"Deal! I'll track our acrobat down and get back to you."
He hoisted himself from the couch and offered Cleary his mustard-stained hand. Cleary ignored it.
Milchik snickered. "Don't take it so hard, Cleary. You're not a cop anymore. You don't have to spend so much time fretting over ethics."
"Whadaya think D'Rosa's up to, Milchik? What's the game?"
The columnist was already at the door. "That's easy enough. He wants to give the mob an opening into the Hollywood businesses. It's a bad idea. This town could corrupt even those bastards."
Cleary didn't buy it. "Everyone in town has D'Rosa made for what he is. The mob that's here is smalltime. They wouldn't try to take D'Rosa down."
"I figured they nailed who they wanted."
"Tomac?"
"With him out of the way, maybe they could slip somebody into his place who was, one, either willing to go along with some sweetheart deal or, two, give the mob a big foothold in the unions."
"You think a big studio, or even several of them, would go that far?"
This time Milchik's laughter was loud and long. "Christ, Cleary, you're a goddamned idealist. As long as you worked the streets of this town, you oughta know that in a lotta ways the mob would be an improvement."
Cleary's eyes began to twinkle with the birth of an idea "Tell me, Milchik, what do you know about the blue-movie side of the business?"
"The what?"
"The porn films."
Milchik squinched up his face. "They cost too much. They're too grainy, and the acting reeks."
"Jesus, we got a blue-movie critic here already. I meant, who's behind the production?"
Milchik pondered the question. "If I knew for sure, I'd try to work another deal with you. I hear there's juice behind some of 'em, but I can't put any names to it. When I can, maybe we can talk about some tape on Rita."
"Scram, Milchik."
The reporter grinned. "A pleasure doin' business with ya, Jack."
Johnny grimaced in pain and moaned as he readjusted his position in the rear seat of the Merc. It wasn't quite wide enough for him to stretch out. To make it even worse, the earphones were beginning to rub blisters on his ears. From his position, he could see right into the window of the beach house. The binoculars made the view even better. The pair inside weren't particularly bashful. Both were stark naked, spread out on top of the sheets. Johnny could see everything but their faces.
The man's voice he knew. Somehow, someway, Nicky The Rose was managing one more bedroom scene that night. The woman's voice was a mystery, and for the moment she was doing most of the talking.
"Let's drive out to the desert, Nicky. I love the desert at night."
"It's two A.M., sweets. I'd rather stay right here and smell your hair. Kinda reminds me of strawberries, or lilacs—something like that."
Johnny heard a kiss. "You're a sweet man, Nicky."
The kid knitted his eyebrows. "Oh, God, I'm gonna be sick," he said as he pulled out a bulky tape recorder and turned it on. The oral notes were for Cleary.
"Man, talk about endurance," he dictated. "Anyway, it's a little after two A.M. The subject arrived here—2100 Trancas Beach Road—about thirty minutes ago."
He stopped when he heard D'Rosa's voice. "Back in Cleveland, we had lilacs in the alley. Their aroma was so strong, it drowned out the smell of the fish market."
"Crazy, man. This guy's got a line for every occasion. Trouble is, I can't make out the chick's face. It's just out of view. I can see everything else. I could give you a detailed description, but, better than that, I'm gonna try some shots with the camera. I hope this thing works in this light and this distance."
Johnny ignored his throbbing, injured muscles as he moved to where he could snap a shot inside the house.
The woman's voice had hardened a little. "I'm leaving this town, Nicky. Come with me."
"Not yet," D'Rosa said. "I can't."
"Ah, hon, you've got too much heart to be a gangster."
"Who's a gangster, goddammit? I'm a businessman. Besides, it's what I do good. I don't know how to do anything else."
After three shots, the camera hung. Johnny checked it and found that he had shot the last exposure. "Damn."
He settled back to talk into the recorder. "This guy's on the fence, Cleary. I think he really wants to blow town with this chick. Man, I'd give up my 'Rock Around the Clock' platter to see her face."
His gaze returned to the bedroom window. The two bodies were shifting positions. He grabbed the camera and quickly tried to change to a new roll. In the subdued light of the car, he fumbled with it. "Come on, Betts. Get with it."
