Private Eye 2 - Blue Movie

by David Elliott

  Kaplan pursed his lips. "Can't say that I have."

  "He's on your payroll."

  "So are hundreds of others, Cleary—most of whom I do not know."

  "What's on your mind?"

  "Who are you working for?"

  "Me, myself, and I."

  Kaplan smiled and sat down beneath an umbrella. "The sun's hot today. You care for something to wet your whistle?"

  "My whistle's not dry. If you got something to say, spit it out. I'm in a hurry."

  "I'd like to hire you to check out Nick D'Rosa. He's making time with Rita Marlo, and she's the big money in our bank. I hear there's trouble brewin' between them. After that unfortunate incident at the premiere of Dangerous Summer, we can't afford any bad press... know what I mean?"

  Cleary's mind turned muddy. What was going on here? "You want me to snoop on D'Rosa?"

  "According to the word on the street, he's two-timing Rita. I don't know who the babe is, but I'd like to know. A little damage control ahead of time. I wanna know if it's true and with who."

  "I don't get it," Cleary said.

  "Come on, Cleary. You're no dumb bunny. You've had D'Rosa under surveillance. I know that. I don't know who's paying your bill, but I'm giving you a chance to make double time—hell, make it triple time. I'll double what you're getting from your client. Just feed me the same stuff you get for your client."

  "Even if that were true, you've got a squad of ex-cops and press people. You don't need me."

  Kaplan grinned. "Some matters require special handling. Besides, I kinda think maybe you got the answer already. Might save me some valuable time."

  "Sorry, Kaplan. It goes against my grain."

  Up until that point, Lou Kaplan had been a model of polite deportment. His eyes, though, narrowed. Even beneath the rich tan, Cleary could see the pinkish tinge of anger. "You're a fool, Cleary. You got no future in this town."

  "Time will tell, Kaplan."

  "You oughta reconsider—"

  "Forget it, hotshot. It's just not a good idea accepting a prime suspect as a client."

  Cleary came back to the office in no better mood than he had left it that morning. Johnny, who had been waiting for him to return, hadn't even told Dottie about the bombshell he was waiting to drop. She, too, was anxious to see the boss.

  "I got the background on Kaplan. A few years back, he was some schmoe from back East, but he hit town and started picking up one production company after another. He masterminded some kind of merger that put him at the head of Diamond Studios. The legit folks in the biz call him 'The Octopus.'"

  "Save it a sec," Cleary told her.

  "There's more, boss."

  "Can't it wait? I need to talk to Johnny here."

  "It can't, according to Charlie Fontana. He needs to talk to you, too—something about Eva Miles's autopsy."

  "I'll call him." Cleary snatched Johnny by the arm and dragged him into his office. "What about those photos?"

  Johnny made a face. "The bums at the lab say they can't have 'em until tonight. Other things have priority—that's what they said."

  "You get back down there and build a fire under them. I need those photos."

  "What about the surveillance of D'Rosa?"

  Cleary went to a small fridge and pulled out a Coca-Cola. "It's done, Johnny. We know D'Rosa's cheating on Rita. With any luck, those photos—blown up—will tell us with who. That's all she paid me to find out. We got bigger fish to fry."

  "The Eva Miles deal?"

  Cleary nodded.

  "Who's paying you to stay on that case? I know it ain't that numbskull Schooley."

  "Just follow orders, Betts. What did you turn over at the porn location?"

  Johnny smiled. "Well, the director—if you wanna call the sleazeball that—doesn't care much for pizza."

  "Betts! I haven't got time."

  "Cool it, Cleary. You're gonna bust a gut if you don't learn to relax a little."

  "Just give me the facts. Save your personality for that rockabilly career you're angling for."

  Johnny pretended to look offended. "That's not cool, Jack."

  "Betts!"

  "Okay... okay. He's got no idea who's backing the production company. He says he gets enough cash to do a half-ass job, pardon the pun."

  "Dammit, Betts—"

  "I'm telling you as best I can. I got a big flash for you, though."

  Cleary tensed.

