I looked down at the pouch and I knew by its girth what was in it. I now had more dough than a guinea baker. After giving Barkeep his share of greenbacks for saving my hide, I laid there a moment looking up at the cracked plaster and just wondered what was next?
ROUND TWO
The head nurse — forever known to me as The Bombshell in White — gave me my walking papers a few days later. Before I left, Dr. Alistair Gant, a very Anglo-Saxon physician paid me a visit. He sat at the foot of my bed, giving my chart the final once over.
Turns out maneuvering a necktie in a sling is much harder than I initially thought. As I looked in the mirror to see where I went wrong, I heard Dr. Gant heave a rather large sigh.
“You got lucky, Mack,” he said half-scolding.
“Really, doc?” I muttered while mouthing a Chesterfield out of the pack. “The shooting pain running down my arm wasn’t quite enough of a reminder.” I went back to the tie.
He took the smoke out of my mouth and returned it to the pack. “Look, I get paid to fix guys like you every night,” he said. “Most of them don’t leave here walking, much less making a crummy knot in their tie.”
He was right about one thing — the knot looked like a broken knuckle. Still, I wanted to punch him in his permanent sneeze face. I knew I was lucky to be breathing, but I certainly didn’t need some upper crust quack shaming me with false guilt. I suddenly didn’t feel so bad for teasing the smart kids at recess in the schoolyard.
“Doc, I think I better leave before your arm is in a sling.” I grabbed my pouch and headed for the door. “Oh, and one more thing . . . Don’t touch a man’s cigarette so close to his mouth. Isn’t that how germs are spread? We’re in a hospital after all.”
I trotted down the stark, cream-colored hallway and heard a moan creep from a dark room. It got me thinking. While he didn’t know me from Adam and, quite frankly had all the bedside manner of Josef Mengele, Dr. Sneezeface may have had a small point.
I’ll fess up. I was lucky the bean shooter got me in the shoulder. Clean in. Clean out. From years of fixed bets to the crooked partners, these penny-ante cons I was running were starting to be bigger and bigger gambles. Maybe I did need a change. Maybe the bullet from that roscoe was a message from the man upstairs.
On my way out, I blew a kiss to Nurse B-52 and made way for my newspaper office. I was going to enjoy giving in my notice.
* * *
“What the hell do you mean you’re quitting?” Freeman Stillwell, the editor, barked.
“I need a change,” I said.
He seemed confused. “Change? What does that mean? You sound like a skirt.”
“Freeman, I’ve been in this game too long,” I said. “I don’t know how many more of these I have left.”
“More of what?”
“C’mon, you know what I mean. The late nights . . . The bad food . . .” I waved my hand to clear the smoke from Freeman’s cigar. “The constant smoke . . .”
Freeman smirked. I knew what that meant. “Gimmie a break. I know all about your little hustles. Now they’ve caught up to you, you want to play the blame game.”
I started to interrupt, but he shushed me. “Now, I never said anything because you were a good sportswriter and a better editor. But somewhere that went to Hell. You drink like Babe Ruth, screw like a low-rent William Holden and are starting to look like Louella Parsons’ armpit. Enough is enough.”
Man, this guy was good. Louella Parsons’ armpit . . . That’s why he’s boss. However, I took umbrage with that low-rent William Holden crack.
Freeman went on. “You’re phoning it in, kid . . .” He sat down and picked up an evening edition from our competition, The Newark Evening Times, and turned to a page deep inside near the obits. He pointed to a small item. “You should be covering the news not making it.”
Freeman handed me the paper and I felt as if I’d taken one of Boomerang’s wicked punches. The headline hit me smack dab in the gut:
PRESS EDITOR POPPED IN GUN SCUFFLE
I had to save face. “Gun scuffle,” I said, and chuckled. “They make it sound so cute.”
“Cute or not, you’re embarrassing this paper.”
“Embarrassing . . .” I tapered off, a little shocked.
“Our esteemed publisher wants to can your hide and I talked him out of it. Now, you come in here and tell me you’re quitting? Are you insane?”
