Death by Pantyhose (18 page)

I crossed the reception area to the office beyond.

The door was partially open, and I peeked inside. There I saw Manny Vernon at a battered
desk, engrossed in the TV Guide crossword puzzle, scratching his comb-over in concentration.
His stocky body was crammed into a polyester
leisure suit straight out of the Three's Company
wardrobe department.

Ah, yes. A titan in the showbiz firmament.

"Hello," I said, rapping on the door.

Manny looked up, startled. Clearly, he didn't
get many visitors at The Manny Vernon Talent
Agency. He battened down his comb-over and
quickly stashed the TV Guide in a drawer.

"Come in, come in," he said, waving me into
the room. "Have a seat."

He gestured to a folding metal chair that
looked like it had been around since the dawn
of the industrial revolution.

"Let me get you some coffee."

Before I could stop him, he was hustling out
to the Mr. Coffee machine in the reception area.

"I'd have my secretary do it," he called back
to me, "but she's at lunch."

Yeah, right. The last time this guy had a secretary, Rudolph Valentino was number one at the
box office.

While Manny busied himself getting coffee, I
walked around the room, looking at the framed
8x10 glossies of his clients on the walls. Clients
like Elroy "Chuckles" Monahan; Clarence the Clown; and Jerry, the Animal Balloon King.
Most of the pictures looked like they were taken
decades ago. I suspected many of these guys had
already gone to that great Comedy Club in the
sky.

"You take cream or sugar?" Manny called out.

"Neither, thanks."

"Good, 'cause I don't have any. I have a
packet of Coffee-Mate around here somewhere
if you want it, though."

"No, black is fine."

"How about some Saltines to go with?"

He poked his head in the door and held up a
crumpled packet of restaurant Saltines.

"No, thanks," I said, faking a smile. "I'm
good."

He came back into the room with two styrofoam cups of what looked like motor oil.

"I'm afraid it's been sitting around for a few
hours," he said, handing me my sludge.

A few hours? A few months was more like it.

"So," he asked, "you looking for representation?"

The springs on his swivel chair squeaked in
protest as he sat back down.

"No, I'm a friend of Dorcas MacKenzie. Don't
you remember? We met the other night at the
Laff Palace."

"Oh, right," he said, recognition setting in. "I
thought you were a comic when you walked in
just now. The crazy hair and all."

"No, I'm not a comic," I said, through gritted
teeth, wanting more than ever to wring Gustavo's neck.

"It's something to think about. You could be a
female Carrot Top."

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about Vic's
murder."

"Oh?" He took a nervous gulp of his motor
oil.

"Yes, I'm trying to help Dorcas clear her name.
I think she's innocent."

"Really? So do I."

"You CIO?"

"Of course. I still can't believe they arrested
her. She didn't kill Vic."

"Do you have any idea who did?"

"Absolutely."

I was glad somebody knew who the killer was.

"It was the mob."

"The mob? As in the mafia? That mob?"

"Yeah. Vic was a compulsive gambler. He was
up to his eyeballs in debt. Vic owed big bucks to
the mob, and my guess is that they were getting
tired of waiting for their money."

"I don't know, Mr. Vernon. I seriously doubt
the mob uses pantyhose to knock off their victims. "

"I suppose you've got a point," he said, patting his comb-over to make sure it was still covering his bald spot. "So who do you think did
it?"

You, possibly.

"I'm not sure, but I believe Dorcas was framed.
I think somebody stole a pair of her hose and
used them to strangle Vic."

I looked for a reaction, some sign of guilt, but
Manny just sat there sipping his sludge.

"In fact," I said, "that's why I came to see
you.

"Oh?" he gulped.

"Holly the barmaid swears she saw you getting something from Dorcas's tote bag the night
of the murder."

"What?" He looked up from his sludge,
alarmed. "That's not true."

"Holly says that while Dorcas was attacking
Vic, she saw you bending over her tote bag."

"That's ridiculous," he snapped. "I was nowhere
near her pantyhose. I was bending down over my
own attache case to get my ulcer pills. If you remember, I was pretty upset that night."

Indeed, I remembered how angry Manny
had been to learn Vic was leaving him for Regan
Dixon.

"After all I did for Vic, he tossed me aside
like a used Kleenex."

He shook his head, disgusted.

"For five years I was on call for that kid, night
and day. I cooked for him. I loaned him money.
I changed the oil in his rattletrap car when he
couldn't afford to take it to a service station. I
even did his laundry. And that's the thanks I
got. Just when he's about to make it, he dumps
me.

"But I didn't kill him. In spite of everything, I
loved Vic. He was like a son to me."

Suddenly the anger drained from his face,
and tears welled in his eyes. Embarrassed, he
swiped them away with the back of his hand.

"Besides," he said, pulling himself together, "I
had a very good reason for wanting Vic to stay
alive."

"Which was?"

"The only reason that counts in this townmoney. Regan started negotiating Vic's network deal before his contract with me expired. Which
means she would've had to split the commission
with me."

"Really?"

"Of course. Ask any entertainment lawyer.
Ask Regan, in fact. She'll tell you."

I intended to do just that.

"Well, if you'll excuse me," he said, "I've got
some important work I need to take care of"

"Of course." I nodded as if I believed him.
The only work this guy had was filling in MrEd
for a four-letter word for "talking horse."

"Hey, you didn't finish your coffee," he said,
eyeing my motor oil.

"I'm trying to cut back."

He swallowed the last of his, then took both
our Styrofoam cups and tossed them in the
trash. When I bent down to get my purse I saw
exactly where they landed. On top of an eightby-ten glossy of Vic, the glass frame smashed to
smithereens. Vic's smarmy face smiled out at
me from behind bits of broken glass and coffee
splotches.

