Tinseltown Tango

by Phil Swann

  My eyes were still adjusting to the darkness when I heard voices coming from the other side of the building. I moved toward the voices but came to an abrupt stop when the wooden floor beneath my size tens started creaking at a deafening volume. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t all that loud, but at that moment, it sounded like a drum solo.

  I weighed my options and quickly concluded I had none. I continued on as fast, and quietly, as possible until I heard the voices directly below me. I was still blanketed in darkness and almost thirty feet in the air, but just to be safe I concealed myself behind some boxes. I had to practically bend into a pretzel to do it, but I was eventually able to position myself in a way so I could see what was going on below me.

  The two men in knit caps were standing by a large cargo container. A rather hokey pastoral scene was rendered on its rear door, with the word EVERFRESH stenciled below it. Cabaneri, Chuckles, and the man in the necktie stood off to the side. The man in the necktie said something, I couldn’t hear what, but it caused the two men in knit caps to commence opening said door of said container. Once they had it opened, they walked inside and began removing crates. After they had about a dozen or so out, the man in the necktie stepped into the container. I heard a poof come from inside, and then seconds later, the man in the necktie reemerged, nodded to Cabaneri and Chuckles, and all three walked back inside the container.

  From my vantage point, I couldn’t see what was inside the container, nor what the three men were doing inside it, but that ultimately didn’t matter because moments later, all three came out again. Cabaneri said something to the man in the necktie, who nodded and then said something back. Chuckles stuck out his hand, and the man shook it. Then Cabaneri, Chuckles, and the man in the necktie headed for the door to leave, leaving the two men in black knit caps to put the boxes back inside the container.

  I couldn’t wait around for the men to finish their work. I had to get back to my car before Cabaneri and Chuckles got back out to the Lincoln. If I was concerned my Falcon was noticeable on the surface streets, then it was a gigantic neon sign parked along the desolate access road. I surrendered any pretense of covertness and sprinted across the wooden landing back to where I had entered. I shoved open the door and flew down the stairs with such superhuman alacrity, I’m not sure my feet ever touched a step. Once on terra firma, I hustled in and out of the cargo containers until I reached the Falcon.

  I looked back at the warehouse and saw Cabaneri and Chuckles getting into the Lincoln. Wasting no time, I leapt into my convertible, turned on the ignition, and left an impressive arc of rubber as I peeled out in a U-turn.

  I sped back across the suspension bridge and only exhaled once I was sure the black Lincoln was not in my rearview. As I entered the freeway, I considered what I had witnessed. I had no idea what it all meant but did know two things for certain. One, Cabaneri was up to no good. And two, Chuckles was more than just the music conductor of a rinky-dink tango band.

  Chapter 5

  Due to rush hour traffic, it took me the better part of two hours to get back to Hollywood. I drove directly to the Roosevelt Hotel where I filled Clegg in on all the day’s events, including the festivities at the docks. I reported that I was certain Gabriella’s music conductor and Cabaneri were in cahoots on something nefarious, and he concurred. He then asked me if I had gotten the name of the ship. I told him I hadn’t, but that I did know the pier and the berth number where the ship was docked. He said that should suffice and congratulated me on a job well done, which it was.

  He then informed me that D.A. Colson had called three times and was furious I hadn’t checked in with him after my first day on the job. My face must have shown my displeasure with the thought of having to talk to the lawyer, because without prompting, Clegg said he’d handle it, a gesture I greatly appreciated as I had more pressing matters to attend to. Namely, my date with the lovely Miriam, which was a bit of information I conveniently neglected to tell Clegg about. As far as he was concerned, my day was done, and I was heading home to get some well-deserved rest after a fun-filled day of expert undercover work.

  Clegg, or more specifically the U.S. Government, had leased an apartment for me when I first arrived in town. It was a cozy little flat located just above Hollywood Boulevard. It had a generous living area, nice kitchen, and not a half-bad view of the city. It also came with a carport situated directly below my apartment, which came in handy when I was running late for something, as was the case on this occasion.

