The Glitter Dome

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “The gook is my problem,” the Ferret said, flexing his bandaged hand. “His case ain’t closed in my book.”

  “Two weeks,” Al Mackey said, as the coffee burned his tongue and woke him up a bit. “Okay, we may as well forget about talking to Just Plain Bill Bozwell.”

  “You start on the Bentley yet?” Schultz asked.

  “We’re getting ready to.” Al Mackey sighed. “Must be a fleet of them around here.”

  “If we help solve the murder of a big shot, do we get interviewed on television?” the Ferret wondered.

  “I guarantee it,” Al Mackey said. Young cops. A sporting event. A game. Hi, Mom, it’s me!

  “We ain’t got much these days. Couple chickenshit domestic shootings. Want some, help?” Simon offered.

  “Do we?” Al Mackey said, showing the first painful smile of the hung-over morning.

  “We’re going back to that Thai restaurant and stake it out for a few hours this afternoon,” the Ferret said.

  “I thought you were supposed to be destroying all the dopers on Hollywood Boulevard,” said Schultz.

  “We’ll tell Whipdick Woofer the gook’s been positively snitched off by our number one anonymous informant as being the kingpin importer of China white straight down the Ho Chi Minh trail. Or some fantasy like that. He don’t think too clear anyway since somebody loaded his pipe.”

  The smog roared. The sun screamed. For a hangover victim it was a long ride to Oceanside, and neither of them had had three uninterrupted hours of sleep the night before. Loading up on aspirin, Al Mackey had at least quelled the thundering headache. He snoozed for half an hour while Martin Welborn drove to Camp Pendleton, the world’s second largest marine base.

  A telephone call made before leaving Hollywood had Pfc. Gladstone Cooley cooling his heels in the provost marshal’s office before the detectives arrived. He was wearing starched Marine Corps dungarees, bloused over his boots. His T-shirt was dead white against his golden unflawed skin. He was a recruiting poster marine.

  After the introduction to the lieutenant on duty the detectives were given private use of Pfc. Cooley, who was literally shaking in those spit-shined boots, not so much in fear of the cops as of the MPs, who didn’t cotton to any hint of entanglement with the civilian authorities, and figured they owned these young men, who were invariably guilty until proven innocent.

  “Is there anything we can get you, son?” Martin Welborn asked, “A cigarette? Something to drink?”

  “No, thank you, sir,” Gladstone Cooley said, sitting at rigid attention, his starched dungaree cap in his lap.

  “Do you think you could sit at ease?” Martin Welborn asked. “You’re not in any trouble, you know.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Gladstone Cooley said, opening his knees six inches.

  “Do you remember the day the two big uniformed cops came in the modeling studio?” Al Mackey began, as the kid’s cobalt-blue eyes roamed around the spartan military office. He settled on a file cabinet upon which rested an MP’s helmet, webbed belt and stick.

  “I remember the day, yes, sir.”

  “You gave the policeman your ID and liberty card, and you also gave him a piece of paper. It had a telephone number on it. Do you remember that number?”

  “Number? I usually have a few numbers with me, sir.” The young marine’s mouth was so dry he was clicking on all his consonants.

  “Would you like some water?” Martin Welborn asked.

  “No, sir,” Gladstone Cooley said. “I’m not sure which number, sir. I was real scared a those policemen, sir.”

  “Well, it was a number of a movie studio,” Al Mackey said. “Does that help?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I remember now. Those policemen were … monsters, sir.”

  “Do you still have that piece of paper?”

  “No, sir. I think the black policeman dropped it when they ran out the back door. Then I ran out the front door. So did all the artists. Those policemen looked like … like they should have spikes sticking out the sides a their necks. They were monsters, sir!”

  “Yes, yes, we know,” Al Mackey said. “Was that phone number written by you?”

  “No, sir. It was written down by some man I met. He gave it to me and asked if I had any interest in an acting job.”

  “Who was the man?”