"We're made to be together, Nicky," the woman was saying as she settled on top of D'Rosa.
"Too dark," Johnny muttered as he readied the camera.
"Where would we go, baby?" D'Rosa was asking. She had an answer. "There's this little fishing village down in Mexico. The water's crystal clear and always warm and looks like turquoise."
"Ask me," Johnny said.
D'Rosa was laughing. "You and me on a beach in Mexico—I like that idea. But we need dough, hon. Without that, they'd find us for sure. Fifty big ones, at least."
"You know my situation, Nicky. I can't stand this much longer."
D'Rosa wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight against him. Johnny was clicking away with the camera.
When they stopped kissing, D'Rosa said, "Gimme a couple of more days, babe. I got a plan. If it works, and it's gonna work, we can leave here first class."
"How long, Nicky?"
"It'll be soon... no later than the first."
NINE
Dottie Dworski yawned. "What time did the boss call you?"
She and Johnny had been trading yawns for the last hour. This time he tried not to join in, but he couldn't help it. "Same time—six-thirty. Musta called me first. I'd only been in bed a freakin' hour. Man, I could nod off standing up. What's the deal with the blue-movie queen? I thought that case was ancient history."
Dottie shuffled through the empty bubble gum wrappers in her oversized purse. "I know I got another piece in here."
Johnny offered her a cigarette.
"Yuck! No thank you."
"At least, smoke don't rot out your teeth."
"I'll have you know my teeth are in fine shape, Johnny Betts."
"So's the rest of you."
"Just how would you know?"
Johnny had been sitting on the edge of her desk. He eased off. "God, I ache."
"You look like death warmed over. How come you didn't go see a doctor?"
"Me? Go to a sawbones? Like Buddy Holly says, 'that'll be the day.' Come on, Dottie. What's the deal on Eva Miles? Last night, Cleary was all hep on the Marlo deal. Now, I'm playactin' like a pizza man. I'm having a tough time keeping the scores straight."
Dottie gave up on her search and stared forlornly down at the thin file on Eva Miles. "She's haunting him, Johnny. I got no explanation, but she's like some kinda monkey on his back. I think he'll stay with it until he finds out who made mincemeat outta her."
Johnny shrugged off the mystery. "Well, I better learn my part here. 'One pepper-oni pie, extra cheese, large anti, hold the chovies—and one order of—He stopped, puzzled by the word.
"Toto-lini-de-la-nona. What the hell is that?"
Dottie smirked. "You'd best stick to singin' that hillbilly noise you call music. Olivier, you ain't."
Johnny pouted. "Come on, that was my debut, and I'm no damned hillbilly. Not a mountain in sight of where I come from. Gimme a chance with this. I just gotta dig a little deeper. One pepper—"
"You best make that call for the boss. He's gonna be here any minute."
"Yeah, you're right, hon." Johnny dialed the number he had gotten from the long distance operator. Dottie left him to check on the coffee. When Jack Cleary walked into the office, he would expect a cup to be handed to him.
Sixty seconds later, Cleary appeared. He walked through the front d
oor, looking more weary than his two employees. "Coffee... black."
Dottie had it ready. She also handed him the file on Eva Miles. He ignored Johnny's salute and marched toward his office.
Dottie chased after him. "There's a guy in there. Says he had an appointment."
Cleary stopped. "Orin?"
"That's him, boss."
Cleary looked to Johnny, who was hanging up the phone. "You check him out like I asked?"
"Just finished. He's been earning his dough at the local service station in Modesto. A pretty steady guy, according to the owner. He's been there three years. Five days ago, he gets a call from Eva and hops the next bus to L.A. This guy says he left Modesto in a real fever."
"Any luck on the name of the production company?"
It was Dottie's question to field. She beamed with pride. "My sources say it's Violet Films Limited."
She paused, waiting for some commendation for her discovery.
Cleary frowned. "That's it?"
