The Timid Traitor (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 10)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  Ros smiled as she led us into the living room. "Oh, he's at a friend's for the night. They're studying up on algebra or something like that. Big exam tomorrow at school."

  Once we were all seated, Freddie asked about drinks. Carter and I stuck to beer as did Martinelli. Ben asked for a martini. Ros had a gin and tonic while Freddie poured himself some bourbon, neat.

  Ros brought in the beers from the kitchen, while Freddie built the cocktails. He said, "So, I saw the photos in the paper about your new building, Nick. How goes that?"

  I took a swig and said, "Fine. It's done. We move in next week. Or that's the plan, at least."

  Ros leaned over and smiled. "How's it feel to have your own skyscraper?"

  I shrugged. "We need the space, but I'm kinda partial to dusty third-floor offices in the Tenderloin."

  Ros and Freddie laughed. She said, "I'll admit, I have a hard time seeing you way up in the sky like that."

  I nodded. Carter was silent. We hadn't talked about what I'd said about hating the building since I'd said it.

  Ben piped up. "When does the new play start?" That question was directed at Freddie.

  He looked up and smiled. "Oh, probably in May. I'll be spending more time in New York starting in March."

  Turning her attention to me, Ros asked, "Is it a secret or is there a reason you're down here with us Angelenos? I know how you feel about Hollywood but,"—she peered at me for a moment—"you don't look too pained to be here among us all."

  Everyone else laughed at that. I just looked down at the floor. After a long moment, Freddie said, "Well, I can tell one thing."

  I looked up. "What?"

  "I know whose house you were at today."

  Ben looked a little alarmed. "You do?" I wondered at that. Maybe he didn't know that Freddie was the reason Billy Haines had reached out to him.

  "Sure," replied Freddie with a smile. "I had to give a character reference."

  Ros stood up with a sigh. "Oh, brother." She made her way into the kitchen.

  I looked at Freddie. "What?"

  He stood up, walked over, leaned down, and whispered. "The two of them don't along too well." He laughed and walked over to a chair where he had a seat.

  I shrugged. "I can't imagine—"

  "Oh, please, Nick!" That was Ros. She was back from the kitchen. "Let's don't get all into it, but she's always happy to play the Queen of Hollywood. It's all smoke and mirrors, as far as I'm concerned. She's a hard worker, no doubt, but she makes everyone else work just as hard when there's no need." She stopped suddenly and smiled. "Listen to me. Or, rather, don't. I said let's don't get into it and I meant it."

  Freddie looked over at me and said, "I know you can't tell us what's going on but I'll tell you Billy sounded concerned when he called."

  I nodded. "You're right. I can't. But I would like to know if you're working on anything right now, Ros."

  She smiled graciously. "We're about to start filming a musical over at Paramount called Girl Rush. From what I've heard, it will be in Technicolor. My first."

  Ben asked, "Will you be dancing?"

  Ros nodded. "Yes. And singing, if the director has his way. I've tried to beg off the singing, but he wants me to give it a go, so I will."

  Martinelli, who'd been quiet and just listening to everything said, "I think you have a fine singing voice."

  We all turned to him as Ros asked, "You do?"

  The big guy blushed and said, "Sure. The last time we were over, I heard you singing to Lance."

  Ros, who had been standing by the fireplace, walked over, leaned down, and gave Martinelli a kiss on the forehead. "Well, Mr. Martinelli, aren't you just the sweetest thing?"

  Everyone laughed as Martinelli blushed even harder.

  Chapter 6

  Shanghai Red's

  Corner of 5th and Beacon

  San Pedro, Cal.

  Thursday, January 13, 1955

  Just before midnight

  The four of us had been sitting at the bar for half an hour, slowly sipping on beers and keeping our heads down, when a big, burly man in his 50s walked up from behind the bar and asked, "Which of you is John?"

  I looked up and replied, "That's me."

  "Phone call for you in the back."

  I nodded, stood up, and made my way through the crowded bar and to the phone booth that was located near the bathroom. I picked up the receiver that was dangling by its cord.