  "It's a little bit of late-edition news about Congressman McNeil—"

  "If it's about his labor bill passing up in Sacramento, I heard it on the radio driving over here."

  Johnny waved off Jack's comment. "No way, Jack. The good congressman's slipped you a real Mickey. He wasn't Eva's father. He was her lover."

  Cleary was on his feet and heading out of the office.

  "Jack!" Dottie shouted. "What about Fontana?"

  "I'll call him later." Cleary pulled up. "Betts!" Johnny ran out of Cleary's office to catch him. "Yeah, boss?"

  "You get Miss Show Biz back there to track down Michael Cornell—the actor. Go chat him up a little about Eva Miles. And don't forget those photos."

  "Where are you going?"

  "To see my congressman..."

  ELEVEN

  Dottie's detailed advice whisked Johnny through the front gates at Diamond Studios. The last time he had tried to crash a studio was in late August when he tried to get in to see Elvis Presley while he was shooting Love Me Tender. He and a host of others had been turned away. This time, a bored guard didn't even give the young stud in the motorcycle getup a second look as he passed him on through. A lot of strange-looking people passed through the gates of the film studio. Johnny asked for directions twice before he reached the back alley where a crew was filming an episode of "Homicide."

  As Johnny approached, he saw Michael Cornell, playing a detective in the series, bent down and cradling a dying man in his arms.

  "Don't die on me, Joey. You're all I got left, pal." Cornell's face was twisted into a look that he assumed conveyed deep anguish.

  Johnny shook his head just as someone yelled, "And cut! That's a print!"

  Cornell unceremoniously dropped the other actor to the hard pavement. While a studio flunkie draped a coat over Cornell's shoulders, the actor was cornering the director. "You really think that's a print? I mean, I don't know if I internalized my anguish enough. Maybe if we shot it again I could—"

  The director, though, was signaling to the crew to start breaking down the set for the next shot. "No need, Michael. It was great. You couldn't have done it any better."

  "Are you sure? I mean—"

  "Trust me, Michael. I care as much as you do."

  Johnny grinned as he saw the actor's shoulders droop. Cornell moved toward a small trailer parked at the mouth of the alley. Johnny followed. Both Cornell and Johnny were equally shocked to see a pack of reporters surrounding the mobile structure. The actor skidded to a stop, effectively cut off from the sanctuary of the trailer. Andy Milchik appeared to be at the head of the pack of newshounds waiting for SAG's president.

  "Michael, have you heard that McNeil's bill passed today? The industry, and Diamond Studios in particular, were big backers of that bill."

  Johnny held back. There was a momentary look of panic in Michael Cornell's eyes, but he gathered himself together and approached a microphone pointed at his face. "I think it's a great day for the film industry. All the bill did was guarantee an actor's right to either join a union or not. It's a great day for freedom of choice."

  Milchik stalked the star. "Isn't it coincidental that as president of SAG you would be strongly behind legislation pushed by the company that issues your paycheck?"

  Cornell didn't blink an eye. "That question doesn't even justify a response, Milchik. That's all the questions for now. If you will excuse me, I have a series to make."

  The reporters—all except Milchik, who stood smiling—attempted to follow Cornell, but studio security personnel quickly rounde
d them up and sent them packing. Johnny was far enough away from the scene to slip away and stay on Cornell's tail.

  Johnny kept dancing into corners and behind racks of costumes as he shadowed the actor. Cornell had turned antsy, maybe because of the reporters. He continually glanced back over his shoulder as he headed for some unknown destination. Luckily for Johnny, the bright afternoon sun was glaring into Cornell's eyes. If it hadn't been for that, he would have probably noticed the young man in the tight jeans, T-shirt, and leather coat who was shadowing him.

  Cornell vanished around a corner. Johnny hurried to catch up. The guy was up to something, and he sure didn't want to lose him. At the same time, a little caution was in order. When Johnny reached the corner, he peeked around—just in time to see Cornell disappear into a large black limo. It came straight toward Johnny's place of concealment.

