1 The Hollywood Detective

by Martha Steinway

  “What’s the problem?” I asked, my hands still high above my head.

  “You are.”

  “I just want to ask a few questions.”

  “This ain’t the place or the time.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  “Trust me, son, you don’t want to stick around,” the old guy said.

  One of the men behind him, younger and taller, but dressed just as ragged, walked toward me. “It ain’t even safe for us to be here.”

  Safe? What kind of talk was that?

  “Well can I at least speak to Mr. Powell?”

  “Not today—nobody’s speaking to Mr. Powell today,” the older guy said.

  “You got questions, you need to speak to Mr. Strickling.” The younger man hadn’t dropped his guard. With three muzzles still aimed straight at me, I was finding it hard to concentrate on what they were telling me.

  “Denny here will escort you back to your car. And then you’re going to leave, you got that?”

  I nodded. “Okay—but I don’t need an escort.”

  “Oh yes you do.”

  Denny—as stocky as he was silent—came over to me. He pointed with his rifle in the direction I should take. He stayed two steps behind me all the way back to the Plymouth. When we got there, four of five trucks were still parked on the driveway, but all the expensive cars had gone.

  I went to open the car door, realizing too late the handle was in my pocket. Feeling like a dupe, I walked round to the passenger side—Denny breathing down my neck with every step—and climbed in. As I wriggled over into the driver’s seat, I noticed that none of the flunkies loading trucks seemed alarmed at the sight of Denny’s rifle. Maybe it was usual for security at the Powell mansion. I started up the engine and swung the car around. I kept one eye on the rear-view mirror: Denny never dropped his gun the whole time I could still see him.

  It was getting dark. I pulled out of the drive and thought about heading for the ocean, but I knew that when a girl goes missing, you don’t have long before the trail goes cold. I turned back toward the city: I had to get home and change. My day was only just getting started.

  Two things played on my mind as I drove back to my place on Whitley Avenue. First: what kind of modern security operation favors old time rifles over handguns? And second: the mention of Strickling. Whenever I heard mention of him a noisy alarm sounded in my head. You can bet everything you own that when Howard Strickling is on the scene, trouble can’t be far behind.

  3

  I shaved, washed, and put on the best suit I had. I parked the car a few blocks from the Cocoanut Grove: it wouldn’t do for the valet to realize I was a long way from the high roller I was pretending to be. In a joint like the Grove, information is currency: what the valet learns he passes to the doorman, who tells the barman, who informs the majordomo, who finds the best table and the appropriate showgirls (or gigolos) to shake and tease the dollars out of the guys with the money. A fella with a busted car might be told the club was already full, even at nine in the evening.

  Despite the fact that everyone in the place was trying to be somebody they weren’t, I’d always had a soft spot for the Grove. When I’d first come to L.A. in the early ’30s, one of my buddies from the beach had taken me there to see a singer he was crazy about. It turned out to be one of the best nights of my life: when the show was over, the singer—a helluva chick named Lena Horne—came to join us and the management kept sending over the drinks. I felt like the King of Swing himself that night. I can still picture the singer’s face, still hear her beautiful voice. It’s something I’ll never forget for as long as I live.

  Tonight there was a new guy on the door, but I must have looked the part—he let me straight through the double doors and into the golden dance hall. A jazz band on the stage were playing for themselves, and waitresses glided between the tables, stirring up puffs of cigar smoke and reflecting the light from the chandeliers through the glasses on their heavy trays. It seemed for every glass they removed from the tables, two more were delivered. Folks were here with one thing on their minds: they were intent on having a good time.

  “What’ll it be, buddy?”

  I took a seat at the end of the bar and ordered a scotch. I handed over Mary Treen’s hundred dollar bill in the certain knowledge that the bartender would let whoever needed to know that a big spender was in residence. I pocketed the change and sat tight.

  I scanned the room for Benny Bowers, the wash-up who’d escorted Clara Lockhart to the Powell party. Mary had given me a good description of the guy, but I knew his type from old: boot polish on the temples to make him look younger, too-tight pants in the belief they made him look thinner, an undiscerning laugh and a remarkable ability to take a powder when it was time to settle the bill. There were a lot of guys like Benny Bowers in Hollywood, putting on an impressive front but sleeping in their cars.

  “Would you like a smoke?”

  A young waitress had been sent over to see if there was anything I needed. She held open a pack of Lucky Strikes.

  “No, thanks.”

  She tucked them back into her waistband. She was tall, skinny—almost bony, had red hair curling down to her shoulders and a genuine smile. I guessed that meant she’d only just arrived in town: usually after a couple months of waitressing, the wide-eyed dreamers start to wear a cynical sneer.

  “Another drink?”

  I hadn’t touched the scotch.

  “Just here for the music, eh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What is it? You’d rather be talking to a blonde? Brunette? Tell me now, then neither of us gets our time wasted.”

  “It ain’t your hair.”

  “Then shove over will ya. Mr Steinberg told me to take care of you, so do me a favor and let him see us sitting together.”