“Humpty Dumpty wanted to fire me? After all the awards I won for this paper? Now, I really do wanna quit,” I said.
“Nicky, I got bigger fish to fry today. I got the Pro Bowl in a few minutes and that crackpot in Los Angeles is going to give a press conference about his amusement park in Anaheim. I don’t have time to babysit. If you wanna quit, quit. If you don’t, you know where your desk is.”
I can understand why Freeman was fuming. He believed my behavior was unbecoming of a newsman. After all, he embodied everything about the Daily Press newsroom and its gruff legacy. And even though he swore like a Merchant Marine and smoked those disgusting stogies, he could rattle off facts as if he were an Encyclopedia Britannica. He was the real deal and helped make The Newark Daily Press what it was.
As a cub in the twenties, Freeman covered everything abroad from the bubonic plague outbreak in India to the discovery of King Tut’s tomb. Stateside, he was there in ’37 when Joe Louis floored Jim Braddock to become champ. He was also no stranger to disasters, covering the aftermath of the Hindenburg when it crashed and burned in Lakehurst, New Jersey, as well as the havoc of the dust bowl in Oklahoma.
However, I was more interested in the connections he made when he covered the Fatty Arbuckle scandal in Hollywood.
Silent film star Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle was Paramount’s million dollar man who found himself in front of a reporters’ firing squad when he was accused of accidentally raping and killing a young actress. After three grueling manslaughter trials, the portly celebrity was eventually acquitted, but the damage was already done. No one wanted to touch the poor beefsteak. He was box office poison.
It was time to go fishing. I had a plan. Granted, most would call it a pipedream. It was a fantasy involving a Greyhound taking me all the way to the west coast where I’d find some studio dame to share whiskey with me while I somehow wormed my way into writing pictures.
“Didn’t you tell me you were still tight with Benny Carter?”
Benjamin Carter was an old reporter acquaintance of Freeman’s. They met when they were both riding the turnip truck on the way to the Arbuckle trial. Carter got out of the news game and now worked public relations for one of the big studios.
According to Freeman, Carter would try to poach salty news guys from time to time in order to humanize the pictures — whatever that meant.
“I talked to Ben last month,” Freeman said.
Ben Carter’s boss was a no-nonsense studio chief named Isaac Stulhberg, and I’d bet dollars-to-donuts getting a meeting wouldn’t be a problem if Freeman went to bat for me.
“Can you make the call?” I asked.
“Call Ben? For you?”
I sat up like a child in class. “Why not?”
He fluffed off the suggestion and pointed to a copy boy through the glass window to enter the office. That told me our meeting was growing short. “That industry is filled with a bunch of dope-smoking degenerates. Do you really think you’ll be happy out there?”
This was it. I had to sell it right now, so I leaned forward. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this. This paper is exhausting me — and I know most of it is my own fault — but I need a change of pace. I’m circling the drain here.”
The copy boy entered and Freeman handed him a few sheets of paper. I watched him scurry towards the city desk.
I continued. “Freeman, if you think I’m a good writer and I mean one worth a silly son-of-a-bitch then please, do me this favor. I’ll owe you one.”
“Shut the door, kid . . .” he said as he flipped through his Wheeldex.
>
The hard part was done. Or so I thought.
ROUND THREE
The plane ride was bumpy. Ever since I was a jarhead, I hated flying. It’s just not natural. We shouldn’t be in the air. To ease my nerves, I opened my fish-wrapper. It was a day-old edition of The Los Angeles Times supplied by the airline, but the front page story still hit me with the full force of its 72 point type.
CHAMP KILLS HUSTLER IN BACK-ALLEY BRAWL
This was scandal soup, hot and tasty. According to the story, Jericho “The Rattlesnake” McNeal killed some poor sap in the back alley of a two-bit Hollywood juke joint. However, as I kept reading, something didn’t sit right.
