“Agony is a privilege, Martin.” The priest’s penetrating tenor echoed fearfully through the ever-darkening church. “You should be grateful, Martin. Do you understand, Martin? Well? Do you? Martin? Martin?”
“Martin! Martin! Goddamnit, Martin!”
Al Mackey was loosening buckles and straps, straining at his partner’s heavier body. “Marty, you goddamned idiot!”
Then Martin Welborn was lying on the floor of his bedroom, unable to raise his head for a moment. He was uncertain where he was. He was uncertain who he was. It might be a dream or it might not, this hovering specter who was pulling him into a sitting position.
At last Martin Welborn smiled. “Tell me, Al, am I a man dreaming I’m a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming I’m a man?”
“You’re a freaking idiot, Marty, is what you are! God damn!”
“It’s remotely possible,” Martin Welborn answered.
“What the hell’re you trying to do?”
“Help me up, Al.”
The skinny detective reached under the armpits of the naked man and hoisted him to his feet. Martin Welborn put his hands out to brace against the wall, misjudged the wall’s location, staggered, and sat down on the bed.
“Marty, what is this thing?” Al Mackey demanded, pointing to the aluminum stanchions and crossbars and dangling straps standing like a gallows in Martin Welborn’s tidy bedroom.
“It’s a spine straightener. You know I have back problems.”
“Back problems. Marty, you have head problems. Worse than I guessed even.”
“Al, Al”—Martin Welborn smiled serenely, standing and slipping into underwear and pants that had been neatly placed on the bed—“this has been terrific for my lower back. I hang upside down twice a day, morning and night. I straighten out my spine and never have a moment’s fear of back pain.”
“Marty, I was banging on your door for nearly five minutes. I could hear the shower going. I figured you’d fallen in the tub. Christ, I slipped the lock!” Al Mackey held up his laminated police ID card, the corners chewed by the door latch.
“At least those cards are good for something,” Martin Welborn said, taking a starched white shirt from the mahogany chest. His cotton shirts, professionally laundered, lay folded, stacked in exact rows.
The police identification cards couldn’t even get a check cashed. Sorry, sir, my boss says driver’s licenses only. But at least they could slip a lock better than most shims. Al Mackey’s hands were trembling. He could hardly get his card back in the wallet. “Do you realize you were passed out? Your face looks like raw sirloin! If I hadn’t come in …”
“You have a flair for hyperbole, Al, my lad.” Martin Welborn grinned.
It was always “my lad, my son, my boy,” though Martin Welborn was only two years older than Al Mackey. He removed his socks from the second drawer. The pairs of socks were stacked by color shades. It looked to Al Mackey as though Martin Welborn had segregated each stack with a micrometer. When did he start this shit? Marty was never this orderly. Nobody was this orderly. Eerie. It was all getting eerie.
And it was affecting Al Mackey profoundly. Now he was getting drunk and even chewing on his gunsights! Al Mackey got a chill and shivered noticeably.
“How long you had that instrument of torture, Marty?”
“It’s a spine straightener, Al. They sell them to people with back problems.”
“Yeah, you said. I say they oughtta put them in the freak shops on Hollywood Boulevard, along with the leather masks, chains and thumbscrews. Goddamn, Marty, if I hadn’t come in …”
“Al, I hang for exactly three minutes. I was watching the time on the clock by my bed.”
“I was at the door for almost five minutes.”
“You look terrible, Al. Were you at The Glitter Dome again last night?”
“Jesus, your color’s just now coming back.”
“You should stay away from The Glitter Dome, Al.” Martin Welborn adjusted an impeccable knot in his paisley tie. “Can’t you find a happier place to drink?”
So Al Mackey gave up. He knew the non sequiturs would continue until his surrender was inevitable. He went into the kitchen of the one-bedroom apartment and opened the refrigerator. He shakily withdrew a bottle of orange juice and three eggs. He wasn’t hungry but his vitamin-starved, whiskey-ravaged body demanded food. It was different from a feeling of hunger, this relentless demand. He cracked three eggs, lost one in the sink, but managed to get the other two into a glass of orange juice.
