He Died Laughing
A HOMER BULL & HANK MacANDREWS MYSTERY
Lawrence Lariar
CHAPTER 1
Carbolic Acid Katie
We were crossing the Piper lot when Homer saw the chubby girl sitting under a tree, a book in her lap and a Seven-Up bottle at her side. When Homer slowed and stopped his broad shadow fell across her.
Without looking up, she said, “Go away; you bother me.”
She had a deep voice, full of carbolic acid. Her face was, round, and deadpan.
Homer squatted. “Katie Hinds,” he said.
Her head came up with a jerk. Then her little mouth smiled. She leaned back on her fists and laughed. “I’ll be damned! Forgive me, Homer, for not recognizing the Buddha bulk of your shadow.”
They shook hands. I shook hands. When Katie stopped smiling her whole face stopped. Her mouth was shaped for pouting. She had biggish black eyes, but the un-plucked brows were forever set in a hard line and only lifted for laughter. Maybe five years ago Katie had been really beautiful. Now the fat face was too small for the fatter frame. And that voice—
“Ohmigawd! Homer! Don’t tell me the long tentacles of Hollywood have reached out and jerked you away from the pure, sweet air of Madison Avenue. Or is it only a visit?”
“Sort of.”
“The nags at Santa Anita? The fruity night life of Sunset Boulevard? Tell me you’re a tourist, Homer, come to gape at the breastworks of the movie industry.”
Homer shook his head and smiled.
“Then it is Piper?” she said.
“It’s Piper, all right. They brought me out here.”
Katie threw back her head and groaned. “Please. I know. You got a letter from the main clam. Quote: Your reputation was brought to my attention. You are the type of genius Hollywood needs. Piper studios are always looking for such rare talent. They want you; they need you. Come out. Piper Studios will pay your fare. Piper Studios will wait until you’ve learned the business. It will be lovely. It will be divine. Unquote.”
I laughed. Homer smiled. Katie blew her nose.
Homer said, “You’ve been here for a long time, Katie. Jim Marshall up at the Clarke Agency told me you were here.”
“Good old Jim,” she said bitterly. “He still writes me every Michaelmas. Wants me to come back.”
“So he told me. They miss your fine hand in the copy department, Katie. Why do you stay here if you don’t like it?”
“Who said I don’t like it?” Katie was sharp. “I’m happy.”
“Obviously,” said Homer.
“You don’t believe me? Look at me.” She spread her arms. “What more could I ask? I’m a stockholder in whimsy land. I have my jug of Seven-Up, my book of swill, and my tree … Nobody bothers me. I sit here by the hour reading Grimm’s Fairy Tales while my brain ferrets new routines for Benny the Bear.”
“You’re doing gags for Benny?”
“No gags, Homer. Stories. I am a story lady. I am unique. In no other animation studio has there ever been a female story man. Never, before Dick Piper met poor little me, has a wench stepped into the murky depths of a cartoon studio story conference. I should feel proud. I am the great Kate Hinds. I should— But I am sick in the belly.” She struggled to her feet. “And I am wasting your time, to boot. Lloyd Griffin’s office is over that way. You are seeing Lloyd first, aren’t you?”
She walked with us as far as the main building.
“Stop by my cubbyhole soon, both of you. I have soft chairs, hot and cold running continuities, a good fan and plenty of the light brown stuff.”
“I never refuse a lady.” said Homer.
Katie grunted, turned away suddenly and crossed the lawn toward the main gate.
So this was Kate Hinds, the Kate Hinds I had heard about in New York. This was the little slip of a girl (five years ago) who had startled the big city with her clever verses, her inspired advertising copy, her Dorothy Parkerish wit. Well, five years is a long time.
That was before she met Mark Richmond. Mark at that time was scouting talent for the Piper Studios He lured cartoonists, humorists, technical men and even versifiers. He took Katie to Hollywood at a better price than the agencies could offer.
