The Glitter Dome

by Joseph Wambaugh

  So it was Nigel St. Claire, more than anyone else, who was the Starmaker of The Business. Several other studio executives began to hope that their embezzling might get discovered after seeing what Nigel St. Claire’s diplomacy had wrought.

  Nigel St. Claire publicly argued that his cousin deserved a second chance. After all, it was this cousin who had the guts to organize the first Hollywood dinner to demand the impeachment and imprisonment of that crook Richard Nixon.

  But now Nigel St. Claire was not even a name on the asphalt. In fact, when Al Mackey and Martin Welborn entered his former office suite, his former secretary was standing at the window peering down into the parking lot at a lethargic studio sign painter who was painting in a new name.

  She sighed and dabbed at a sparkling drop on her cheek when Al Mackey showed his badge and asked to talk with Herman St. Claire III, the new temporary president of the film division.

  “I think we told those other detectives just about everything we know,” she said, returning to her desk to blow her nose in a Kleenex.

  She was nubile, with an ass like a melon and eyes like an ocelot. Al Mackey was enchanted. “We’ve had the case turned over to us,” Al Mackey said. “Sorry, but we have to talk to everyone a second time.”

  “It’s such a sad, sad thing,” the secretary said. “I just haven’t got any sleep for days and days. We all loved old Mister St. Claire.” Then she added quickly, “Not that we don’t love the new Mister St. Claire as much as the old one. It’s just so … unbearable to see his name painted right off the parking lot. That’s when you realize he might just as well never have lived. Know what I mean?”

  “It’s tragic, all right,” Al Mackey said, noting that her name was Tiffany Charles and that her phone number was on Schultz and Simon’s reports.

  “Well, that’s life, I guess,” said Tiffany Charles, as Martin Welborn looked around the rather plain office at the pictures of other St. Claires of the past and present who were big and little studio bosses.

  Tiffany Charles took a pillbox covered with gemstones from her desk drawer, popped two Libriums, gulped them down with Diet-Rite, and said, “The only thing sadder I can think of would be if they broke your star right out of the sidewalk on Hollywood Boulevard.”

  The thought of it made her shudder, until she pictured two big sweating construction workers sexily banging away with jackhammers, and she recovered a bit. Then she noticed how Martin Welborn’s long, sad eyes got sensual when he looked right at you. He wasn’t very old, about the same as Tiffany Charles’ dad, which was a turn-on in itself. And he was a pretty big guy with a good body. She wondered what his ass looked like. Tiffany Charles was a sucker for young-looking older guys like this, or else for big sweaty animals that socked it to you and no bullshitting around. Which reminded her: “What happened to those other two detectives? You know, those big, big ones? They didn’t get shot or something, did they?”

  “Detectives only get shot in movies,” Martin Welborn said, and his boyish smile made Tiffany Charles almost forget about big sweaty animals.

  “Who did your teeth?” she asked. “They’re beautiful.”

  “God,” Martin Welborn said.

  “You mean they’re not capped?”

  “Nope.”

  “Wow!” said Tiffany Charles, breaking Al Mackey’s heart.

  “Back to the deceased Mister St. Claire,” Al Mackey said, all business now.

  “Oh well,” Tiffany Charles said philosophically, “we can’t dwell on the past, can we? Mister St. Claire wouldn’t have wanted it. He always said you’re only as hot as your last gig.”

  Which was about the last mention of Nigel St. Claire ever heard in those offices.

  When they were admitted to the inner office of Nigel St. Claire’s successor, Herman St. Claire III, a twenty-five-year-old UCLA film school graduate with lots of top spin, he was dictating a letter to his steno, Gilda Latour. Be ready for lots of dick-tation, they told her, this one’s a lot younger than Uncle Nigel.

