All That Glitters

by Michael Murphy

  “Chicago?”

  “None of your business where I was.”

  If he was in Chicago, Gambino might have a relationship with the notorious Al Capone. “I spent a few days in Chicago a couple of years ago researching my second novel. A buddy of yours gave me some tips on how bookmaking and selling bootleg whiskey worked.”

  “I run a gambling house, Donovan, so don’t bluff a bluffer. Who’s my supposed friend?”

  “Al Capone.”

  Gambino let out a laugh. “I met Capone exactly one time. He’s a very unlikable guy. If he had as many friends as the papers say, how come he’s in the hoosegow?”

  “Capone was in L.A. a few years back.”

  “It’s a free country…unless you’re Italian and a businessman. The police chief put Capone on a train back to Chicago.” Gambino topped off Laura’s glass. “Leo got carried away with the two of you. He might be getting too big for his britches. I owe you both an apology.”

  “Apology accepted, Mr. Gambino.” Laura took another sip and winked.

  Her flirting and the alcohol appeared to be having an effect. Gambino gulped his drink.

  A commotion erupted outside the door. Shouts and breaking glass, a real scuffle. Gambino tensed. He yanked open a drawer and reached inside.

  The door banged open and half a dozen blue-uniform cops poured through the opening. Behind them stood Detective Gus Connolly with a revolver.

  Gambino closed the drawer and placed both hands on the desk.

  “You okay, Donovan? Miss Wilson?” Gus stuffed his pistol into his holster.

  Laura held up her drink. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  Gus cocked his head. “We’ve been tailing you all day but lost you on Mulholland. We came across your wrecked car. A witness said three men forced you into the back of a black sedan, like the one sitting in the parking lot with scratches on the front bumper.”

  I brushed the front of my torn and dusty suit coat. “We were in an accident.”

  “I can see that”—Gus walked around me—“from your clothes and the bandage above your eye.”

  “Jake was driving too fast.” Laura finished her drink. “Fortunately a Leo De Palma and two delightful associates came along.”

  “Leo the Barber? And he brought you to a speakeasy owned by the mob. Sheesh.”

  “Hey, I’m a businessman.” Gambino rolled his eyes. “I mean, come on. I provided first aid.”

  “You’re a Good Samaritan, Gambino.” Gus stood in front of me. “Don’t tell me you’re not going to press charges?”

  Laura dismissed his comment with a wave of her hand. “Charges. Oh, please, Detective.”

  Gus glared at the three of us then ordered the other cops from the room. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Donovan.”

  I hoped so, too.

  Chapter 16

  The Funeral of Eric Carville

  In the middle of the night, I awoke with a jolt. Pain, as from a couple dozen ice picks, twisted along my spine. The agony increased, and I remembered one of Gambino’s henchmen, the three-hundred-pounder, had body-slammed me beside the road.

  The space between my shoulder blades tightened, like my muscles were pinched in a washing-machine wringer. Unable to move, I lay on my back, beside Laura, thinking about the jam I’d gotten us in.

  The cops had fingered me as a suspect when Eric Carville’s body wasn’t even cold. As crazy as it still seemed, I was LAPD’s only suspect. My publishing contract and Laura’s career were as fragile as a skyscraper built with toothpicks.

  I’d spent the past few days ignoring the screenplay I was supposed to be polishing and the novel Mildred expected to see when she arrived. I had to solve the murder, but the list of suspects was growing, not getting shorter. I wasn’t any closer to solving the crime than I was the day before. If that wasn’t enough, Mildred would be arriving the day after the funeral. I almost preferred jail.

  Through the bedroom curtains, the lighted Hollywood sign shone, a beacon to thousands who arrived each year to follow their dreams. The huge letters towered over the city known for dashing people’s hopes. Would Laura and I join the list of shattered dreamers?

  “Are you all right?” Laura propped herself up on one elbow and brushed her hair from her eyes.

  “I’m sorry I’ve made a mess of things since I stepped off the train.”

  She ran her fingers along my chest. “You’re not the cause of our troubles, darling. You’re the solution.”

