by T. N. Robb
SIX
Shangri La
Cleary stared at the post office box number Archie Hammond had scribbled on a scrap of paper a few moments before his death. Now it was clipped to a sheet of paper on which Dottie had written the name, Garland Oakes, and a telephone number in large, bold lettering—the way she wrote everything. But this time the letters of the name were even larger.
If Hammond was giving him the straight story, the number would lead him to the person who had pilfered the master tapes. Cleary was betting it would also lead him to Hammond's killer.
Dottie stood across from his desk, her arms crossed below her breasts, gazing at him as if she expected him to be surprised. "Do you know who that is?" she asked.
"Should I?"
She shot him the same look Betts sometimes gave him when he made a derogatory comment about rock and roll. "For the uninformed, Garland Oakes happens to be a really hot rock and roller in his own right. I mean he's not as big as Billy Ray or anything, but he's coming into his own. And it's happening real fast for him."
"So what's he doing hawking Billy Ray's tapes?" Cleary deadpanned.
She shook her head. "I can't see why he'd be involved in something like that. It doesn't make sense."
Cleary agreed, but from what he had seen of these rock and rollers, he wouldn't put anything past them. "Yeah. And if he is involved, he's not very bright paying for the dirty P.O. box with checks in his own name."
Dottie looked at him coyly. "Listen, you want me to call the number and see what's kicking?"
Cleary looked up at her. "What're you going to say?"
Dottie thought about it. She got that actress expression on her face that he glimpsed sometimes when she was getting into a role. "Let's see. I could tell whoever answers that I'm calling for a private detective." She attempted to make her voice sound tough. "And we know you've got the master tapes of Billy Ray and the Rockets. Now listen close, bub. You can deal with us, or let the cops handle it.'" She looked up at Cleary. "How's that sound?"
He smiled at her. "Not bad, Dottie. You've got a nice touch."
"I do?" She peered closely at him, trying to see if he was making a joke. "You know, I didn't think of it as acting. I just did it."
"The only thing is that's not the right role. Call the number and say you're calling for a record manufacturer and your boss wants to make a deal on the new Billy Ray tapes. And tell Garland, or whoever, that he's gotta move fast."
"What am I going to say when he asks how I got the telephone number?"
"Tell him your boss got it from a friend of a friend. The word's out. Make him think he's in hot water. That people are onto him."
"You know, you're a real detective, Cleary."
He glanced at the ceiling. "Go do it."
"You bet... boss. Detective work and acting. I need all the practice I can get." She walked away, talking to herself. "God, I'm going to call Garland Oakes. Is this for real?" She stopped when she reached the doorway, looked back at him, and wrinkled her nose. "What if I get that weird voice? What do you say to a voice that sounds like it belongs to a robot?"
Cleary stared at her. "Don't say anything. Just hang up."
"Then what?"
"If we're so lucky, the case is in the bag." He would call Fontana, give him the number, and tell him to go get his killer and pick up the master tapes while he was at it
"Oh. Okay." She frowned, tilted her head, and turned away. He thought she emitted a soft sigh as she said, "Another part with no lines."
Cleary looked out the window at the city. The sound of the mechanical voice was still on his mind. His hand squeezed into a tight fist at the thought of being threatened. He didn't know why, but he didn't think catching Hammond's killer was going to be as easy as a telephone call, and he sure as hell doubted that some up-and-coming rock and roller was hawking a competitor's wares. Maybe they solved them that easily in the movies, but his cases always seemed to take a little more work, drudgery, danger.
He thought back on how his brother, Nick, had started the agency, and had always been working day and night. Over the years, Nick had become known as highly reputable, and business had flourished. He had often told Jack that anytime he was ready to leave the LAPD, there was plenty of work for him at the Cleary Agency. And, he had always added, it would be a partnership—the Cleary Brothers Agency.