  I moved over to the next bar stool and she sat down.

  “Here, hold this for me.” The waitress handed me one of her shoes. “They pinch worse than lobsters and I need a break.”

  “Guess you must be new here.” The shoe in my hand looked like it hadn’t walked more than a hundred yards.

  “Two months on Friday.” She rubbed her stockinged foot.

  So I’d been wrong about her being new. “I’d have thought you’d have broken in your footwear by now.”

  “Would you? Maybe you think too much.”

  “Okay then, so maybe you just got a pay check and treated yourself to a new pair.”

  “Or maybe my roommate—who happens to be a foot shorter than me with a shoe size to match her height—shoved some tissues in the toe and borrowed my own shoes—”

  “Leaving you to step into hers.” I handed the shoe back and she passed me the other one.

  “Quite the detective, ain’t you?”

  I smiled, reached inside my jacket and felt for a calling card. As I pulled it out, my hand brushed against my Colt pistol. The cold metal reminded me it was due a service—I should strip it down and clean it when I next got the chance.

  “Spencer McCoy, Private Investigator. That sure sounds like a lot of fun.” She slipped the card into the pocket of her apron.

  “Mostly it’s just sitting in cars and waiting for nothing to happen.”

  She took the other shoe from me. “Really? Somehow I don’t believe you. I’ve read the Black Mask. I’ve seen the Thin Man. Reckon you’ve got one of the best jobs in the world, mister. Especially if you’re paying for everything with those Benjamin Franklins.”

  I pulled out a dollar bill. “This is just a George Washington, but there might be a few more where he came from if you can help me out.”

  She glanced at the bill, looked up at me and maintained her suspicious gaze while she pried it from my fingers. “Suppose you better buy me a drink.”

  I told her I was looking for Bowers and she knew right away who I meant. He was a regular. Most nights. Always came and left early.

  “Where does he go afterward?”

  “Wherever h
e’s told.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on. You look like a smart guy.”

  I stared at her. She seemed absolutely serious. “Are you telling me he’s a hustler?”

  She nodded.

  “Guys or girls?”

  “Seen him leave with both.”

  The bartender set down the martini she had ordered. I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be any alcohol in it: the management wouldn’t want their girls to get drunk, just as they wouldn’t want their customers to only pay for sodas.

  “You want to swap?” I asked. “I haven’t touched it.”

  She smiled at me. “Sure.” She downed my scotch in one.

  “Did you see him last night?”

  “Am I allowed to ask why you want to know?”

  I sipped on her fake martini—it was lemon water—and tried to work out if I could trust the redhead.

  “It might have something to do with the girl he was with,” I said, making sure not to give too much away.

  “The blonde? She was sweet.”

  “You remember her?”

  “Sure, she was so excited. He wanted to stay here a while longer but she was eager to get to some party up in the Hills. An MGM party I think.”

  “So she seemed okay to you?”

  “A little mulled maybe.”

  “She was drunk?”

  “No more than merry.”

  “But she seemed okay?”

  “She was having a good time. Why are you asking?”

  “I think I better speak to Mr Bowers before I answer that. Know where I can find him?”

  She hopped off the stool. “Let me ask around.”

  “Say, Red—if you see anyone else who went to the party last night, I’m happy to pay for a nod in their direction.”

  She weaved her way out through the tables. It was like watching a dancer. She seemed to strut and glide in time with the music, lobster heels or not. Within five minutes she came back with an address scribbled on a napkin.

  “You know the funny thing is,” she said, “now I’ve looked round, there’s not a single person in tonight who left for that MGM party yesterday. Not one of them. Guess they must have sore heads, or something.”

  I could only hope a hangover was all Clara Lockhart was suffering from.

  4

  The Garden of Allah was a notorious joint up on Sunset Boulevard. But now I knew how Benny Bowers paid some of his bills, it wasn’t surprising Red thought I’d find him there. It had been owned by some actress in the ’20s with a reputation for sin, and ever since it has attracted residents with exotic tastes. I’d been there once before and remembered it looking like an upmarket trailer park: a smallish plot with ten to fifteen rental bungalows secluded from each other by generous shrubbery. There was a clearing in the middle if you happened to be an exhibitionist. People usually rented them a week at a time when they were in town to make a picture. Red’s contact had told her Bowers was attending a party there: I had a fairly good idea what kind of party it would be.

  I had barely made it through the door before an elegant, manicured hand clasped my arm and a woman of about fifty started purring in my ear.

  “Did Artie send you?” She had an accent. European.

  I figured answering “no” would get me precisely nowhere, so I nodded and said: “Sure.”

  “He always seems to know what I like. Come with me.”

  She led me further into the house. She was wearing a sheer gown that didn’t leave much to the imagination—and the dame had a good figure for her age. She opened the door into the main room and instantly the music from the gramophone got louder. Ahead of me was quite a sight: at one end of a leather couch was an older guy with his shirt undone and his pants round his ankles, a girl on her knees in front of him. At the other end of the couch, like a matching bookend was a half-naked girl, and a guy kneeling between her legs.

