1 The Hollywood Detective (2 page)

There was hardly room to park. There must have been seven or eight trucks and a couple dozen flunkies shouting to each other as they loaded the trucks with tables, chairs and sacks of laundry. It must have been a big party the night before. Parked between the trucks were some swell-looking cars. A brand new Cadillac, a beautiful convertible imported from Europe and what looked like one of the original Model T Fords. I wondered if they all belonged to Mr. Powell.

I climbed out of the Plymouth and slammed the door. No reassuring clunk. I tried again. There was a different noise this time: the chrome handle had come off in my hand. I was already feeling sorry for the old girl parked so close to Powell’s shiny toys, but now she looked like a sad hunk of metal, just waiting for the scrapyard. I slipped the handle in a pocket and turned toward the house.

The Powell residence was impressive. Realtors often say a great Hollywood house should look like a Roman villa, but this one seemed to have been built for an emperor. All columns and vaulted porches, its gleaming white stucco was shrouded by a dark green canopy of magnolias and acacia. It reminded me of the White House, with so many curves and pillars. Powell certainly got paid a lot more to play a detective than I got for being one. The Thin Man had a very fat wallet.

“Hey!” I tried to get the attention of one of the flunkies. “Can you help me out?”

The guy barely had time to glance my way. As soon as one piece of furniture was loaded onto a truck, the team ran right back inside and picked up another. It was six o’clock: they had probably been moving furniture since early this morning. No wonder they looked beat. I tried again to get someone’s attention. One of the movers stopped what he was doing for a second to look up at me.

“Try the pool house, out back.” He said, then promptly went back to his work.

I nodded back my thanks, set off in the direction he’d indicated and tried to remember the last time I’d been on a movie star’s property without a caretaker feeling my collar within two minutes flat. Judging by all the activity, I had to figure they were dealing with bigger problems than a P.I. snooping around.

I made my way along the front of the main house, taking in the surroundings. The grounds were nothing short of opulent. Powell’s designers had rebuilt the hanging gardens of Babylon for him. I saw every kind of flower, with every kind of scent, and all sculpted seamlessly into the greenest lawn that rose and fell in gentle slopes. I spotted a gazebo, a summer house, a tree house, a swing seat; they’d even planted him his own private woodland. If you lived somewhere like this, you’d have to think long and hard before inviting hundreds of people over to trample through your precious flowerbeds and leave a trail of destruction behind them. Unless, of course, you could also afford a clean-up operation like the one going on around me.
 

I noticed several rectangles of flattened grass where they must have erected marquees, and everywhere I looked, people were picking up trash and collecting discarded glassware and plates. I even saw a couple guys trying to retrieve some clothing from the high branches of a tree. I could only imagine that at ten o’clock this morning it must have looked as if Custer’s Cavalry had charged through the joint.

The place was so big it took me a full ten minutes to reach the pool house. It was like something off a postcard from Europe, the kind of palace where the French must keep Marie Antoinette’s jewels. The pool itself was an elegant rectangle sunk into white marble. It had been drained. Smart thinking: you get to hear of too many parties in this town where some kid is found floating face down when the sun comes up. I started to walk around the pool when a loud voice behind me stopped me in my tracks.

“Put your hands up where I can see them!”

I slowly raised my paws and turned to see a gray-haired old coot shouldering a rifle. He was pointing it squarely at my head. My heart rocked my entire ribcage. It wasn’t the first time I’d found myself at the wrong end of a barrel—it’s an occupational hazard in my line of work—but you never get used to the sensation of the air sucking right out of your lungs and your knees getting weaker than a newborn lamb’s. Behind the old coot, two other men appeared from the line of trees, and both of them were holding rifles of their own. These guys weren’t taking any chances.

“What’s the problem?” I asked, my hands still high above my head.

“You are.”

“I just want to ask a few questions.”

“This ain’t the place or the time.”

“It won’t take long.”

“Trust me, son, you don’t want to stick around,” the old guy said.

One of the men behind him, younger and taller, but dressed just as ragged, walked toward me. “It ain’t even safe for us to be here.”

