The Secrets of Harry Bright

by Joseph Wambaugh

  Once again, Sidney Blackpool slept right through the drinker’s hour and knew he didn’t deserve it after what they’d consumed at the marathon dinner. He decided it must be the desert air. It was miraculous to escape the drinker’s dreadlies, the hours when reality and fantasy were harder than usual to sort out. The adjoining bedroom door was closed but he could hear Otto snoring. He had a shower and shave and decided to take a drive to see what the desert looked like at dawn.

  He brought his tourist map and headed away from the big mountain. In fifteen minutes he found himself circling the desert’s only private golf course, which surrounds the home of Walter Annenberg, publishing mogul, friend of presidents, and former ambassador to Great Britain. In a valley that boasted more golf courses per square mile than any other place on earth, he thought it appropriate that at least one local millionaire had a backyard large enough to accommodate his own.

  Then he saw something so startling that he had to pull over on Bob Hope Drive, careful to keep his wheels on the asphalt and off the powdery sand. He got out of the car and ran to the top of a dune. At 6:30 A.M. on this splendid November day, the desert was putting on a show for him. Behind him were the Shadow Mountains whose low peaks of pink and copper and purple were shattered by cloud shadow. There was an amazing slash of color over the Santa Rosas, as though a heavenly house painter had dipped a wide brush in fire and painted a stroke across a silver canvas. The sweep of fire had a beginning and end, and all the bristle streaks. But what astonished him even more was that the sun was rising behind the Santa Rosa Mountains at the same time that the full moon, pale and translucent, was setting behind Mount San Jacinto.

  At precisely 6:32 A.M., the rising sun rested for several seconds on the Santa Rosas and thé setting moon did the same on San Jacinto Peak. Sunrise and moonset on the mountaintops within the span of his outstretched arms. There he stood on the dune, shoes buried in white powder, among patches of verbena and sand drops, which would blanket this desert in the spring.

  He held the sunrise and moonset as long as he could between his hands, though the rising fireball was blinding in the crystal air. Time stopped for an instant. Then the moon was gone and the sun was soaring over the peaks and he realized how he must look out there in the desert to the working stiffs driving by on Bob Hope Drive to Palm Springs.

  Still, he couldn’t leave just yet. He took off his shoes and socks and walked barefoot through the dunes, the cool sand sucking at his ankles. He sat on a large dune and thought of how, by tomorrow, this hill of sand might vanish in the wind. But it might reappear ten yards away. Or ten miles away. Maybe it didn’t really vanish at all. And then he thought that he was getting a bit too close to the self-help nonsense that had never worked for him after Tommy died.

  Victor Watson said he’d tried God and Zen and they didn’t work any better than psychotherapy which didn’t work at all. When the sand dune vanished, that sand dune would never return. Maybe they’d use it for cement. He snuffed out his cigarette and put the butt in his pocket. The desert could burn anything clean given time, but he wouldn’t leave his trash in this beautiful place, not today. Not after the sun and moon and light show that the desert had given him free of charge.

  While Sidney Blackpool was standing ankle deep in sand looking like a desert crucifixion, Otto Stringer was having his breakfast in bed and finding it hard to concentrate on the Today Show movie reviewer who looked and sounded dumber than usual. The reason he was having so much trouble concentrating was that he was feeling disturbed that they had not played golf and were working harder than the police task force at the recent Olympic games. Otto finished his coffee and decided to bypass the croissants. He picked up the telephone and dialed Hollywood information. Three minutes later he was talking with a Rolls-Royce dealer.

  “This is Detective Stringer, L.A.P.D.,” he said. “I’m calling about Mister Victor Watson’s homicide investigation. I believe you’re a friend of Mister Watson’s?”

  “He’s an old client,” the car dealer said. “And yes, we’re friends.”

  “We’re having some problems with this case,” Otto said. “Mister Watson said you informed him that his car showed up in your store on the day his son was murdered.”

  “Yes, that’s right. My service manager, he uh, he identified a picture of Jack that Victor … that Mister Victor Watson showed him.”

  “I wanna talk to that service manager.”

  “He, uh, he’s … I don’t think he’s available. He may be off today. I’ll have to check and call you back.”

