Hollywood Hang Ten

by Eve Goldberg

  “So you’re saying Uncle Oscar was financially desperate.”

  “It’s entirely possible,” Niles replied. He turned to me “Now it’s my turn to be inquisitive. What precisely is the nature of this alleged ‘sketchy’ situation to which you alluded?”

  “Oh, he’s not going to tell you anything,” Julie said with a mischievous grin. “This is when Mr. Private Eye gives you the ‘I must protect my client’s privacy’ lecture.”

  “She’s right,” I said. “But I do have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “I certainly do mind,” Niles retorted. “I must inquire again: who are you working for and why are you interested in Oscar’s death?”

  Somehow I suspected it would come to this with Niles. Why hadn’t Lou ever told me how to keep things confidential when everybody wanted to know everything. Well, I’d just have to do my best.

  “I’m working for a man who’s being blackmailed because he’s a homosexual,” I said. “Oscar’s death may be related. It’s really important that I solve this case before the police get wind of things that might ruin my client. And that’s connected to finding out who killed Oscar. You see?”

  Niles thought about this. “Vaguely,” he replied.

  “I could use your help,” I said. “My client could use your help.”

  Niles blew another smoke ring. “Fair enough,” he said finally. “And in turn, you can help us.”

  “How?”

  “By finding out who killed Oscar. I have no faith whatsoever that the police will be of much use in solving his murder. To them, Oscar is just another worthless Hollywood fairy. You know, a police detective came to my home today asking the most wretched questions. He wanted names of friends, which I absolutely refused to reveal. That made him quite testy. His less than subtle insinuation was that I myself was a suspect. Ironic, isn’t it? In the eyes of the society, meaningful homosexual relationships do not exist. But a murder happens and suddenly the spouse, who moments ago did not exist, soars to the top of the suspect list just like any heterosexual better-half.”

  I had never thought about this before. Actually, I had never given much thought to homosexuals and their problems at all.

  “So,” Niles said, “do we have a deal?”

  “You got a deal,” I said.

  Niles pulled out his checkbook. “What are your fees?”

  Without really thinking about it, I shook my head. Niles and Julie both looked at me, puzzled. How could I tell them that I had talked with Panozzo about Marlon Brando and One-Eyed Jacks only days before his murder? How could I tell them that even without Niles’ money I was determined to find out who killed Panozzo . . . and why.

  “I . . . I’m already on it,” I said. “It’s all mixed up with this blackmail. I’m sure of it.”

  Niles grinned. “That might be true, but I’d feel better if you took this.”

  He wrote out a check and handed it to me. My eyes bugged out when I saw the amount. It was enough to pay Southland’s overhead bills for months.

  “Now,” Niles said, “we’ve got a deal.”

  I pocketed the check. And as I did, I felt the atmosphere in the room shift. Now the three of us were in this together. I turned to Niles.

  “Who was Oscar close to?” I asked. “Who did he confide in?”

  “At one time it was me, of course. After our break-up, however, I fear the answer is nobody. Oscar increasingly absented himself from our circle of friends.”

  “This circle of friends, is that your ‘club’?”

  “Yes.”

  I took out my spiral notebook and pen.

  “I’d like to talk with these friends. Can you give me their names?”

  “I could. But I won’t.”

  “It might help in —”

  “No,” Niles cut me off. “Privacy in our circles is paramount.”

  “Okay. I understand.”

  “Besides, as I just told you, I’m quite certain Oscar had little if any contact with any of them for months.”

  “Poor Oscar,” Julie said wistfully. “He must have been lonely.”

  We all sat with that thought in silence. I pictured the pink-faced movie buff, with his tufts of white hair and rosy cheeks, his bowtie and candy-striped vest who had no customers during the day, and went nowhere at night. Oscar Panozzo had been lonely.

  I turned towards the window and looked down into the hotel courtyard. The pool water was glowing aqua — illuminated by underwater lights. When I turned back to the room, Niles had lowered his head and his upper body was shaking.

  Julie moved to sit next to Niles on the twin bed. She put her arms around him and they embraced.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said softly.

