by Ron Goulart
Our two escorts had settled into the front seat, with the larger at the wheel. The big car came quietly to life and moved away from the curb.
“And what’s your name, my child?”
“Bubbles.”
“I’ll refrain from commenting on that in any way.” He gazed, thoughtfully, out at the streets of Hollywood that we were speeding through. We passed a large, high billboard advertising Beau Geste, Paramount’s new Foreign Legion epic. Groucho frowned in its direction, then scrawled something and returned the autograph album to the pretty blonde.
Nearsighted apparently, Bubbles brought the page up close to her eye-shadowed eyes. “‘Best wishes, Groucho Marx,’” she read aloud, sounding a bit disappointed. “Gee, that’s not especially witty.”
“Alas, kiddo,” he said, “I’m never at my wittiest when I’m in the process of being dragooned and kidnapped.”
“Hey,” said the smaller hoodlum, glowering back at us. “Don’t talk like that, Mr. Marx. This is just a friendly little drive.”
Groucho sighed. “Oh, forgive me for being such a silly goose,” he said. “But even a friendly kidnapping gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
We were driven to a hoping-to-be fashionable new Italian restaurant just off La Cienega. Its name, emblazoned in white script on the blue awning out front, was Fior d’Italia. The long dark car parked in the small, nearly empty lot behind the place.
Bubbles remained in the backseat. “I hope I meet you again when you’re in a better mood, Mr. Marx,” she called as we were led toward the restaurant.
“If I’d been in a better mood,” he called back, “I’d probably have assaulted you. So count your blessings. You might, in fact, also count the silverware, since I suspect—”
“It’s not a very good idea,” suggested the larger gangster, “to flirt with the boss’s current fiancée.”
“Well, send around a few of his former fiancées then and I’ll charm them.”
Another large man in a dark suit opened the restaurant’s rear door from the inside, glared out, and eyed our group. “Okay,” he said, giving a come-in nod of his head.
We were ushered along a narrow hallway and into a large, brand-new kitchen.
Vince Salermo himself, decked out in a striped apron and a fluffy chef’s hat, was squatting near one of the ovens, studying a baking dish that held lasagna. Salermo was a small, compact man in his early fifties, deeply tanned and a shade taller than five foot four. He stood up and smiled at us.
Lounging around the kitchen were three other large young men in suits, all of whom gave the impression that they were armed.
“Good to see you, Groucho, Frank,” said Salermo as he carefully shut the oven.
“Does the health department know your kitchen is infested with goniffs?” inquired Groucho.
The small gangster scowled, removing his high white hat. “Hey, I don’t mind a little good-natured kidding, Groucho, but—”
“I assure you, Vincent, that I’m always extremely good-natured with anybody wearing anything that remotely resembles a concealed weapon,” Groucho told him, parking on a stool next to a chopping block.
The kitchen smelled strongly of herbs like rosemary and oregano, with an overlay of aftershave lotion and hair tonic.
Salermo, who was the head of Mob gambling in southern California, nodded at one of his men. “Untie this damn thing,” he said, indicating his apron.
“I was just mentioning to Frank today,” said Groucho while a young hoodlum helped Salermo free of the apron, “how much we like conundrums and puzzles and riddles. But, Vincent, rather than letting us figure it out ourselves, suppose you tell us why the hell you grabbed us off a peaceful Beverly Hills street and dragged us into this culinary sinkhole?”
Salermo gestured to another of his men and was handed a copy of the Los Angeles Times. “This is why,” he said, angry, pointing at the front-page story about the shooting of Nick Sanantonio.
“One of your boys, wasn’t he?” asked Groucho, plucking a sliver of bell pepper off the chopping counter.
“Yeah, Nick was one of my most prized lieutenants, you might say.” He slapped, backhanded, at the newspaper columns. “This rag says he was gunned down this morning when he left his Brentwood mansion to take a short walk. Why that bastard wanted to walk when he’s got three cars, I don’t know.”
