by T. N. Robb
"Who sent you?"
"I'm a free agent, pal. I was riding with Nick Cleary the night he got wasted for the Williams tapes. Nick had me hold the originals. Not that you know what I'm talking about or anything."
"Just so I know, if anyone was interested, how much would you want for 'em?"
"Ten grand. Just so you know."
"You may want to call me at my office tomorrow in case I've heard something that might interest you."
"Gotcha."
Betts headed out the door, pausing in the outside studio to light his Lucky. He frowned as several flicks of the metal roller failed to produce a flame.
"Nice lighter, Cleary," he mumbled, then pulled off the casing. A small locker key fell into his palm. Betts studied it, noting the word "Union" on one side, and the number "19" on the other, then quickly put it back in the lighter, closed it up, and pocketed it.
Burnett, in mid+song, apparently having solved his problem, nodded to him. "Later, man."
"Crazy," Betts said, and nodded back. His thoughts were already a hundred feet in front of him, focused on the key, the goddamn key.
Betts stood at the magazine rack in Union Station flipping through a copy of Hot Rod magazine. He had just spent two hours in the hot sun hitching a ride across town. He could've taken a bus, but he never took buses, and he wasn't going to start now. Looking at the magazine made him think about his Merc parked in the garage, ready and waiting. Forget this hitchhiking, and to hell with the cops. He was getting his wheels back this afternoon.
He gazed over the top of the magazine rack toward a row of lockers. Several sailors were standing in front of them as one of their buddies stuffed his duffel bag into one. Finally he inserted a coin, removed the key, and the white-clad sailors moved on.
Betts returned the magazine to the rack, and noticed the grizzled vendor eyeing him. "You don't want to do anything rash like pay for that?"
"Do I look stupid?"
"A man could starve," the vendor grumbled.
Betts ambled toward the row of lockers, taking out Cleary's lighter, and removing the key from it. He found number 19, and opened the locker. Inside was a metal suitcase labeled with tape on which had been written: "Buddy Williams Surveillance—Originals."
Damn. That's it. That says it all, Betts thought. He glanced over his shoulder, opened the case, and saw that it was full of reels. He quickly snapped the case closed. Jeez. I've actually got them.
He thought of his car again. He could get out of L.A., go to San Diego maybe, or north to San Francisco. Ten grand would go a long way. Opportunity wasn't just knocking, she was pounding, she was hammering, she was about to blow him away. For an instant, standing there with the case in his hand, Betts imagined himself and Rhonda, sweet little Rhonda with those baby blues, sailing across the country in his Merc, with ten grand worth of dreams. Oh, Christ, but ten grand could take them a long way. Ten grand could get them to someplace like Montana They could buy a ranch. Get married. Have kids. With ten grand, Johnny Betts could go legit.
He started walking, fast, through the bus station.
Ten grand. That was a stack of bills that would reach... how high? From the basin to the top of Mulholland Drive? To the moon?
Me and Rhonda... maybe a ranch... maybe a place on the beach. It sure sounded mighty tempting.
THIRTEEN
The Party
The house, a Lautner-designed, futuristic monument to fast money, dominated an entire hilltop high above the city. Its circular driveway was congested with gleaming limos and luxury cars, red-jacketed parking valets, and arriving guests. It wasn't Cleary's kind of scene at all. Nick would have fit in better here. Nick had possessed a kind of chameleon quality, Cleary thought, that had enabled him to fit in just about anywhere, from the juke joints where the seedy lowlifes congregated, to the Malibu and Beverly Hills luaus of the wealthy, powerful, and famous. But Nick wasn't here, never would be, and for that very reason Cleary intended to make the best of it.
He parked the Eldorado across the street to avoid the valet parkers, then walked up to the immaculate residence. A cool slice of R&B was filtering into the sweltering night as he strolled up the walk in his expensive threads. His shoes were so new they squeaked.
He flashed his invitation to a burly, bald-headed man in a tuxedo standing near the door. The man glanced at the card and back at Cleary. He smiled and slapped him on the back. "Yeah. I got one, too. Come on in, join the party."
He tapped a finger at the invitation. "That's my boy. The guest of honor. Eddie's comin' on real strong. You seen him yet?"