  Niles shook harder as he silently cried. After a while, Julie went into the bathroom and came back with a box of Kleenex. Niles blew his nose and wiped his face dry.

  “It feels good to cry,” he said. He sighed deeply, then turned to me. “So, what else do you want to know?”

  “Did you know Chip Jordan?”

  I expected this question to surprise Niles, but he didn’t miss a beat.

  “Ah, Chip,” he said. “Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of the fearless flight. For the greatest tragedy of them all, Is never to feel the burning light.”

  Julie and I both looked at him quizzically.

  “Oscar Wilde,” Niles said. As if that explained everything.

  “The writer?” Julie ventured.

  “Indeed. And to translate: Chip Jordan enjoyed fame, fortune, and a few years of fabulous partying. He paid the price with a premature exit from this earth, but what the hell, it was a good run.”

  “Did you know Chip Jordan personally?” I asked.

  “We had our brief moment. Long before dear Oscar and I were together, of course. All very discreet.”

  “Chip Jordan was a homosexual?!” Julie’s mouth dropped open. “I used to have such a crush on him.”

  “You and half the population,” Niles quipped. “Male and female.”

  “Did Panoz . . . uh, Oscar, know him too?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. Oscar’s relationship to the cinema was purely a love affair with the celluloid dimension.”

  “But I thought Chip Jordan killed himself over a woman,” Julie said. “At least that’s what the magazines said.”

  “Chip with a woman!” Niles snorted. “That would be hilarious were it not all so tragic.”

  “So you’re saying he killed himself over a man?” I said.

  “I’m suggesting no such thing. In fact, I believe Chip’s demise had nothing at all to do with love.”

  Niles paused and looked directly at me. “Why is it that we are discussing Chip Jordan, may I inquire?”

  “His name’s come up during my investigation.”

  “But what is his connection to our beloved Oscar?”

  “Maybe none, but I’ve got to follow up on everything, and you seem to know a lot about . . . about a lot of things.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “So, about your relationship with Chip Jordan . . .?” I could see this was one subject Niles was more than happy to discuss.

  “Brief but delightful. Chip struck me as an intelligent, introspective sort. He had studied at the Group Theatre so he knew all the brightest, most talented, most progressive people. He actually read books! So you can imagine my surprise when I learned that he had testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee. Frankly, I was flabbergasted. He actually named names! His testimony may have caused people, his friends possibly, to lose their jobs, lose their livelihoods. I know I could never live with myself under such circumstances. In hindsight, I do think Chip seemed troubled. There was a darkness about him. Then, shortly after his HUAC debacle . . . ”

  Niles made a fist, placed it at his neck, and made a twisting motion.

  “. . . Chip Jordan bids the world adieu.”

  Julie looked perplexed. “What are you saying, Niles?
”

  “I’m suggesting that it wasn’t a man who broke Chip Jordan’s heart. It certainly wasn’t a woman. I believe that Chip Jordan broke his own heart — by betraying his principles.”

  The three of us fell silent again. I gazed down into the courtyard again. A woman in a bikini was walking to the end of the diving board. She dove in. When she emerged, she shook the water from her long, soaking wet hair. That’s when I noticed that the pool was shaped oddly. Focus, Ryan. Chip Jordan . . . Steve Sutton . . . Oscar Panozzo . . . HUAC . . . How does it all fit together? Ever since ingesting the LSD at Doc Flynn’s ranch, my mind hadn’t seemed exactly the same. Sometimes things got fuzzy, or extraordinarily clear. I watched the woman in the bikini swim to the edge of the pool. The glow of the pool water was like the glow around Doc Flynn sitting on the cabin floor. The ripples in the water were like the slow motion rippling of the air when we walked through the oak forest. I am on a mission to save somebody . . . Was that somebody Joey Flynn, neglected boy of an alcoholic mother? Was it Oscar Panozzo, a dead man who deserved better, with a killer still on the loose? Or was it all one and the same?