  “I don’t know his name. He came to the modeling studio one day. I model sometimes at a different studio on Sunset. It was a similar kind a job. He just came in and saw me and asked me.”

  “What’s the name of the studio?”

  “I forget. Some gay guy named Malcolm owns it. Near Genesee.”

  “Gay guy?”

  “Yes, sir. But I’m not!”

  “Did the man say what kind of acting job it was?” Martin Welborn asked.

  “No, he just said it was a movie they was gonna start shooting in June. And they wanted to give me an audition and see was I suitable.”

  “Where was the movie being shot?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What was it about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it a porn flick?”

  “That’s what I figgered. I mean, there I was, a … model and all and …”

  “A gay porn flick?”

  “That’s what I asked him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said it was absolutely not a gay porn flick.”

  “Did you ask him if it was a hetero porn flick?”

  “I tried to find out things like that and how much they paid and all, but he told me just to call that number and I’d get the details. He said it was big money for three days’ work. He asked if I could get a few days’ liberty during the week and I said yes.”

  “And what was the name of the man you were supposed to call at that number?” Martin Welborn asked.

  “I forget,” the kid said. The marine was winding down, flipping his cap around his hand. “Let’s see, it was a Mister … Mister … I forget now. Fact is, I wasn’t sure about calling, more I thought about it. I don’t mind posing and all but I didn’t wanna be seen in some movie like that back in Minneapolis.”

  “Was the name Nigel St. Claire?” Al Mackey asked.

  “No, that wasn’t the name,” the kid answered.

  “That’s the name that was written on your piece of paper,” Martin Welborn said. “Those two policemen remember that.”

  “Yes”—the kid nodded—“I wrote that name down.”

  “Why did you write that name down?” Al Mackey asked.

  “When the guy gave me the number he said it was gonna be a good movie and that the phone number went to a famous studio. And when he mentioned the studio, I knew it was Mister St. Claire’s studio. Then I knew the movie couldn’t be too bad. So I thought about trying to call Mister St. Claire personal and see if he remembered me and find out could he put in a word for me if I auditioned.”

  “And how did you know Nigel St. Claire?” Al Mackey exclaimed.

  “Met him at a screening,” Gladstone Cooley said. “He was real nice. Paid me lots a compliments. When he heard I was a marine, he said he made three movies about marines. Said the Marines was his favorite branch a service. Said I was the best-looking marine he ever saw.”

  “Did he ask you to be in a movie?”

  “No, we just talked for a few minutes. I told him I was a part-time model and I’d like to be an actor, but he just smiled and said hang in there, something like that.”

  “Did he give you a card? A phone number?”

  “No, that was all he said. Then he just walked away and talked to lots a other people. It was after a private screening at the Directors Guild.”

  “Who were you with?”

  “I was invited by a man, directs television shows. He wouldn’t like me to say his name. He’s married.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Well, his wife might not like to know he took me there.” Then the kid’s room-temp
erature I.Q. clicked on. “He’s not gay either. We’re just friends.”

  “When the man came to see you at the modeling studio, did he mention Mister St. Claire?” Martin Welborn asked.

  “No, sir. He just said he heard from some artist that I was a good prospect for a movie.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Six feet, maybe. Gray hair, I think. In his late thirties. Moustache. Nice-looking guy. Wore aviator-type glasses.”

  “Think very carefully, son,” Martin Welborn said. “Did you mention anything to Mister St. Claire about where you could be located?”

  “I told him I was stationed at Camp Pendleton.”

  “You told him you modeled. Could you have mentioned Malcolm’s studio to Mister St. Claire that night?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you mention any possible way that you could be reached other than at Camp Pendleton? I mean, you were thinking about an acting job, weren’t you? Meeting an important movie man like Mister St. Claire?”

  “No. I just mentioned I get jobs from Lonnie’s Casting Service in case he ever needed my type as an extra.”

  “Good. You mentioned Lonnie’s Casting Service,” Martin Welborn said patiently. “Now, does Lonnie’s Casting Service know how to contact you if someone should call?”