  "What the hell?" Johnny said. He didn't bother to hide, counting on the fact that Michael Cornell and, hopefully, the other occupants in the car didn't know him. As the limo cruised by, Johnny got a good look at the two men in the backseat. One, of course, was Michael Cornell. The other was a face Johnny had seen a little earlier. It was Lou Kaplan, looking just like he did in the photo Dottie had found of him.

  Jack Cleary had a long-standing, passionate prejudice against double crosses and dirty dealing. In his years with the LAPD, he had seen enough of it. At least when you dealt with mobsters and other assorted criminal types, you knew what to expect. As a rule, you treated a politician just like a smooth-talking gangster. More often than not, that's how they behaved. Cleary steered clear of them. When he had been forced to deal with them, he had always taken anything they said—and every thing they did—with a proverbial grain of salt.

  Tom McNeil had appeared to be the exception to the rule. Cleary had met him when his detachment commander asked him to look into some threatening phone calls the congressman had been receiving. Oddly enough, McNeil was sponsoring some legislation to make it easier to tap the phones of known hoodlums. It earned him the phone calls. They had been unable to put a human dimension to the calls, but Cleary's presence on the case had caused the calls to stop. More than that, he and Tom McNeil had developed a mutual respect for each other, out of which a casual friendship had developed. After that, McNeil had called him on several occasions, generally wanting some kind of dope on the mob. Cleary had always provided it.

  When Cleary had found himself in trouble with the department, framed as it turned out by a couple of cops on the take, McNeil had offered to make a call or two. Cleary had thanked the man, but turned him down. Jack was just too proud for that kind of help. Either he was going to beat the charges cleanly—or not at all. It didn't mean, though, that he hadn't appreciated one of the few offers of help he had received during that troubled time. When Jack's brother had died, McNeil had been there, too—one of the first to offer his sympathies and any help Cleary might have needed.

  McNeil's downtown office was located near Pershing Square. Cleary had already been to McNeil's apartment, but no one was home. It was getting on toward evening now, and the hookers were beginning to make their appearances. The action was on Main Street... clip street or hustle street, the cops called it. As he circled in search of a parking place, the women, some of them too old to be marketable, walked the streets in stiletto heels and tight dresses. Cleary had a special place in his book for hookers. Just like Eva Miles, a lot of them came to L.A. with dreams that made them especially susceptible to any fast-talking pimp who looked as if he had connections. He remembered the one girl in particular. Her ghost haunted him.

  She had died, too.

  He found a parking spot big enough for the Eldorado and hurried toward the office building in which McNeil's office was located. He didn't expect to find him in, but Cleary intended to look until he located the politician. If McNeil wasn't at the office, then Cleary intended to return to his home and wait for him.

  No lights burned inside the office. Cleary knocked on the door, but didn't bother to wait for anyone to answer it. Amazed to find it unlocked, he charged right on inside. The front office housed a part-time secretary, who wasn't there. He headed straight for McNeil's private office.

  A sound stopped him. It was a high-pitched whine, something a female cat might make when receiving the amorous attentions of a tom.

  "McNeil?"

  Just silence.

  "Who's there?"

  Cleary pulled the .45 and approached the closed door to McNeil's office.

  "If that's you, Tom, I'm coming in." The noise had been so high pitched, so... so emotional that Cleary felt obliged to warn the politician.

  "I said, I'm coming in."

  Johnny Betts didn't know what to make of Michael Cornell's get together with Lou Kaplan. In a way, it didn't seem all that out of the ordinary. Still, he would tell Cleary. Johnny pushed the door open into the commercial photography lab. The stench of darkroom chemicals assailed his nose. He hated the pungent, sulfurous odor.

  A man in an apron stood behind the counter.

  "You got 'em yet?"

  The man threw up his hands. "Jesus, you're becoming a pest. The negatives are in the soup. It'll take awhile for them to dry. Then I can make the prints."

  "You're too slow, man."

  "And you—and Mr. Cleary—are not the only customers I have. I'll have them for you first thing in the morning."

  Johnny reached across the counter and latched on to the owner of the shop. "That just won't do, man. I'm gonna sit out here and wait for 'em. I want them tonight."

