The Glitter Dome

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “Letting him use my phone number. An answering service, I was! Dumb! Dumb! You do dumb things, you’re between shows and need a few bucks.”

  “Where did you meet him?” Martin Welborn asked.

  “Lloyd?”

  “Yeah, Lloyd,” Al Mackey said.

  “Let’s see, Lloyd. Oh yeah, I met him at that little joint just outside the main gate. Everybody eats there. I figured he worked on the lot.”

  “Who introduced you?”

  “Nobody. He asked me if he could share my table. I was alone. We talked.”

  “About what?”

  “Nothing. Baseball. Politics. And movies. That’s when he laid his trip on me.”

  “What trip is that?”

  “He said he would love to pretend he was a movie producer and be able to have some friends call a big studio like this one and ask for a production company. I said, that’s nice, and then he says he’d just like to be able to do this for a few weeks and would I be interested in playing let’s-pretend-Lloyd’s-a-producer for five hundred bucks?”

  “And you said yes?”

  “I said no. What the hell, I says. You wanna impress some friends, buy them flowers.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then he says somebody told him I was between shows and he’d give me a thousand bucks if I just took calls for him for three weeks. Maybe ten calls, no more. And tell the callers that Lloyd would meet them when and wherever they said.”

  “And then you’d call Lloyd?” Al Mackey asked.

  “No way,” Ellis Goodman said, with a tic starting to pull at his mouth. “No way. Whatever he done, I don’t wanna know. And I don’t wanna know him. He’d call me as late as seven o’clock in the evening cause that’s when I leave. Movie people come in late but we stay late. We work long hours in The Business, I can tell you. It ain’t all bouquets and blow jobs, like you probably think.”

  “And you’d give him his messages,” Martin Welborn said.

  “That’s right. Some callers were boys, some were girls. You could tell they were all young people. And then I guess he could tell them he was a big-shot movie producer with Sapphire Productions and give them a number of a major studio, and like that. And that’s all I know, fellas, and I gotta go home now.”

  “Did you ever see him with anyone else?” Al Mackey asked, as Ellis Goodman opened the door for the detectives.

  “Nope. I just saw him that time at the restaurant and once again when he had me meet him out on the street by the front gate when he gave me the thousand in cash.”

  “Did you see his car?”

  “Yeah. He drove a black Bentley.”

  “Did you know Nigel St. Claire?” Martin Welborn asked.

  “Sure, everybody knew Nigel. If they been around The Business long as me.”

  “Did you see him socially?”

  “Naw, once in a while I’d run into him on the lot. I worked on lots a pictures a his over the years.”

  “Did he know you were between shows?”

  “Everybody knows I’m between shows,” Ellis Goodman sighed.

  As Ellis Goodman was locking the door and the detectives walked to their car parked in front of Sapphire Productions, Martin Welborn turned and said, “Do you have any idea why Lloyd would pay one thousand dollars to play producer?”

  “Of course I know!” Ellis Goodman said.

  “Why?”

  “Blow jobs! What else? Blow jobs!”

  15

  The Screaming Cowbirds

  The rest of the week was slogging through it, the ultimate test of any detective being endurance. They learned that there were more than three hundred homes in Trousdale Estates and that half of the residents didn’t know the names of the property owner next door, let alone who might be leasing or renting at any given time. And, being part of the show business “beaten track,” as the realtor called it, property often changed hands every time someone was “between shows.” It was a transient life on the beaten track and their real property was lost like their chips at Caesar’s Palace.

  The Bentley search was also petering out. The California Department of Motor Vehicles did not have the capability to supply computer runs by make of car. They’d checked virtually every leasing agency in metropolitan Los Angeles which might lease such an expensive car, with not a single lead to follow up. Just Plain Bill Bozwell, a.k.a. Lloyd the Producer, was possibly borrowing someone’s car. Perhaps the car and house belonged together, Martin Welborn reasoned.

  Schultz and Simon had renewed interest in the case and offered to handle the everyday cuttings, shootings and sluggings for Martin Welborn and Al Mackey, to free them for the Nigel St. Claire investigation.