I’ve seen many damage control pieces in my day — Hell, I’ve written my share — and this was a fine example, but it still couldn’t hide the scrambling going on behind the scenes.
There was plenty to tip me off . . . McNeal, big, black and mean, appeared to be a bloody mess and, conveniently, there were no witnesses. The clincher, though, was the scattering of buzzwords like self-defense, robbery, and wallet being bandied about like spikes holding down a tent in a windstorm.
The current heavyweight champion of the world was a boxer from womb to tomb. Nobody would dream of mugging him in a dark, wet, alley. No doubt there was a fixer in this mix.
As far as the story was concerned, the law was conspicuously quiet. Surprising, since the police in the City of Angels were notoriously brutal and a famous Negro killing a white man would immediately be Public Enemy No. 1. I made a mental note to check the papers for the follow-up. This was going to be juicy.
* * *
Los Angeles International Airport was bustling with activity. Travelers from all walks of life seemed high from guzzling the bottled hope and sunshine California always seems to be selling. Everyone came to LA, from the Chicago hat check girl who wants to be the next Bacall to the Wichita summer stock director who yearns to be Orson Welles to the Oklahoma City football team captain who thinks he can be Rock Hudson — they were all here and, I was just as guilty of having the same delusions of grandeur.
When I stepped outside the terminal, the west coast sun socked me right in the snooker. Everything I had suspected was true. It was glorious, infectious and blazing and it made me want my own piece of the California dream.
Out came the shades. Hello, Hollywood.
As I whistled for a taxi, I recognized a gorgeous licorice stick from the flight standing next to me. If I thought this little minx was cute in the dankness of the stale cabin a few rows up, the Golden State daylight made her look like she was lit for a screen test.
I sized her up some more. Her face was as sweet as a window of puppies. Was I wrong to wonder how she’d look with rice being thrown our way? She smiled, halfway recognizing me from the flight, and asked where I was headed. When I told her Beverly Hills, she raised her eyebrows and suggested we split the cab. I obliged. She extended her hand and introduced herself. “Dillian Dawson.”
Inside our yellow Stanley Steemer, we chitted-and-chatted, getting to know each other better.
“You look like you can use some high-test,” she said, with the slightest hint of an offbeat accent I couldn’t quite place.
“Where are you from? That’s an awfully sweet voice you have,” I asked.
Dillian explained her family was part of the early spice trade in St. Croix and her island accent was a mish-mash of every country that flew its flag on the tiny Caribbean isle. “You can hear everything from French to Spanish to Dutch,” she explained.
“It’s certainly gorgeous,” I said.
She smiled. “Thank you.”
“As for high-test, were you referring to coffee or bourbon?”
She winked. “Maybe a little bit of both.”
“My kinda gal,” I answered and showed her my leather hip flask. I unscrewed it and we shared the last few sips.
Along the way, she pointed out various landmarks like the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, the La Brea Tar Pits, Griffith Observatory and the Farmer’s Market. I feigned interest best I could since the only landmark this guy was interested in was the bar at Ciro’s or the Cocoanut Grove. The cab pulled up to The Beverly Hills Hotel and the valet approached.
I invited her inside for a bite, but she said she wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t getting off the hook that easy. “Then how about we could wait a bit and cozy up to the bar,” I suggested. “And if you’re not hungry by then, maybe we could share some eggs in the morning.”
Her posture straightened. “Nick, you seem like the kind of guy who knows . . .”
“Knows what?”
“Nice girls don’t stay for breakfast,” she winked.
I watched the cab drive off with her inside and stamped out my cigarette. “That’s what you think, honey,” I said to no one.
ROUND FOUR
Freeman’s old buddy, Ben Carter, walked me through the commissary at Pinnacle Pictures and I could have sworn I saw actor Sterling Hayden eating what looked like a crummy BLT.
We walked toward the backlot through the bungalows and then headed for the main building where Isaac Stuhlberg held court. For an older guy, Carter had some serious stride to his step, trotting a pace or so ahead of me. He was stout and walked with purpose, snapping his fingers to a song only he could hear. Along the way, practically everyone who passed us — bit players, agents, producers and technicians — all knew exactly who he was and gave him salutations of respect.