But he had stuck with the detective bureau, and his partner, Charlie Fontana. Stuck with it until it was too late, until he had been set up by a detective who was dirty, who worked for the mob. He had stuck his nose into mob business with the city fathers and gotten burned. He had been fired on a trumped-up corruption rap, and slipped into an alcoholic binge that led to his divorce. Then, Nick had been killed, and Cleary's already floundering existence had taken another spin.
En route to oblivion, there seemed to be no turning back. Then he had realized that was just what was expected of him. He was supposed to self-destruct. They had been counting on it, in fact, written him off as a lost, a blubbering boozer who would never again be worth even a wooden nickel.
Instead he had turned his back on the bottle, cleaned himself up, and had retaliated, uncovering the murder of his brother, and consequently the setup of his own corruption rap. Now here he was filling his brother's shoes, trying to live up to his reputation.
"Cleary, didn't you hear me?"
He turned from the window to see Dottie standing in the doorway. "You make the call?"
"Course I did. I asked for Garland, and the guy asked what I wanted. He didn't sound very cool, so I don't think he was Garland. But it wasn't that voice, either."
Cleary nodded. "And?"
"I think he was kinda scared. Didn't like it that we had his number. Tell you the truth, he didn't sound like much of a bad guy. I felt sorta sorry for him."
She was trying his patience, and he wished he had made the call himself. "So anything productive happen, or you just cheer him up?"
"He's ready to make a deal. The meet's set for Room 110 at the Shangri La Motel. Here's the address."
"When?"
"In an hour."
"Good work." He grabbed his coat out of the closet and glanced at the address. "See you later."
"Be careful, Cleary."
"I try, doll. I try."
Cleary arrived at the Sunset Strip motel a half hour ahead of time. It was nothing special, just your regular one-story, flattop motel. He drove through the parking lot and found the room where he was supposed to meet the man. It faced the rear of the building. He parked his Eldorado across the street and walked around the block before approaching the room.
He felt isolated and vulnerable in the empty parking lot. He pulled his .38 from its shoulder holster, knocked on the door, and stepped to the side. When no one answered, he tried the door. It was unlocked.
He pushed it open with his foot, stepped back again. He stripped off his sport jacket, waved it with a flourish in front of the door, then tossed it inside.
Nothing happened.
He cautiously entered the room, the .38 ready. He flipped on the light switch, looked in the closet. The place was deserted.
He closed the door, turned the lock, flicked off the light.
For the next forty-five minutes, Cleary paced about nervously. Every so often he peered through the venetian blinds into the parking lot. The waiting was making him frantic. When no one arrived on the hour, he started worrying that it might be a setup. Maybe whoever had the tapes wasn't about to give them up. Any minute now, the door could burst open and Hammond's killer could fly into the room, firing.
Maybe he was stupid to take the room first. Maybe he should have hidden outside. He glanced at his watch, then through the venetian blinds again. It was fifteen minutes after the hour. He didn't know anymore what the smartest approach would have been. But he did know one thing: he didn't want to die in this room listening to that mechanical laughter he had heard on the phone.
He set his gun down on the table, went
into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He dried his face, looked in the mirror. His square jaw was shaven, but the circles around his eyes gave away the fact that he could count the number of hours of sleep he had gotten on one hand and have fingers left over.
He sat down in the comer chair next to the table, and was lighting a cigarette when he heard a car pulling up to the door. He picked up his gun, took a quick, deep drag from the butt, stabbed it out. He strode across the room and pressed himself against the wall behind the door. Then he reached out and unlocked it.
His eyes widened as the door slowly opened a moment later, and a man stepped into the room carrying a briefcase. Cleary pressed the barrel of his gun to the man's head. "You move, you'll die. Drop the briefcase."
As the man complied, Cleary grabbed him by the necktie, and turned him slowly around. Then he gazed into the face of Calvin Pettys. The band manager stared into the muzzle, a frightened look on his face.
Amateur hour.
"If those master tapes are in your briefcase, I'm gonna be real mad."
Pettys cringed. "Legs a little wobbly... don't feel so damn good."