  “They refer any calls to Malcolm’s modeling studio,” the kid said.

  “Thank you, my boy,” Martin Welborn sighed.

  “Oh, I get it!” the kid said. “Mister St. Claire coulda told the guy who came to see me to call Lonnie’s. And Lonnie’s coulda referred him to Malcolm’s!”

  Good-bye, America, Al Mackey thought. Bring back the draft or I’m taking my police pension and highballing it to Cabo San Lucas. Or points south. Before the Russians find out.

  “Can you tell us anything more about the guy who contacted you and gave you the number?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay, son, you can go back to your company. We’ll explain to the provost marshal that it was just routine and you’re not in any trouble.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The kid beamed. “I hope Mister St. Claire’s not in no trouble? He was real nice.”

  “You don’t read the papers, son?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Watch TV?”

  “Dukes of Hazzard. That’s my favorite.”

  “Mister St. Claire’s not in any trouble,” Al Mackey said. “Not anymore.”

  “If you think of anything else, you call us, will you?” Martin Welborn said, giving the marine a business card.

  “Yes, sir,” the marine said. Then he looked puzzled, and as he was turning to go, he said, “You mean if I think of anything else about Mister St. Claire? Or the guy in the Bentley?”

  “Bentley!” Al Mackey exclaimed.

  “Yeah, some a the artists called me when he was driving away. Big black Bentley. They said he’s gotta be real and I oughtta call that number. Maybe I shoulda?”

  “Son, you keep our business card,” Martin Welborn said. “If you think of the name of the man you were supposed to contact at the studio for the acting job, you call. Okay?”

  “Got it.” Pfc. Gladstone Cooley beamed. “Bye, sir! Bye to you too, sir!”

  While Martin Welborn drove and Al Mackey slept during the trip back to Los Angeles, the Weasel and Ferret were both asleep on the roof overlooking the Thai restaurant on Melrose Avenue. And while the two narcs slept a black Bentley pulled up in front of the restaurant. A handsome man in aviator glasses got out, looked in the door of the little restaurant, got back in his Bentley, and left. When the narcs awoke at two o’clock that afternoon, they were covered with pigeon shit.

  But while Al Mackey and the Weasel and Ferret slept away the afternoon, the street monsters, who didn’t give a damn about the Nigel St. Claire murder case and wished the detectives would stop picking on them and making them work overtime thereby missing the real action at The Glitter Dome, accidentally found Jackin Jill.

  It was a day like all days the way it began. Buckmore Phipps told horror stories to Gibson Hand to get him jazzed up for another run at the boulevard. It was just like before a game when Buckmore Phipps had been a semipro defensive tackle.

  The first horror story involved the latest do-gooder scheme he’d heard about on the six o’clock news, the idea being to compel criminal offenders to make restitution to their victims and to the community where their crimes were committed.

  “See, Gibson, they don’t want these poor dudes rottin away in the slam when they’re not dangerous. They call them property offenders. You know, like all these daytime burglars who ain’t dangerous till a housewife happens to come home with her arms full a groceries. When the dude’s haulin her goodies off in a pilla case and then he sees she’s under seventy-five and she’s scared and suddenly this guy who ain’t dangerous gets a hard-on cause he’s such a punk he can’t usually scare nobody. And she gets his gun up her cunt cause he discovers it’s fun to overpower somebody. But up till then, he was never dangerous cause no housewife ever walked in on him before.”

  “How they gonna force him to pay back what he stole?”

  “Get this. They charge the cons five dollars a day for room and board and get them jobs to pay back victims and the state! Can you dig it? They rake leaves for three bucks an hour and the state takes a few bucks a day for restitution and then they can go out every night and steal three hundred bucks’ worth a loot to buy new Sevilles which they keep stashed at the girlfriend’s house where they also have fine threads and wristwatches and color TVs and enough dope to keep momma happy. And they still get meals and a room and a brand-new leaf rake for five dollars a day!”