  I didn’t want her to think I was feeling sorry for myself, even if it was true. “I’m frustrated I haven’t cracked the Carville murder. This case has more suspects than a junkyard dog has fleas.”

  Laura chuckled. “I love living with a writer.”

  “Am I missing something? A lot of people aren’t sorry Eric’s dead, but who put the bullet in his skull?”

  “Call it women’s intuition, but I think if you figure out who climbed into Eric’s bed, you’ll discover the killer’s identity.”

  She was probably right. “I thought you believed Christine was that person.”

  Laura snuggled closer and laid her head on my shoulder. “I did at first because I couldn’t imagine James would lie.”

  The soft scent of her hair distracted me from our conversation and nearly made me forget about the pain in my back. “People lie for plenty of reasons, especially stuffed shirts like the butler. In this case, James is lying to protect someone else.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like”—it was only a hunch—“Angie Burkheart.”

  “Angie?”

  I nodded, and a stabbing pain shot through my neck and back.

  She raised her head. Her eyes widened with alarm. She turned on the lamp on the nightstand. “What’s wrong?”

  “My back tightened.” I winced.

  “Why didn’t you say something? Turn on your side. I’ll give you a massage.”

  Ever so carefully, I rolled onto my side. With my back to Laura, I waited for her soothing touch.

  Her hands gripped my shoulders with the finesse of an ironworker.

  “Perhaps aspirin would do the trick.”

  Laura kneaded my muscles like a German baker. “Angie is Todd Carville’s girl. What kind of cheap dame would sleep with two brothers?”

  I grimaced as her fingers dug into the muscles below my neck. “The kind who’d do anything to keep her son’s career going.”

  “If she killed Eric, she killed the golden goose.”

  Laura was right. It didn’t make sense. Neither of us spoke for several minutes.

  Finally, Laura climbed out of bed, the curves of her body backlit by the Hollywood sign. “What do you make of Leo lying to Gambino about meeting Todd Carville?”

  “It could mean Todd’s been meeting with Leo to bypass Gambino and sell Carville Studios to Al Capone when Norman dies.”

  “Oh, my God!” Laura slipped into her robe then stepped into the bathroom. She returned with two aspirins and a glass of water. She handed me the pain relievers and helped me drink them down. “But Leo works for Gambino.”

  I rolled onto my back and winced. “Does he?”

  “Oh, Jake.” Her face practically glowed in the near darkness of the room. “You think Leo’s secretly working for Scarface Al Capone to help Capone get a foothold in Hollywood.”

  When I shrugged, I let out a slight groan.

  She stood beside the bed. “You’re still all knotted up. What you need is a long hot shower.”

  “I don’t think I can make it to the bathroom.”

  Laura helped me sit then pulled me to my feet. Hunching over relieved some of the ache in my back. While she supported one of my arms, I made it to the bathroom.

  She propped me against the wall, pulled back the shower curtain, and turned on the hot water. “Get in.”

  “What if I fall?”

  “Don’t worry about a thing.”

  A minute later, I stood with my back to the steaming-hot shower spray. With her back
pressed against my front for support, I felt better already.

  —

  In the morning, I yanked the bandage from the cut above my eye and dropped it in the trash can beside the bathroom sink. I cinched my tie in the mirror, humming the tune “Deep Purple.”

  She smiled in the mirror and kissed my cheek. “You might consider wiping that silly grin off your face before you attend the funeral. I take it you’re feeling well this morning.”

  “Couldn’t be better. Guess I stiffened up last night.”

  Laura grinned. “You were very stiff.” She smacked me on the bottom.

  I zipped the back of Laura’s black dress, which flattered her slender figure, and patted her bottom.

  We rode the elevator to the lobby, and Laura whispered, “You’re humming again.”

  “Was I?”

  The operator flashed a knowing smile. “Are you enjoying your stay, Mr. Donovan?”

  The door opened, and there stood Leo the Barber with a grin the size of a Fourth of July sandwich. “Top of the morning to you, Donovan.” He tipped his hat. “Miss Wilson.”

  “What are you doing here?” I held Laura’s hand, and we stepped out of the elevator.