  But they dressed the same. In fact, Herman St. Claire dressed much like Martin Welborn. He looked like a Pasadena stock broker. And he was tan. Not that phony sunlamp tan. Not tan like the rest of the world’s idea of a California tan, but tanner than George Hamilton ever thought of being. Tanner than from holding a reflector under your chin six hours a day by the pool at the very top of Trousdale Estates, which was the only place in Beverly Hills to get a real tan. In the silent film days, the Truly Successful had schemed of throwing a Great Wall up around Beverly Hills, but had been foiled by the rest of the citizenry. Now Beverly Hills had more traffic problems than downtown L.A., and only at hilltop elevation could you escape the smog which congested the lungs, scalded the eyes, and broke up more tennis games than a thousand phone calls from theatrical agents. And now the Great Wall idea of yore didn’t seem so zany. Why did the so-called community leaders always fail to listen to the Truly Successful in The Business until it was too late? The Truly Successful had continued to warn them: Vietnam. Three Mile Island. And Ronald Reagan? Christ, he couldn’t get in The Brown Derby when real stars still went there. If they’d stacked those bricks and built the Great Wall, you’d be able to get a decent tan in Beverly Hills without going to a mountaintop like a fucking California condor.

  “Take a break, Gilda,” Herman III said to his steno.

  Al Mackey couldn’t believe it. She’s a nine and a half, at least, and she can take a letter? A miraculous place!

  And the office was more like it. Lots of European antiques (recycled furniture, they called it around here), photos of Herman III with stars and statesmen, some original movie posters of studio classics, and a forest of hanging ferns to cast mysterious shadows across the sculptured jaw of Herman III.

  The baby mogul had a crushing handshake. “Glad to meet you.” He beamed, making Al Mackey wonder who did his teeth.

  “Sorry to have to ask you questions all over again,” Al Mackey said, as the two detectives were nudged toward an eight-foot sofa done in soft slate-gray leather, in front of which were two coffee tables covered end to end with copies of Daily Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, and Box Office.

  The Hollywood Reporter was open to a full-page ad of an aspiring actress, nude from the waist up. She was a beauty, but seemed flat-chested. Al Mackey leaned over for a closer look. The copy said: “Would You Believe I’m Only 10?”

  “Cute idea, don’t you think?” said Herman III.

  Al Mackey looked at Martin Welborn. The aspiring actress was ten years old.

  Al Mackey then noticed two open volumes the size of telephone books containing pictures of male and female actors. Then there was a smaller book containing the names of directors and their agents along with notations beside the names which seemed to be in some kind of code. “Got to know the enemy’s weaknesses”—Herman III winked—“if you wanna do a deal. Hey, do you know Ralph Wisehart, works homicide at Beverly Hills P.D.?”

  “No,” said Martin Welborn.

  “Can’t say I do,” said Al Mackey.

  “No? That’s peculiar. I thought all the guys that worked the Stinker Squads knew each other.” He chuckled at that one, got no response, and said, “I often go to the pistol range with Ralph. Met him when he used to work burglary. He handled a four-five-nine at my house. Channel-lock job. They were going down twice a week until Ralph and I found this latent on the louvered window and convicted some East Side junkie. The print only had eight points, so it was really my testimony that sent the sucker to Big Q.”

  Herman III had exhausted every piece of police jargon he had learned from his father’s six cop movies and still had gotten no smiles. “How about a drink?” he said finally.

  “Bourbon.” Al Mackey smiled.

  “Vodka, if you have it.” Martin Welborn smiled.

  Having gotten a friendly response at last, Herman III cheerily buzzed for Tiffany Charles, ordering booze for the cops and Perrier for himself. Herman Jr., as well as Herman The Original, had both be
en globetrotting moguls who pretty much ignored their offspring during the children’s formative years. Herman III was never able to begin any conversation unless he felt his listener either liked him or might learn to like him. The cops’ smiles were reassuring.

  While the detectives sat on the slate-gray sofa and put away two drinks each, and ate corned beef sandwiches from the comissary, he told them all he knew about his bachelor uncle’s last night on earth. This took one and a half minutes: “What the hell was my uncle doing at a bowling alley? My grandfather had a bowling alley in his house and Uncle Nigel never used it. Uncle Nigel told the houseboy he was going out for an hour and never came back.”

  Then he talked about himself. Which took forty-five minutes and might never have ended until he started thinking of jungle animals. “Do you dig karate, Al?” Herman III asked while Al Mackey wondered whether or not he should put away the third bourbon. It was only two o’clock.

  “Can’t say as I do, Herman. Actually, I’m in lousy shape.”