  “Listen,” Otto said, “this is a very serious investigation. There’s been lots and lots a man-hours expended and lots and lots a blind-alley chases. I wanna know something, and be absolutely sure when you answer me. Could you be … mistaken? That is, could your service manager be mistaken?”

  “Uh, how do you mean that?”

  “What if it Was some other Rolls that came in that day? What if some other young guy was driving? Is it possible he’s confused? It would be a serious matter if a police investigation was geared around a … mistake. Someone could even get in trouble.”

  There were several seconds of silence and then the car dealer said, “Well, anything’s possible.”

  “I know anything’s possible. Is it maybe more than possible that your service manager is mistaken?”

  “It’s … at least very possible,” the car dealer said shakily. “I would … I’d have to talk with him.”

  “Thanks very much,” Otto said. “If we have any more questions, we’ll call you.”

  “Do you think you’ll have more questions?” The car dealer sounded ill.

  “I doubt it,” the detective said.

  When Sidney Blackpool came back to the suite, Otto was all gussied up in his best golf outfit, the one with the pink argyle sweater. He was in the sitting room reading the newspaper.

  “Thought you might still be asleep,” Sidney Blackpool said. “I went for a ride. Stayed longer than I thought.”

  “We playing golf today, Sidney? Or we gonna set up roadblocks and start searching cars for the murder gun?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You see, partner, I’m just an old narc and a brand-new dead-body dick, but even old narcs can figure things out after a while.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I been wondering why you didn’t wanna go to that Rolls-Royce dealer to verify the hot new clue about the Watson kid driving the Rolls to Hollywood. But I just figured, well, Black Sid’s the homicide cop. Me, I’m just the new kid on the block, so I didn’t say anything. But I got to thinking.”

  “Thinking what?”

  “Thinking that you’re working this case like it’s the Lindbergh baby snatching, not a no-clues homicide where we’re supposedly just going through the motions.”

  “So what’ve you decided?”

  “I decided to call the Rolls dealer who’s a pal of Victor Watson. I could get more sincerity from a wedding chapel in Las Vegas.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s about as reliable as a Pravda editorial. Watson cooked this thing up with his pal just to get L.A.P.D. drawn into a Palm Springs case. Am I right?”

  “I didn’t call the car dealer. You did.”

  “Look, Sidney, I’m not a Mensa, but I’m not real dumb.”

  “You’re not a bit dumb, Otto.”

  “You figured all along that Watson set it up to bring us in. You wanted to be brought in.”

  “Let’s say you’re right.”

  “Hey, I don’t care if you did it because you wanted a Palm Springs holiday. I don’t care if you figured he’d lay some expense money on us. Maybe you even knew it’d be ten grand. I don’t know what-all’s behind it, but I think if I’m riding shotgun, I got a right to know if I’m gonna get waylaid by hostiles.”

  Sidney Blackpool lit a cigarette and straddled his chair and looked away. Then he said, “Okay, Otto, you’re right. I did figure from the git-go that Watso
n cooked up the Hollywood connection, but I went along. And not just for a fun-filled week in Palm Springs.”

  “So far, we ain’t having much fun. We’re working.”

  Sidney Blackpool took a big hit on the cigarette and blew a cloud through his nose, saying, “I didn’t know he’d give us ten thousand, but that’s not what’s making me take a run at this case. Watson offered me a job if I could impress him.”

  “What job?”

  “Security director for Watson Industries. Hundred grand a year. Travel. Country-club privileges. Perks. I won’t be super rich but I can live rich.”

  “Every cop’s hope and dream,” Otto whistled. “How to turn twenty years of shit into sunshine.”

  “It’s the first thing I’ve been a little stoked about in a long time, Otto. It’s something to … go for.”

  “Go for? I’d kill for it. You shoulda told me.”

  “Sorry, partner.”

  “So now I know, let’s forget the golf. I’ll work all week if that’s the payoff for you. I can always play golf in Griffith Park.”

  Sidney Blackpool grinned and said, “Thanks, but guess what?”

  “what?”

  “We’re gonna hit the links today.”

  “All right!” Otto said. “Which course?”

  “You pick it. We got three to choose from.”

  “Eeny meeny miny Tamarisk! Let’s go play Tamarisk Country Club.”