  "Yeah?"

  "You John?" asked a muffled voice.

  "Yeah. Who's this?"

  "That don't matter. You got the dough?"

  "Yeah. You got the package?"

  "Sure do, bub. You and your friends stay where you are at the bar. I'll meet you in fifteen minutes in the alley. Got that?"

  "Sure. How will I know it's you?"

  "I'm wearing a purple tie. Can't miss it."

  "Fine."

  Before he could say anything else, I put the receiver on the hook and made my way back to the bar. When I got there, I found that Micky, Martinelli's pal, was in the middle of an arm wrestling contest with the burly man behind the bar. From what I could see the older man was just about to win.

  A small crowd had gathered to watch. From the catcalls, it sounded like they were regulars and that they were used to the man challenging patrons to wrestle him. I stayed at the back of the crowd and used that as an opportunity to see if I could figure out who was watching us. How else did the voice on the other end know we were sitting at the bar?

  As I lit a Camel, I saw a pudgy man stand up from one of the booths at the front of the bar, walk out the front door, which was propped open, and meet another man on the sidewalk. They talked for a moment. The lean man he was meeting had on a purple tie.

  . . .

  Micky turned out to be useful after all. We left him at the bar so that the older man, who turned out to be Shanghai Red himself, had someone to keep him occupied because, up to that point, we'd kept a low profile. But Red had been nosy and started asking questions. Micky, who was a native, started asking him about how it used to be down along the harbor, and that gave us a chance to slip out.

  As we stepped out onto the sidewalk, I said, "You two count to ten before you turn down the alley."

  Martinelli had nodded but Carter shook his head. "You need—"

  I put up my hand. "Lemme do this my way, Chief. OK?"

  He looked worried but he nodded.

  Turning on my heel, I made my way down the block and made the first left down the alley that ran behind the bar. There were a couple of bare bulbs over the back doors of two joints on the right. But, otherwise, it was dark. When I got about halfway to what was obviously the back door of Shanghai Red's, I heard a noise from behind a vague pile of cans on my right.

  A lean man stepped out from the shadow. His hat was pulled down low, he was wearing that same purple tie, and he had both his hands in his coat pockets. He asked, "You John?"

  I stopped and nodded. I reached into my inside coat pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. I held it close and asked, "You got the package?"

  The man nodded. "Sure. Lemme see the cash."

  I shook my head. "Nope. You show me the package first. Then you drop it on the ground, and I'll hand you the envelope."

  "Fair enough." Pulling his right hand out of his coat pocket, he removed a square box that was about five inches across. Dropping it on the ground, I heard it make a hollow sound as it hit the bricks.

  "What gives?" I asked.

  "Wadda ya mean?"

  "There's nothin' in that box." I kicked it to the side of the alley. It was definitely empty.

  The man chuckled. "You're right."

  I put the envelope back in my coat. As I did, I reached for my revolver, which was in my shoulder holster.

  I heard the sound of shoe leather on the bricks behind me. "I wouldn't do that, Mister, if I were you."

  As I slowly pulled the gun out, I heard a scuffle, a grunt, and the sound of someone hitting the paveme
nt behind me. The man in front of me slowly began to back up with his hands in the air. "I don't want any trouble." His tough-guy voice vanished. He sounded like a kid just out of high school.

  I sighed and waved the revolver in the air. "Looks like that's just what you've got. Now, where's the package?"

  "I don't know. Someone told me to—"

  Carter came from around me and rushed the guy. Before the man knew what hit him, Carter slugged him and he collapsed to the ground. I put my gun back in my holster and walked over. Carter was already going through the man's pockets. I bent over and kissed him on the neck. "Thanks, Chief. You're a real pal."

  He whispered in reply, "When we get home..."

  I chuckled. That was his latest code word for letting me know that something had got his engines going and that we would be in for some fun. I began to think that maybe we might need to end up back in that motel in Ventura in that case.