  “Yeah? That’s too bad. I run in all the ten K races. Actually, I do six miles a day. Pulse rate, fifty-two. This is a tough and dangerous business, Marty. You got to stay in shape. These fuckers go for your throat. Just last week some midget of an agent tried to hold me up for a million out front and ten points from the first dollar! It’s a fucking jungle, Marty. You can’t believe it. They’re animals!”

  “I can believe it, Herman,” Martin Welborn said, serenely sipping at his vodka.

  “Know what they say these days, Al?” Herman III said. “They say a million is scale! That’s what these fucking agents say. A million is scale. Can you see why we’re all starving to death in The Business these days? Nobody can make a dime anymore. Greedy pricks! What kind of gun you carry, Marty?”

  “Gun? Uh, just a four-inch Smith .38,” Martin Welborn shrugged.

  “That’s all?” Herman III was visibly disappointed. “I dig a .357 magnum.” Then he pointed his imaginary magnum and yelled, “Bloo-ee!” which startled the crap out of Al Mackey and made him spill the third drink.

  “I know how much your uncle Nigel was revered,” Martin Welborn said, “but can you think of anyone who might want to kill him?”

  “Ugh!” Herman III said. “That was so crude. My dad did a film about a killing like that. I never would. I don’t like that kind of violence. All that gore, I just don’t get off on it. I get stoked on clean shootings, not in the face. You know, Al, you have to get a really good makeup artist to do the blood bags or no one will buy it when you do a tight closeup of a .357 blowing holes. Audiences are sophisticated these days.”

  “I can believe it,” said Al Mackey.

  “See those naked little guys?” Herman III pointed to a bookshelf behind his desk holding three Oscars. “You don’t make the audience happy with bullshit bullet holes. That’s what it’s all about. See what I mean, Marty?”

  Both detectives nodded. Herman III was buying the drinks.

  His caps sparkled through the suntan. He was sure these guys liked him. He was sure they were okay guys. He would love to solve a murder case with okay guys like this. Imagine what everyone would say if he helped solve the murder of Uncle Nigel. It’d blow their minds. It blew his mind just thinking about it. Imagine having the killer of Uncle Nigel in his gunsights!

  “BLOOO-EEE!” Herman III yelled, this time scaring the living crap out of Al Mackey and Martin Welborn.

  “Listen, guys,” Herman III said, “a week from Friday my cousin Syd’s having a party at my granddad’s place in Holmby Hills. I got a killer of an idea! How about if you two come … undercover? Everyone in The Business is gonna be there. We might make a list of suspects. I can introduce you as, say, environmental lobbyists from Washington. The party’s to raise funds to save the pine trees from the greedy lumber interests.”

  The detectives promised to come to the party. Al Mackey wouldn’t have missed it after he heard that Herman III was inviting both his secretaries. Al Mackey was almost positive that Gilda Latour winked at him when she brought his fourth bourbon on the rocks.

  And actually, he had begun to have a warm feeling for the suntanned baby mogul. Herman III was obviously a big spender and might see to the detectives’ every need. Besides, he was kind of a sweet kid and had a voice like Donald Duck.

  5

  The Street Monsters

  When Al Mackey was to look back on the Nigel St. Claire case, he would ponder if it all had significance, those seemingly unrelated incidents which somehow link all men in the Endless Chain. Otherwise, how could the first break in the Nigel St. Claire case have come because a marine pissed in a clay pot?

  While Al Mackey and Martin Welborn were saying good-bye to Herman III, and while a marine was pissing in a clay pot, a Hollywood Boulevard fruit-hustler was lurking around the corner of McCadden Place observing that Tyrannosaurus was alive and well and strolling down the boulevard dressed in blue. He was referring, of course, to the street monster Buckmore Phipps, who was perfectly ecstatic today. The reason for Buckmore Phipps’ delight was strolling along beside him: his old partner, Gibson Hand. And the fruit-hustler had only to take one look at that bad news nigger to know it was time to go pushin. Actually, Buck-more Phipps never even noticed anymore that Gibson Hand was a nigger. Buckmore Phipps hated all niggers. He also hated greasers, slopeheads, kikes, judges, lawyers, fags, dopers, reporters, politicians in general, Democrats for sure, his brother and sisters, the chief of police, his ex-wife most assuredly, and all but a handful of other cops. Gibson Hand was one of the few people he didn’t hate. The reason he didn’t hate Gibson Hand is that Gibson Hand hated everybody.