Without waiting for an answer, he extended a hand, and pumped Cleary's arm. "Name's Narvel Husky, Eddie Burnett's manager. You in the industry, yourself, Mr. ah..."
"Cleary. Yeah, you bet I am. I'm a drummer. 'Scuse me." He walked past Husky into the room, trying to place the man's face.
"Hey, Cleary," Husky called after him. "You ought to meet Eddie's drummer, Jimmy."
Sure thing, pal.
It took him a couple of minutes, but he finally recalled that Husky and another man had been arguing at the Crescendo Club the night he had run into Nick. The night Williams was hit on his way out the door. Yeah, okay. He remembered now. It was one of the few things he could recall from his bender.
He meandered around the cavernous living room.
There were two crowded wet bars, a groaning Chasen's buffet, ultracontemporary furnishings, and a couple hundred mingling mob and Hollywood types with assorted arm pieces. The entire overdone spectacle was wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass, which provided a stunning view of the well-lighted grounds and swimming pool, and the city below.
A waiter, moving through the crowd with a tray of drinks, offered one to Cleary. He was tempted to ask for a bourbon—his mouth was watering for one—but he wanted to keep a clear head tonight, and asked for a Coke instead.
"Sorry, not on this tray. Try the bar by the pool if you want it before the sun comes up," the man said, and moved on.
Cleary found the door and stepped out to the pool, a huge, kidney-shaped expanse of glowing aquamarine water. On one side was the glass wall of the house and the party within, and, on the other, the twelve million lights of the entire incandescent L.A. basin. He walked along the edge of the water to the poolside bar, and ordered his Coke. The bartender gave him a funny look, and Cleary figured he was probably the only teetotaler in the entire mob. Jesus, the irony.
To one side of the bar, under an overhanging palm frond, he noticed the back of a man as he spoke to a young woman in a sleazily seductive voice. "You see, behind every one of those beautiful L.A. lights is a house, or a car, and inside every one of those houses and cars is a... radio. It's kind of frightening when you think about it."
Cleary took a step closer and recognized Bobby Baytor, the Gator, dressed to seriously maim as he waxed eloquently to the pert-breasted and impressionable teen angel. The pretty little thing was clinging to his every word. "I mean the sheer power I have to influence the musical tastes of America's youth is an awesome responsibility. You see, I know what you kids are going through... Patsi." He slipped an arm around her. "It even keeps me awake some nights."
Right, Gator.
But the young thing laughed gaily, and Baytor's arm tightened around her. His eyes slid toward her generous cleavage. Then his unctuous smile faded as Cleary clamped a hand on his shoulder. Laughing bravely, he glanced from Cleary to the girl, then shook his head. "Amazing the people they let into these things."
When Cleary just continued staring at him, Baytor looked about uneasily, as if hoping someone would happen along and rescue him. Then he leaned toward the girl, bussed her on the cheek, and softly said, "The Gator loves you, honey. See you inside." The girl smiled and drifted away, Gator gazing longingly after her. He reluctantly drew his eyes back to Cleary. "I told ya, pal, you got nothin' on me," he said, snapping his fingers and pointing at Cleary.
The finger, like the need for a bourbon, was a temptation for
Cleary. He would've enjoyed snapping it like a matchstick. Instead, he looked around, confirming their relative privacy from the other guests who were strung along the pool patio like brightly colored lights. Then he turned back to Baytor. "Someone I'm looking for is at this party. You're going to show me around. You're gonna be my tour guide, Gator."
Baytor laughed. "Yeah, right. Got any other fairy tales?"
He turned and started toward the house, but Cleary grabbed his arm and tightened his fingers like a vise. "Not so fast, pal." He pulled out the sheet from the ledger and held it in front of him. "Well, there's one about the fifty grand in payoffs Starlite Records gave this little pimp of a DJ. Think they'll let you up off your knees long enough to broadcast from Folsom, Bobby?"
Baytor turned pale and choked on an aspirated ice cube. When he recovered, he took Cleary's arm like a long, lost friend. "I see what you mean, buddy. Lemme buy you a drink, show you around. How would that be?" Under his breath, he added, "You're my cousin from Albany, anyone asks. Got that, man?"