Cleary searched him for weapons, then pulled him by the tie over to the couch. He sat him down and stared at him. Pettys looked like a man whose battery had run down. "Little tired today, Calvin?"
Cleary kept an eye on him as he backed up and retrieved the briefcase. He laid it on the bed, snapped open the latches, and opened the top. Inside were two tape reels labeled B.R. AND THE ROCKETS.
He picked it up, held it in front of Pettys. "Why?" He jerked Pettys by the tie. The man's face turned beet red; the last of his oxygen vanished. "Come on, Calvin. Talk to me. Tell me about it." He let up on the tie a little, and Calvin gasped.
"I did it to protect Billy Ray as much as me. There was more vinyl hitting the streets than Silhouette Records was pressing. Figured as long as someone was counterfeiting our first record, I'd do it myself with this one."
Cleary frowned at him. "What about Garland Oakes? What's he got to do with it?"
"Nothing. I... I needed a name for the account, and that's what came into my head. He was a nobody six months ago. Me and three other people had heard of him." Sweat beaded on his forehead, ran down over his cheeks. "My luck. I pick his name, and he gets hot."
"Did Archie know the other record was being counterfeited?"
"I think he suspected it."
"Maybe he suspected you."
Cleary put the gun away, took the tapes, and headed for the door. "The tapes are going back to Silhouette Records. That's what I was hired to do. You can tell your story to the cops."
"Hey, slow down. I'm tellin' you I lied and I stole. I used a false name, but I sure as hell didn't plant that damn bomb."
Cleary glanced over his shoulder. "Right now, you're all I got."
Pettys slumped forward, buried his head in his hands. "I found that kid singing in a garage. I drove him around to county fairs and slop houses down every road in Texas. I backed him, put a shirt on him... hustling one-nighters for five years of roach-infested motels, greasy burgers, and French fries. I worked too hard getting here to be cheated out of my due. I'm the one who deserves to get rich off Billy Ray."
"You're played out, Pettys."
At that moment, the door burst open, and Cleary was hurled against a wall as two men rushed in. Pettys was knocked cold. The butt of a shotgun was jabbed into Cleary's midsection, then the back of his neck, driving him to the floor. Off-balance and on the verge of losing consciousness, he reached for his gun. But one of the intruders kicked him in the gut and disarmed him.
In the darkened room on his hands and knees, Cleary couldn't get a good look at the men. They were just shadows and glimpses, but he knew they were pros. He rose to his feet, but the thugs worked him over until he collapsed.
"I told you...stay out of the record business, Cleary. Better pay attention this time. There won't be no second chance."
It was the mechanical voice again.
SEVEN
Peaches
Johnny Betts cruised up the boulevard, relief flooding through him. After two days of watching Billy Ray and hanging out with Jesse, it felt great to be on his own again, cruising the streets. He liked Billy Ray just fine, and felt incredibly lucky to be able to hang out with him. But since his confrontation with Slade, Billy Ray had been down in the dumps, and not particularly fun to be around.
He had been calling in regularly to the office, but usually got stuck talking to Dottie and going over the same old hip-hop he always did with that chick. She was a couple years older than he, and had a terminal case of playing wiseass with him. She had been that way ever since the day he had been alone with her in the office, and she had asked him if he thought she could make it in acting. He had said that depended on which producers she slept with, and advised her to look for quality, not quantity. It had been a joke, and also some good advice, he had thought. The chick, after all, had obviously been around the block a few times. But he must have struck something sensitive because ever since then she had been on his case.
Fortunately this time Cleary had taken the phone and given him a new assignment for the afternoon. He had told Jesse that he would be busy for the afternoon, and she had gotten the drift that he wanted to be alone. He had dropped her off at the apartment she shared with two other chicks, and said he would see her later.
