The Glitter Dome

by Joseph Wambaugh

  Al Mackey was wondering if Marty had spotted the skater, when another fifty-five-year-old stringbean flew by Al Mackey’s face in a russet-colored, Ted Nugent wild-man wig that trailed behind him like flames. Al Mackey realized that the russet rover could also be bald under there. It was futile.

  When Al Mackey got up close to the railing and away from the obliterating cloud of marijuana smoke and the wobbly tits next door, there were dozens of them who could be Mr. Wheels. Super-thin is in. Everyone was nearly as skinny as Al Mackey. After having sand kicked in his face all these years, he was in style. As long as he spent his life in Hollywood, U.S.A.

  Then he saw Marty waving at him from across the gallery. They went up to the snack bar and had a cup of coffee and agreed it was hopeless.

  “I asked the manager and at least a dozen of the hottest skaters if they knew Mr. Wheels,” Martin Welborn said. “No luck.”

  “I talked to a few who knew a ‘Wheels’ or a ‘Wheely’ and even one who knew a ‘Mr. Wheels,’ but he didn’t come close to the description,” Al Mackey said.

  “You want to go bowling?” Martin Welborn smiled.

  “Marty, you don’t wanna start hanging around that bowling alley parking lot every night, do you?”

  “Just a couple nights?” Martin Welborn said. “One night, maybe?”

  “For what? It’s a long shot that Mr. Wheels even saw anything.”

  “There might be a connection. He’s the only thing living and breathing in that parking lot at that time of night. Except for Nigel St. Claire on one night.”

  “We haven’t determined for sure that Nigel St. Claire was living and breathing when he arrived in that parking lot,” Al Mackey reminded him.

  “You’re going to have a very tough time proving he committed suicide.” Martin Welborn grinned.

  “I’m working on it! I’m working on it!” Al Mackey said, as the girl with the tank top wiggled by. “Jesus, let’s get outa here, Marty, before I go bonzo and rent me a pair of skates and go down in flames the first trip around the floor chasing some coked-out cookie in cutoffs!”

  “Okay, let’s go home, my boy,” Martin Welborn said. “But let’s just stop by the parking lot for a few minutes.”

  “Christ.”

  “Just for a few minutes? We might get lucky.”

  A few minutes turned into half an hour. And then an hour, as Al Mackey knew it would. They sat in the dark of the detective car and watched the empty parking lot.

  “You know, Marty, you gotta stop taking police work so seriously,” he said. “After all, you’ve got twenty years on the job. You’re supposed to know better.”

  “Nineteen years and eleven months,” Martin Welborn corrected him.

  “I’m ready to go home. I’ve had it.”

  “You’ve got a weekend to recuperate,” Martin Welborn said.

  “What’re you doing this weekend?”

  “Oh, I think I’ll just take it easy this weekend,” Martin Welborn said. “Nice and easy.”

  And though he did not know it at this moment, that was as far from the truth as a telephone call could take him. The telephone call would make it the most agonizing weekend of his recent life. It would be worse than the weekend when Paula moved out.

  They saw the skater enter the parking lot from Gower Street. Or rather they saw a shadow moving faster than a man on foot could move. Both detectives got out of the car. The shadow moved closer and it was not shaped like Al Mackey and Mr. Wheels. The shadow was shaped like Orson Welles.

  The rotund skater did a few figure eights and puffed back out onto Gower, disappearing at Hollywood Boulevard.

  “Let’s go, Marty!” Al Mackey said, and Martin Welborn reluctantly nodded.

  But when they arrived at the station Martin Welborn got an idea. “One minute, Al. Hang around just for a minute, okay?”

  “One minute. If I don’t get to The Glitter Dome before eleven o’clock on Friday, Wing gets nervous. Guys like Buckmore Phipps are more dangerous to steal from.”

  “Just give me a minute,” Martin Welborn said, leaving Al Mackey in the empty squadroom, where he began putting away his cheap plastic briefcase and making the closing entries in the log. He was about to write their time in the sign-out sheet when Martin Welborn came running into the squadroom with that kid grin of his, which Al Mackey knew would make Wing very unhappy, forcing him to steal from somebody else tonight.