Cleary grinned. "Let's hope no one asks."
Inside the house, at one end of the living room, a young black L.A. doo-wop group, in matching shawl-collar Madras jackets, was softly crooning the Clovers' "I've Got My Eyes on You." Baytor glanced around, then said, "There's Eddie Burnett, rookie of the week, right over there with a few of the Starlite boys." He pointed to his left.
Cleary spotted a young, pompadour-coiffed kid who reminded him of Johnny Betts. Next to him was Husky, who was introducing his somewhat dislocated rising star to a rabid pack of fast-talking record-industry types.
Baytor nodded to his right, where an overfed West-side shyster with a Palm Springs tan was surrounded by a brace of eye-shadowed Amazons. "That's Mickey Schneider's mouthpiece there in the charcoal mohair, partner in that new strip joint on Highland."
"Who are his friends with the hormone problems?"
"College-educated girls, and every one of them six feet and over. Go down to the joint some night and see them. Quite a show, I'll tell you."
Tall, smart strippers are just what L.A. needed, Cleary thought. He looked around, feeling a curious mix of amusement and repulsion at the overstated extravagance of the house and the people. But pure abhorrence gripped his gut at the abundant evidence that the Mafia influence in the record industry was now extensive. It only reinforced his need to locate the owner of the house, to check him out, assess him, figure out who and what and where.
"C'mon," Baytor said, leading him up a spiral staircase. Halfway up, he stopped and turned, a Tom Collins in one hand, and offered more insider gossip. "See the little, bald guy with his face in the martini? That's Peppy Roth. Used to be a big manager before all these melanons and hillbillies hit the charts."
He touched Cleary's arm. "Look over by the front doorway. That's the host himself, Eddie Rosen, shaking hands now. The guy next to him making the introductions is Mickey Schneider."
Cleary stared across the room from his perch. Rosen was in his late thirties, with a five-hundred-dollar Mainbocher suit and a short man's arrogance. He recognized Rosen and Schneider as the pair in the framed photograph that hung next to the gold records in Schneider's office. Now that he saw him in person he didn't like the man any better. Hell, now he knew his gut reaction to the man's name was no mistake. He was as sleazy as they came.
"What's his story?" Cleary asked.
"He just moved out here from the East Coast a year ago. He's associated with Starlite Records."
"Schneider's the president. So what's he do?"
"How should I know?" Baytor growsed. "I'm not the—"
"I know. You're not the Encyclopaedia Britannica" Cleary interrupted, then squeezed his arm. "But we've got a deal, Baytor, remember?"
"Okay, okay, man, I get the picture." He pulled his arm free. "He's a promoter, a wheeler-dealer. Top-level guy with lots of influential friends on the East Coast that you wouldn't want to mess with. You wouldn't want to mess with them here, either. That's all I know."
"Did things get too hot for him at home, or is he just expanding the family's sphere of influence? Or is there something else going on I should know about, huh, Gator?"
Baytor's mouth twitched and fussed. "What is this, 'Truth or Consequences'? Look, Cleary, aside from the occasional axle grease, I got no more to do with Starlite Records than the friggin' Pope. Now you mind if I mingle a little with the crowd, or you want people to think we're married?"
"Knock yourself out, Bobby."
Cleary descended the steps and headed toward one of the bars. It was time for a drink. He elbowed his way past Husky, who was being serenaded by a glad-handing PR hustler, and ordered a bourbon. As he waited for the bartender to pour it, he overheard the PR guy behind him. "Whattya talking about? No money? It's a chartbuster for chrissake, Narvel, and this kid of yours is pocketing twelve red-hot cents for every record that hits the street. Twelve. Count them."
Husky puffed on a cigar, pointed it at the man. "Amount of wax that hits the street and the amount that hits Starlite's books are two damn different things."
Cleary took a long draft of his bourbon, wincing as it burned a path down his throat. He considered the implication of what Husky had said, then turned to the PR man. "Guy knows how to throw a party, doesn't he?"
"Yeah, Rosen's a real corner," he replied, glancing over at Cleary.
"Hey, you met each other yet?" Husky asked. "This is Mr. Cleary. Don't think I caught your first name?"
"Jack," he said, and walked away.