I quickly averted my glance, then got up and
thanked Manny for his time.

As I headed down the creaky stairs and out
past the Taboo Tattoo Parlor, I wondered if
Manny might be the killer after all. He may have
loved Vic, but if so, it was clearly a love-hate relationship.

And who knows? Maybe in the end, hate won
out with a pair of pilfered pantyhose.

oing from Manny's agency to Regan's was
rlike driving from Calcutta to Calcutta
Heights, or whatever the ritzy section of India is
called.

The Premiere Artists agency was in a glass-andsteel fortress on Wilshire Boulevard, with travertine marble in the lobby, museum-quality art on
the walls, and a parking garage that looked like
a Mercedes showroom.

No framed photos of "Chuckles" Monahan
here.

I found Regan's name on a directory and
hopped on a brushed-steel elevator as big as my
kitchen.

I shared the elevator with a couple of Armaniclad agents named Bree and Carlotta, who chattered about opening weekend grosses and their
kabbalah instructors. Damn. Would I never remember to leave my elastic-waist jeans and T-shirts
at home? Next to the Armani twins, I felt like a
Kmart special at Tiffany's.

The elevator dinged at Regan's floor, which
turned out to be Bree and Carlotta's floor, too.

A hatchet-faced brunette sat on guard behind a massive reception desk. Something told
me I was never going to get past her without an
appointment or an Uzi, so I walked as close as
possible to Bree and Carlotta, hoping to pass
myself off as a hotshot agent in elastic-waist
jeans.

I was just about to cross the threshold to the
inner sanctum when I heard a no-nonsense
voice call out: "May I help you?"

Ms. Hatchet Face was glaring at me, her finger no doubt poised on the security alarm button.

"Oh, I'm with Bree," I said, with a careless
wave. "I'm Helvetica, her kabbalah instructor."

She thought this over for a beat and bought
it.

"Very well." She managed a brittle smile and
waved me in.

I wandered along the hallway until I came to
an office with Regan's name on the door. Inside
there was a small secretarial anteroom, just like
at Manny's place. Only this time there was an actual secretary at the desk. A younger clone of
Bree and Carlotta, a sleek little number with
perfectly coiffed hair and, as I was about to discover, all the charm of a pit bull.

I plastered on a smile, sucked in my gut, and
headed over to her desk.

She looked up from the take-out lunch menu
she was reading.

"Yes?" she asked, with more than a hint of impatience in her voice.

"I'm here to see Regan Dixon."

"Sorry, she doesn't read unsolicited scripts."

"I don't want to pitch her a script," I said, my
smile growing stiffer.

"Well, she's not here. She's home today, in
mourning. Personal tragedy."

"That's what I need to talk to her about. Vic
Cleveland's murder."

"Are you with the police?"

I thought about flashing her my library card
and trying to pass myself off as a cop, but I knew
she'd never fall for it.

"No, but-"

"Then I can't give you her address. Office
policy."

End of story. No further discussion. She went
back to her take-out menu, studiously ignoring
me.

So much for talking with Regan.

I was heading out the door when a cute
young guy in a pinstripe shirt bustled past me to
the gargoyle's desk.

"Hey, Meredith. You got a package for me?"

"Take these scripts to Regan," she snapped.
"And don't dawdle."

"Yes, Sarge," he said, with a mock military
salute.

I froze in my tracks. If this guy was going to
Regan's, I was going to be right behind him,
tailing him every inch of the way. I stepped out
into the hallway and bent down, pretending to
tie my shoelaces, which was a neat trick, considering I was wearing boots at the time. I waited
till he passed me, then followed him out to the
reception area.

As we were waiting for an elevator, we were
joined by another pinstriped kid.

"Hey, Scott. Where you headed?"

"Gotta bring these scripts to Regan Dixon.
She's home mourning for that creep boyfriend
of hers. What a sleazoid."

"I know. Every time he came here he made
me go to Starbucks and get him a cranberry
muffin."

"I don't see what Regan ever saw in him,"
Scott said.

"Me, either," his buddy said.

Me, neither, I felt like chiming in.

The elevator door dinged open and we got on.

"Want to grab a quick lunch?" Scott's buddy
asked.

"Sorry. Meredith is on the warpath. I can't believe I sweated my tail off for an M.B.A. to run
errands for that bitch."

"Welcome to life in the mail room." His pal
sighed.

We rode down to the lobby, where Scott's
buddy got off, and Scott and I continued down
to the parking levels. I kept my fingers crossed
that we were on the same level. If not, I was sunk.
But in a rare stroke of good luck, he got off at
my floor.

I watched as he walked over to his BMW (apparently even the mail room guys at Premiere
Artists drove luxury cars), and in another stroke
of good luck, I saw that I was parked just two
aisles away from him.

I leapt into Wheezy and followed him out the
lot.

And that's where my good luck came screeching to a halt.

Scott sped off like a test driver on the autobahn. And there I was, stuck in Wheezy, the slow est car west of the Rockies. Scott had zoomed out
of sight before I reached my first traffic light.

I pulled over and let out a stream of curses
that steamed Wheezy's windows.

Then I had an idea. It was sneaky, but it just
might work.

I got out my cell phone and called information
for Amblin Entertainment, Steven Spielberg's
production company. In case you're wondering
how I know the name of Steven Spielberg's production company, remember: This is L.A. we're
talking about. Busboys at Denny's know where
Steven Spielberg works.

I phoned Amblin and asked to speak with
Mr. Spielberg.

A soft-spoken woman came on the line.

"Mr. Spielberg's office, Carolyn speaking."

That's all the information I needed to know.