He pulled the Merc over to the curb in front of a record store. As he stepped out, he was met by the sound of Elvis's "Hound Dog" coming from the shop. He practiced a few toe-sliding and heel-dragging steps, dancing his way to the door. Inside, he casually strolled over to the racks of singles, and found Billy Ray's 45s. He examined several closely until he found what he wanted. He picked out two of them, and glanced over to the counter where a middle-aged, beehived woman was reading a magazine. She was dressed like a chick half her age.
He walked up to her, tilting his head so he could make out the name of the magazine.
"What can I do for you?" she asked, looking up and snapping her gum.
"True Confessions. Kinda risque."
"You gonna buy those records or we gonna talk about popular literature?"
"Where's Peaches?"
"He's busy now."
"So am I, and I got some important business with him that can't wait."
She looked him over, snapped her gum again, then pointed to a partially open door at the rear of the store. "Back there in his office."
"Thanks."
He spun on his heel, shook his ass, snapped his fingers, and made his way down the aisle. A couple of teenage girls with braces and bobby socks stepped aside to let him pass, and each one held an album protectively in front of her chest. He didn't bother knocking on the office door, just pushed it open and stepped inside.
Peaches, a blimp of a man, looked up at him from behind his desk. He was on the phone. His bloodshot eyes seemed to float in the bags of skin that composed his face. He frowned, and the bags crinkled like crepe paper. Betts leaned over and pressed the button, disconnecting the call. He grinned at Peaches like a maniac.
"Hey, what're you doin', kid?"
"Sorry about that, but we've got some business to attend to right away, Mr. Peaches."
The record shop owner held the receiver halfway between his ear and the phone. "Who the hell are you? Get outta here, kid, before I call the cops." He slammed the receiver. "You hear me? I said move."
Betts sat down on the edge of the messy desk, which was stacked with records. A pile of singles slipped over the side as he made himself at home. "Go ahead, call them. I've got something to tell them about your little operation here. They should be very interested in hearing all about it. You know what I mean, man?"
"No, I don't," Peaches said, looking at him warily. "Get your behind off my desk and out of this office, or you're gonna be in big trouble." The fat man's double jowls trembled as he spoke. Betts saw his right hand sliding toward a drawer, and withdrew the sawed-off from
the pocket in the lining of his jacket. He pointed the mean-looking weapon at Peaches's chest, and slipped off the safety.
"I wouldn't do that, Mr. Peaches, if I were you. You're the one asking for trouble."
Peaches held his hands up, pushed back from the desk. "There's no money back here. I swear it. All of it's up front in the cash register."
"I don't believe that, but then that's not why I'm here. You dig?"
"No, I don't. Why are you here?"
"I want you to explain something to me. That's all. Won't cost you a penny. See these two records?" He dropped the two Billy Ray 45s on the desk. "One of them's a counterfeit. Where'd it come from?"
Peaches shook his sleazy head. "I don't know what you're talking about, kid. Those are the same records, and they all come from the same manufacturer as far as I know. Now if there's any counterfeiting going on, I sure don't know about it"
Betts slid off the desk, knocking off more records. He walked around to Peaches, pushed his swivel chair against the wall. "Let's get serious, Mr. Peaches." He slid the tip of the sawed-off under Peaches's jaw. The fat man's eyes widened. Betts repeated his question.
"I'm telling you the truth."
Betts slipped his sawed-off back inside his jacket, grabbed Peaches by the hair, and held his fist in front of his face. "I'm still not hearing you right. Now what was that you said?"
"Go to hell, punk."
Betts clipped him on the nose with a four-inch punch. He felt the cartilage cracking under the impact. Peaches grabbed his nose, bent over as blood poured out. "You bastard," he spat.
Betts pulled his head back again. Blood was running over Peaches's jaw onto his shirt. He made another fist. "The first time was just a surprise. It really doesn't start hurting until the second one. And I rather enjoy doing this, Mr. Peaches. You make such a nice soft punching bag." He cocked his fist behind his ear.
Peaches held up his hands. "Okay, okay. Don't hit me. I'll talk. I don't know who makes them. I don't ask no questions. I get them for a good price, so why be nosy? No reason I should know."
