by David Pierce
"Well, Lewis don't own it no more," I said. "The Pussycat Adult Cinema Company owns it, goddammit."
When Elroy was done laughing, he said, "Least you won't have far to go to the movies."
"Want to lend me two hundred and twenty-five thousand?" I said. "Maybe I can buy it back and turn it into a winos' guest house again."
An hour later I was still fuming about it. So was King; he'd fumed himself to sleep on his scrap of rug by the door. I looked over at him—what a sweetheart. What a good boy. He was just the right size for a dog, too—in between. And just the right color—white, with a few irregular brown patches dotted on by some master's brush. Were we going to let the Pussycat Cinema Co. destroy our playground? The very name was an insult. I was trying to figure out if I could find out who owned the bloody company without going all the way downtown to the old Records building when the red Touch-Tone phone on the desk made its noise. Maybe it was the Pussycat Co., thought I, calling to see if they could borrow my office in the evenings for use as a rub-room. It wasn't; it was my friend Rick.
"Hi, pal," he said. "Long time no see."
"You don't say!" I said.
"Still detecting?"
"What else? Still painting pictures of young ladies with no clothes on?"
"What else indeed," he said. "Listen, you busy?"
"Well, not exactly busy busy," I said. "In fact, I'm not even busy. In fact, I've got nada going on at the moment."
"So why don't you drop by late afternoon," he said. "Any time after five. Got some folks for you to meet."
"It's a date," I said. "What kind of folks?"
"You'll see."
"Listen, amigo," I said. "If by 'folks' you are referring to scantily clad, nubile female models, you can include me out."
He laughed, then said, "Later, investigator," then hung up. I did likewise. Hung up, I mean, obviously I didn't laugh, then say "Later, investigator," why would I?
"Good news, King," I said. "Walkies!" He looked up and thumped his tail. "Not now; later." Hmm. Wonder who Rick wanted me to meet. Odds were they were either musicians or painters, because that's all he hung around with; I don't think I'd ever seen him with a normal person. Rick was a Canadian wetback who lived not far from me on the other side of the Hollywood Hills in Laurel Canyon, and he was both guitarist and painter, although he was doing more painting than strumming these days for one reason or another. Maybe it was because guitarists seldom worked from live models as far as I knew, although they undoubtedly would if they could. He was an attractive devil, too, old Rick, if you like that lanky Gregory Peck look, which I frankly find a mite obvious.
Anyway, I'd lied to my pal Rick—my dance card wasn't as bare as I'd suggested, I did have a few things to do—so, accompanied by my faithful hound, I went out and did them—had an incredibly overpriced hair friction at Kingsley's, then had lunch at Fred's, then shot the breeze with Fred's bookie in residence, and then, back at the office, looked in the telephone book for the number of the Pussycat Co. I then proceeded to dial said number. A recording of a low-pitched, husky woman's voice said, "Hi, pussycat lovers. You sure have reached the right place. Now playing at our Sunset studio, Less Miserable, featuring the incredible Tracey Lord. At the Riverside, Slave School. At our new West LA Lounge, Boy's Night Out, starring the late, great Long Dong Sliver himself. And at our Westwood Classic, the classic To Be Or Not To Be, starring Jack Benny and Carole Lombard, plus two Three Stooges shorts. Program times at all cinemas are eleven a.m., two p.m., five p.m., eight p.m., and eleven p.m. If you would like to be placed on our mailing list, please leave your name and address after the beep. Bye, now, lover."
After the beep, this lover said, "My name is the Reverend Michael Lendon, and I am president of the Keep Studio City Clean Committee and you will certainly be hearing from me again. Also may I inform you our first demonstration against your plan to erect another of your temples of sin not only here in Studio City but a mere three blocks away from our local high school will take place at two p.m. Sunday. The press has been informed. May God have mercy on you and your fellow trespassers." I hung up with some dignity, then got on to a lawyer pal of mine, Mel (the Swell), who had fairly recently started up on his own in a handsome old building down off MacArthur Park. After the opening badinage, I asked him if there was any way a private citizen (i.e., me) could prevent the erection (sic) of a public eyesore—i.e., a porno cinema and more than likely a pink and gold porno cinema—right next to said private citizen's place of work.