Dottie rolled her eyes and brandished a small piece of paper. "No, that's not it. I got an address for a shoot. They'll be filming at this location this morning. It's a fleabag of a motel. Johnny's going by there and see what he can find out. I've told him not to mix business with pleasure."
The kid made a face at her. "You're the one with the boyfriend that collects blue movies, not me, babe."
She ignored him. "I also turned up this guy who's made a couple of the porn films with Eva. His name's David Perrin."
"You talk to him?"
"Yeah, but he didn't like getting an eight a.m. wake-up call from me."
"So?" Cleary wasn't in the mood for small talk.
"He told me some of what we know already. The only new information is that Eva had dated Michael Cornell."
"So?"
"So—what?" Dottie snapped, sorry at once that she had done it.
But Cleary just rolled his darkly circled eyes. "Who the hell is Michael Cornell?"
"Jiminy, boss, don't you ever watch TV or go to the movies?"
"Not since I grew up."
Dottie pulled another file from the top of her desk. "He's president of SAG." She offered him a glossy of Cornell.
Cleary's eyes widened a little. "This guy was at McNeil's news conference. He thinks he's God's gift to the world."
"He's starring in a new TV show called 'Homicide.' It's being done over—coincidentally—at Diamond Studios. Looks like his career has taken a sudden upswing. Two years ago, the guy couldn't buy a part in a movie that didn't have a costar in scales and a tail." Dottie was almost strutting over her accomplishments. Show biz was her cup of tea, and she was proving it. Both she and Johnny expected some kind of way-to-go compliment from Cleary. They were stunned when the only thing he gave them was a grunt as he turned to walk into the office.
Dottie shook her head. "He's—well, he's not quite like his brother. Did you ever notice how he kinda walks funny, one shoulder lower than the other?"
"That's 'cause of the piece."
"Huh?" Dottie looked at the young rockabilly.
"That cannon he carries in his shoulder holster. It's a surefire giveaway that a guy's a cop—or a mobster."
Dottie went back to searching for a chunk of bubble gum. "Sometimes, I wonder if there's any difference."
Cleary did a double take when he stepped into his office. The man was in his desk chair, leaning way back, a Coca-Cola bottle balanced on his forehead.
"Pretty neat, huh?" Orin Schooley snatched the bottle away and sprung from Cleary's chair. "Man, you oughta feel the punkin' knot you put on my head."
Schooley offered Cleary the top of his flattop as a matter of proof. The detective ignored it. "Did Eva ever talk about any of her friends—or her business associates—here in L.A.?"
Orin moved around to the chair in front of Cleary's desk. "Nope. She wouldn't say diddlysquat about anything she was doing down here. From what I know now, I can understand why. Actually, Jack, we haven't seen each other too often since she pulled up and came down here. A few letters, and a phone call, but she never returned to Modesto after her mother died."
"What about her father?"
"According to her, he died a long time ago. Her mother dated some guys, but she never remarried."
Cleary brushed out his chair and sat down. "So you had no idea she was doing blue movies?"
The out-of-towner slowly shook his head. "If I had, I'd have been down here in a flash and hauled her back to Modesto. I don't mean to sound crude, but boys will be boys. You know how many times I tried to just cop a feel with her? Hell, you woulda thought she was the Virgin Mary. Now, I come here and find out she's making dirty movies. Doesn't do a whole lot for a guy's ego. You know what I mean?"
Orin Schooley intrigued Cleary. There was something about the young man that didn't quite play right.
"I wanna work with you," Schooley was saying. "I'd pay you for your time, but I don't have a lotta money." The young man caught Cleary off-guard when he pulled a big red bandanna from a hip pocket and covered his eyes. "That girl was my first love—Hell, I never stopped loving her."
Cleary watched the bereaved man for several minutes. Then, he stood and walked to his office door and jerked it open. The movement startled Johnny and Dottie.
"Betts, you're taking Schooley here to that shoot with you."
Johnny rolled his eyes and started to protest. "C'mon, Cleary—"
"Save it, Betts."
"I was just gonna ask if he could sell pizza."
Cleary frowned. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing, Jack."
Schooley had hurried into the outer office behind Cleary. "You'll like the pleasure of my company, Mr. Betts. I'm a people person."