  With horn in hand, I raced up the stairs to unit number three, inserted the key into the lock, and had my shirt and one shoe off before the door had closed behind me. Even though my date with Miriam wasn’t until eight, and it was only a little after six, time was not on my side. After running around the rafters of a dusty warehouse, I was in dire need of a hot shower, and because I didn’t know exactly where Miriam lived, I needed to give myself ample time to find it. I also needed to do one other important thing before I left.

  Writing down my day’s adventures was a practice I’d adopted shortly after arriving in Las Vegas from Indiana. Its intended purpose was to accurately chronical my meteoric ascension within the music industry so that historians in the future would have all the facts right when they wrote the inevitable biography of my extraordinary life or made the motion picture of it, whichever came first. Coincidently, it also came in useful when working for Clegg, as it allowed me to put down valuable bits of information regarding whatever case he had me on. And on this day, I had much to put down.

  I got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around my waist, and opened the horn case I had tossed onto the bed. Under my axe, hidden in a concealed compartment, I removed a small book, my diary. I shoved the case over, plopped down on the bed, and began writing.

  I recounted everything that had happened from the moment I arrived at the television studio to racing back across the bridge from Terminal Island. I was careful to be specific, leaving out no detail, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. I wrote nonstop until I glanced at the clock and saw it was after seven. I stashed the journal back in my horn case and hopped up from the bed.

  Although I’m not one who believes clothes make the man, I don’t discount the possibility they might help, either. Thus, I take my fashion seriously. After all, when it comes right down to it, it’s my belief everything in life is show business. Thus concludes the gospel according to Trip.

  I stared into the closet and considered what might be the most appropriate attire for an evening out with Miss Miriam. After much deliberation, I opted for a pair of gray slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a dangerously debonair double-breasted, navy-blue blazer. I topped the entire ensemble off with a pink—yes, pink—handkerchief in the breast pocket and brown loafers, sans socks. A final check in the mirror before I strolled out the door confirmed what I suspected…Miriam didn’t stand a chance.

  Fail to plan or plan to fail was one of Pop’s favorite axioms. It sunk in. I sat in the Falcon with a flashlight in one hand and a city map in the other, charting my route to Miriam’s house. The address she gave me was 22 Beachwood Canyon Drive. If I was reading the map correctly, it was only a few miles away, and I should have no problem getting there on time. However, this was L.A., and I knew that in L.A. distance was measured in time, not miles, which meant that even though it should take me no more than fifteen minutes to make the journey, if traffic was bad, it could take fifteen days. I folded up the map and pulled out of the carport hoping for the best.

  Happily, the traffic gods were smiling down on me, and at five minutes before eight, I was weaving my way up Beachwood Canyon Drive. All the houses were set back from the street, so seeing their numbers in the dark was difficult. After a couple of misses, I eventually found the right one, wherein I parked, hopped out of my bird, and trotted up to the quaint, albeit humble, Spanish style abode.

  The yard was small but well-manicured, with a flowerbed situated in front of the house that was tastefully adorned
with cacti and other native flora. I stepped onto the concrete porch and was immediately taken by a peculiar looking cylindrical object hanging next to the front door. It was about seven inches long, made of metal, I surmised silver or pewter, and had some strange writing embossed on it. Even though I couldn’t translate exactly what it said, I had a feeling I knew what it was.

  “You found me,” Miriam cooed, as she opened the door. “I’m impressed.”

  I pointed at the object. “It’s called a mezuzah, isn’t it?”

  Miriam cocked her head. “Yes, it is.”

  I went on, “It’s sort of a Hebrew blessing for the home, right? To keep evil away or something like that.”

  “That’s right. Are you Jewish?” she asked.

  “Methodist,” I answered. “But I know stuff.”

