup, managing to spill only a little of the hot brew on my hand. She said that she knew that a big, strong gumshoe like myself wouldn't mind. I wondered if an overweight, slush-mouthed waitress like her would mind that I didn't leave a tip.
I strolled leisurely back to my place, taking in the familiar sights that had been a routine part of my life before my City of Angels fiasco. Then I napped for a couple of hours, found a few tins of this and that for supper, and headed for my beloved watering hole.
The Slippery Elbow hadn't seemed to have changed a bit, nor had its occupants. “Southpaw Sammy” Stickit was still moaning about how he could have been a major league pitcher if a rotten ump and an equally rotten minor league commissioner hadn't ruined his career; Tony “Two-Fingers” Mangiamangia was explaining how he had lopped off a few fingers while working at Guido's Kosher Deli. The clientele had heard their stories more times than they had cared to remember, but both Sammy and Tony probably figured that, by repeating them, sooner or later the pain would go away. And maybe it would.
The Hollywood Starlet Caper Page 14