  “Kay by me,” Sidney Blackpool said. “Hey, guess what I saw out in the desert?”

  “What?”

  “A bird I saw in the desert magazine. A butcher-bird they call it. It impales mice and lizards on thorns and barbed wire, then eats them. Beautiful songbird. Teal-colored back. Gray cap, black mask, wings silver gray like a Mercedes. With white pinstriping. A gorgeous deadly little songbird. Reminded me a my ex-wife.”

  “Sidney, puh-leese!” Otto said. “You promised not to get so morbid!”

  The clubhouse at Tamarisk was brand-new but the golf course was old. Along with Thunderbird Country Club, it was the oldest posh club in the desert. The detectives weren’t certain what to do, but started lugging their own clubs until a kid saw them and took their golf bags, directing them to the locker room where they changed shoes.

  The new clubhouse was perfect for the desert: lots of glass and space, decorated in desert pastels. There was a membership roster on the wall inside the lobby. Otto saw Gregory Peck’s name and began getting panicky. He half expected to run into Yoko Ono.

  Although he’d played an occasional game of golf over the years, Otto had never really gotten interested in the game until he started working with Sidney Blackpool, a pretty good golfer. In their months together, Sidney Blackpool had managed to get them some play at a few of the second-line private clubs in Los Angeles County, which were goat tracks compared to the manicured perfection of the desert country clubs.

  “Oh, my God, Sidney!” Otto said when they were standing with the club pro looking at the eighteenth green. “I never seen anything like this. It’s … It’s … I used to date a girl with a pussy like that!”

  “Green?” said the club pro.

  “Velvet,” Otto said. “It looks like velvet around that pin. And look at the fairways, not a blemish. Do you use Clearasil on them, or what?”

  “Have fun, fellas,” the pro said. “You’ll make a threesome with Mister Rosenkrantz. He’s on the first tee warming up.”

  “Thanks much,” Sidney Blackpool said, needing to take Otto’s elbow to get him away from the eighteenth green. The boy already had their clubs loaded on an electric golf cart and was wiping down their woods.

  “Do we tip the kid or what?” Otto whispered.

  “After we’re through,” Sidney Blackpool said.

  “Do we pay green fees or what? Is ten grand enough for green fees?”

  “Relax. Victor Watson took care a everything,” Sidney Blackpool said. “Imagine what it’d be like working for a guy like him.”

  “Imagine what it’d be like living in a place like this, Sidney. I gotta find me a rich woman in this town!”

  The man waiting on the first tee was about sixty-five years old and fatter than Otto Stringer, but stood only about five feet six. He wore a floppy golf cap that came to the top of his ears and plastic-rimmed glasses that kept slipping down his nose. He smoked a cigar that was bigger than a twelve-ounce sap.

  “You must be Mister Guildenstern,” Otto said, sticking out his hand.

  “I’m the other one,” the man said. “Rosenkrantz with a K. Glad to know you boys.”

  “He’s Sidney Blackpool and I’m Otto Stringer. Thanks for letting us play.”

  “Glad to do a favor for friends a Victor Watson,” he said. “Call me Archie. What’s your handicap?”

  “He’s about a twelve,” Otto said. “Me, I’m a beginner. Thirty handicap oughtta do it.”

  “Last guy told me that beat me like a whorehouse rug,” Archie Rosenkrantz said. “So I give you fifteen strokes. Sidney, you give me three. How about we play for twenty bucks four ways. Front, back, automatic press on the back and totals.”

  “Sounds okay,” Sidney Blackpool said. “You go ahead and show us the way, Archie.”

  While Archie Rosenkrantz was getting himself ready on the first tee, Otto felt the panic bubbling. He whispered to his partner, “Did you trade President McKinley for a whole bunch a Andrew Jacksons? We never played for more than two bucks at Griffith Park!”

  “We got money, don’t worry,” his partner whispered back.

  Just then, a mixed foursome drove up in two custom golf carts and parked at the tee. One golf cart was Chinese red, built to resemble a baby Rolls-Royce. The man driving was older than George Burns. The girl in Ultrasuede was younger than Brooke Shields. Otto felt eight eyes on him. Disapproving eyes, he figured. He was sure they knew he was a Griffith Park hacker.