  The bum gave Laura the once-over, reminding me of his despicable nature. He tossed me a set of car keys. “There’s a red Chevrolet in the parking lot, compliments of Mr. Gambino.”

  I didn’t want to take a gift from a mobster. I slapped the keychain into Leo’s hand. “Tell Mr. Gambino—”

  Laura snatched the keys. “Tell Mr. Gambino thanks.”

  He tipped his hat. “I’ll do that.”

  “Just a minute.” I held out my hand. “No hard feelings, about yesterday.”

  When he shook my hand, I pulled him close and whispered, “I don’t forget so easily.”

  “Do you realize who you’re talking to?” Leo looked like he was ready to go fifteen rounds with me. Then he regained his college-graduate persona and backed away. He straightened his tie, crossed the lobby, and disappeared outside.

  Laura slipped her arm in mine. “What was all that about?”

  I showed her the black leather wallet I’d lifted from Leo’s suit coat pocket. Skinny Levinson couldn’t have done any better.

  “Jake Donovan. You never cease to surprise me. What are you hoping to find?”

  I had no idea. “Wait until we’re in the car.”

  A moment later, I sat behind the wheel, examining the contents of the wallet, while Laura searched through the amenities of the car. She inhaled. “Love a new car smell. Is it a loaner or…Darling, wouldn’t it be fabulous if Gambino intended it as a gift?”

  “A gift from a mobster? We’re not keeping it.” I counted the dough. Fifty bucks in fives and tens. Small pockets contained scraps of paper, mostly dames’ and bookies’ telephone numbers. I pulled a small black book from one of the pockets in the wallet.

  “What’d you find? An address book?”

  “Something better.” I couldn’t help but grin. “A bankbook.”

  The same day Laura and I left New York for Los Angeles, Leo deposited five grand into the account. Before that, the balanced had hovered at or below a grand or two. The day after Todd Carville’s visit to Gambino’s speakeasy, he deposited another five gs.

  Laura let out a whistle. “You think Todd paid Leo ten thousand bucks?”

  “Gambino said Todd paid off Eric’s gambling debt a month earlier. Maybe he owed Leo dough, too.”

  Maybe.

  —

  Eric Carville’s funeral was my first Hollywood celebrity interment. The church was filled, even if a third of the mourners were studio employees and another third members of the media. Apparently Eric had few friends, except for a history of dames. A dozen or more sat sprinkled throughout the church, sniffling into hankies.

  Laura and I sat halfway back on the right. With my hat beside me, I fidgeted on the wooden pew. I flipped through the hymnal. I scanned the rows, occasionally spotting an unknown face, someone who looked capable of firing a bullet into Eric’s head.

  Laura seemed to pay attention to the preacher’s every word, extoling the “virtues” of a man everyone seemed to dislike. She believed there was good in everyone, a philosophy I’d yet to see supported in my thirty-two years of life experiences.

  After a glance of disapproval from Laura, I tried to hide my dislike for funerals.

  From the church, we followed the procession to Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Plenty of Hollywood celebs were buried there—Rudolph Valentino; Hannah Chaplin, Charlie’s mother; and Virginia Rappe, whose death was linked to Fatty Arbuckle. Only a gumshoe would know that.

  A typical late-summer day in Los Angeles, the cloudless sky burned off the early-morning haze. Carved from stone and occasional marble, dozens of praying children and winged angels dotted the thick green cemetery lawn.

  As Laura and I left our car and walked along the path toward a large green canopy, dozens of sets of eyes followed me. Laura was just another gorgeous celebrity, while I was someone a growing number of so-called mourners suspected might’ve knocked off the man in the coffin.

  Laura squeezed my hand. “Darling, I realize you detest funerals, but please don’t go off and leave me alone.”

  “Me?”

  Laura rolled her eyes and led me toward the rows of shaded chairs.

  Like we were attending a Hollywood premiere, we took our assigned seats in the shade of a canopy the size of a circus tent. People fanned themselves with programs detailing Eric’s accomplishments, most of which I guessed were attributable to his old man.