Al Mackey pulled open the drawers looking for a spoon. Jesus! Each drawer was divided by plastic trays. Each spoon was stacked so that it could not stray from its assigned place. Ditto for forks and butter knives. Al Mackey opened the cutlery drawer: steak knives in a row pointed toward the wall. Larger cutlery pointed toward the gas range. Spoons and ladles toward the wall. Tiny blocks of wood kept every utensil in its assigned place.
Al Mackey jerked open every cupboard in the immaculate little kitchen. Each glass was polished. Not a water mark anywhere. Each rested in a specifically assigned position, from the tallest water tumbler down to the stubby whiskey glasses. The spices in the cabinet were lined up by graduating height. The symmetry was perfect.
Martin Welborn walked briskly into the kitchen. He wore a gray three-piece suit with black loafers and gray socks. Tiny patterns of red in the gray silk paisley were the only release of restraint. His heavy black hair was brushed back from a forehead not yet age-lined.
“New suit, Al. How do you like it? Do I glitter when I walk?”
“You glitter, Marty.” Al Mackey finished the glass of orange juice and egg, and studied the composure of Martin Welborn. I was watching the clock, Al.
A drop of juice glistened on Al Mackey’s chin. Martin Welborn hurried to the sink, opened a drawer, and removed a paper cocktail napkin. The dinner and cocktail napkins were stacked and arranged by size and color.
Martin Welborn dabbed the drop of juice from Al Mackey’s chin. Then he showed Al Mackey his handsome, boyish smile and said, “We’d better hurry, my lad. Captain Woofer’s just a wee bit testy these days.”
Captain Woofer had reason to be testy. It had been a very bad year in many ways. One L.A. cop had been arrested in a foreign country, charged with smuggling cocaine. Another had been shot, but not by a bad guy. The wounded cop was the bad guy and had been shot down trying to escape capture. Then there was a new scandal involving vice cops accused of providing protection for bookmakers. And last, but by no means least, there was an extraordinary number of controversial cases involving the shooting of unarmed suspects by police, along with mistaken-identity shootings.
This was reputed to be the most professional police force in America. The media demanded explanations. Deputy Chief Julian Francis decided he had the explanation, at least for police corruption. He had decided to visit every Los Angeles police station personally and try it out on both uniformed and plainclothes personnel before asking the Super Chief’s permission to call a press conference.
Deputy Chief Francis was already getting up a head of steam when Al Mackey and Martin Welborn tiptoed into the squadroom of Hollywood Detectives, five minutes late.
“The cause of our misfortune is apparent,” Deputy Chief Francis was saying. “The breakdown of family, church, and patriotism is at the root of all these misfortunes.”
So, while thirty detectives let their chins drop on their collarbones, or failed to control the eyeballs sliding back into pain-ravaged skulls (thirteen detectives had hangovers, last night being payday), Al Mackey and Martin Welborn crept to the table belonging to the homicide teams and braced for the family-church-country speech.
Deputy Chief Francis was not about to alter that one. He’d been making the same speech for twenty-nine years. It had impressed the selection board when he applied to become a policeman, just as it had every promotion board since he’d made sergeant twenty-one years ago without having worked more than two months on the street. It hadn’t
been easy convincing a triumvirate of cigar-mangling, potbellied inspectors in those early days that he should be promoted over the street cops, even though as the speech writer for the chief of police he had composed some of the finest hell-and-sulphur ditties this side of J. Edgar Hoover. But even with those hard-drinking promotion boards of bygone days, the family-church-country oratory had never failed. It put a lump in the throat and tears in men’s eyes, or so Deputy Chief Francis was convinced.
It made poor old Cal Greenberg want to puke. His hangover was worse than Al Mackey’s. The old burglary detective had his head in both hands and stared past Deputy Chief Francis. The curse of The Glitter Dome. He looked like he couldn’t frost a mirror. Al Mackey reached over and sympathetically patted poor old Cal Greenberg’s shoulder. There, there.
The seemingly comatose detective never felt it. He was listening to his own private Glenn Miller concert. He had but to blink his eyes to switch from String of Pearls to Little Brown Jug.