  “Look at this, Al!” he said, showing him two F.I. cards, forcing Al Mackey to admit that the cops who were called to tell “Mr. Wheels” to keep the noise down weren’t lazy pricks after all.

  “I don’t think it would’ve occurred to me,” Al Mackey admitted.

  The skater’s name was Griswold Weils. He had no moniker of Mr. Wheels. It was just the natural mistake of skaters who, during casual nocturnal introductions while flying backwards through life in a bowling alley parking lot, thought he said Wheels, a natural handle for a skater. Hence, Mr. Wheels.

  They found Griswold Weils in a likely place: his apartment on Catalina Street, as correctly listed on the F.I. card. It was a typical Hollywood two-roomer which said that the unemployment compensation had nearly run out. He was indeed bald, as skinny as Al Mackey, and was exceedingly agitated at having Friday Night at the Movies interrupted by two cops who dropped in to talk about a murder. In fact, he was scared shitless and sat reeking of fear on the daybed while the detectives straddled kitchen chairs.

  “I woulda called the cops, if I knew something to help ya!” Griswold Weils gnawed on smoke-brown knuckle calluses. “I never saw a body, honest I didn’t. If I’d gone to the bowling alley that night and skated over Mister St. Claire’s corpse, don’t you know I’d a called the cops!”

  ‘You read about it?” Martin Welborn asked.

  “A course I read about it,” Griswold Weils said. “And I saw it on TV and everything.”

  “Why are you so scared, Griswold?” Al Mackey asked.

  “I’m scared a cops.”

  “How many times you been in jail?” Al Mackey asked.

  “A couple times. Nothing much. Never in prison or anything.”

  “What were you arrested for?”

  “I did some … photography once. Twice.”

  “What? Porn?” Al Mackey asked. “Kiddy porn?”

  “Yeah. Vice nailed me both times. I quit for good. Never made no money at it anyway.”

  “What do you do for a living?” Martin Welborn asked.

  “Cinematographer. I used to be. Made a few movies. Real movies, I mean. Features. Did some television. Got drinking too much.”

  “Is that when you got involved making kiddy porn?”

  “Twice,” Griswold Weils groaned. “Twice. I got busted both times. It was the booze. I been off the stuff for over a year. I been into skating. I discovered a talent I didn’t know I had. At the age a fifty-two I discovered I’m a flyer! You should see me on skates. It’s changed my life. I’m trying to get back into television. I was wonderful with a camera. I did three features! I was on my way before the booze got me. I’m making a comeback.”

  When they reek of fear, a detective runs a bluff: “How well did you know Nigel St. Claire?” Martin Welborn asked suddenly.

  “Officer! I swear to you. I never met Mister St. Claire in my whole life. I swear to you!”

  “You’re lying,” Al Mackey said. And then, embellishing Marty’s bluff, he added, “Partner, I think it’s time to advise Mister Weils of his constitutional rights.”

  “For what?” Griswold Weils asked. “For what?”

  “We have to take you to the station,” Al Mackey said. “We’re investigating a murder. We have a witness who says that you know something about it. You’re lying, so maybe you know a lot about it.”

  “Witness? What witness?”

  “Your mind’s going, Griswold,” Al Mackey said. “You think you’re me. You’re asking me the questions now.”

  And then Griswold Weils got up off the daybed and sat down aga
in. Got up and sat down yet another time. He looked as though he could skate right through the window. It was easy to imagine a man like Griswold Weils flying blissfully through empty parking lots in the black of night, outdistancing all the goblins chasing him in and out of bottles. He reeked of fear.

  “Stop … your … lying!” Al Mackey said, more confidently now.

  “I don’t wanna go to the station,” Griswold Weils said. “I last seen Mister St. Claire, oh, maybe five years ago. About the time I shot my last feature. I never did see him when I was shooting TV commercials.”

  “Why don’t you just tell us everything and you’ll feel lots better and you can catch the end of the movie after we go,” Martin Welborn said, getting up and turning off the portable set that Griswold Weils must have gotten in a Western Avenue junk shop.