  The Ferret, bonzo over the fantasy of finding the Vietnamese partner of Just Plain Bill, had leaped into the case with both motorcycle boots, and drawn the Weasel with him. He could recite from memory every piece of information on Bill Bozwell from L.A.P.D. records, the F.B.I., C.I.I., and even what he had learned from the U.S. Army.

  Bill Bozwell had been arrested nine times, twice in Los Angeles County and seven times in Orange County, where he was born and raised. All arrests came after his return from Vietnam in 1971. He was thirty-four years old, and had served a total of two years and ten months behind jail and prison walls. His specialty was armed robbery and extortion but he was also an occasional hash dealer and once he had been caught inside a two-million-dollar home in Newport Beach, stealing gold coins and jade sculpture. He had no known accomplices, and was regarded as a loner, both in prison and out.

  During the last three arrests he listed his occupation as actor, but his name was unknown at any of the local guilds. His mug shots were downtown at Parker Center awaiting an examination by the L.A.P.D.’s foremost expert on pornography who was returning from vacation next Monday. He would determine if Bill Bozwell was an “actor” he had seen in the voluminous porn material the Department had confiscated in recent years.

  In short, Just Plain Bill was a hoodlum, with a tendency toward violent crime when profitable. And even if they knew where to find him while he was out on bail, it was virtually certain that, if he agreed to talk to them about his life as Lloyd the producer, his reason for it would probably be that put forth by Ellis Goodman—blow jobs.

  Martin Welborn said if there was a connection between Bill Bozwell and the Nigel St. Claire murder case, it might be in that house in Trousdale Estates, if they could only find it. Al Mackey said the hell with Just Plain Bill and the house in Trousdale Estates and the Nigel St. Claire murder case because tomorrow night was the party.

  “What party?” Martin Welborn asked.

  “Kee-rist, Marty. The party. Herman St. Claire invited us to a party.”

  “Oh, that party,” Martin Welborn said.

  “Yeah, that party! You mean you’re not going?”

  “I hadn’t planned to.”

  “You what? A real show-biz, honest-to-God, A-rated Hollywood party? The kind where all the girls look like those sultry animals on the Bain de Soleil television commercials? The kind where they look at your hundred-ninety-dollar Gucci loafers and say, ‘Glad you came casual, honey.’ That kind a party!”

  “I really hadn’t thought it would help us with the case, but …”

  “Screw the case. Let’s go and do whatever they do there!”

  “Might not hurt to meet some of Nigel St. Claire’s associates,” Martin Welborn said.

  “Thank God,” Al Mackey sighed. “I thought your mind had snapped.”

  “My mind hasn’t snapped,” Martin Welborn smiled.

  There were nine female parking attendants in black satin jackets and jogging shoes careening around the narrow streets of Holmby Hills when Al Mackey and Martin Welborn arrived at nine P.M. (fashionably late, Al Mackey insisted). It looked like the parking lot of an OPEC conference in Caracas. There were nothing but Rolls-Royces, Clenets, Mercedes, several little Volantes at one hundred thou per pop, and yes, three Bentleys (none black), lining the street o
n both sides, clear to the horizon. Martin Welborn was already thinking about searching the side streets for a black Bentley when a perky valette took one look at the detective car and said, “You guys part a the security, pull in the service entrance.”

  Although Al Mackey was miffed at not being treated like a guest, Martin Welborn grinned and said it was a good idea to keep their car available. This was show biz, after all. Maybe somebody would jump up and confess like in all the movie murder mysteries. The valettes kept several crates of red roses handy to give to each departing female guest, and the detectives parked behind the rose mountain.

  There was half an acre under tent, in addition to the entire house that was available to roaming guests. The detectives guessed there were several security officers there, probably off-duty policemen. At the moment, a twelve-piece mariachi band blared away while two hundred guests mingled.

