Tinseltown Tango

by Phil Swann

  “Burt. The security guard who’s usually here.”

  The man shook his head. “Nobody here by that name.”

  I nodded. By this point, I wasn’t the least bit surprised. I also had a feeling I knew where this was heading.

  “My name is Trip Callaway. I work on the Gabriella show. I left something in one of the dressing rooms yesterday and was wondering if I could get it.”

  The man made a face. “What’s the Gabriella show?”

  “A variety show shooting on one of the stages. I’m in the band.”

  “I think you have the wrong studio, buddy. There hasn’t been anything shooting on this lot for over a month. The whole place is shut down for a remodel. We’re not expected to be up and running again until next fall.”

  “You sure?” I asked, more out of reflex than actual inquiry.

  “Of course I’m sure,” the man answered, turning to walk away.

  “Can I ask you one more thing?”

  “What?” he replied, begrudgingly turning back around.

  “Where have you been the last few days?”

  “Pardon me?” he replied, squinting his eyes.

  “I know it’s a weird question and none of my business. But I—”

  “They gave me some time off—with pay. I couldn’t believe it. I’ve been here nearly five years, and that’s never happened before, but I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, so I went up to Seattle to see my sister and her kids.”

  I smiled. “That’s nice. I’m sure they were very happy to see you.”

  “Yeah, they were,” he responded. “What’s it to you?”

  “I was just—you’re right. I must be at the wrong studio. Thank you.”

  The man turned and walked away.

  I got back in the car and looked at the empty parking lot. I wasn’t shocked…I wasn’t even mildly alarmed. In fact, what the guard had told me was exactly what I was expecting to hear.

  As I drove away from the television studio, the only thing I could state categorically was that, like the sun disappearing over the western horizon, so too was my belief that anything in Tinsel Town was real. Was anything to be believed? Just like the movies the city was so adept at rolling out, everything about Gabriella’s TV show was turning out to be nothing but an expertly constructed work of make-believe. A clever bit of theatre, replete with actors, a script, and a set, all designed to create a world that didn’t exist. But why? Why go to all the trouble? For a while I thought I knew, but my meat smuggling theory was going up in smoke as quickly as the recording studio did. And if it all was just a piece of elaborate theatre, then how big was the production? In other words, if the show was a sham, if Miriam, Daniel, and Sid were a sham, then who else might not be who they said they were? Was Gabriella Gabriella? Was Cabaneri Cabaneri? Was Colson Colson? Was Clegg, Square Head, and Tonto who they claimed to be? Was I who I claimed to be? Was I going crazy? Maybe. Paranoid? Absolutely. But who could blame me? My day had begun by waking up in the backseat of a rental car in the middle of the desert and was ending by learning everything I had thought was genuine was as phony as a Hollywood happy ending. If anyone deserved to be questioning what was real and what wasn’t, it was me.

  There was one more place I needed to go, but decided I should check-in with Clegg first. So I found a payphone, and wagering he was most likely back at the hotel pulled over and dropped a dime. Clegg picked up immediately.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Leaving the television studio. We need to talk. I found out that—”

  “Come back to the Roosevelt now,” Clegg interrupted.

  “But I—”

  “You can fill me in when you get here. Just get back here, ASAP. I have things to tell you too.”

  “Like what?” I asked, not liking the tone of his voice.

  “Just get back here, on the double.” Then he hung up.

  It was a judgment call, and one I didn’t make lightly, but despite Clegg’s order, I needed to make one more stop before going back to the Roosevelt. It wouldn’t take long and was on the way. Besides, it was the one place I didn’t want to go at all, but knew I had to.