  As I felt that nice warm feeling come over me, Carter handed me the man's wallet.

  I opened it and found five crisp hundreds. Maybe he was just the patsy. Maybe there wasn't any movie. I pulled out his driver's license. In the dim light, I could make out that his address was in Los Angeles and his name was Peter Markinson. As I fished around, I found a plain white card with a phone number on it: VE5-3320.

  Keeping the card but leaving everything else, I handed the wallet back to Carter, who had finished searching the rest of the man's pockets. I walked around my husband and began to look for the box. When I found it, I put it in my coat pocket and said, "Let's get outta here."

  . . .

  On our way back north to Los Angeles, I asked Micky if Shanghai Red had anything interesting to say.

  "Yeah, as a matter of fact, he did. He told me that the guy who was sitting at the booth by the front door had been watching all of us since we'd walked in. He asked me what we was doing and I told him we were just having a drink before heading home. He didn't buy it. We must've all stuck out like sore thumbs, the way the three of you is dressed."

  Martinelli, who was driving, laughed. "Yeah. As soon as we walked in, I realized we were a little too uptown for that crowd."

  "Tough place," echoed Carter. "Who is Shanghai Red?"

  Micky replied, "He's famous around here. He's from San Francisco. He was in the Navy and made his way to Shanghai. That's where he got his name. Used to own a bar there. I think he came back to L.A. after the Japs invaded China. Anyway, he's most famous for being able to lay out any sailor who makes trouble."

  I said, "Yeah. I couldn't believe you lost."

  Martinelli asked, "Did you lose, fair and square, Micky?"

  The other man laughed. "Sure. He's a legend."

  . . .

  Once we were back at Ben and Martinelli's apartment, I pulled out their copy of the L.A. reverse directory and sat down on the double bed in their bedroom while the other four made some sandwiches in the kitchen. He may have been a lousy private dick, but at least Ben knew to have a copy of that along with the phone company directory and a copy of Polk's on hand.

  Thumbing through the pages, I looked up Vermont 5-3320 and was surprised. It was a phone number listed as belonging to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. As I put the book back, I sighed. I realized I was going to be in L.A. a little bit longer than I had hoped.

  . . .

  The next morning, Carter and I were up at 6 and out by a quarter past. He had a meeting with the Ventura Fire Chief at 9. Before we went to bed, we had decided to drive out to Ventura, spend some quality time together in his motel room, and then have breakfast before he had the meeting. He had a rental car that we'd left at the motel. Once he was done in Ventura later that day, he would check out, drive back to Los Angeles, and stick around until we'd wrapped things up for Ben.

  As we drove west, we talked about nothing much, which was my favorite kind of conversation to have with Carter. We pulled into the motel parking lot at a quarter past 7. Carter got right to showing me what he'd meant the night before. Once he was done, we took a shower, got dressed, and walked over to the diner across the highway from the motel.

  Over eggs, I said, "What do you think about starting up a movie studio?"

  Carter, whose mouth was full of chewy bacon, grinned and then swallowed. "I suppose Ben is gonna run the thing."

  I nodded as I took a sip of my coffee.

  He narrowed his eyes and said, "I thought he was going in with Freddie."

  "So did I and so did he, for that matter. He says that Freddie doesn't want a business partner."

  Carter shrugged. "He probably thinks Ben is too green."

  "Maybe. I don't."

  "What about Carlo?"

  "What about him?"

  "What's he going to do?"

  I shrugged. "Dunno."

  We sat there for a moment and looked at each other. Finally, I said, "Look, if you don't—"

  Carter jumped in. "It's not that I don't, it's that I guess where your concern is with Ben, mine is with Carlo. I can't figure out what he's been up to these last six months."

  "Neither of them needed to work. They had plenty socked away, from what I could tell."

  "You haven't given them any?"

  I shook my head. "Not a penny. When Ben called me yesterday, I assumed it was because he'd finalized things with Freddie and was ready to pitch his proposal to me."

  As he munched on a piece of toast, Carter asked, "What haven't you told me about this job you're doing?"