  Herman III wasn’t hard to find. He stood near the front of the fifty-foot single row of tables heaped with crystal and candle, canapé and caviar. With the trained eyes of investigators the cops spotted the nearest bar in a hurry. A Mexican barman in a white jacket and bow tie was pouring Dom Perignon as though it was plain old Ripple, sloshing it all over the bar as he tried to keep up with the crush of drinkers pressing in on him. There was another bar at the far end of the dance floor and yet another at the back of the tent, and they all seemed to be just as busy, so the detectives lined up at the first one to get their whiskey and vodka. There were none of the bare-chested waiters in bowlers, white gloves and suspenders at this party. This was Old Hollywood.

  Then they paid their respects to the host, who had forsaken his on-the-job Brooks Brothers three-piece and was resplendent in cream-on-cream with a thin antique-fabric nutmeg necktie for contrast. He looked like an eggnog.

  Herman III was talking to a Famous Singing Star who had just arrived in a green sweat suit to match her Rolls-Royce. On the sweat shirt was crudely stenciled front and back the name of the movie which had just wrapped that very day. Everyone said the sweat suit was a darling idea and the paparazzi on the street took more pictures of her than of anyone else.

  At first, Herman St. Claire III stared at Al Mackey blankly when he held out his hand. “Mackey and Welborn, L.A.P.D.? Remember?”

  “Oh sure!” he cried. “Sure. Al and …”

  “Marty.”

  “Of course! So glad you could come! I’d like you to meet …”

  But the Famous Singer had boogied as soon as she heard who they were. They weren’t like the cops at home in Queens. These L.A. cops would bust their mother if she snorted one spoon. And the Famous Singer had a Bull Durham tobacco bag around her neck under her sweat shirt clearly stenciled: “Nose Candy!” The bag was full of cocaine that cost $150 a gram and was guaranteed to be quality stuff that wouldn’t embarrass her at a nice party. Everyone who saw it said it was a darling idea too. No way was she going to let some cop confiscate it.

  “Listen, I’ll introduce you around if there’s anyone you wanna meet. Meanwhile you boys help yourself and mingle.” Then, as an afterthought, Herman III said, “Oh, by the way, you getting anywhere on my uncle’s case?”

  “Not much happening yet,” Al Mackey said.

  “No? Too bad. Listen, you fellas mingle.”

  And so they mingled, drifting from one group to another, mostly admiring the splendid women who had blithely regressed three hundred years. There were miles of ruffles. Tiers of them. Ruffles on hip-belted silk crepe. Twice-ruffled silk jackets over twice-ruffled silk blouses. There were even ruffles on the tailored coatdresses.

  And the exotica: jodhpurs, knickers, and gold gold gold. Twenty-four-karat dresses glittered like mother lode. Headdresses reflected most of the subcontinent of Asia and the entire continent of Africa, twenty-four karats from the top of the head to the tip of the toe. There were enchanting girls in gold brocade culottes and gold-encrusted jerseys. All in all, it made Al Mackey think of munchkins and monkeys and rainbows. Fabulous!

  He saw a bizarre art deco costume of graphic zigzag, red line on white, done in folds and wraps and ending up with a puffy mini over leggings. It was topped off by a hat-helmet with simulated strands of gold brocade hair. And then he recognized the girl: Tiffany Charles!

  Martin Welborn began nibbling at one of the ordinary items on the mile-long table, baby shrimp in guacamole sauce, when he turned to see Al Mackey trotting across the dance floor, his second tumbler of whiskey giving him the courage to burrow right through a crowd and say, “You’re Tiffany, Mister St. Claire’s secretary. It’s me, Al Mackey. Sergeant Al Mackey? Remember?”

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “I really don’t know anything more tonight than I did the other …”

  “This is a social occasion!” Al Mackey cried. “I love your outfit. I’ve never seen gold hair. Is it real?”

  “Uh huh,” she said, seeking rescue. Already her friends were drifting away.

  “Fourteen karat?”

  “Twenty-four,” she muttered.

  “Wow! They pay secretaries pretty well where you work.”

  Somebody save her from the scrawny cop! A dress like this he thinks you earn taking dictation? Help!

  “Listen, I gotta go talk to some of Mister St. Claire’s stars,” she said. “You just mingle, huh? Have a good time.”

  “I’m trying to mingle,” he cried, as she slipped away across the dance floor, which was starting to empty of the clutches of drinkers now that the nondanceable mariachis were leaving and an orchestra was setting up.