"They got planning permission?" Mel said when he was done choking on his after-dinner mint.
"I'd assume so," I said. "Who'd start building even a doghouse these days without one?"
"So don't assume," he said. "Check it out. You know how?"
"I know how," I said. "And where. And how much."
"So let's assume," he said, "whoever it is does have planning permission, and who does own the company, by the way?"
"Don't know," I had to confess.
"Check it out," he said. "You know how?"
"Yes, Mel," I said. "I know how. And where. And how much. Then we can slap those mothers with an injunction?"
"No," Mel said. "Do you know what an injunction is, in law?"
"No," I said.
"It is a court writ," he said, "issued by a magistrate ordering a specific party either to stop doing something, or not to start doing whatever it is in the first place."
"Sounds like just the ticket to me," I said.
"No," he said. "Except in obvious cases like infringement of a well-established brand name, like calling your new drink Seven-and-a-Bit-Up, an injunction is generally considered as the last legal ploy one makes when there is no other alternative."
"Oh," I said.
"What you are talking about," he said, "is a temporary restraining order."
"Oh?" I said.
"And what it does is to prevent the guys being restrained from doing whatever it is they're doing—or are about to do—until a civil court can hold a hearing on whether or not an injunction is merited."
"Ah," I said.
"The good news is," Mel said, "a restraining order can be issued exparte."
"Really!"
"Which means," he said patiently, "that the guys being restrained don't have to be present at the hearing or even be told that one is going on. Obviously, the guys are going to have to be told sooner or later, because they have the right to defend their position at the injunction hearing."
"Ah so," I said. "Live and learn, eh. Listen, Mel, what sort of thing could we base an application for a temporary restraining order on, I wonder?"
"Grounds," my pal said.
"I once knew a girl called Melody," I mused. "Her coffee was grounds for divorce."
"Patent infringement," Mel said. "Unfair labor practices. Interference with interstate trade. Environmental, such as noxious emissions—maybe we could try that."
I grinned.
"Any endangered species involved?" he went on. "That's a good one these days."
"Only winos," I said. "But who knows, maybe some rare moth lives there, although from the state of the place it'd more likely be a killer mutant. Don't tell me—I'll check it out, just in case. What about moral grounds, Mel, or religious? Like, could someone put up a porno house right next to a church?"
"Dunno," he said. "Interesting. But not relevant in your case, as there is no church next door."
"Ah," I said. "But what if I write off to one of those mail-order churches and send my twenty-five bucks or whatever it is, then in a week I'm a bona-fide, legal minister who can marry and everything, then all I do is put a sign up on the door saying I'm a church, and I'd be a church, wouldn't I?"
"Brilliant," Mel said. "I suppose you would, legally. There's only one thing—they came first. They didn't put up a porno house next to a church, you—for your own good reasons, no doubt—elected to start a church next to a porno-house-to-be. Which may not be a bad idea, but what happens to your grounds fo
r objecting to their presence is, they have vanished. They could probably sue you for trying to bring some godliness and decency to the neighborhood." I grinned again. "Anyway, my friend, you know enough about the law to realize this—avoid it whenever possible, because it is expensive. To hit 'em with a writ or two, all right, I've got the affidavits and could fill 'em in while you're buying me supper some night, and not at that cheap Italian joint, either, but you are talking complicated here, you are talking State Supreme Court shit. So you either have very firm grounds for such an objection or you try plan two."
"What's that, oh wise one?"
"Move to a new office," he said. "I did; why can't you?" With which he hung up, and after which, so did I.
"Never," I told King. "We shall not be moved. We will fight to the last man and final faithful companion." The dog opened one eye, yawned, then closed it again; he was obviously going to be a big help. As it turned out, he was. Ha ha. Now read on.
Chapter Two
. . . Once in a while I buy a beer for the fat bartender;
Once in a while the fat bartender does the same for me.