  “Well, I … it’s possible I talked to him recently on the phone.”

  “It’s possible you talked to him,” Al Mackey said.

  “I talked to somebody.” Griswold Weils was doing enough eye blinking, lip chewing, fist clenching, to make even the detectives fidgety. “What did the witness say about me?”

  “Let’s just skate on down to the station,” Al Mackey said. “You can talk plainer there. In a little room. No windows. No distractions.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Griswold Weils cried. “I mean I talked to somebody on the phone who might a been Nigel St. Claire. Kee-rist, I don’t even remember what Mister St. Claire’s voice sounded like! Five years since I heard his voice. I only made the one feature at his studio. I was at the wrap party when he made us a speech. He came on the set maybe two, three times because it was a twelve-million-dollar show and that was a big feature five years ago. Today, they blow twenty million like I blow a deuce at the two dollar window. The business is ruined by the kid wonders.”

  “Griswold, did the person who could have been Nigel St. Claire telephone you here at your apartment?” Martin Welborn asked.

  “Yes … no … kee-rist, I’m all mixed up! First, I got a letter through my guild and they forwarded it to me. No letterhead. Some so-called producer called himself … let’s see, Mister Gold.”

  “What’s your guild called?”

  “The International Photographer’s Union, local six five nine.”

  “Did you save the letter?” Al Mackey asked.

  “No, then … let’s see, the call came about three days later. I was here in the afternoon when someone called. He said he had a job for me. He told me that my work was the finest he’d seen in over forty years in the business. He said he was Mister Gold.”

  “You said you once heard Nigel St. Claire’s voice five years ago,” Martin Welborn said.

  “Yeah, at the wrap party for that one show I shot at his studio. No way I can say if his voice sounded like Mister Gold. Five years?”

  “What else did he say?”

  “He said he heard I had some hard times and he talked about the hard times.”

  “What did he say exactly?” Martin Welborn asked.

  Griswold Weils had stopped the blinking and biting, but he was still squirming around on the clammy day bed, sliding in and out of his ragged bedroom slippers. “He talked about, you know, hearing I had some troubles with booze and that he hoped I licked it and I told him yes. And then he mentioned, you know, the troubles I had with the law.”

  “He talked about your arrests for making kiddy porn,” Al Mackey said.

  “He knew. Course, lots a people knew. It was in the papers. Kept me from getting some jobs. I was drinking so much then I didn’t know anamorphic from anaconda. Fact, I think I saw a few snakes one time looking through a lens. Roller skating saved my life.”

  “What was the job he had for you?” Al Mackey asked.

  “He never did say. He said he wanted to talk to me about it in person. Okay, I figured it might be kiddy porn but I can’t even pay my rent!”

  “Did he give you an appointment?”

  “No, he said he’d meet me somewhere and talk about it.”

  “Where?”

  “I told him my address but he said he didn’t want to come here. Then I … I told him, let’s meet in the bowling alley parking lot across the street where I skate most every night.”

  “You met the night that Nigel St. Claire was found dead,” Martin Welborn said, and there was no concealing the excitement now. Even Al Mackey was catching it.

  “I swear to you I never saw nobody! I showed up just like the telephone voice said, after the bowling alley closed. I skated in and nobody was there. Living or dead, nobody was there. There was no car there. I listened to my radio and skated, oh, maybe half an hour and nobody showed up. I thought maybe it was some kind a sick joke. I just figured some prick was playing a sick joke and kicking me when I was down.”

  “Who would kick you when you were down?” Martin Welborn asked.

  “Nobody I can think of,” Griswold Weils said. “I thought maybe Pete Flowers, the guy I shot the porn shows for. I go to jail and he gets mad about it cause he lost some money. But that don’t make sense. Pete ain’t been around for a while. And then Mister St. Claire’s body is found the next day! And I figure, my God! what if it was Nigel St. Claire on the phone who made that date with me? Or what if he was with the guy who called? But I thought the best thing for me is to shut up and mind my own business cause I don’t know nothing about it anyway, and I’m just getting my chance to get back in The Business. I might get to shoot a commercial next month, everything works out right.”

  “Would Nigel St. Claire be involved in kiddy porn?”