Nobody understood why Katie left New York. For a while gossip had it that Mark Richmond and she were planning marriage. The agency boys pulled their long noses and told the world that it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t last! Katie was smart. Too smart for Hollywood and the goose-grease hair-do of Mark Richmond. They were right about Richmond. Katie and Mark didn’t last long in the theatrical columns. The fluff and romance died in less than a year after she went to the cinema city.
Remember the yarn? Winchell broke it first—a juicy story about a pub brawl somewhere on Sunset Boulevard. Mark Richmond, ever on the alert for new talent for the Piper furnaces, discovered a sculptress in the Hollywood hills. He lured her to level ground by easy stages. She was previewed at the Brown Derby, finally, all dressed up in a one-piece evening gown geared to the flesh. Katie spotted her with Richmond, sipping gin in a dark corner. When the dust settled, Mark was helped to his feet by grinning spectators. Katie had closed his eyes with a potted plant.
Thereafter, Mark Richmond was kept within the studio gates, close to Dick Piper. After all, they were old friends. In the lean days, when the Piper name meant little to exhibitors, Mark had imported the slave labor, the hundreds of anemic young “in-betweeners” who are the life-blood of cartoon flickers …
Lloyd Griffin’s reception room was simple. A desk with a blonde. Pine-paneled walls. A huge window. Many pictures of Benny the Bear, culled from the shorts the little beast had blessed with his drawing-board personality.
The blonde led us through a door marked: Lloyd.
“Lloyd is busy on the new feature,” she lisped. “I’m sure he’d want you to wait in his office, Homer.”
A short, rattish-looking gent, sporting a multi-colored neckerchief and an English pipe, entered.
“This is Sugarfoot,” said Daisy.
“Delighted. Charmed,” said Sugarfoot, bowing from the waist.
“Delighted,” said Homer.
“Charmed,” I put in.
“Sigarfoos is the name, really. Ed Sigarfoos. I’d rather you called me Ed, you know. Dick branded me with that Sugarfoot moniker long ago.”
“Well, then, if it’s good enough for Dick,” said Homer, “it’s good enough for me, Sugarfoot.”
Sugarfoot fiddled with his pipe and then faced me. “Well,” he said. “Well. You’re the man who created Dr. Ohm, now aren’t you?”
“I draw it. Homer created it.”
“So? Well. A thrilling comic strip, Homer. Intriguing. How in the world does one go about getting such ideas? I mean, it’s so different. Puts Superman to shame. Of course, Superman might have suggested things, I suppose, at that. It was the first comic—”
“No,” said Homer. “Second. Dr. Ohm was first.”
“Oh yes. So it was. I remember now, of course.”
“Have you any idea where Griffin is?” Homer asked.
“Lloyd? Oh my! I’d almost forgotten. He’s waiting in the conference room. Well, now. Well. Imagine me forgetting!”
I didn’t like Sugarfoot. I didn’t like his face, his neckerchief, his toothpick moustache, or the way he parted his hair. The way he walked down the corridor ahead of us annoyed me.
Lloyd Griffin cut our trip short. He met us halfway.
“There you are, Sugarfoot,” he scowled. “What in the devil were you talking about all this time? Hello, Homer. Hello, Hank.”
Sugarfoot ducked into a convenient doorway. Griffin led us back to his office.
Behind his desk, Lloyd looked the typical Hollywood dream-boy executive. He had on a pair of pearl gray slacks, neatly pleated around the waist. An ornate gold bracelet decorated his hairy right wrist. He spoke smoothly, grimacing for effect. He opened his mouth wide when he smiled. Debonair. His face was an Indian brown, sunlamp brown, and handsome as hell.
“You’ll like it here,” he was saying. “Dick goes to great lengths to get new talent for this outfit. When Fleischer announced that he was filming Superman, we knew that there were only two comic strip men in the country who could concoct a box-office rival. Your Dr. Ohm is a great comic strip, Homer. In many ways it’s better than Superman, you know, for movie development. Which one of you conceived the little man?”
“We share the glory humbly,” said Homer. “The basic idea for Dr. Ohm is the result of many conferences. We created the character together, but Hank should wear the laurel wreath. His was the great brain that transposed the fiction figure into a flesh and blood character.”