IT WAS CLOSER to six than five when we turned right off Laurel Canyon Drive and chugged up Wonderland Park Avenue to 8751, wherein dwelt Rick and whatever pretty lady he was hankeying and pankeying with at the moment. There was just enough room for me to tuck my beloved Nash in behind a gorgeous Mercedes coupe, which was parked in front of a rented Ford, which was parked beside Rick's huge, battered old '66 Pontiac. Rick's place looked like a tree house—six-sided, made of stained wood and glass with a wooden balcony running all around it, and set in and overhung by pines. In said trees, what was left of the local squirrel population that hadn't been slaughtered by his bloodthirsty cat—amusingly called Fido—frolicked watchfully.
Sounds of music and merriment emanated from the abode as King on his leash and I made our way up the winding wooden steps to the door. Before I could knock, it was thrown open by my pal Rick. I was still recoiling from the cloud of reefer smoke that immediately swirled out of the room at me when Rick fell on his knees, then rolled over on his back, crying, "And who is this canine beauty? And where did you come from, you dog, you?" King, of course, began licking his face madly. "No, no, not that!" Rick pleaded. "Mercy, mercy! Not the death of a thousand licks, anything but that!"
"When you two are done," I said, "perhaps one might be allowed to enter, to mingle, to meet your other guests. Can I let him off the leash, by the way? How's your cat with dogs?"
"Loves them," Rick said, scrambling back up to his moccasined feet. "Has one for breakfast every morning regular, when she tires of raccoon tartar."
"King, search and destroy," I said, unsnapping his leash. My friend led the way into the front room. Aside from the moccasins, all he was wearing were the paint-stained bottoms of a lime-green jogging outfit tied at the waist by a length of extension cord. There were four people in the room, none of whom took the slightest notice of my entrance. One was a very pretty girl wearing two bandanas and a charm bracelet, who was stretched out on the sofa with her eyes closed. One was a tall, skinny guy in a blue denim suit and matching engineer's cap who was seated at Rick's synthesizer blasting out a version of the old Stones number, "I used to love her—but it's all over now." The third was a shorter, stockier type wearing huge, round horn-rims and a baggy white suit three sizes too big for him; he was perched on a stool alongside the pianist accompanying him on electric guitar.
The remaining individual, seemingly in a trance, was standing in one corner, like bad boys in school (and I name no names) used to have to do; all I could see of him from the back was that he was short and wore brown denims tucked into elaborately tooled, high-heeled cowboy boots, a cream-colored cowboy shirt, and at least a fifteen-gallon, pale gray Stetson, with a row of gleaming silver dollars adorning the hat-band.
On the cocktail table in front of the sofa was an open lid of weed; beside it a pack of those cigarette papers that look like dollar bills, a pack of Zig-Zags, and a pack of licorice-flavored skins. Every taste catered to, obviously. Beside them were two hash pipes—a wooden North African type with a small clay bowl, and an elaborate, twisty, glass affair. Beside them was a gigantic plastic pitcher of what had to be Bloody Marys, or rather the dregs thereof. In front of that was an unopened fifth of Wild Turkey. Alongside the booze was an almost-empty box of those chocolates called turtles, as that's what they're shaped like.
Summing up the situation in one piercing glance, I remarked to my host, "Ah. Ladies' bridge night. Glad I could make it."
The music the boys were producing was already deafening, but when Rick picked up his guitar and climbed aboard, it was too much for this old square so I betook myself out onto the balcony to wait till they finished the set or, more likely, their amps exploded. I was closely followed by the dog. I had decided that I wasn't going to teach King any tricks—OK, except for fetch—as I always thought a dog doing tricks was almost as sorry a sight as dolphins and killer whales doing them. Impersonations, however . . . now you're talking. He could already impersonate Lassie in that scene where he scratches at the kitchen door, looking back pointedly over his shoulder until Mom puts down her rolling pin and says, "Do you know, I believe that dog wants us to follow him!" And do you remember that scene where Rin Tin Tin had to make his way through enemy lines carrying secret dispatches in his mouth? That sort of thing, I thought. But maybe I would teach him one trick, after all: At a hidden signal from me, like when the decible count was high enough to stun vampire bats in their flight, he'd put his paws over his ears and howl piteously.