  Laura and I sat in the second row behind Norman and Todd Carville. Christine and Roland sat beside Laura. Behind us were dozens of actors and technicians, including Sonny Burkheart and his mother, who no doubt felt she deserved a seat next to Todd.

  I suspected Eric’s killer attended the funeral. From my vantage point, however, I couldn’t very well study my suspects, who were all seated in the first three rows.

  The sobbing, the whispered prayers, and the dozens of flamboyant flower arrangements were too much to bear. Before the minister began his remarks, I let go of Laura’s hand and excused myself. I met the gaze of Louella Parsons seated at the end of the front row. I acknowledged her with the friendliest smile I could muster and made my way to the back to the shade of a thick pine. I stood on a rise overlooking the graveside ceremony, where a gentle breeze stirred the fragrance of newly cut grass and fresh flowers.

  A hand tugged on my sleeve. François, the studio makeup artist. He wore a black pin-striped suit with a purple scarf. He dabbed moist eyes with a handkerchief. “How can you be so…so unemotional?”

  “I’ve been to too many funerals.” The last was for my army buddy and former partner, Mickey O’Brien.

  “God, I could use a cigarette. You think I could smoke?”

  “I’m sure Eric would understand.”

  François laughed until he snorted, turning a few heads in the back row. He lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke away from me. “I’m missing a ball game for this, Angels and the San Francisco Seals. Since you’re from New York, you must be a fan. Giants?”

  “Yankees.”

  He took another puff, and his rigid posture relaxed. “Did you have a look at Christine? If her dress were any tighter, you’d be able to take her pulse from ten feet away. Roland is such a hypocrite, crying like a schoolgirl. He hated Eric. Eric was always threatening to…”

  “To what?”

  “I’ve said too much.”

  I lowered my voice. “To leak word Roland is homosexual?”

  “Son of a bitch!” François pressed his hand against his heart and gasped. “How did you know?”

  “Powers of observation. Just like I knew you were straight.”

  “Oh, you are good.”

  Todd Carville and his father stood before the casket. François let out a sigh. “I’d better put my tears to work and give hugs and kisses to friends and family.”

  When
he left, Pat Lonigan slipped from the back row and joined me. In a three-piece gray suit and his familiar straw hat, he lit a cigarette, inhaled, and blew out a cloud of smoke. He stared toward the canopy of mourners, but from his vacant gaze I could tell he was thinking of his father’s funeral many years ago. “Jake, what was my old man doing in an off-campus alley at midnight?”

  He’d spent two decades searching for the truth, but deep down I doubted he wanted to hear the real story. “Meeting a colleague, a student…”

  “Not in an alley.”

  “A person meets someone in an alley if they don’t want to be seen.”

  For a moment, Pat didn’t reply. He sucked in another long drag from his cigarette and let the smoke curl from his mouth. “Maybe a lover, a bookie, a loan shark, a drug dealer—”

  “A blackmailer.”

  Pat crushed his cigarette with his heel. “I’m sorry. I really should let it go.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  When the minister finished his remarks, most of the attendees approached the Carvilles to pay their respects. Laura gazed around, probably looking for me.

  I set my hat on my head. “You’re writing about the Carville case every day.”

  “Unfortunately the cops and I hit a roadblock. What about you?”

  I couldn’t tell him about Leo the Barber’s bank account. “I spent some time with Slick Ray Gambino and a thug named Leo De Palma.”

  “Leo the Barber?” Pat’s face blanched. “That how you got the slice above your eye?”

  I’d nearly forgotten about the cut. “That’s from a car accident.”

  Pat studied my face as if I wasn’t being truthful. “Jake, don’t make an enemy of either. Gambino’s a mobster. Leo’s a monster, an educated one. Graduated from Chicago Loyola.”

  “I thought he might be from Chicago.”

  He nodded. “Leo’s occupation is a hit man. He fell out of favor with Al Capone and somehow survived. Ever met someone who thinks he’s the smartest person in the room? That’s Leo.”

  A hit man who worked for Capone could be the triggerman, but Gambino might have ordered the hit. “Gambino wasn’t at the party, and there’s a reason he’s called Slick Ray. He wouldn’t dirty his hands.”