by Bill Crider
“Never mind,” Bogart said. “What time will they be finishing up?”
“Probably around ten,” Dawson said. “Or even sooner if things go well. Gallindo and Carroll have a fight on a precipice overlooking a waterfall, which of course means that Stoney and I have a fight.”
91
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE MURDER
I looked around. I didn’t see either a precipice or a waterfall, but I knew that didn’t make much difference. The fight would be on a something that looked like a flat rock, and the rest would appear in the final film with back projection or some other trick. It seemed to me they could do that on a soundstage.
“We’ll be moving to the soundstage as soon as we film the chase,”
Dawson said, as if he knew what I’d been thinking. “Everything’s already set up there.”
“And when they finish the filming, they’ll go somewhere else for a party,” I said.
“That’s the general idea.”
“Maybe we can join them tonight,” I said.
“Count me in,” Bogart said. “But we’re not going to my house.”
“I don’t blame you,” I told him.
Bogart wanted to have an early dinner, no doubt looking forward to another chance to stick Mr. Warner with the check, but I begged off, saying that I needed to stop by the office and check the mail. He didn’t ask to go with me.
He dropped me off at my car, and I told him I’d meet him at the set that evening around nine-thirty. He said I’d better take the pass from under his wiper, and I did, knowing that he wouldn’t have any trouble getting in, whereas I’d never pass the gate without it. So I took the pass and stuck it under the worn-out wiper on the Chevy before I got in and drove away.
My office always looked shabby, but when I opened the door and saw the dust and the grimy window, I thought it looked even worse than usual. It didn’t, of course. It was just that I’d been riding in a Cadillac, associating with one of the biggest stars in Hollywood, and visiting a movie set as if I belonged there. A fella could get used to that sort of thing if he didn’t watch out. He might forget his place in the big scheme of things, and that would be too bad. Some people were meant to be stars, and some people were meant to clean up their messes. It was best that I keep that in mind.
I limped over to my desk and sat down. My hip was hurting, either because Mayo had kicked it even harder than I thought the previous evening or because I was feeling sorry for myself. Probably the latter.
92
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE MURDER
If there had been a bottle of bourbon in the bottom drawer of the desk, I might have been tempted to drown my sorrows. I knew it wouldn’t work. I’d tried it once upon a time, and I’d wound up in a hospital ward with pink zebras and stripped elephants dancing across the bridge of my nose. Which was why didn’t drink any more. One experience like that was enough for me.
Somewhere on top of the desk there was a little notebook with telephone numbers in it. I located it under a copy of True Detective that someone had handed me as a joke. I flipped through the notebook until I found a number for Leon Jones.
Leon was either at home or at Santa Anita. If he was at the track, he was betting. If he was at home, he was handicapping the races.
He knew most of the gossip, and he’d heard all the rumors, so I had a question for him.
He answered on the third ring, sounding if he had a sock stuffed in his mouth.
“What the hell, Leon?” I said.
There was the sound of chewing and then some swallowing.
“Is that you, Scotty?” Leon said in a more normal voice.
I told him it was.
“I was eating an egg sandwich,” he said.
As far as I knew, sandwiches were all Leon ever ate. He never seemed to have time for anything else
“I need some information,” I said. “I think you’re the man to give it to me.”
“If it’s about the third race tomorrow, forget it. My lips are sealed.
Sure, I have it nailed, but I can’t let just anybody in on it. I stand to make a bundle.”
If he’d ever made a bundle, I didn’t know about it. Maybe he had, but if so, he’d invested it all in other bets that hadn’t panned out.
Anyway, he was only saying he had it nailed because he hoped I’d offer him some money for the tip.
“I hope you break the bank,” I said. “But I’m not asking for a horse.
I’m asking about Frank Burleson.”
“Dead as a mackerel,” Leon said. “Which is lucky for him. If he was alive, Charlie O. would have him knee-capped.”
Dead, or knee-capped? For me it wouldn’t have been a hard choice, but maybe Leon didn’t see it that way.
93
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE MURDER
“He owed Charlie O.?” I said.
Charlie O. was Charles Orsini. He owned a nightclub and was a big-time bookie, among other pursuits.
“Everybody owes Charlie O.,” Leon said. “That’s just the way it is.”
I was sure Leon spoke from experience. It was much easier to believe in his losses than in his supposed winnings.
“But not everybody gets knee-capped,” I said.
“True, and it’s a good thing for me that it is. But then I never lost ten Gs in one afternoon.”
“Ten thousand dollars?”
“Give or take. Close enough.”
“Give or take, that’s a lot of money,” I said.
There was a short laugh from the other end of the line.
“Not to Charlie O. But he can’t let anybody who owes him that much for so long off the hook. It wouldn’t be good for business. You know Charlie O.”
I knew Charlie O., all right, though it wasn’t from gambling. My relationship with him had been strictly personal.
I also knew that my hunch about Burleson and the ponies was correct. He needed money, and he needed it fast, so he was putting the squeeze on everybody he could.
“You think Charlie O. had him killed?” I said.
There was another short laugh, more like a snort.