  “No way!” Griswold Weils said. “For what? Mister St. Claire is a big man. A millionaire! What’s he need with those kind a problems? He could buy a whole boatload a kiddy porn he wanted it for himself. Is a man like Mister St. Claire gonna risk his position to make a few bucks in kiddy porn? You believe that, how about him dealing dope? Maybe he’s gonna start running opium outa Pakistan? Mister St. Claire? Does it make sense?”

  “Not much,” Martin Welborn agreed. “So what do you suppose he was doing in the parking lot?”

  “I can’t figure it!” Griswold Weils cried. “All I can do is shoot movies and skate! He wanted skating lessons, he could buy his own rink! I can’t figure it. So I decided to stay out of it. I never been involved in anything like this and I’m too old to start. But you know what? I never went back to that bowling alley parking lot to skate. I just can’t go there and think about Mister St. Claire laying there like they described it in the papers. And whoever killed him, I don’t want to know nothing about, or have him know about me. Please don’t let anybody know I talked to you!”

  “You must be curious to know what Mister Gold wanted,” Al Mackey said.

  “Not that curious,” Griswold Weils said. “But I’m curious who the witness is that said I was connected with Mister St. Claire’s dead body. Who told you I was there that night?”

  “Tell me,” said Martin Welborn, “when you got in trouble making the kiddy porn …”

  “They were seventeen years old, for chrissake!” Griswold Weils said. “One a those sluts looked thirty! Kiddies, my …”

  “When you got arrested,” Martin Welborn continued, “who did the technical work with you? I mean, when you make films don’t you need lighting men and so forth?”

  “A gaffer. I used to be a gaffer before I got into photography. Then I was a focus puller, then a camera operator. I was even a grip for a while in the old days. Hell, you don’t need a real crew to make the kind a shit that got me busted. I did everything. We just rented the camera and lights. The so-called director was a pimp. My hands were shaking so much from the booze you could see the boom mike in every frame. I did terrible work. I’m glad they busted me both times, tell you the truth. Even without my real name on the credits I wouldn’t want anybody to see that kind a bad photography. If I shot real kiddy porn I’d want it to be right. I’m an artist. First, last, always.”

  “An artist,” Al Mackey sai
d.

  “And that’s all I know about Mister St. Claire’s death. Now can I turn the movie back on? I used to work with the director of photography who shot it. I’m making a comeback in The Business, I can promise you. I’m coming back.”

  “On roller skates,” Al Mackey said.

  And when both detectives got ready to leave, Griswold Weils said, “Am I ordered not to leave town?” which caused Al Mackey and Martin Welborn to look painfully at each other.

  “How much money do you have, Griswold?” Al Mackey asked.

  “Now? Oh, three or four bucks, I guess. Unemployment check comes next week.”

  “Well, unless you take a bus, I guess that wouldn’t get you past the city limits, would it?” Al Mackey said.

  Martin Welborn, ever the more compassionate soul, satisfied the cinematographer’s B-movie needs: “Griswold, we’d like to advise you not to leave town,” he said, and Griswold Weils nodded grimly.

  At last, Al Mackey thought, he was going to get to The Glitter Dome after all. He hoped Amazing Grace wasn’t there. She might tell everyone about his miserable performance, unworthy of even a B movie. Maybe he should take up roller skating and try for a comeback.

  The call, which would make the coming weekend the worst in Martin Welborn’s life since Paula Welborn walked out for good, was waiting at the desk when the detectives started toward the deserted squadroom. The young uniformed policeman at the desk said, “Sergeant Welborn, I got a message for you.”

  The message was from Sgt. Hal Dickey of Wilshire Detectives. It simply said, “Call me as soon as you can. Dickey.”

  “Wonder what Hal Dickey has for us?” Martin Welborn said.

  “Let’s split,” Al Mackey said. “Call him Monday.”

  “It says to call as soon as I can. Maybe it’s urgent.”

  “Okay, okay, you sign us out. I’ll call Dickey.”

  “All right, my lad,” Martin Welborn said. “You’ll get to The Glitter Dome before it closes. Stop worrying.”