  While Al Mackey was wandering in the general direction of the bar, Martin Welborn was drifting from group to group, categorizing the people from investigative habit. The screenwriters interested him because they talked so much about grand theft. In fact, it was just about all they talked about.

  “Don’t deal with that shmuck,” a fat writer said. “The picture did twenty-five million in rentals. I mean U.S. and Canada, baby. I had ten points after break even. Ten! You tell me how I never saw a dime. You tell me.”

  “Charlie, it wasn’t him,” a tall writer advised. “He’s only the executive producer. It’s that studio.”

  “I don’t go with a major if I can help it,” a young writer warned.

  “That’s dumb,” the fat writer said. “I always go with a major. They know how to fuck you better but they do it in style. You want to be raped by a nice clean cock lubed with K-Y jelly, or you wanna get gang-banged by the L.A. Rams with sandpaper rubbers?”

  “Can I think about that awhile?” a slender writer cried.

  “Be glad you write for television. There’s no prestige in features anymore. It’s all shit.”

  “Shit?”

  “Shit?”

  “Shit.”

  “You think they can’t steal in television? We made our shows at half a million per. Seven years on the air and they show a deficit of ten million? That’s a lot of red ink. Tell the S.E.C. that network bookkeepers don’t steal.”

  And then an ancient screenwriter with a glass of champagne in each hand jumped up and said, “Maybe you shmucks think you’d have liked working for Cohn, or Goldwyn, or Louis B. Mayer, God forbid?”

  “Don’t tell me the fucking idea!” a woman suddenly screamed to another writer. “I’ll end up in a lawsuit! Somebody says a row-boat sank in the marina, you write Poseidon Adventure, they sue you for stealing an idea! The Enemy is all around!” She was a severe woman with a voice like Tallulah Bankhead. She looked around fearfully. Looking for The Enemy. Shit.

  Martin Welborn couldn’t wait to tell Al Mackey: They talk more about grand larceny than a convention of burglary detectives.

  Meanwhile, Al Mackey had found himself a cluster of directors sitting around the fireplace inside the house. Directors didn’t seem to drink much. A little champagne or white wine. Although at least six of them were cruising at five thousand feet on something else, he was sure of that. They had all graduated from the UCLA film school, or were from New York, or were foreigners.
For sure, the foreigners talked the most, particularly a Famous French Director who looked like Soupy Sales. He held the other directors spellbound, telling them what Los Angeles was all about.

  “It’s all about space.” His command of English was excellent but his words were spidery, and they crept from heavy lips. “The shape is difficult.”

  “There is no shape!” a bearded young director dissented, and the others murmured.

  “Ah,” the Frenchman corrected, “space and light can create an illusion of shape. I love that phenomenon about Los Angeles. It’s a …”

  “… a movie set,” another young director said. He too had a beard.

  “There is value to that,” the Frenchman warned. “A feeling of not being in time or space. It can be creative. The loneliness of a city of space and light. And the smells! I love the smells of the lost lonely children on the vast, lonely, heartbreaking streets of Beverly Hills.”

  “It’s the light! It’s the light!” a voice interrupted, and a woman hopped into their midst, and up on the hearth. She was tiny and needed the height. She had the huge mouth and sapphire eyes of a flesh-eating bird. Even Al Mackey recognized her. She was a Famous Novelist. The directors might not respect screenwriters, but a Famous Novelist even got the attention of the French Director.

  “It’s the light!” the novelist cried. “It’s not like New York. The light here is fuchsia and filtered through the pastel gauze of anonymity. There’s nothing like it anywhere. The French Impressionists would have perished in delight!” She held her hand up as though to shield herself, but the only light came from an off-lit Picasso drawing over the fireplace.

  Al Mackey had read one of her books. She wrote of angst and despair. But he didn’t know the light bothered her so much. He was too shy to suggest that maybe she should wear sunglasses all the time?

  “Absolutely,” the French director said. “There is the smell of the anonymous machine. And colors? My God, in this city I could eat colors!”

  “No, it’s the light! It’s the light!” the tiny novelist cried, and the Frenchman did not correct her.