It became apparent, though, that Carter was actually a real pencil pusher — the kind of company guy who nodded for a living. I shuddered at the very thought. If studio life is all about being a yes man, please point me back in the direction of the grimy fight game.
I maintained a poker face and continued along with the tour since this was the guy I needed to impress first, and from the sound of it, I think I was doing a fairly decent job.
“You wanna know why newspapermen always write the best scripts for us, Nick?” Carter said more than asked.
As I went to answer, he cut me off. “Because you guys know all the angles — the ins and the outs of life.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“We have a good feeling about you,” he continued.
“Yeah? And why is that?”
“For starters, Freeman tells me you were turn-key from the moment you stepped into the newsroom. That’s what we need.”
“I guess it was in my blood. I never really found newspapering hard.”
He stopped walking. “Then why do you wanna quit?”
I decided to throw him a curveball. “I figured if I could handle the tin swords and button men the sweet science threw my way, I figure the sharks in Tinseltown shouldn’t be a problem.”
“That’s my boy. Let’s go inside . . .”
* * *
You know in the movies where the big studio honcho sits behind an obnoxious burlwood desk amid ridiculously symmetrical art deco accents? Well, that’s not a fabricated image of La La Land. Movie mogul Isaac Stuhlberg sat behind his Mount Rushmore of a desk and squinted in my direction. He was around eighty, but looked ten years younger. I chalked it up to the suit and the money.
Carter introduced me as the kid from the newspaper, and I smirked to myself. I figured half my life was over, but if these two think I was a kid, I’d take it.
Stuhlberg was confused for a moment and asked, “The one from that scandal sheet in Las Vegas?”
“Uh-uh . . .” Carter corrected. “The one from back East — Nick Moretti. His boss and I go way back.”
The old man raised his eyebrows in recognition, pointed at me, and smiled. “Oh, him.”
“Hello, sir,” I said.
Stuhlberg started the conversation by buttering me up and, believe you me, I know a decent butter-up when I hear one.
“You . . .” Stuhlberg said, still pointing. “You know what I like about you?”
I shook my head.
“You have a way with words.” I gotta admit, when the chief
of a studio says that, it feels pretty damned decent.
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”
“You know how I know that?” Stuhlberg asked.
“How, sir?”
The old man pointed to a desk in the other corner of the room.
“Microfilm,” Carter piped in. “Mr. Stuhlberg can’t get enough. When you covered the fights, he read you quite often. Been a fan ever since.”
Stuhlberg nodded. “A world of information at our fingertips, that microfilm. What will they think of next?”
“I’m waiting for the portable phone,” I joked. “Like Dick Tracy. Can you imagine?”
I was starting to wonder why they even agreed to meet me. Sure, I was a grizzled news guy and they might’ve pegged me as someone to rework a fledgling TV show or B-picture with some slam-bang telescripts, but where was this all going?
Stuhlberg’s face suddenly got serious and the conversation suddenly got interesting. “How do you feel about Jericho McNeal?
“The boxer Jericho McNeal? Rattlesnake McNeal?” I asked.
The mogul nodded.
“Well, for starters, I’d say he screwed the pooch the other night.”
“How so?” Stuhlberg asked.
I gave both men a blunt look and walked freely about the room. “A famous Negro — a boxer no less — who has a reputation for flaunting cash, kills a white guy in the City of Angels. I’m half-shocked The Hat Squad didn’t hang him by a streetpole.”
“We made sure that didn’t happen,” Stuhlberg assured.
And there it was. I knew someone had been running a cover up.
I scanned Stuhlberg’s wall of photos. A younger version of himself posed with everyone from Charlie Chaplin to Bogie. My thoughts quickly went back to the heavyweight champ. “So you guys bought off the cops? Must’ve been a pretty penny.”
Front Page Palooka: A Nick Moretti Mystery Page 2