“As I understand it, there were a couple of witnesses,” said Groucho. “They say a black car came roaring by and somebody felled your boy with a shotgun blast. Sounds pretty much like a typical—”
“We’ll come to that, Groucho,” cut in the gangster. “The thing is, you and Denby here have been doing pretty good catching killers.”
“We’re semiretired,” Groucho assured him. “Fact is, I’m thinking of opening up a snake farm near Palm Springs and Frank—”
“Let me finish, huh?” Salermo moved closer to Groucho. “The papers and the assholes on the radio are saying this was a gang killing. But it wasn’t at all.”
“Black car, shotgun,” reminded Groucho. “Those are all the standard props for a traditional—”
“Listen, Groucho, I didn’t have Nick rubbed out and, trust me, neither did any of our rivals.”
Groucho took out a fresh cigar and slowly unwrapped it. “Meaning what?”
“Nick Sanantonio was killed for some other reason altogether.”
“Any ideas what that reason was?”
“No. Which is where you two guys come in,” answered Salermo. “See, I know damned well this was some kind of private murder and whoever did it worked real hard to make it look like a gang killing.”
“Tell the police about it, Vincent, and—”
“I’m not in a position at the moment to discuss my theory with the cops,” cut in the gangster. “However, Groucho, I’m willing to pay you and Denby a fee of, say, five thousand bucks to work on the case. With a bonus if you find out who killed the poor guy and why.”
Biting down on his cigar, Groucho gave a shake of his head. “The way you state your case, Vincent, it sounds as though solving this mystery is almost our civic duty,” he said. “But, alas, my partner and I are, for separate reasons, shortly going to be departing for far-distant New York City. In which mecca we’ll be staying for an untold period of time. Therefore, much as we’d adore it, we can’t possibly work on this particular—”
“Postpone your trip,” Salermo told him.
“These are business deals,” I said. “In my case, my wife and I have to be in Manhattan to—”
“How about you, Groucho?”
“I’ve signed a contract to tread the boards and warble,” he answered. “Such a legal document is inviolate. Besides coming in violet, it can also be ordered in several other fashionable shades for your fall wardrobe.”
“He’s razzing you, boss,” complained one of the attendant hoods.
“Aw, that’s just his way,” said Salermo, though not looking especially pleased. He took two slow breaths, in and out. “I’ve got to tell you, Groucho, that I’m pretty damned disappointed.”
“You might try Philip Marlowe, Dan Turner, or some other Hollywood shamus,” suggested Groucho helpfully. “Admittedly, they don’t have our track record, our sterling reputation, or a strawberry birthmark right here, and yet—”
“Tell you what,” cut in the gangster. “If this mess hasn’t been cleared up by the time you guys get back, I’ll maybe send some of my boys to fetch you again.”
“I’ve been thinking of settling down permanently on a farm in Bucks County, Pennsylvania,” Groucho said. “Or possibly in nearby Ducks County, which is very like Bucks County except it has feathers. However, if I ever do return to Hollywood and vicinity, do give me a buzz. Or you might give me a big box of saltwater taffy, which—”
“Rudy, you and Archie run our guests back to where you found them,” Salermo ordered the guy who’d driven us over.
“Nice seeing you and yours once again.” Groucho was about to light his cigar, wh
en he paused and sniffed at the kitchen air. “I think your lasagna’s burning.”
When we were back in front of Moonbaum’s deli, Groucho took a polka-dot handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped his brow. “To paraphrase Napoleon after the Battle of Waterloo,” he observed, “oy gevalt.”
Three
I got home to our beach cottage in the town of Bayside just ahead of twilight. The day was starting to fade and the nearby Pacific Ocean was already turning paler. A gaggle of seagulls was circling overhead, squawking forlornly to each other.
Jane was in the living room, surrounded by what I judged to be too many suitcases to take to New York with us. She was having a serious conversation with our dog.
Dorgan, a bloodhound and a retired movie dog, had been Groucho’s present to us the past Christmas.