  Then Otto heard a sound that reminded him of the Samoan’s hand colliding with his skull. Fat old guy, my ass! The freaking ball rocketed out there 220 yards. Dead straight.

  “Can we just pay you now and get it over with?” Sidney Blackpool asked, as he stepped up and stuck a tee in the ground.

  “Lucky shot,” Archie said, puffing on the Havana.

  Otto kept glancing behind him at the clubhouse. He just knew there must be fifty people looking out through the tinted glass. He held his breath for twenty seconds and blew it out. He flexed his fists, forearms and biceps, then relaxed them. When he’d whiff at Griffith Park to the delight of some plumber, it was no big deal. But in this place?

  Sidney Blackpool smacked it as hard as Archie Rosenkrantz, and being younger and more limber, he got an extra fifteen yards out of it. The ball faded but settled on the right side of the fairway.

  “You ain’t so bad yourself, kid,” Archie said, chewing the cigar to bits. “I ain’t gonna get fat on you boys, I can see.”

  Otto was starting to feel all wrong. His lime-green doubleknits suddenly bit at his crotch. His argyle sweater chafed his armpits. His golf shoes seemed to be rubbing blisters on his ankles though he hadn’t walked twenty feet. Even his goddamn Ben Hogan cap was too tight. He was a wreck.

  Otto took a practice swing and sent a thirteen-inch slab of Tamarisk flying twenty yards. He ran off the tee and retrieved the chunk of turf while Archie Rosenkrantz puffed on the Havana and said, “There’s an eighty-year-old member here wears a toup looks just like that divot, cept his is orange. Don’t be scared, kid. Just kick back and L.T.F.F.”

  “What’s L.T.F.F.?” Otto asked, feeling his jaws going tight

  “Let the fucker fly,” Archie said.

  But suddenly Otto’s golf gremlin showed up! His fear gremlin looked like Renfield, that giggling little fly eater in the old movie who leads you to your room in the west tower and tells you to ignore that flapping outside the window because it’s just some old drag queen from Bucharest and if you give him a peek at your bare bum and some warm milk with a Tollhouse cookie he’ll flutter on home
. Sure.

  “Let the fucker fly,” said Otto bravely.

  “Heh heh heh,” said Renfield, crunching on a blood-bloated horsefly as big as a pistachio.

  Otto let the fucker fly all right.

  “That wouldn’t be bad distance,” Archie said, “if that was the ball instead a the club.”

  “I can’t understand it!” Otto cried, looking over his shoulder at the mixed foursome who were getting a real bang out of the gifted athlete on the first tee.

  Sidney Blackpool trotted out to retrieve the graphite driver and Archie said, “Tell you what, son, let’s call off the bets. This frigging game’s got enough stress built in. Let’s just go out and have some fun, enjoy the day, have a laugh or two and a drink later.”

  “Okay by me,” Sidney Blackpool said, handing Otto his driver.

  Otto told himself it’d be easy now. The pressure was off. Except that the women in the mixed foursome were whispering, and Otto’s ears were the color of the pink argyles on his tummy Still, he forced himself to move that club low and slow. He took it back slower than Don January ever thought of doing. He was feeling loose and dreamy. He was sooo slow. He was sooo relaxed he just might fall asleep. Except that just as he got that club past horizontal, Renfield said, “There’s nothing to fear but fear itself. Heh heh hee heeeee!” Otto knew that hovering rodent outside the window only had the face of Bela fucking Lugosi!

  Otto gave it a Reggie Jackson fast-ball swing. With the same result. He whiffed that baby so bad he torqued like a licorice twist and found his head looking straight behind him like a cockatoo. Right at the two women in the mixed foursome who were beaming like two stews on Aloha Airlines: “Welcome to paradise, stranger!”

  “So I lied,” Renfield shrugged, his teeth full of flies.

  Archie Rosenkrantz almost lost his cigar. “Did I hear a growl?” he cried. “Lon Chaney needed a full moon to lunge like that!”

  “Let’s forget the first tee,” Sidney Blackpool suggested. “Otto’ll settle down after we get out on the fairway.”

  “Palm Springs ain’t heard a bigger swish since Liberace came to town,” Archie said. “Okay, let’s move along. My varicose veins’re breakdancing.”