  Suddenly, I recognized the contours of the swimming pool: It was a replica of the state of California. The diving board was anchored in cement at the Mexican border. The shallow end was at the Oregon border. A metal ladder dipped into the water around Santa Barbara. The woman in the bikini climbed out of the water on the ladder. She slipped on a pair of flip flops which lay by the edge of the pool. Now, if only I could get a handle on the shape of my case as clearly as I saw the California swimming pool.

  I turned to Niles. “I’d like to take a look at Oscar’s apartment.”

  “Ask Julie. I’m just the ex.”

  “But Niles,” Julie said, “I don’t have a key. I thought you did.”

  “I’ll have to check. I may. That is if Oscar didn’t change the locks.”

  “Did he have a safety deposit box?” I asked.

  Niles nodded. “First National Bank. Corner of Hollywood and Highland. I believe only Oscar and Julie have access.”

  “Me?”

  “He was very fond of you, my dear.”

  “What about a will?” I asked.

  “Oscar and I both created wills at one time. We left everything to each other. I assume he changed his once we parted ways.”

  “I’d like to get a look at his safety deposit box.”

  “Why?”

  “Who would you rather have nosing around Oscar’s life, me or the police?”

  “Point taken,” Niles said.

  After we made plans to all meet the next morning, Niles and I took the elevator down to the lobby. The desk clerk gave me a weird look. For a moment, it gave me the creeps to think the clerk might believe I was a queer because I was walking with Niles. Oh, well. Fuck it.

  The night air was still warm when we hit the parking lot. Niles got into a flashy red MGB convertible. Wire wheels. Chrome bumpers. Wood-trimmed steering wheel. Leather-grained vinyl fold-down top.

  “Awesome ride,” I said. “That the V-8 or the 3-bearing 6?”

  “Excuse me?” Niles looked puzzled. Then he broke into a smile. “Oh, the car. I haven’t the faintest knowledge of the inner workings of this machine. I know only that it gets me where I need to go.”

  He winked at me. “In style.”

  That’s creepy, I thought automatically. I don’t want a homo winking at me. But I reminded myself: Niles is okay. He’s a queer, but he didn’t mean anything by it.

  As I walked across the dark parking lot towards my car, I heard the MG’s motor start up. I was thinking about Julie and how seeing her again tomorrow morning couldn’t come soon enough, when I heard a voice, a low growl, at the far end of the lot behind me.

  “Get outta the car, faggot.”

  I stopped and turned. I looked back towards Niles and his MG, but between the darkness and the parked cars filling the lot, I couldn’t see either one.

  “Get outta the motherfuckin’ car right now, faggot.” the voice growled again.

  The MG’s engine cut off and I started to run.

  CHAPTER 26

  I ran as fast as I could, weaving in and out between the parked cars.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “What’s going on!”

  If someone was messing with Niles, I wanted them to know they’d soon have me to deal with.

  As I ran, I heard a crashing sound. Then a yell. I finally reached the MG. Niles lay on the ground beside his car.

  Detective Mackie stood over him, his foot on Niles’ neck.

  I stopped short, panting. Anyone else and I would have decked them, but even an idiot knows not to touch a cop.

  Mackie turned to me. “Vamoose, Junior. This is police business.”

  I didn’t move. Mackie glared at me. I stared back at him, not giving an inch. I was trying to send a message. Bullies don’t like to be called out as bullies. They don’t like to be caught in the act by someone who knows the score. I kept staring.

  Finally, Mackie took his foot off Niles’ neck. Then he kicked Niles in the ribs . . . not real hard, but it wasn’t a nudge either.

  “Get up and give me a straight answer, faggot,” Mackie said. “I want the names of every one of your faggot so-called friends!” He turned to me. “And you stay out of this, surfer boy.”

  Niles slowly got up. There was a cut over one eye and his lip was bleeding. His face was scraped up from the rough pavement. He gathered himself. He smoothed his camel hair jacket, buttoned the middle button, ran his hands through his hair to neaten it up. He adjusted his expression.

  “I’d be happy to discuss any subject you suggest,” Niles said, “in a civilized manner. With my lawyer present.”