  I pulled up to Miriam’s house—or whatever her name was—and sat in the car for a long minute before getting out. I resisted the temptation to start strolling down memory lane and fixating on things that were, or things that might have been, and reminded myself that whatever Miriam and I had was most likely just as bogus as the woman herself. Then, it hit me again she was dead. Just as dead as the real Miriam. But unlike the real Miriam, who lived to be a ripe old age, the Miriam I knew had died violently while still in the prime of her life. Despite my insistence to hang onto the anger and betrayal and nothing else, I felt a hole in my chest. I took a deep breath, got out of the car, and headed up to the house.

  The first thing I noticed was the mezuzah, the small, metal object that hung by Miriam’s front door, was gone. That should have tipped me off all was not right, but it didn’t. Instead, I went for the doorknob. I stopped myself short of turning it and reasoned the sensible thing to do would be to knock first, just in case. In case of what, I didn’t know, but it still seemed like a good idea. So, I knocked, and as expected, no one answered. Then, I turned the doorknob, but again, also as expected, the door was locked.

  I looked under the welcome mat for an extra house key—because that’s the kind of thing one did where I came from—but found none. I stepped back from the house and was considering my options when I noticed the window to the right of the front porch was slightly opened. It wasn’t open by much, but I believed with a little effort, I might be able to squeeze through it.

  I cautiously stepped into the flower planter, taking care to avoid the prickly cacti, and situated myself below the window. I hoisted myself up and thrust my shoulder in. As I did, I made a mental note to have Clegg teach me that little trick he did with the locked door at Cabaneri’s house. My head followed, and then my torso. It wasn’t the most graceful of entrances, but after several unflattering grunts, I fell backward onto a dresser and then rolled off onto the floor.

  I had fallen into one of the house’s two bedrooms. It wasn’t the bedroom where Miriam and I had spent the night together, but even if it were that bedroom, I doubt it would have mattered, because there wasn’t much in the room to look at. There was nothing on the dresser and nothing in the drawers. The walls were bare, save for a mirror hanging next to the closet, and even though the bed had a sheet on it, it had no pillows, nor a bedspread. I opened the closet door and found it was empty, as well.

  I left that bedroom and moved across the hall to the other bedroom, the one where Miriam and I had been. The door was shut, and I took a deep breath before opening it. This time, I feared, it would be a far more emotional experience for me. It wasn’t.

  It was dark the last time I was in the room, and to be honest, at the time I wasn’t paying much attention to the décor. Even so, I knew it wasn’t empty like it was now. I looked in the drawers, the closet, even under the bed, but found nothing. There was not one personal item anywhere in the room.

  An uneasy thought shot through me. I bolted from the bedroom and tore through the rest of the house. Everywhere I looked, the living room, dining room, bathroom, and kitchen, it was the same story. Completely empty. As if no one had ever lived in the house. It was unnerving. So much so that I stopped in the hallway and considered if I was in the right house or not. How is this possible? I thought. How does a house get emptied out so fast?

  Then I started thinking like Clegg. “It doesn’t,” I said out loud.

  The disturbing realization fell on me like a hammer. The house had to have been emptied out before the explosion at the recording studio. That meant Miriam had done it herself. Which also meant when she left the house, she knew she was never coming back.

  I was working hard at coming up with other possibilities when I noticed something on the mantel above the fireplace. I must have
missed it my first time through. I walked over for a closer look and saw it was the mezuzah. It was sitting atop a folded piece of paper. I picked up the mezuzah and the paper. I unfolded the paper and read what was written inside.

  Any question I had about being in the right house vanished. There weren’t many words, but the ones that were there were like a punch in the gut. It read: Dearest, Trip. May this protect you from evil. I’m sorry. Love, M.

  I fell onto the couch, clutching the note in one hand and the mezuzah in the other. I had to remind myself to breathe. I read the note again, and then again, and then again, searching for a hidden message within the words.

  “What the hell is going on?” I whispered, letting my head fall back.

  I first noticed the car when it was parked across the street from Levine’s office. I thought nothing of it because I was sure it was just one of the countless green Country Squires registered in the state of California. When I saw it again down the street from the television studio, I still dismissed it as nothing unusual. But when I inadvertently glanced out Miriam’s living room window and saw it again parked across the street, I became concerned.