  She smiled. “Okay, now I’m really impressed. You certainly are something, Mr. Callaway.”

  “Aren’t I, though?”

  Her smile turned to a chuckle. “And humble. Okay, Mr. Something, are you taking me to dinner or not?”

  I extended my arm. “Your chariot awaits, my dear.”

  Whereas Gabriella’s fashion screamed, “Look at me!” Miriam’s whispered it. She wore a simple sleeveless, robin’s egg blue dress, cut just above the knee, accessorized by an understated strand of pearls around her neck and a dainty silver bracelet around her wrist. She carried a white handbag that matched her modest white pumps and an ordinary, everyday, gray cashmere cardigan draped over her forearm. Although I suspected Miriam could make a burlap bag look good, I have to say, she made this little unassuming number look positively eye-popping. We got to the Falcon, and I opened her car door.

  “Thank you,” she said, getting in.

  “You’re welcome,” I responded.

  And then she added these dreaded words, “Cute car.”

  I might have groaned, but I don’t believe she heard me. As I drove off the hill, I noticed she kept fiddling with her bracelet.

  “Nervous?” I asked.

  She looked at me and smiled. “No. Should I be?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Where’re we going?”

  “I was thinking Martoni’s for dinner, and then perhaps we’d drop into Shelly’s Manne-Hole for an after-dinner libation. I don’t know who’s playing tonight, but it’s always somebody good. That sound okay?”

  “Sounds great,” she answered. “I’ve never been to either place.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Wow, I’ve only been in town a few weeks, and both places practically know me by name. I thought all you L.A. musician types hung out at Martoni’s and Shelly’s Manne-Hole.”

  “Guess not all of us.”

  “Is it because you’re a girl?”

  She looked at me as if I’d just insulted her family heritage. “You didn’t just say that, did you?”

  I immediately realized how what I’d said sounded and went into full damage control. “No, I didn’t mean…I just meant going to a nightclub alone and all. Maybe that’s why you’ve…I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “What century do you live in again?”

  I stammered to come up with a response.

  Then she added, “Besides, what makes you think I’d have to go alone?”

  Things were going south quickly, so I did the only thing left for me to do. “You’re right. It was a stupid thing for me to say. Please accept my apology.”

  She nodded. “Apology accepted.” Then she added, “Anyway, you’re a man. You can’t help yourself.”

  “Now, that’s not fair,” I replied.

  She looked away, and I thought I saw the perpetual sparkle in her eyes go suddenly dark.

  A moment later, she sighed and looked back at me. “You’re right, that wasn’t fair. Please accept my apology.”

  I grinned. “Well, I wasn’t really all that offended. In fact, I agree with you. We guys can be world class dopes sometimes.” She didn’t respond, so I added, “How do you think the date’s going so far? I think pretty well, don’t you?”

  The sparkle returned, and she let go of a laugh. I flashed her my hundred and fifty-watter as I turned onto Vine Street.

  Martoni’s was north of Sunset on Cahuenga. Shelly’s Manne-Hole was just up the street, so I decided to split the diff and park between the two. As we strolled down the sidewalk, Miriam took my arm. That might have just been a European thing, but if it was, Americans should adopt that thing immediately.

  Martoni’s was the quintessential Italian restaurant, both in cuisine and decor. Traditional pasta, pizzas, and such, served on checkered tablecloths under a string of colored lanterns that made you feel like you were dining at your Cousin Guido’s wedding reception. The food was excellent, and the patrons were a feast in and of themselves. The place was always littered with music executives and radio types, and on occasion, Dean, or even Frank, might walk through the door. It was a good place to see and be seen, I suppose, but I liked it because the chicken picatta combined with a nice Chianti was as about as close to Heaven as one could get without actually having to die.

  We were shown to our table, and I ordered a pricey bottle of the aforementioned vino. A minute later, the waiter returned with the wine, popped the cork, and we did the whole he-pours-I-taste dance. I nodded my approval, and he got on with filling both our goblets.