  Buckmore Phipps had first met Gibson Hand when they had both been in on the famous siege wherein the Symbionese Liberation Army was cooked by a tear gas grenade that set fire to their house. Buckmore Phipps sensed a kindred spirit in Gibson Hand when Gibson Hand’s snarling brown face brightened as he strained to hear fat frying and screams of terror. Then, when Gibson Hand spoke to him, he was sure they were soul mates. The black cop turned to him and said, “Guess what S.L.A. stands for?”

  Before Buckmore Phipps could reply, Gibson Hand grabbed a bullhorn and became a police folk hero by shouting: “S.L.A. means So Long, Assholes!”

  Buckmore Phipps had decided then and there that he had to work with Gibson Hand. They tried a month together in a radio car and Buckmore Phipps was to enjoy some of his warmest memories.

  Gibson Hand sensed from the start that his partner had the stuff of which police folklore is made. He was proved correct on the night they found a dismembered corpse in the trash bin of a department store. The stock boy thought it was a mannequin at first, since it was missing its legs. Then he saw the legs behind the trash bin being eaten by rats. After he stopped retching he called the cops.

  The deceased was an eighteen-year-old cheerleader from Pomona who thought it was culturally enriching to hitchhike until she was picked up and hacksawed into pieces by one of the numerous motor maniacs who prowl the freeways for fun and profit. The girl’s corpse was drained of blood when Buckmore Phipps and Gibson Hand rolled up in their black-and-white. The stock boy, his blue eyes swimming, a hand holding his heaving stomach, pointed to the trash bin and tried to run back to the store.

  What happened next is anybody’s guess. What Gibson Hand said happened is what propelled Buckmore Phipps into song and legend. Though everyone knew that Gibson Hand was an even bigger liar than Buckmore Phipps, and that both of them would tell any lie to be enshrined in cop folklore, the story spread that when Buckmore Phipps saw the legless, bloodless remains of the cheerleader, he turned to the stock boy while baring at least twenty-eight donkey teeth and said, “Hey, kid, you like to boogie?”

  And then, according to Gibson Hand, Buckmore Phipps leaned inside and lifted the alabaster torso out of the bin, and holding the bloodless torso under the armpits with those hands big as shovels—the cadaver’s head lolling, tongue distended and blue as Buckmore Phipps’ uniform—the
giant street monster did a spritely Yul Brynner polka in the headlights of the police car, singing: “Shaaaaall we dance? (do do do) On a bright cloud of music shall we fly? (do do do) …”

  Gibson Hand said that both he and Buckmore Phipps collapsed into such a fit of laughter that they almost didn’t get the stiff back in the bin and the fainted stock boy slapped to his senses before the first detective cars arrived in the lonely parking lot.

  Buckmore Phipps and Gibson Hand finally transferred to Hollywood Division together. They began doing everything together. It was as close as either would ever come to love. They were meant for each other.

  But, as often happens, fate intervened to thwart the blossoming affection of the two street monsters. Gibson Hand received a long-awaited assignment to the surveillance detail. He was almost tearful when he said good-bye to Buckmore Phipps. He swore he would return some day. He explained to Buckmore Phipps how he just couldn’t pass up a chance to work surveillance. There was nowhere else in the Department where a guy could get a chance to kill people as often as you could by working surveillance. Buckmore Phipps promised Gibson Hand he’d never forget him. They punched each other’s shoulders and came close to an unmanly scene out there in the parking lot of Hollywood Station that night.

  Gibson Hand went to work surveillance and drew a hot assignment and got to ding some people his first week. They had put him in a big liquor store on Olympic Boulevard. The Oreo bandit teams were popular for a while. If they hit in a white neighborhood, the white bandit would be wheel man and his black partner would hide on the floor of the car. Vice versa in a black neighborhood. The liquor stores in the ghetto paid off better, but were riskier to take off because of the arsenals the proprietors maintained.