  The man's hand came from behind the counter. It held a small caliber automatic. "Get your hands off me, punk."

  "Oops! My fault, pal. Don't mean to rush you," Johnny released the man.

  "If you weren't Jack Cleary's pal, I'd blast you right here and claim it was self-defense. The way you look, the cops would buy it. I don't have no stomach for young outlaws like you, dressed in them goddamned delinquent duds."

  Johnny had both hands in the air. "That's cool, man. Look, if you know Cleary, then you oughta know how desperate I am. I'm basically a hep guy. I mean, I don't go around roughing up people. Cleary, though—he told me to have those photos tonight or else. And it wasn't you he was threatening when he said that."

  The shop owner put the gun back under the counter. "You're a wise guy. These photos that important to Jack?"

  "You betcha."

  The man scratched his balding head. "Okay, you have a seat. I'll get them out as fast as I can. The quality might suffer a little."

  "Just so we can recognize the faces."

  There were no other sounds from McNeil's inner office. Cleary pressed his ear against the door and listened. He couldn't hear a thing. That first sound, maybe it had been the building creaking. The structures in the downtown area were pretty old, and they had gone through their share of earth tremors. He put his hand on the doorknob.

  The phone rang, startling him. He cursed and reached to answer it.

  But he hesitated. If there was someone else in the office, maybe they would answer it.

  "You stupid jerk," he said aloud. If there were anyone else there, they knew he was outside. He had already announced his presence.

  He picked up the phone. "Yeah."

  "Jack?"

  The voice was unmistakable. It belonged to Dottie Dworski.

  "What the hell do you want?"

  "Well, excuse me for living. I've been looking for you all over."

  "You found me. It had better be important. Your timing stinks, Dworski."

  She was more than offended. "Do you know what time it is, Jack? It's nearly six-thirty. You know what time I'm s'posed to get off? At five, that's what time. I spend my own time trying to help and this is the thanks I get."

  "I get the picture, Dworski. You have my undying love and deep gratitude. Now, what's so important."

  "Charlie Fontana called back. He says it's urgent you call him. He really sounded mad, Jack."

  "Fontana's
always mad. Is that all you wanted?"

  "Not, it's not. Nick D'Rosa called, too. He wants to meet you down at The Crescendo Club around ten p.m. He says he and Rita wanna treat you to dinner."

  "He and Rita?"

  "I'm just delivering the message, Mr. Cleary."

  Mr. Cleary? Dottie was really angry at him. "Okay, Dottie. Thanks for the info. Has Johnny gotten those photos yet?"

  "Nope, but he's parked himself down at the lab."

  "Call him before you leave, and tell him to meet me at The Crescendo Club a little before ten."

  "Yes, sir, Mister Cleary."

  "And Dottie—"

  "What?"

  "You're a real peach."

  He heard her titter. "You mean that?"

  "You bet." He hung up the phone.

  McNeil certainly didn't seem to be inside the office. On the other hand, the front door was unlocked. Cleary couldn't get that noise out of his head, either. He went to the door and twisted the knob. It, too, was unlocked. The interior was unlit and dark. Curtains covered one wall, but Cleary knew there was no window on the other side. They had been hung to cover a wall badly in need of new plaster.

  "Tom?"

  He eased into the room, his gun still drawn. The only light spilled in from behind him, and it was in his own shadow that he saw a figure sitting behind the congressman's desk. It looked like McNeil.

  "Tom? That you?"

  The man didn't respond. Cleary took a step closer. "Wake up, Tom."

  Cleary had reached the desk. His hand went slowly to a banker's lamp on the desk. He flipped it on. A greenish glow filled Tom McNeil's face.

  Cleary shut his eyes when he saw the blood that had formed a drying trail down the congressman's colorless face.

  "Jesus Christ, Tom."

  He looked again at his friend. Maybe he was still alive. No chance of that, though. The head was swollen from the impact of the bullet. The open eyes were so dull and lifeless that they didn't even reflect the green glow from the lamp. The congressman's white shirt was soaked with his blood, obviously from a large caliber bullet wound squarely in the middle of the politician's brow.