Anyway. Out on the balcony, I sat and leafed through some music publication until the boys finally ran out of steam or choruses or licks or whatever, then Rick beckoned me inside. Inside I went. The dog, already an astute music critic despite his youth, remained adamantly outside. Introductions followed. I was told the two musicians who'd been jamming with my pal were Limeys, although being a highly trained detective and all I could have probably figured that out for myself, as, on being introduced, the lanky one in the denim suit grasped my hand firmly in both of his and exclaimed, "My dear chap! So you're Victor. I'm Jerry, the good-looking one. Delighted, I'm sure. We've heard ever so much about you from Rickie, have we not, Tom?"
"I haven't heard that much, actually," the one in the horn-rimmed glasses said morosely, giving me a limp handshake. "Of course, I haven't been listening all that much lately, either."
"You know," I said, "you guys look vaguely familiar. Didn't you used to be the Beatles or Gerry and the Pacemakers or Peter and Gordon or something?"
A deathly hush descended on the room. A frosty look descended over Jerry's countenance. Tom made a retching noise in the back of his throat, then said, "Oh, sob, sob. Teardrops fall. My sight dims."
"Gee," I said. "Was it something I said?"
"Victor," Rick said, coming to my rescue, "you are looking at the two originals, not some pale copy."
"Oh."
"You are looking at regulars on the Patti Page show, you are looking at millions of records sold."
"Oh,"
"You are looking at triumphal tours, you are looking at every American high school girl's wet dreams, here in the living flesh."
"Well, mates," I said, "it has suddenly occurred to me that I do know who you are after all and I remember you if not well, certainly with a sort of lingering affection. But the problem is, the two people who you happen to be are not called Tom and Jerry."
"Ah, but we are to Rickie," Jerry said.
"And to me," the guy in the corner chipped in without turning around. I raised my eyebrows inquiring in his direction.
"L.R. Jones," Rickie explained, giving a newly rolled joint a final, loving lick before lighting up. "I did a session a couple of days ago down at his place and during the break we were watching Miami Vice and I said my pal Vic would die laughing and he said why and so I told him and he said he'd like to meet you. Oodles of money. Collects early records. Fab pad
. Made his fortune from Texas gushers following his wild and woolly youth, thus he is now known to one and all as Tex. Right, Jonesy?"
"I owe it all to the little woman," Tex said. "She's the brains in the family."
"What's he doing standing in the corner?" I whispered to Rick. "Did he bring something naughty to 'Show and Tell'?"
"Nah," Rick said loudly. "He thinks best in corners. At least he thinks he does."
"Oh," I said. "So OK, boys, what's up?"
"Right," said Jerry, all traces of pot-induced vagueness immediately vanishing. "Come on, chaps, let's get some air." He took his engineer's cap off and ran a hand through his longish, wheat-colored tresses; with his thin mug and slightly high-bridged hooter he looked somewhat like a windblown Sherlock Holmes. Then he led the way toward the small kitchen. "We'll be up top," he said to Tex.
"Give me fifteen minutes," Tex said. "I'll join you."
Tom and I followed Jerry to the kitchen. I snagged a Coke from the fridge and we went out the back door and up a semicircular flight of worn stone steps to a rickety-looking sun deck, where I lowered my frame cautiously into a deck chair and Tom and Jerry sat at opposite sides of a bleached-out picnic table, the kind with the two benches attached to the table itself. After a minute King came bounding up to join us.
It was a mild evening; there was still enough sun so that my half of the deck was getting some and the wooden floorboards were still pleasantly warm to the touch. Rickie's fat, tortoiseshell cat was dozing in the shade on the house's shingle roof just beside us; it opened one beady eye a slit, took in the three of us, then King, then closed it again.
"The music business," Jerry said, "God bless it and all who sail in it. Know anything at all about it, old boy?"
"Too much and too little," I said.
Jerry sighed. "OK," I said, unzipping my windbreaker. "I know zilch about the business side. I don't know how deals are made or what specific parties are involved. I've never seen a music contract or a recording contract or whatever it's called, but I have a suspicion they are extremely lengthy."