  “To Gabriella,” I said, raising my glass.

  “Seriously?” she replied.

  “Of course. Without her, we never would have met.”

  “A romantic,” she said, lifting her glass. “I knew there was something I liked about you, Trip Callaway. Okay, to Gabriella.”

  We clinked and then sipped.

  “Oh, there’s so much more to like about me than just that,” I offered.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as I’m good with kids. Dogs like me—as do cats, which I suppose is even more impressive. I can fix a car as well as a bad arrangement, and I’m a snappy dresser. Shall I continue?”

  “Please do.”

  “I’m renowned for my curious mind, rapier wit, and dazzling repartee. I have excellent taste in music, food, and women. I’ve never welched on a bet, never taken an illegal drug, and have never, ever been accused of a crime—let me amend that, I’ve never been convicted of a crime. Also, I’m known far and wide for my kind heart, pleasant disposition, and sensitive soul.”

  “Is that it?” she asked.

  “And I’m a really, really good musician who’s going to be world famous someday. Now, it’s your turn. What do I like about you?”

  She chuckled. “I’m not sure I can compete with that.”

  “Few can. But seriously, who is Miriam Kaplan?”

  “Just a simple girl trying to make it in the music business.”

  “Doing a pretty good job of it too. You have a stellar reputation.”

  She gave me a look.

  I clarified, “According to Daniel.”

  She gave an understanding nod. “He’s sweet.”

  “Are you two—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “Daniel and I have been friends for years. But only friends.”

  “Well, he’s right. You are good. Excellent, in fact.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Then she asked, “How’d you get the Gabriella gig?”

  I shrugged, “I got a call they needed a trumpet player.”

  “From Levine?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “You?”

  “The same,” she answered.

  “Where are you from originally?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Amsterdam.”

  “Only child?”

  “No, I had an older brother.”

  Her use of the word had didn’t get past me, but she didn’t seem to want to elaborate, so I didn’t pursue it. “When did you come to America?”

  “About a year or so ago. I was in New York for a couple of months, but this se
emed to be where all the work was. So, here I am.”

  “Lucky us.”

  She smiled and then sipped her wine. “What do you think of our band?”

  “Daniel and Ira are both fine players,” I answered.

  “I was talking about Gabriella’s gentlemen?”

  “Ah, them. Well, where do I begin? Our conductor isn’t the cheeriest of blokes, is he?”

  She chuckled. “That’s putting it mildly. Yes, Maestro Goetz does lack a bit in that regard.”

  “Is that his name? I never caught it.”

  “Yes, Ricardo Goetz. You do know he’s Gabriella’s father, right?”

  I nearly spit out my wine. “Her father? No, I didn’t know that.”

  She nodded, “Yes, and from what I hear, she doesn’t play a show without dear old Papa behind the piano, or perhaps she’s not allowed to.”

  “Well, that would explain why he was in her dressing room when I dropped by there today.”

  “That’s right, you were in Gabriella’s dressing room.” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Are you two…”

  “Very funny.”

  She laughed. It was a lovely laugh too. Easy, light, and high in pitch, but not so high as to be piercing. It was the kind of laugh that someone could get used to hearing.

  I continued, “As far as the rest of her gentlemen, I’m no expert on tango bands, but I suspect they’d be a darn sight better if a few of them laid off the sauce a little.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I tried talking to them today in the commissary. Emphasis on tried. One of the twins, the skinny one, was pretty well smashed. Look, I’m no teetotaler, but it wasn’t even noon. The old fella might have a problem.”

  “Were the others drunk, too?”

  “I didn’t hang around long enough to find out.”

  When the waiter arrived to take our order, Miriam told me she liked fish and requested I order for her. I chose a pistachio salmon with pasta in a white wine sauce for her, and I opted for the chicken picatta. The waiter complimented my choices and refilled both our glasses.