  I jumped up from the couch, went to the window, and surreptitiously pulled back the curtain. As far as I could tell, nobody was sitting in the car. Then I ran into the bedroom I had first entered and looked out that window. It offered a slightly different angle, but my initial observation was the same; nobody was in the car.

  A voice echoed in my head. It was Clegg’s recounting of what Carson and Stevens had witnessed at the recording studio. Specifically the part about how they saw the tango band arrive in a green station wagon. Now it appeared one was tailing me. As far as I was concerned, that was too much of a coincidence to actually be a coincidence. I needed to call Clegg.

  I sprinted from the bedroom and into the kitchen. As I reached for the phone, I noticed the backdoor was open. I had been in the kitchen only minutes before and knew the door had been shut. Someone was in the house.

  I debated if I should make a break for the door or be bold and call out to whoever was in the house with me. I chose the former.

  I darted for the door but froze when I heard the metallic click.

  “Shut the door,” the voice ordered.

  I did as I was told and shut the door. Then I turned around.

  His face was drawn, and he looked older than he had at the television studio. It was one of the bandoneon twins, the one who wore glasses. The one who, along with his brother and the rest of the band, was supposed to have been killed in the explosion at the recording studio.

  He held the gun at his waist. “Move,” he ordered, directing me out of the kitchen.

  We walked into the living room, wherein he motioned for me to sit down on the couch.

  I complied.

  He stood across from me, with his back to the fireplace. “I have two questions for you, sir,” he said, with an even thicker accent than his brother had. “You will answer them.”

  “And then you’ll let me go?” I responded.

  “No, then I will kill you,” he said, with no expression.

  “Why should I—”

  “There are many ways to kill, Mr. Callaway,” he interrupted, in a melancholy tone. “I know all of them. Slow and painful, or quickly, with no pain. The choice is yours, sir, but either way, you will answer my questions.”

  He was far politer than his brother, I had to give him that. Unfortunately, he was also bigger and not drunk.

  “What do you want to know?” I asked.

  “Where is my brother? And where is Anthony Cabaneri?”

  “How should I know?” I answered.

  He didn’t like that answer. He expressed his displeasure by walking over and hitting me across the face with the butt of his gun, sending me prostrate on the couch.

  “I shall ask you again. Where are my brother and Cabaneri?”

  I pulled myself up and made sure my jaw was still connected to my head. “Look, I told you, I don’t know where—”

  He raised the gun to strike me again.

  “I don’t know!” I yelled. “I haven’t seen your brother since the television studio. Unless it was him who broke into my apartment and slugged me over the head, in which case I still didn’t see him because I was knocked cold on the floor. And, as far as Cabaneri is concerned, I’m looking for him myself.”

  The man raised his gun and aimed it at my face. “We should have killed all of you when we had the chance. That was our big mistake.”

  I had left the mezuzah on the couch when I went into the bedroom to look out the window. When the man hit me, I fell on it and had the wherewithal to palm it when I sat back up. I had also clocked the coffee table in front of the couch the moment I sat. I had no formal plan, I just knew if I didn’t attempt to do something, I was dead.

  “Look, I don’t know where your bother is. I also don’t know—”

  I kicked the table as hard as I could. It flew up, smashed into the old man, sending him backward and the gun to the floor. As he was bending over to pick it up, I leaped from the couch and grabbed him from behind.

  He snorted and writhed wildly to pull free, but I hung on. Without thinking, I reached around and drove the cylindrical object toward his face. The mezuzah found its target in his left eye, shattering the lens of his glasses.

  The old man shrieked in agony, and I let go as he fell backward.

  I bolted for the front door.

  As I opened the door, I turned back and saw the man was on his back, with his head resting on the bricks of the fireplace. His wasn’t moving.