The only variation in the theme of Deputy Chief Francis this year was that he had fallen in love with the buzzword “impacted.” Everything was either “impacted on” or “impacted by.” The immorality of the outlaw cops, exploited by the media, came as the direct result of the cops being impacted by the deterioration of family, church, country. And so forth.
Also, the deputy chief’s wardrobe had changed this year. Usually he preferred banker’s attire, much like that always worn by Martin Welborn. But he’d consciously decided to dress like a working detective until the series of morale-building speeches was finished. Deputy Chief Francis’ choice of clothing was perfect: double-knit plaid pants—flared of course, now that flares were out and straight legs in, a detective always being three years outdated. A pale blue polyester sportcoat with extra-wide lapels, a dark brown dress shirt with a stitched collar, topped off by a fat yellow-print necktie. He was careful to keep the double-knit plaids an inch too short and he wore green and yellow argyles to exaggerate the fact. He let his sideburns grow longer, preparatory to his tour of the stations. He had considered a moustache, but there were limits. Finally, he topped off his costume with a brass tie tack in the shape of numbers 187, the California Penal Code section for murder. It was perfect. He looked for all the world like a working homicide dick.
Deputy Chief Julian Francis knew that some of the older men might remember the hated nickname Fuzznuts, given to him in 1965 during the Watts riot when he had become separated from his driver and bodyguard in the chaos of burning and looting on Central Avenue. It was rumored that he had waved a handkerchief and tried to surrender to a small army of looters near Ninety-second Street, saying he’d always been kind to Negroes. It was a scurrilous story, never substantiated, but he felt the “187” tie tack went a long way to dispel the rumor and suggest he was one of the guys.
Two bearded narcs, dressed like boulevard bikers and known as the Weasel and the Ferret because of their slippery ways, began sliding notes down the line of tables. The notes were actually betting markers. They were offering three to one that Fuzznuts Francis would use the word “impacted” twelve more times during the remainder of his morale-building speech. It seemed excessive even for Deputy Chief Francis, so several markers were slipped back down the table to the young narcs. They were on a three-month loan to Captain Woofer from narcotics division downtown to help with the outrageous drug problem that the Hollywood business community was always complaining about.
Deputy Chief Francis concluded by saying: “It will take a strong religious faith to sustain the Los Angeles Police Department and the United States of America from the enemy lurking within the human heart.”
Captain Roger (Whipdick) Woofer was genuinely moved. He started applauding.
The Weasel and the Ferret were outraged. The number of “impacteds” had only totaled eleven. One more!
The Weasel raised his hand frantically. “Sir! Chief!” cried the Weasel. “What effect has the Vietnam generation of policemen had on the general decline of morality among today’s officers?”
The other gamblers knew of course what the Weasel was up to. Poor old Cal Greenberg jumped to his feet. He was holding a marker for two dollars. (All that Wing hadn’t stolen last night.) “Just a goddamn minute, Weasel! He’s finished.” Then he turned toward the shocked deputy chief. “You are finished, aren’t you … sir?”
“Well …” the deputy chief stammered. The greasy leather-covered biker frightened him. (He’s what’s become of the Department these days!) But the menacing old detective with the raw bloody eyes was even more frightening.
Captain Woofer blanched and bellowed, “Greenberg! What in the world’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, Captain,” poor old Cal Greenberg cried. “It’s just that we shouldn’t keep the chief here all day. He’s got other duties and …”
That reassured Deputy Chief Francis. He smiled and held up his hands. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve got all day. My time is your time.”
“Rudy Vallee, for chrissake!” poor old Cal Greenberg moaned, his bloody eyes rolling back under his veiny lids. My time is your time!
“Greenberg, what in the world is the matter with you?” Captain Woofer demanded.
“He’s sick,” Al Mackey volunteered. “He isn’t feeling well. Maybe we should take poor old Cal out for some air?” Al Mackey had three bucks down. “Maybe we should let the chief go?”