  “I’m in the wrong job,” Gibson Hand said. “You too. Course you ain’t a spook. They might not let you in these programs so easy, you turned crooked.”

  That startled Buckmore Phipps. Once in a while Gibson Hand said something to remind him that Gibson was a nigger. And suddenly Buckmore Phipps came to the realization that he hated white people nearly as much as blacks! Maybe, in a certain sense, everybody is a nigger! It was the most frightening philosophical insight he’d ever had.

  “Gotta take a leak,” he said shakily, driving the radio car into a service station.

  Buckmore Phipps got out from behind the wheel and went to the men’s room door. Locked! Every gas station restroom in town was locked. Afraid they’ll steal the goddamn toilet paper, no doubt.

  “Hey, kid, go get the key to this shithouse,” he said to a teenager who was gassing up a Pontiac and cleaning the rear window.

  “Just a second, Officer,” the kid said.

  “I gotta piss, boy. Get the key or I’ll shoot the fuckin lock off!” Buckmore Phipps was in a foul mood thinking about the terrible possibility that everyone was a nigger. Even him!

  “You might have a couple fruits locked theirselves in there,” Gibson Hand noted. “You take a piss in these toilets, you gotta hold your cock in one hand, your stick in the other.”

  After the kid came hustling back with the key, Buckmore Phipps found there were no fruits locked inside. It was the day that Teddy Kennedy announced that he might withdraw from the presidential race. If there was one thing worse than a Democrat, it was a liberal Democrat.

  Impulsively he said, “Gimme the hand mike, Gibson.”

  The radio car was parked just a few feet from the door, so the coiled mike cord stretched from the car into the restroom. Buck-more Phipps pushed the send button on the hand mike and flushed the urinal three times, sending a whoosh of water crashing into the headset of an operator on the complaint board downtown who cried: “What the hell! Did some cop drive off the Venice boardwalk?”

  Buckmore Phipps flushed the urinal again and again, and finally he made an announcement into the mike: “So long, Teddy!”

  “Buckmore, you shouldn’t oughtta get into politics so heavy,” Gibson Hand said. “It ain’t good for your head.”

  Buckmore Phipps was unstoppable in an election year, but
done with politicking for the moment, he proceeded to roger a radio call to Selma Avenue, where two male prostitutes were duking it out over the favors of a customer in a white Jaguar who couldn’t decide which boy he wanted for twenty dollars.

  The street monsters didn’t like fights. Unless they were in them. It made them nervous to see all the sissy punches and flabby slaps and face scratching that went on. Not just among Selma Avenue fruits but even in barroom brawls where people were supposed to be better at it. The fact is, most people liked to fight like baseball players. Lots of show and nobody gets hurt. It always made the street monsters want to jump in and kick and gouge and kneedrop and arm strangle and do all the other things that worked.

  After a few minutes of watching, they got bored with the two fruits bloodying each other’s noses. The john in the Jag noticed the black-and-white and said adios, roaring away.

  “Hey girls, knock it off,” Gibson Hand said without even bothering to get out of the car. “You don’t knock it off, I’m gonna tear your lips off and put you right outta business.”

  “We ain’t got no shakes yet today,” Buckmore Phipps reminded him. “Maybe we better write a couple F.I.’s?”

  “Okay,” Gibson Hand sighed, and both street monsters got out of the car to do a little paper work and keep the sergeant happy. They were writing field interrogation cards when a station wagon drove by and slowed.

  The driver put his head out of the window and said, “You don’t have to allow yourself to be detained unless there’s probable cause!”

  “Who’s that?” Gibson Hand said to the two combatants, who were wiping their bloody noses.

  “Never saw him before.” One fighter shrugged.

  “Nobody I know,” said the other.

  Then the car stopped and the man got out. He carried a clipboard. He was bald on top but the fringe around his head hung below his ears. He wore a crisp safari jacket and gold-rimmed sunglasses. He started writing on the clipboard.

  “I’d like your names, Officers.”

  “What for?” Buckmore Phipps demanded.