Johnny covered his face with his hands. "Oh, sweet Jesus, that does it. I'm over the hill. Somebody called me 'Mister.' You can haul me away, Dottie. The end is near."
The performance made both Dottie and the man from Modesto laugh. Cleary, though, wasn't in the mood. He put a rough hand on Schooley's shoulder. "You stay outta the way and do what the kid here tells you."
"That's the way I work best, Jack—from the neck down. Just point me in the right direction, and turn me loose. I played fullback for Modesto High."
"Let's go," Johnny said. "And practice reading this."
Schooley looked at the paper as they walked out the door. "I don't speak Italian."
Johnny turned back to glance at Cleary. "Ain't they got pizza in Modesto yet? Hell, there was pizza back in Memphis."
"He's a card," Dottie said after the door closed. "Johnny, I mean."
Cleary was checking the box of address cards on her desk. "I need an address for that hotshot movie guy Eva was staying with."
"Kaplan. You mean, Lou Kaplan? I'll get it."
"Where'd Johnny put the tapes and stuff from last night's surveillance?"
Dottie nodded toward Cleary's office.
"I'll check 'em out. Have that address by the time I'm through."
She saluted his back as he walked away from her. "Aye, aye, sir."
The voice of Nicky The Rose told Cleary a lot as he listened to the one-sided telephone conversation in The Crescendo Club. The crowd noise covered up a few of the mobster's words, but there was no concealing the apprehension in Nicky's voice.
He fast forwarded to the rendezvous at the beach house. This time, he had both sides of the conversation and some hot sound effects to go with it—not to mention Betts's running commentary. The female voice tripped some circuit of familiarity in Cleary's memory.
Dottie slipped into his office, not noticing that the door hadn't closed completely behind her. "There's some fat slob out there in a mail-order suit and grimy shirt, stinking up the joint with his cigar—"
Andy Milchik came right in behind her. "You forgot to mention the mustard on my tie."
Dottie flushed almost purple. "And in our forward reception area we have this suave gentleman requesting a few moments "
For the fi
rst time that morning, Cleary laughed. "You were right the first time, Dottie. The guy's a self-admitted slob."
She glanced at Milchik. "Sorry."
"Scram, Dottie."
Milchik eased his obese frame down onto the couch. "The union guys counted heads last night. With Tomac permanently outta commission, they don't have the votes for any kind of strike."
"If all they had was a one-vote margin to start with—"
"They had more than that, kiddo. Tomac's little misfortune changed a few minds. That was part of what was behind it. He was an example. If Tom McNeil's bill passes, then it's kaput for any hope of ever organizing Hollywood."
"So the studios control Hollywood. That's the way it's been and forever will be," Cleary said.
"Yeah, but maybe some of the faces controlling the studios are changing. Take Lou Kaplan for example. Word around town says he's got—or wants—mob connections."
"Kaplan?"
"You saw him at Rita's premiere."
Cleary's mind was racing. Across the room, Milchik's mouth was, too. "I've heard some other stuff, equally interesting. The word's out that the studios, especially Kaplan's, might not object to a more reasonable approach to unionization, meaning a more reasonable labor rep. Guess who's name is being floated around?"
Cleary lifted the tape from his desk. "Nicky The Rose."
"Give the ex-cop a star," Milchik said.
"When's the vote on the issue—give me another guess: November first."
"Which is tomorrow," Milchik said.
Cleary glanced at the large calendar on the wall. "Jesus, I've lost a day or two somewhere."
"From the way you look, Cleary, you lost a couple. You been boozin' or something."
"Hardly, fat man. Look, I need that address on the fall guy—the stunt artist—in a hurry."
Milchik beamed. "Located him an hour ago. His real name is Willy Marks. Kaplan's studio—by coincidence—is forwarding his check to the Aztec Motel on Gower."
"How the hell did you find that out?"
"I got a friend in payroll."
Cleary was on his feet. "To be such a son of a bitch, you got a lot of friends, Milchik. "
Private Eye 2 - Blue Movie Page 8