  I slowly crept back into the room and picked the gun up off the floor. I held it on the old man, and I kicked him. He didn’t move. I saw blood oozing from the eye I had rammed the mezuzah into, but a larger amount was pooling around the back of his head. I kicked him again. Nothing.

  I hurried into the kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed Clegg. When he answered, I started talking.

  “He’s dead. He fell backward and smashed his head against the bricks on the fireplace.”

  “Who’s dead,” Clegg replied. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at Miriam’s. One of the twins. He didn’t die in the explosion. Clegg, I killed him. Just now. He attacked me and was going to kill me. And I…I—”

  “All right, Trip, relax.”

  “Did you hear me?” I yelled. “I killed him!”

  “I heard you, Trip. Can you drive?”

  “Yes, but you need to get over here. He’s just lying here, and—”

  “I’ll send our people over right away. They’ll take care of it. But I need you here.”

  “But—”

  “Now, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”

  “Her house is empty, Clegg. Miriam’s house is completely empty. It’s like she never lived here.”

  I heard him sigh. “I’ll see you in a few minutes, Trip,” he replied and then hung up.

  Chapter 14

  When I arrived at the hotel, Clegg was on the phone. He greeted me with a quick nod of the head. There were at least a dozen other people in the room, both men and women, none of whom I knew. Some sat, some stood, some were running in and out of the bedrooms, handing papers to others, quickly conferring, and then bolting off. I didn’t see Square Head and Tonto.

  I went to the bar, poured myself three fingers, and threw it back. Clegg hung up the phone and then intercepted a woman coming out of one of the bedrooms. He whispered in her ear, and then she went back into the bedroom, but immediately came out again, followed by two men in military uniforms.

  “Let’s talk in here,” Clegg said to me.

  I put down my glass and followed him into the bedroom.

  He shut the door behind us, and I sat on the bed. He came over, put his hand under my chin, and turned my head to the side. “He do this?”

  I didn’t know what he was talking about until I touched my face under my left eye. It was then I realized it was swollen. It was also the
n I realized it hurt like hell.

  “I’m fine,” I answered. “I didn’t even know I had it.”

  Clegg nodded. “Adrenaline’s funny that way. We’ll get you some ice.”

  “Who are all those people out there?” I asked.

  Clegg didn’t answer. He picked up a file laying on the bed beside me and tossed it on the end table. Then he walked to the other side of the room and leaned against the wall.

  “You go first,” he said. “What happened?”

  I shook my head. “We’ve been conned, that’s what happened. Colson set us up. Daniel, Sid, Miriam, all phonies. And Colson knew it. The show’s not real either. There hasn’t been a production in that television studio for weeks.”

  Clegg raised an eyebrow, but beyond that, didn’t respond.

  I continued, “I went to Miriam’s house to see if I could find something that might tell us who she really was. But other than a few pieces of furniture, the house was empty. Then my old bandmate showed up, you know, the one who was supposed to be dead. For some reason he thought I could tell him where his twin brother was, along with Cabaneri. I have no clue why he thought I would know, but he was certain I did. So certain, he was prepared to kill me if I didn’t tell him. Actually, he was going to kill me regardless but—” I took a breath, “—I got the jump on him, and he smashed his head on the fireplace. I killed him, Clegg. I didn’t mean to, it was an accident, but still…”

  “It was him or you, Trip. You did the only thing you could do.”

  “I’ve never—”

  “It was him or you,” Clegg repeated, more forcefully. “Let it go.”

  I dropped my head. I wanted to believe him, but I wasn’t there yet.

  “Is that it?” he asked.

  I looked up and nodded. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Good work. That supports what we’ve been learning here. A team is at Miss Kaplan’s now. They’ll take care of the body.”

  “Clegg, what’s going on?”

  Clegg grabbed a chair, pulled it over in front of me, and then sat. When he spoke, it was typical Clegg, practically devoid of any emotion.