“Dead men can’t pay off,” Leon said. “What kind of business would that be?”
“Bad business, I suppose.”
“Damn right it would be. If Charlie O. went around killing everybody who owed him ten large, there wouldn’t be a lot of people left in L. A. or Hollywood, now would there.”
“But you said Burleson was desperate.”
“Who wouldn’t be? It’s no fun having your kneecaps broken, but most of Charlie O.’s clients can pay off before it comes to that. Your pal Burleson couldn’t.”
“He wasn’t my pal. Why does everybody keep saying that?”
“I don’t know about everybody. You’re in the same business, so I thought maybe you were pals.”
“No,” I said flatly. “We weren’t pals.”
94
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE MURDER
“So why are you asking about him then? You’re not working for the cops these days, are you, Scotty?”
Congreve. The thought of me working for the cops would probably give him a coronary.
“I’m not working for the cops. I just heard Frank had been killed, and I wondered if his losses had anything to do with it.”
“You’d better just forget that. Charlie O. would probably like to know who killed him even more than the cops would.”
I told Leon I’d forget it. We talked a little longer, or he did, mostly about horses I’d never heard of. When he hung up, I sat there and wondered about Charlie O.
What I wondered was how much the dirt Frank had on the Superior stars and a few others like Mayo Methot would be worth to a guy like Charlie O.
Ten thousand dollars, give or take?
And how far would he go to collect it? If he had the information and wanted to use it, Frank’s being dead wouldn’t make much difference to him.
It was something to think about.
95
CH
APTER
17
Bogart seemed to like the idea of pinning the murder on Charlie O.
“I never played the ponies,” he said. “Some people would tell you it’s because I’m too close with a dollar. Maybe it is. But I know who Charlie O. is, and I’ve heard he’s tied into the mob. If he is, couldn’t there be a connection with Thomas Wayne or Joey Gallindo? It would be pretty handy to either one of them to have Burleson out of the way if he was blackmailing them.”
“You think Charlie O. did them a favor?” I said. “Some sort of honor–among–thieves deal?”
“Something like that. He might not collect his money, but it would be good advertising. Nobody would ever hold out on him again. Do we have time to talk to him before we go to the studio?”
Of course we had time. It was only seven o’clock, and I’d called to say I’d be by for him around nine-thirty. We could easily get to Charlie O.’s club and back to the studio in time. But seeing Charlie O. wasn’t as easy as Bogart thought it was.
“This isn’t like the movies,” I said. “I can’t just drive to Charlie O.’s place and confront him. I’d have to get by two or three guys, and all three of them are likely to be a lot bigger and meaner than I am.
Besides, Charlie O. doesn’t like me.”
Bogart didn’t ask why. He just said, “I’ll go with you.”
97
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE MURDER
“I don’t think even Sam Spade will scare those guys. Philip Marlowe, either.”
“Not even if he has Canino’s best boy with him?”
“I’m not feeling a whole lot like Bob Steele. Maybe I’m worried about my kneecaps.”
I wasn’t worried about my kneecaps, though. I was worried about other things. Charlie O. and I went back a ways.
“The hell you’re worried,” Bogart said. “Anyway, we’re going. That Congreve has it in for me, and I’m not taking the fall for anybody.
We need to find out if Charlie O. had Burleson killed.”
“And you think that he’d tell us, even if we could get in to see him?”
“You never know,” Bogart said, “until you try.”
“And what’s your plan for getting past all the muscle?”
“They’ll let us in. Trust me.”
I was going to say I didn’t trust anybody, but it was too late. Bogart had already hung up the phone.
Charlie O.’s club, whether because of an excess of ego or a lack of imagination, or for some other reason entirely, was called Charlie O.’s. It was up in the Hollywood hills, and there was a red neon sign that spelled out the name in script letters. There were lots of nice cars in the parking lot, a Lincoln Continental or two, and a Buick convertible, along with a couple of Packards and some Cadillacs. There were Fords and Chevys, too, but I sort of wished we’d come in Bogart’s car instead of mine, which could have used a wash and polish.
Unlike my car, the club building had a fresh coat of paint on it, and dance music drifted out the door and into the parking lot. If you liked that kind of place, then Charlie O.’s was the kind of place you’d like.
I parked the car and we got out. I could see the lights of L. A. down below and the oil wells off to the south, though there was a foggy mist in the air.
“I hope we don’t have to fight anybody,” Bogart said.
I hoped so, too. It was a good thing we hadn’t called ahead, or Charlie O. would have had a couple of his goons waiting for us. Not that it really mattered. I was sure they’d be inside, anyway. They always were.
98
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE MURDER
We didn’t get inside, however. Leo was still the doorman.
“Hello, Mr. Scott,” he said as soon as he saw me. He was a head taller than I was, and twice as wide. “Mr. Orsini ain’t here.”
“Sure he is, Leo. He’s always here.”
“Not for you, he ain’t. When you’re here, he’s not. That’s just the way it is.”
I’d known how it was, though I hadn’t tried to explain it to Bogart.
And if we somehow managed to talk our way past Leo, which wasn’t likely, we’d still have to get past Mike and Tank, not that there was any chance of that. You can guess how Tank got his nickname. He was even bigger than Leo. So was Mike, for that matter.