“So?” said Lloyd. “That’s interesting, indeed. We encourage working teams here at Piper’s. We are sure you two will do great things in this place before long.”
“Thanks,” said Homer. “It shouldn’t be too hard a job. But you know, of course, that neither Hank nor I have had any experience in animated films?”
“Of course. It is essential that you learn the technique before you begin your real job. Remember that animated cartoons take a long time to produce, Homer. Our last feature, for instance, was over four years in production. We won’t be ready to release these Dr. Ohm shorts before a year or so from today. We must first adapt the comic strip character for animation. Formula drawing will take care of that, combined with the many talents in our creative department.”
“I don’t follow that,” said Homer.
“I don’t expect you to see what I mean—yet, Homer, but I’m sure you will after a few weeks of absorbing our methods.”
The phone rang and Griffin purred into it.
We left Lloyd Griffin’s office as quickly as possible and started across the lot aimlessly.
“Where to now?” I asked.
“We absorb.”
“But where? What in this factory do we absorb first?”
Homer made a sharp left turn toward the main gate.
“Six or seven gin rickeys, Hank. And the sooner the better!”
CHAPTER 2
Old Man Mose
The gateman at Piper’s said, “Gin rickeys? Go down as far as the boulevard and turn right. You’ll see a saloon down there with a red sign hangin’ over the door. That’ll be Shmendrick Schultz’s place. All the boys go there for their hard liquor and free pretzels.”
When we turned the comer, Shmendrick’s dirty pink sign beckoned from across the street.
Shmendrick himself, a squat Prussian-looking potato, played barkeep for us. He had a voice full of throaty undertones.
“You boys from Piper? I ain’t givin’ no more credit if you are. I got a drawer full of dirty IOU’s from that chiseling bunch!”
Homer waved a ten-dollar bill in his face.
“What’s the matter with the Piper boys?” Homer asked. “I thought all of them cashed fat checks every Saturday.”
Shmendrick leaned over the bar. “You kiddin’? The guys with the big dough don’t drink at Shmendrick’s anymore, bud. They clean forgot all about old Shmendrick from the old days. Shmendrick ain’t good enough for ’em, the lousy—”
He was interrupted by a customer at the far end of the bar. “Hey, Stinky!” yelled the customer.
“That,” said Homer, “sounds like Mose Kent.”
“You know him? Hey, Mose! You got company this mornin’.”
Mose lifted himself slowly from his bar slouch and swayed over. “Bat me over the head, boys, if it isn’t Homer Bull! I haven’t seen you since I gypped you out of a Collier’s gag, chum! But I got to hand it to you, Homer—you tracked me down.”
“Forget it, Mose, forget it. Have a drink. Have two drinks. And tell me all about everything.”
Mose was far ahead of us on the rickeys.
“Look at me,” he said. “I am civilization at its lowest ebb. I am the dregs. You are looking at the sewage side of Hollywood—Mose Kent, the failure, the has-been, the bum. You are looking at the last great gag man in Piper’s pasture.”
“You at Piper’s?” Homer turned to Shmendrick. “Thought you said you don’t water the Piper stock?”
“He allus pays. Mose is a right guy.”
“Mose was,” said Mose. “Mose is now a bum—a moneyed bum. But a week from today Shmendrick will brush me off. A week from today Mose Kent will be a man without a job.” He stared moodily into his glass. “The dirty dog! The dirty, double-dealing, drooling dog!”
“Who, me?” Shmendrick asked, hurt.
“Naw,” said Mose.
The street door opened and a girl ran in.
Shmendrick said, “She’s here again, Mose!”
Mose held his head. He moaned. The girl dashed up to him and shook his shoulders. She was very beautiful. She was very much excited. I thought her eyes looked wet with tears.
“Oh, Mose dear,” she said. “Please, please don’t be a silly boy anymore. Come back with me, now.”
Mose shook away her arms. “Back to the mines!” he shouted. “Leave me alone, Ellen!”
She sat next to him, undaunted. “I tell you everything is going to be all right. Everything!”