  Mackie lunged at Niles and grabbed his shirt collar. I knew the move. He had pulled it on me at the station.

  “Don’t fucking lawyer me,” he snarled and drew back his fist.

  “Hey. Mackie.” I said it calmly. “Come on, man. Leave it alone.”

  The detective hesitated. I guess it was just enough pause to break up the track he was on. He lowered his fist and let go of Niles’ collar. He squinted at me.

  “Fuck you both,” he grunted. Then he turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER 27

  I made sure Niles was okay to drive, then we went our separate ways. I couldn’t get the picture out of my head: Detective Mackie standing over Niles with his foot on his neck. It made me mad, and it also made me ashamed, because it made me remember. It had happened when I was in high school. I had never told anybody about that day. Not Lou. Not even Allison. I hadn’t thought about it for years, I didn’t want to think about it, not then, not now, not at all. Let the past be the past, isn’t that what Steve Sutton said? You can’t change the past, so why dwell on it. Besides, I had other things to think about, a case to solve. Fuck it. I was tired and mad and wasn’t going to think about it now.

  But I had one more thing to do before hitting the sack. I swung by the VA hospital to drop off the transistor radio I had promised Lou. Tomorrow was the big Koufax-Gibson dual which he had his heart set on listening to.

  The nurse let me into his room if I promised not to wake him.

  Lou was sleeping, the oxygen tube pushed up into his nose. I put the radio and a new Mickey Spillane paperback on the table beside his bed. Then I sat on the folding chair and watched him sleep. I listened to his breathing. It was even and slow and only a little bit raspy.

  It would be great to talk with Lou about the case right now. There were so many strands whirling around in my mind. It would make him happy to talk, even if he couldn’t be out on the street himself.

  Not going to happen. At least not tonight. I stared at the monitor with its pulsing green line. You’re gonna make it, Lou, I said silently. It’s not your time yet. I wanted to believe it.

  By the time I got back to Venice it was 1:00 AM. My apartment was stuffy so I opened the glass slider and let in the ocean air. I put Coltrane’s Giant Steps on the hi-f
i, lay down on the couch, and closed my eyes. Music usually does it for me. The sounds pour in until the only thing that exists is the music. That’s when I can let everything else disappear and just BE.

  Not tonight, though. Tonight, scenes flickered across my mind: Doc Flynn walking in his muddy work boots through the oak forest . . . Joey running to his mother in front of their house . . . Oscar Panozzo’s white buckskin shoe . . . Detective Mackie with his foot on Niles’ neck . . .

  I needed to make sense of it all, and I needed to do it without Lou. Why would Oscar Panozzo blackmail one of his own kind? Niles said they stuck together, were protective of each other. Could desperation for money turn a switch, make a person do what they ordinarily never would?

  I heard footsteps coming up the rickety back stairs. I looked at the clock. 1:45 AM. Then a knock at the door.

  “Ryan, it’s Tom.”

  I got up and opened the door, turning down the hi-fi on the way over. My downstairs neighbor stood in the doorway, a black leather jacket hanging loosely on his lean body.

  “Hey, man,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Saw your light on. Hope it’s not too late.”

  “No, it’s cool. Come on in. You want something to drink?”

  “No, thanks. We just got back from Shelley’s. You missed a doozy, man. Everybody, I mean everybody, was there. Sinatra, Diz, Sammy D. The place was so packed I didn’t think we’d get in. Where were you, man?”

  “Damn, I completely forgot.”

  “Well, get this: Miles comes on stage, the place goes silent, I mean si-lent. He looks at the crowd, then turns his back, just stands there with his back to us. Finally he lifts his horn, still got his back to the room, and plays one long note. Then he walks off stage.”

  “Then what?”

  “That’s it, man.”

  “That’s some crazy shit.”

  “What are you gonna do. It’s Miles.”

  “Wish I’d been there.”

  Tom snapped his fingers and grinned. “Hold on a sec, I’ll be right back.”

  He jumped up and left my apartment. I heard the rickety steps creak as he went downstairs, then creak again a minute later as he came back up.