  “Do you want a drink, or shall we go straight to my room?” the foreign lady asked. I decided her accent was Swedish, because she reminded me of Ingrid Bergman.

  “I think I’d like that drink, if it’s all the same.”

  She squeezed my arm a little harder. Her face told me she liked what she felt. “I have some wonderful rum my husband brought back from the Caribbean.”

  I looked again at the man on the couch. Was that her husband? “Rum sounds good.” I’ve never been a big drinker but I had the feeling I would be grateful for a shot.

  “Are you going to at least take your jacket off, darling?”

  I obliged as she reached for the liquor inside a dark wood cabinet.

  “Cola?”

  “No, I’ll take it straight, thanks.” It was hard to concentrate with the slurping and moaning coming from the couch. I had to remind myself I was there to work.

  The woman handed me my rum.

  “You worked for Artie long?”

  “No, can’t say I have.”

  “This isn’t your first time?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She placed her hand on my chest and fingered the strap of my empty holster and started smoothing my shirt flat against my flesh.

  “You a cop, honey?”

  “No, bounty hunter. Thought it best if I left the shooter in the car.”

  “Shame. There’s something attractive about a man with a gun.’ She spread out her fingers and massaged my chest. Then started to unbutton my shirt.

  “Shall we agree on payment first?”

  “Okay.” I took a slug of the rum. It was sweet and hot.

  “There’s twenty dollars on the side over there.”

  By now my shirt was open to the waist.

  “You’ve got more muscles than Johnny Weissmuller. Are you an athlete?” she asked as she ran her hand across my shoulders.

  “Surf rider.”

  That seemed to meet with her approval.

  “And how old are you, honey?”

  “Just turned thirty-one.”

  “That’s a good age,” she said, pressing her fingers hard into my pectorals.

  On the couch, things came to a noisy conclusion and the Swedish dame seemed to get as much pleasure from the proceedings as the participants did. When it was all over, the guy who’d been on his knees stood up: he didn’t look anything like Mary’s description of Benny Bowers. It suddenly dawned on me that at the Garden of Allah, there might be a half dozen parties like this one. Maybe I was in the wrong Goddamned bungalow!

  The Swedish lady started stroking my thighs and fingering my belt. Then she began kissing my chest. I gently raised a hand to her face and she looked up at me.

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “I was thinking that we really ought to wait for Benny.”

  She looked puzzled. “You mean you’re not Benny?”

  “No ma’am, I’m not.”

  She stopped loosening my belt. “Is Benny as good looking as you?”

  “I’m sure he’s a fine looking guy. He’ll show you a good time. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  I started heading toward the door, but she grabbed my hand and pulled me back. “Where are you going?”

  “I gotta find Benny.”

  “You don’t do girls, is that it? My husband—”

  “I do. I mean I do do girls… and you’re a very lovely lady, but this isn’t why I’m here.” She had me flustered. I tried to remember why I was there. I stared at the necklace round her neck and thought of Clara. I was being paid to find Clara. “I’m sorry, I should go.”

  She stood on her toes and started kissing me again, her hand at the back of my neck, pulling my head closer to hers. With her other hand she unfastened my belt.

  “Just give me five minutes,” she purred and led me into the bedroom.

  5

  By the time I came out of the bedroom—I had to have been in there considerably longer than five minutes—a lot more people had joined the party. One of them matched Mary’s profile of Bowers. He was dressed
casually, as if he’d come from mowing a lawn or cleaning a pool. Wearing only my pants—I was clutching my shirt and holster in a fist behind my back—I introduced myself.

  “You from Artie?” I asked him.

  “Sure. You?”

  I nodded. I don’t like to make a habit of misleading people—it usually makes it worse when you finally come clean—but it seemed like the quickest way to get what I needed.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.” Benny opened a bottle of beer and offered it to me. I shook my head.

  “Actually, it’s kinda private.”

  “Want to step outside?”

  We sat on the porch. Traffic noise from Sunset Strip merged with the hum of cicadas. The air was warm and the stars dazzled overhead.

  “So what is it? Want to know if you still get paid if you can’t get it up?” I was pleased to see that Benny was in a good mood.

  “No, it ain’t nothing like that.”

  “So what is it? You don’t like the client? Just tell Artie and he won’t send you to them again. He’s an easy fella, he won’t mind.”

  I was beginning to think I’d gotten Benny all wrong. Not so much a louse, as a good times guy. The longer I let him believe I was a name in Artie’s book, the worse I’d feel when I eventually told him the truth.

  “It’s Benny, right?”

  “Artie mentioned me?”

  “Benny, I gotta tell you that I never met Artie, never even heard of him before tonight.”

  He took a swig of beer and threw me a puzzled look.

  “If I was wearing a jacket right now I’d be pulling out my calling card and you’d see that I’m a private investigator.”

  “Okay.” He sounded a little nervous.

  “I’m not here for the party. I’m here for you.”

  He pulled away from me. “You a cop?”

  “No, I told you, I’m a P.I.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “I work alone.”