“Back to the mines!” said Mose. “G’wan back to your boyfriend!”
She looked at Homer helplessly. “If we could only get him out. He’ll lose his job if he keeps this up. He mustn’t lose his job. He can’t!”
“Theatrics!” yelled Mose. “Dramatics! Nobody gives a tinker’s damn about me and my job. She’s stooging for personnel, Homer. ’Magine that—sending a dame over for the great Mose Kent! You know why? A picture. A stinking little Benny the Bear short! They can’t finish it without Mose Kent—I’m dying of laughter!”
“That isn’t so,” sobbed the girl. “Oh, Mose, if you’d only listen to me.”
She was breaking my heart. “Why don’t you listen to what she has to say?” I asked him.
Homer tapped him on the shoulder. “How about a cup of black coffee, Mose?”
“Never use it. Makes me sober!”
I pulled Shmendrick down to the end of the bar. “Slip him a Mickey on the next round,” I ordered.
“I ain’t slippin’ no Mickeys to good customers. What do you take me for, a louse?”
“For five bucks could you be a louse?”
“For five bucks I am butchering my grandmother.”
I edged the girl toward the door and out into the street. This was a doll indeed. This was Joan Blondell in the frame, Hedy Lamarr around the eyes, and from the hips down Betty Grable. I didn’t mind her voice, either. It was low-pitched and sweet.
“Mose will be back after lunch, Ellen. I fixed it with Shmendrick.”
She stopped sobbing. “Oh, thank you. Mose will thank you, too, I’m sure. It would have been too bad if he hadn’t showed up this afternoon. He might have been fired, you know.”
“He seems to think that he’s fired already.”
She bit her lip. “That’s because of the contract. His new contract hasn’t been offered him.”
“Then he really is through?”
“Oh, no. You see, Mark Richmond—”
But she was interrupted by Homer and Shmendrick. They came through the door carrying the limp figure of Mose Kent. Ellen turned on her heel and ran down the street. We laid him tenderly in the roadster.
“Head for a drive-in,” said Homer. “Mose’ll need plenty of coffee.”
“I can use a few
dozen cups myself. What’s wrong with Old Man Mose?”
“Wrong? The first big shock of his artistic career, Hank. Mose Kent is probably the greatest gag man in the country. He’s worked everywhere—radio, the movies, and now animated movies. He’s been with Piper for a long time, you see. Everybody has always told him that Piper couldn’t do without him—that he was the life blood of Benny the Bear. And yet—maybe his number’s up now, though I can’t imagine why.”
“Ellen mentioned Mark Richmond.”
Homer’s eyebrows went up. “Could be. Mark practically owns the studio, you know. Piper made him his right hand after the Katie Hinds scandal broke. Since then Richmond has run the studio completely. Piper backs up his every move.”
“He must be a good manager. Piper’s been making plenty of dough these last five years.”
“I wonder,” mused Homer. “I wonder whether an outfit like Piper’s couldn’t very well run itself.”
I turned sharp left into a drive-in and parked well back from the street. An hour and five cups of coffee later Mose regained his ego.
“I am a dope,” he said. “I apologize to both you guys. Guess the studio got me down this morning. What happened to Ellen?”
“She is one swell little wren,” I said. “She scooted back to the studio. You want more coffee?”
“No. I’m hungry. Let’s go to The Grotto. It may be my last meal there.”
So we went to The Grotto, the luncheon hangout of the upper bracketed Piper boys. Everybody smiled at Mose when we walked in. Everybody seemed to like him.
“You don’t own a piece of this place, do you?” I asked.
Mose smiled a wry smile. “I’ve been eating here every day for five years. I’ll miss this dump.”
“Who told you you’re fired?’ I asked.
That one made him laugh out loud. “Who told me? Do you think they let you know things like that at Piper’s? That would be normal—that would be nice. But Piper doesn’t work that way. He tells you you’re through by not telling you. He kills you with a frosty silence. When your contract is due for renewal, the dirty work begins. The studio sweats. The story department is a mass of gooseflesh and bromides. Then comes the purge.”
He Died Laughing Page 1