“We’ll only be away for about ten days, Dorgan,” she was explaining, kneeling beside him and rubbing his stomach. “Elena Sederholm is an old art school chum of mine and she and her husband really like dogs.”
Dorgan tilted his head in my direction and let his tongue loll out by way of greeting.
“You’ve probably heard me talk about how absolutely dull the Sederholms are,” Jane continued to the dog. “But that’s only from a human perspective, keep in mind. They’re not likely to ask you to play whist and, when it comes down to it, almost anybody can rub your tummy and—”
“Not with your deft touch,” I put in.
“Hey, don’t go saying that in front of him.” Jane stood up, smoothing down her skirt. “Welcome home, by the way. How come you look so frazzled?”
After persuading Dorgan not to keep jumping at my groin, I kissed my wife. “Well, it’s mostly because Groucho and I had sort of an impromptu business meeting with Vince Salermo.”
“Salermo? Wasn’t he the one who bopped you on the sconce and had you shanghaied to his gambling ship while you and Groucho were working on Peg McMorrow’s murder?”
“That’s the Vince Salermo I’m alluding to, yeah.”
She gave an unhappy shake of her head. “My God, they might’ve shot you. Those fellas are always going around mowing each other down,” she said, upset. “Just today they bumped off Nick Sanantonio.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said, putting my hands on her slim shoulders. “Fact is, hon, that’s why Salermo had us transported from out in front of Moonbaum’s to his—”
“Those goons took you and Groucho for a ride?”
“In a way, sort of,” I replied and recounted to her what had taken place in the kitchen at the Fior d’Italia.
At the conclusion of my explanation, Jane took a step back. “Well, okay, but what about the movie actress?”
“Eh?” I inquired, cupping my hand to my ear. “I don’t recall including a movie actress in my scenario. What are you talking about, Jane?”
“I was listening to Johnny Whistler’s Hollywood gossip broadcast while I was at the drawing board this afternoon,” she said. “By the way, he says he’s heard Groucho’s new movie isn’t up to snuff.”
“The actress?”
“Whistler asked one of those questions of his.” She paused to recall the exact wording. “‘What major movie studio is working night and day to hush up the rumors that one of its big cinemactresses had a recent hot-time affair with the notorious Nick Sanantonio, the handsome gangland figure who was gunned down like a dog in fashionable Brentwood early today?’ Or words to that effect.”
“Listening to Johnny Whistler too much is going to stunt your vocabulary.”
“Okay, but who’s the actress? What did Salermo tell you guys?”
I shook my head. “He didn’t mention any movie stars at all, or even a starlet or a dress extra.”
“Sanantonio was supposed to be quite a ladies’ man.”
“Even so, the subject didn’t come up while we were chatting with his boss.”
“I wonder who it is.”
Dorgan made a bored noise, waddled toward our sofa, hoisted himself up onto it. He sprawled, shutting his eyes.
“Hey, you’re not,” I mentioned to him, “supposed to sit up there.”
“It’s okay,” said Jane, putting her hand on my arm. “I gave him permission, because he’s been so droopy about my packing to go on this trip.”
“Speaking of trips,” I said, settling into an armchair, “it turns out that Groucho’s going to New York, too.”
She made a surprised inhaling noise. “Not with us?”
I pointed at the ceiling. “Flying.”
Eyeing me, she asked, “And you’re certain you two aren’t planning to go into the detective business in Manhattan?”
“Nope, we have no such plans, ma’am,” I assured my wife. “He’s going back there to do some solo work, without his brothers. On Broadway and probably also at the New York World’s Fair.”
“He’s not going to take over for Johnny Weismuller in Billy Rose’s Aquacade?”
“Actually, he’s going to be starring in a streamlined version of The Mikado.”
She was crouching by the suitcases. “Do you think we can fit seven pieces of baggage in our compartment on the Super Chief?”
“All of that’s your luggage, and I counted eight pieces.”
“Eventually I’ll narrow mine down to five.”
“Leaving me two?”
She stood up. “The Mikado, huh?”
“Groucho’s pretty good at singing that stuff.”