Safe? What kind of talk was that?

“Well can I at least speak to Mr. Powell?”

“Not today—nobody’s speaking to Mr. Powell today,” the older guy said.

“You got questions, you need to speak to Mr. Strickling.” The younger man hadn’t dropped his guard. With three muzzles still aimed straight at me, I was finding it hard to concentrate on what they were telling me.

“Denny here will escort you back to your car. And then you’re going to leave, you got that?”

I nodded. “Okay—but I don’t need an escort.”

“Oh yes you do.”

Denny—as stocky as he was silent—came over to me. He pointed with his rifle in the direction I should take. He stayed two steps behind me all the way back to the Plymouth. When we got there, four of five trucks were still parked on the driveway, but all the expensive cars had gone.

I went to open the car door, realizing too late the handle was in my pocket. Feeling like a dupe, I walked round to the passenger side—Denny breathing down my neck with every step—and climbed in. As I wriggled over into the driver’s seat, I noticed that none of the flunkies loading trucks seemed alarmed at the sight of Denny’s rifle. Maybe it was usual for security at the Powell mansion. I started up the engine and swung the car around. I kept one eye on the rear-view mirror: Denny never dropped his gun the whole time I could still see him.

It was getting dark. I pulled out of the drive and thought about heading for the ocean, but I knew that when a girl goes missing, you don’t have long before the trail goes cold. I turned back toward the city: I had to get home and change. My day was only just getting started.

Two things played on my mind as I drove back to my place on Whitley Avenue. First: what kind of modern security operation favors old time rifles over handguns? And second: the mention of Strickling. Whenever I heard mention of him a noisy alarm sounded in my head. You can bet everything you own that when Howard Strickling is on the scene, trouble can’t be far behind.

I shaved, washed, and put on the best suit I had. I parked the car a few blocks from the Cocoanut Grove: it wouldn’t do for the valet to realize I was a long way from the high roller I was pretending to be. In a joint like the Grove, information is currency: what the valet learns he passes to the doorman, who tells the barman, who informs the majordomo, who finds the best table and the appropriate showgirls (or gigolos) to shake and tease the dollars out of the guys with the money. A fella with a busted car might be told the club was already full, even at nine in the evening.
 

Despite the fact that everyone in the place was trying to be somebody they weren’t, I’d always had a soft spot for the Grove. When I’d first come to L.A. in the early ’30s, one of my buddies from the beach had taken me there to see a singer he was crazy about. It turned out to be one of the best nights of my life: when the show was over, the singer—a helluva chick named Lena Horne—came to join us and the management kept sending over the drinks. I felt like the King of Swing himself that night. I can still picture the singer’s face, still hear her beautiful voice. It’s something I’ll never forget for as long as I live.
 

Tonight there was a new guy on the door, but I must have looked the part—he let me straight through the double doors and into the golden dance hall. A jazz band on the stage were playing for themselves, and waitresses glided between the tables, stirring up puffs of cigar smoke and reflecting the light from the chandeliers through the glasses on their heavy trays. It seemed for every glass they removed from the tables, two more were delivered. Folks were here with one thing on their minds: they were intent on having a good time.

“What’ll it be, buddy?”

I took a seat at the end of the bar and ordered a scotch. I handed over Mary Treen’s hundred dollar bill in the certain knowledge that the bartender would let whoever needed to know that a big spender was in residence. I pocketed the change and sat tight.
 

I scanned the room for Benny Bowers, the wash-up who’d escorted Clara Lockhart to the Powell party. Mary had given me a good description of the guy, but I knew his type from old: boot polish on the temples to make him look younger, too-tight pants in the belief they made him look thinner, an undiscerning laugh and a remarkable ability to take a powder when it was time to settle the bill. There were a lot of guys like Benny Bowers in Hollywood, putting on an impressive front but sleeping in their cars.

“Would you like a smoke?”

A young waitress had been sent over to see if there was anything I needed. She held open a pack of Lucky Strikes.

“No, thanks.”