But all was lost. Deputy Chief Francis smiled paternally and said, “You’ve been a damn attentive audience. And I should answer the question of the … officer.” It was hell referring to a slimy hippie in a black leather jacket as an officer. “Yes, I do think that the influx of Vietnam veterans, who may not have properly withstood the immoral influences they encountered in that unfortunate part of our world, has indeed impacted on the …”
He couldn’t finish. Twenty-one men and women (those who had some action down) were lowing like cattle while the Weasel and the Ferret were grinning like hyenas. They had won thirty-three bucks.
The chorus of groans startled the desk officer downstairs who had been reading of foreign terrorists attacking police departments with nerve gas which caused involuntary moans before immobilizing the victims. The panicky desk officer was ready to sound an alarm.
Captain Woofer apologized to Deputy Chief Francis for the bizarre behavior of some of his detectives. It could only be that the string of notorious crimes involving Los Angeles police officers was even taking its toll on the morale of veterans like poor old Cal Greenberg. Deputy Chief Francis concurred. He shook hands warmly and called Captain Woofer “Roger,” just as in the old days when they were sergeants together doing public relations work. Captain Woofer blushed and softly responded, “Thank you … Julian,” not loudly enough for the others to hear.
Except for the Ferret, who looked at them and said, “Whip-dick Woofer’s sucking around Fuzznuts like a pilot fish. Police pansies is what I think.”
Then the Weasel took the last two dollars from poor old Cal Greenberg and said, “Fuzznuts can’t get out the door. Every time he stops, Woofer gets a snootful a shit. Department daffodils is what I think.”
The Ferret, leering like a coyote, was counting his loot and said, “I needed this. I got in a dice game last night and crapped out three times in a row. I felt awful all morning.”
Poor old Cal Greenberg reached in his drawer for a box of Ex-Lax, as his stomach rocked and rolled. “At my age if I can crap once in a row I’m satisfied.”
Five minutes later Al Mackey and Martin Welborn were called to a private meeting with Captain Woofer, who was even more constipated than poor old Cal Greenberg.
3
The Business
The reason for Captain Woofer’s bowel obstruction was that it had been four weeks since the unsolved murder of Nigel St. Claire, president of the film division of a major studio, who, like everyone who was anyone in show business, would never have been caught dead east of La Cienega Boulevard unless doing business at Goldwyn, or Paramoun
t, or Hollywood General.
One might visit Hollywood proper to have lunch at St. Germaine or go to Ma Maison for dinner, since it was one of the in places, what with Beverly Hills overrun by Arabs, Iranians, Texans, and other wogs with megabucks. (A wog could, however, become as instantly acceptable as any German steel exporter or Italian shipping magnate by merely saying “maybe” to the Ultimate Question in these parts. The Ultimate Question might be uttered during cocktail hour in the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel, or over lunch or dinner in any one of the Six Famous Restaurants.) There were never more than half a dozen truly “in” restaurants during any particular time warp, not as far as the Truly Successful of The Business were concerned, the Truly Successful being an incestuous group too small to support more than half a dozen.
The Ultimate Question—that which stopped lethargic waiters (off-duty SAG members) dead in their tracks, along with table-hopping mannequins (ditto), and even busboys literally scraping at table crumbs (the Screen Extras Guild for these shmucks), and caused the rest of the eavesdropping clientele to cease all shop-talk, ice-cube rattling, furtive coke whiffing, thigh stroking of either sex by either sex, sometimes simultaneously—that which produced the frozen take reminiscent of the E. F. Hutton television commercial: “My broker is E. F. Hutton and E. F. Hutton says …”
The Ultimate Question, delivered through clenched teeth to keep the jaw from trembling, was: “Now that I’ve explained the incredible potential of this film, do you think you might like to get in on the project, for a substantial part of our rather modest budget of … eight million? It was always a “film” or a “project,” never a “picture” or, God forbid, a “movie.” And if the Arab, Iranian, Texan, or other wog simply said “maybe,” this outlander would ascend from the ranks of the great unwashed and become eligible for a “B” table at any one of the Six Famous Restaurants. (The “A” table was his when the movie started shooting. Talk is cheap.)
The Glitter Dome Page 3