Husky, who was semiloaded, turned to the PR man. "He's a drummer, a good one, too. Who'd you say you—Hey, where'd he go?"
"He don't look like no goddamn drummer that I've ever seen."
Cleary melted into the crowd, and found himself drawn outside to the pool again. He stared into the water, wondering if his first drink would lead to a second, and a third. If his thirst had returned, he would get a bottle on the way home. Another in the morning. Who cared? Certainly not Ellen. He knew that.
Sure. Start feeling sorry for yourself again, Cleary. See where that gets ya.
He caught a whiff of perfume as he realized someone had come up behind him.
"Hello there."
Cleary glanced over his shoulder, momentarily at a loss for words. Lana looked absolutely stunning in a sheer cocktail dress that hugged her in all the right places. Her thick, auburn hair was loose, falling to her shoulders in soft waves. Infinitely touchable hair, he thought. "Hello yourself. Surprised to see you here."
"That makes two of us."
"Thought I'd earn some of that money you gave me," he said quietly.
She nodded, meeting his critical gaze. Her husband had been in the ground for just over a week, and she was partying. He could see by the glaze in her eyes that she was half blitzed, and noticed that the drink in her hand had been drained to the ice cubes.
She averted her eyes as if reading his thoughts. "It gets a little lonely sitting out at that beachhouse," she said softly.
He thought—hoped—he wasn't imagining the wistfulness in her tone, a wistfulness that might've been an invitation. Then in a brisker, more businesslike voice, she said, "Is there anything you need to tell me, Mr. Cleary? About Buddy?"
"Yeah." He smiled. "If the man had one ounce of good sense, he would have stayed home at night."
Color flushed Lana's cheeks, making her seem younger, more innocent, perhaps naive. "We never did get to take that swim the other day. Why don't you come out some afternoon, Jack?"
Now they were back to Jack instead of Mr. Cleary. He liked that. He liked the way she said his name, Jack, as if she were tasting it. "I mean, some day when it's unbearably hot in the city. Then we can take a swim and talk things over."
She stepped back as a young, good-looking hood approached with two fresh drinks in his hands. He handed one to Lana.
"C'mon baby, I want to show you something."
"Can it wait a second, Frankie?"
"Mickey's showing this
slide with him and me in Acapulco. You gotta see it."
"I'll look at it in a minute."
"Look at it now." He touched her arm. Cleary watched the man's fat fingers tighten on her wrist. She shrugged and followed him, everything in her demeanor indicating that it was simply easier to go along than put up a fuss.
The hood didn't even consider the possibility that Cleary was a rival for Lana's attention. It grated on him, and he had to hold himself back from grabbing her by the arm and sinking his fist into the hood's mouth. Why did such a startlingly attractive and obviously bright woman keep company with a character like him?
Cleary was heading to the front door when he saw Rosen standing a few feet away with the Westside shyster and several of the Amazons. He walked over to him, wearing his most civilized smile.
"Mr. Rosen," he said, extending his hand, "just want to thank you for the party."
"Don't mention it." Rosen's expression was smug, the look of a man who knew he was king and that it was necessary to keep the peons in his kingdom happy by throwing a spread like this every so often. Then his expression changed. A nonplussed look claimed his features, as if he knew Cleary looked familiar, but couldn't place his face. "What'd you say your name was?" he asked, speaking up over the sound of the band, which had just segued into the Charms' "Heart of Stone."
He held back a moment, his eyes boring into Rosen's face. "Jack—Jack Cleary."
Something twitched deep in Rosen's eyes. Then he covered it quickly with an utterly cold-blooded smile. It was a giveaway. Cleary knew he was reacting to some knowledge about Nick's death. But what was it? Rosen either knew who had set up his brother, or he was the one behind it.
"See you around, Cleary."
"You can count on it."
FOURTEEN
Surprise Visit
The walls of his apartment seemed too close for comfort in the night heat. Cleary was frustrated. He felt he was closer to the truth about Nick's death, but the details still evaded him. He was circling the case, but not penetrating to the heart of it. He had circumstantial evidence in his hands, enough to toss Schneider and a few local DJs into jail, but probably not Rosen. And nobody was confessing to killing Williams or Nick.