“What the hell is this guy talking about?” Bogart asked. “Do you know him?”
That distinctive voice caused Leo to notice Bogart for the first time.
Leo’s mouth twisted into what he probably thought was a smile.
“Jeez, Mr. Scott. I didn’t know you had company. It’s an honor to have you in the club, Mr. Bogart.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Leo. That’s your name, isn’t it? Leo?”
“That’s right, Mr. Bogart. Let me call Felipe over here, and he’ll show you to a table. Best one in the house, and the drinks are on Mr.
Orsini.”
I’d seen the power of stardom before, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I was. Leo attempting to be affable and gracious was something I never thought I’d witness.
“That’s very nice of you, Leo,” Bogart said.
He got his pack of Chesterfields out of his pocket, and I thought Leo would break his arm getting to his lighter. He flicked the little wheel and Bogart leaned forward to put the cigarette to the flame.
While he inhaled, Leo made the lighter disappear, and he started to wave for Felipe.
“Never mind that,” Bogart said. “We’d like to stay around a while, but we really came here to see Mr. Orsini.”
“Well, gee, Mr. Bogart.” Leo was flustered. Another first. “I’m sure he’d like to see you.” Leo looked at me as if I were something he’d found on his shoe after walking through a chicken yard. “But, well, he doesn’t want to see Mr. Scott.”
“Where I go, Scott goes. Why don’t you let Mr. Orsini decide?”
99
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE MURDER
Leo thought it over. You could almost see his lips moving as he considered the various possibilities.
“All right,” he said after a minute or so. “I’ll let you past. But you’ll have to convince Mike and Tank to let you through when you get upstairs. They ain’t as soft as I am.”
“Thank you, Leo,” Bogart said.
He put out his hand, and Leo shook it, plainly impressed. I hoped he didn’t ask for an autograph.
He didn’t, and we went into the foyer, past the hat-check counter and into the main room. There were tables with white cloths around a small dance floor. A four-piece band was playing “That Chick’s too Young to Fry.” I figured there were several chicks of that description scattered around the tables, most of them in the company of older gentlemen who should have known better.
Bogart pulled his hat low over his forehead so he wouldn’t be recognized, but he needn’t have worried. The people in Charlie O.’s weren’t interested in anything outside the circle of their own tables.
“Which way?” Bogart asked.
“Follow me,” I said, and skirted the tables, heading for a door at the back of the big room. It led to the stairway to the second floor.
When we got there, I opened the door and stepped through. Bogart was right behind me. We stood in a short, empty hallway with doors on either side and stairs at the end.
“I don’t see any tough guys here,” Bogart said.
“They’ll be on the second floor landing,” I said. “And they’ll be waiting for us.”
“Leo called them, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Just when I was getting to like him.”
“It’s his job. Besides, they’d be there anyway.”
We went up the stairs with me in the lead. I hadn’t closed the door below, and the faint sound of music followed us.
Mike and Tank were standing at the top of the stairs, both of them looking out of place in their dark suits and ties. They looked more like stevedores than nightclub bouncers.
“You shouldn
’t-a come, Scott” Mike said.
He was the smaller of the two, probably not an inch over six-three, 100
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE MURDER
and he had a high, adenoidal voice that would have finished his career in the talkies before it ever got started.
“Yeah,” Tank said, which even at that put a strain on his vocabulary.
But then talking wasn’t his specialty. He had big rough hands, and he could bend a ten-penny nail between his thumb and index finger, though bending nails wasn’t his specialty, either.
Bogart didn’t seem fazed by either of them. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and mashed it with his shoe.
“Have you asked Mr. Orsini if he wants to see us?” he asked.
“He don’t want to see you,” Mike said.
Tank didn’t say anything. He just nodded.
“I think he does,” Bogart said. I didn’t interrupt. If he wanted to do the talking, that was fine with me. “Why don’t you check with him.”
He looked pointedly at the phone on a wooden stand beside the door into Charlie O.’s office.
“You got a message for him?” Mike asked.
“That’s right,” Bogart said. His voice had roughened, and he sounded a lot more like the racketeer he’d played in The Roaring Twenties than usual. “I got a message for him. He’ll want to hear it personally.”
“The boys sent you here?”
“That’s right,” Bogart said. “The boys sent me.”
“Whaddya think, Tank?” Mike asked his partner.
Tank screwed up his face and concentrated hard. The strain on his thought processes was almost too much.
“Let ’em in,” he said finally.
“Sure,” Mike said. “You’re right, Tank. We’ll let ‘em in.”
This was a new one on me, though I’d heard about it before. There were apparently plenty of people, especially those of the criminal persuasion, who actually believed that Bogart was one of them, that he was a gangster. He was from New York, after all, and he was making big money for doing practically nothing. To some people, that spelled the mob. So Bogart had two things going for him: his star power and the fact that some people confused the fantasy of the screen with reality. And he was smart enough to take advantage of both of them.
Mike opened the door and held it wide. Bogart looked at me, I nodded, and we went through.