  "That it's not gonna turn out the way Ben hopes."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Whatever it is they are trying to get back is probably so bad that I doubt anyone will ever want to talk about it. In fact, this will probably make Ben look bad in both her eyes and in Billy's."

  Carter nodded thoughtfully. "What do you think it is?"

  "The blue movie everyone talks about."

  "What did that box say?"

  "It was from a film lab. I'm going to go pay them a visit after I make a call at Metro."

  Carter sighed. "Eddie fucking Mannix, again."

  I nodded and grinned.

  . . .

  Once Carter had left the motel to meet the fire chief, I used the phone booth on the street next to the diner to make a couple of calls. My first one was to the office.

  "Hi, Nick! How are you?" It was Robert.

  "Fine. Look, can you call Captain Morris and tell them to fly home? I'm gonna be down here longer than I thought."

  "Sure. Anything else?"

  "Where's Marnie?"

  "She's out at the store. You want to leave a message for her?"

  "No. Is Mike in?"

  "Yes. He's standing right here, as a matter of fact."

  "Can you put him on?"

  "Sure."

  After a long a moment, I heard Mike on the line. "Hi Nick. How's Hollywood?"

  "The usual. Smoggy and awful." The weather had been rather warm and spring-like for January, but everyone knew I hated the Southland. I didn't want to disappoint anyone.

  Mike laughed. "When will you be back?"

  "Hopefully late tonight. But don't count on it. Anything I need to know?"

  "I have some reports for you, but the only pressing thing is that Walter has the goods on that French guy. He was tried as a war criminal. He did his time. He was released last year and pardoned by the French president, for some reason. That made him eligible for an American visa, which he got. He's been in San Francisco since October. We even have his address. Walter went by and did one of his fake survey routines and confirmed it was him."

  "What about Sam?"

  "He's been hanging out at that bakery and flirting with Annie. He told me this morning they have a date for tonight at the Tonga Room at the Fairmont."

  "Good. What do you think about putting someone on this what's-his-name now that we know where he is?"

  Mike sighed. "Unless I do it, I got no one. At some point, we need to let Rostenkowski know about her threat to kill the guy." He was a police lieute
nant who worked out of the North District Station. He was the friendliest contact we had at that high a level. No one above him wanted anything to do with us. Mike had plenty of contacts with the sergeants and beat cops but no one else above sergeant other than the lieutenant.

  "What does Greg think?" He was a former lieutenant from the Central Station who had quit the force the summer before when he'd fallen in love with Mike. They two of them were going strong and steady and it was a good thing to see.

  "He's pissed that we haven't done so already."

  "But they can't do anything. Not yet."

  "I know. That's what I keep reminding him. For the sake of his license, though, he's threatened to call Rostenkowski by Monday if I don't call him before then."

  I sighed. "Just call him already, then. Greg's right. It would certainly look better on our end, doncha think?"

  "I guess."

  "Your decision. Meanwhile, I have a call to make at Metro."

  "What the hell? I thought you were persona non grata over there."

  "I am. We are. But something's come up that I need to check out."

  "Good luck. Let me know if I can help."

  "There is one thing you can do."

  "What's that?"

  "Start thinking about opening an L.A. office."

  "I've been thinking about it. I'm turning away business down there a couple of times a week. What's Carlo up to?"

  "Nothing. And we met a former Army M.P. last night. He's a native and knows his way around. They're already buddies."

  "More Physique Pictorial model material?"

  "You got it."

  Chapter 7

  Office of Edgar Joseph Mannix

  Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios

  Culver City, Cal.

  Friday, January 14, 1955

  Half past 10 in the morning

  "What the fuck are you doing around here, you cocksucker?"

  I stood in the door and smiled. A security guard had escorted me to Mannix's office once I'd presented myself at the gate and asked to see the man. "And good morning to you, too, Eddie. You're looking relaxed." I didn't know why I liked to torment the man apart from the fact that he'd always been an asshole to me every time we'd had any contact.