“He’s somewhat better than Gene Autry would be,” Jane conceded. “And about equal to Wee Bonnie Baker.”
“He sang at our wedding,” I reminded.
“But not selections from Gilbert and Sullivan.”
I stretched up out of my chair. “Want to go out to dinner?”
“Not tonight. I still have to finish up that promotion drawing to take back east with us,” she answered, rising to her feet and heading toward her studio. “Can you give me a quick opinion of something?”
“Sure, and at no extra cost.” Dorgan and I followed her.
Tacked side by side on the drawing board were two pencilled drawings of the main characters in Hollywood Molly. “Which one do you think works best?” she asked me.
In the left hand one, her comic strip characters were gathered around a Beverly Hills—style swimming pool. The other drawing showed them on a sound stage, where some sort of nightclub sequence was being shot.
“Swimming pool has more sex appeal,” I said. “But the other one gives more of a feel of Hollywood and the movies.”
“Do you think B. P. Obelisk looks too pudgy in that pair of swimming trunks?”
B. P. Obelisk was the head of the movie studio Molly worked for, Pyramid Pictures. Among the others gathered around him and Molly at the poolside were her director, Leroy Panorama, Jr., her cowboy actor boyfriend, Sam Wyoming, her actress pal, Vicky Fairweather, and her cat, Boswell.
Jane said, “I’m wondering if the advertising people and the radio executives won’t be more impressed with the bathing suit approach.”
“No doubt they will,” I agreed, “but you’ve had flap from your newspaper syndicate before when Molly looked, and I quote, ‘too provocative.’”
“You think that two-piece bathing suit is too provocative?”
“Not me, my love, but then I don’t work for the Empire Feature Syndicate of Manhattan.”
“You’re probably right. Best to play it safe.”
“Or you might do them both.”
“It’ll take too much time to ink both, so I’ll settle for the studio shot.” She pointed at the black-and-white cat. “I’ve been redesigning Boswell. Does he look like anybody you know?”
“He appears to be sporting the feline equivalent of a Groucho moustache.”
“Yep. I was tempted to add a cigar, too, but decided that would probably be too provocative.”
“Oh, and speaking of Groucho—he invited us to dine with him while we’re in New York,” I said. “As long as—”
“�
��we go Dutch on the check.”
“As long as we go Dutch on the check,” I confirmed.
Four
The El Perro Undo restaurant was on Olvera Street in Los Angeles, a short walk from the recently inaugurated Union Station over on Alameda Boulevard. Early Friday night, after checking our luggage, Jane and I dropped in there for dinner. The Santa Fe Super Chief was due to depart for points east at eight o’clock.
“Six isn’t bad,” Jane was saying across our table.
“Better than nine.”
She had been able, after considerable note taking, soul-searching, unpacking, and repacking, to narrow her number of suitcases to four. “I think it’s admirable,” she said, picking up her menu, “the sacrifices I made in my wardrobe. I was planning to stun the syndicate executives and all the radio people with the infinite variety of my clothes. But now …” She shrugged.
“You’re innately stunning,” I assured her. “You don’t need all those extra dresses and—”
“Just because you only have two suits to your name is no reason to—”
“I epitomize the casual California approach. It’s sports coats, polo shirts, and slacks that the fashionable male wears in these parts.”
She studied the menu for a moment. “I think I’ll try the chiles rellenos,” she decided. “Maybe you’ll be lucky and lose that pumpkin-colored sports coat of yours on the trip.”
“That particular coat has been favorably commented on by several arbiters of fashion.”
“It looks like something Groucho would wear.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, Groucho was one of the fashion arbiters who said nice things about it.”
The Mexican restaurant was of medium size, with about a dozen white-clothed tables around the main dining room. The low-volume jukebox specialized in tunes by Tito Guizar. There was a cocktail bar near the entrance and through the high, wide front window you could see the brick-paved courtyard, part of a decorative fountain, and a collection of potted cactus. Dusk was just beginning to settle in and lights were coming on outside.
About half the surrounding tables were occupied so far.