She tucked them back into her waistband. She was tall, skinny—almost bony, had red hair curling down to her shoulders and a genuine smile. I guessed that meant she’d only just arrived in town: usually after a couple months of waitressing, the wide-eyed dreamers start to wear a cynical sneer.

“Another drink?”

I hadn’t touched the scotch.

“Just here for the music, eh?”

“Something like that.”

“What is it? You’d rather be talking to a blonde? Brunette? Tell me now, then neither of us gets our time wasted.”

“It ain’t your hair.”

“Then shove over will ya. Mr Steinberg told me to take care of you, so do me a favor and let him see us sitting together.”

I moved over to the next bar stool and she sat down.

“Here, hold this for me.” The waitress handed me one of her shoes. “They pinch worse than lobsters and I need a break.”

“Guess you must be new here.” The shoe in my hand looked like it hadn’t walked more than a hundred yards.

“Two months on Friday.” She rubbed her stockinged foot.

So I’d been wrong about her being new. “I’d have thought you’d have broken in your footwear by now.”

“Would you? Maybe you think too much.”
 

“Okay then, so maybe you just got a pay check and treated yourself to a new pair.”

“Or maybe my
 
roommate—who happens to be a foot shorter than me with a shoe size to match her height—shoved some tissues in the toe and borrowed my own shoes—”

“Leaving you to step into hers.” I handed the shoe back and she passed me the other one.

“Quite the detective, ain’t you?”

I smiled, reached inside my jacket and felt for a calling card. As I pulled it out, my hand brushed against my Colt pistol. The cold metal reminded me it was due a service—I should strip it down and clean it when I next got the chance.

“Spencer McCoy, Private Investigator. That sure sounds like a lot of fun.” She slipped the card into the pocket of her apron.

“Mostly it’s just sitting in cars and waiting for nothing to happen.”

She took the other shoe from me. “Really? Somehow I don’t believe you. I’ve read the Black Mask. I’ve seen the Thin Man. Reckon you’ve got one of the best jobs in the world, mister. Especially if you’re paying for everything with those Benjamin Franklins.”

I pulled out a dollar bill. “This is just a George Washington, but there might be a few more where he came from if you can help me out.”

She glanced at the bill, looked up at me and maintained her suspicious gaze while she pried it from my fingers. “Suppose you better buy me a drink.”

I told her I was looking for Bowers and she knew right away who I meant. He was a regular. Most nights. Always came and left early.

“Where does he go afterward?”

“Wherever he’s told.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on. You look like a smart guy.”

I stared at her. She seemed absolutely serious. “Are you telling me he’s a hustler?”

She nodded.

“Guys or girls?”

“Seen him leave with both.”

The bartender set down the martini she had ordered. I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be any alcohol in it: the management wouldn’t want their girls to get drunk, just as they wouldn’t want their customers to only pay for sodas.

“You want to swap?” I asked. “I haven’t touched it.”

She smiled at me. “Sure.” She downed my scotch in one.
 

“Did you see him last night?”

“Am I allowed to ask why you want to know?”

I sipped on her fake martini—it was lemon water—and tried to work out if I could trust the redhead.

“It might have something to do with the girl he was with,” I said, making sure not to give too much away.

“The blonde? She was sweet.”

“You remember her?”

“Sure, she was so excited. He wanted to stay here a while longer but she was eager to get to some party up in the Hills. An MGM party I think.”

“So she seemed okay to you?”

“A little mulled maybe.”

“She was drunk?”

“No more than merry.”

“But she seemed okay?”

“She was having a good time. Why are you asking?”

“I think I better speak to Mr Bowers before I answer that. Know where I can find him?”

She hopped off the stool. “Let me ask around.”

“Say, Red—if you see anyone else who went to the party last night, I’m happy to pay for a nod in their direction.”

She weaved her way out through the tables. It was like watching a dancer. She seemed to strut and glide in time with the music, lobster heels or not. Within five minutes she came back with an address scribbled on a napkin.

“You know the funny thing is,” she said, “now I’ve looked round, there’s not a single person in tonight who left for that MGM party yesterday. Not one of them. Guess they must have sore heads, or something.”