If Dying Was All

by Ron Goulart

  “Yeah.” Easy jerked the zipper up and then down and it unclogged and opened. “There.”

  “Last year I was Betsy Ross in the parade. There wasn’t this much trouble.” The phone rang and Mary Jo moved to answer it. When she picked up the receiver she let go of the top of her spangled gown. The costume dropped away and she said, “Hello?” wearing only a pair of flowered panties. “Yes, Mother. Yes, he’s here.” She nodded in Easy’s direction, kicking the fallen costume away from her feet. “Yes, he helped with the zipper.” She motioned at a robe hanging over the edge of a closet door.

  Easy tossed the red silk robe to her.

  “I’m going to answer his questions in a minute, Mother. Yes.” She hung up and shrugged into the robe. “That was Mother, checking up.” She gave a gentle snort. “I’m sort of embarrassed about my Columbia the Gem of the Ocean getup falling off. Not that I’m basically against being seen undressed. If you’re certain of your identity, after all, naked or clothed doesn’t matter. My hang-up is I’m still not adjusted to my defect and I’m sorry you saw it.

  Easy had taken the chair and was watching the pretty, plump blonde. “Defect?”

  “You’re polite to pretend you didn’t notice.” Mary Jo touched the cradled phone and then sat on the edge of her quilt-covered bed. “My unawareness of my body isn’t quite complete and so I’m still sensitive. What do you think?”

  “I didn’t notice anything especially wrong.”

  “You really didn’t see them?”

  “Them?”

  “I mean all the funny looking freckles on my left …” She started to open the scarlet robe.

  Easy lifted one hand in a halting motion. “Whoa. I’m a real private investigator, not a fictitious one. I only want to ask you some questions, Mary Jo.”

  The blonde girl flushed slightly, closed her robe, shrugged, smiled left-sidedly. “Probably the best thing. We’d have a tough time doing anything much in the fifteen minute intervals between Mother’s calls. At least, that’s been my experience in the past. What do you think?”

  Easy took the envelope from his coat pocket. “First question,” he began.

  V

  HAGOPIAN CAME STRIDING INTO the place out of the yellow noon, grinning, a scuffed black briefcase jammed under his arm. Sitting opposite Easy, he asked, “Well, what do you think?”

  Easy set his glass of dark beer down on the table. “About what?”

  Rings jiggled under Hagopian’s eyes and he made an open-handed gesture at the large dim room. “This restaurant. How’s it strike you?” Hagopian gestured again and there was a slapping sound behind him. “Oops. Sorry, miss.”

  The naked cocktail waitress smiled. “De nada, man.”

  “Very high class,” said Easy.

  Hagopian swung the briefcase up and plopped it on the table. Folding his hands over it, he said, “You don’t think much of the ambience?”

  “The ambience is okay,” said Easy. “What I can see of it. These naked broads keep getting in the way.”

  A lean, platinum blonde, naked and dusty with faintly glowing body powder, approached their table and handed them menus. “Welcome to Mama Bare’s Nude Café. Oh, hello, Hagopian.”

  Hagopian blinked and wrinkles rippled on his high forehead. “Mercedes, I didn’t know you were working here.”

  The blonde shrugged with her whole body. “It’s surprising to me, too. After all those nice notices I got in Hedda Gabler.”

  “Mercedes is with the San Fernando Valley Ibsen Workshop Playhouse,” Hagopian explained to Easy. “Very gifted.”

  “Would you like a drink before you order, Hagopian?” asked the naked girl.

  “What are you drinking, Easy?”

  “Beer.”

  “No, I don’t feel in the mood for beer. Do I?” Hagopian’s eyes widened and he looked around the domed room. There were about thirty people having lunch. “What’s that guy with the earring having?”

  Mercedes frowned. “I can’t see that far without my glasses.”

  “Looks like a manhattan.” Hagopian stroked his nose. “Yes, I’ll try a manhattan. Don’t they let you wear your glasses?”

  “I tried it and they don’t think I look naked enough.” She smiled at them and went to order the drink.

  “What did I tell you? A crazy town,” said Hagopian. He paused to watch a chubby, naked Italian girl tossing a salad alongside a nearby table. “Mercedes should be playing in serious theater and here she is walking around without her glasses. A goofy town.”

  “And why are we here?”

  “I wanted to case this place, get an idea of what it’s like,” said Hagopian. “Pam is thinking of taking a job here.”

  Easy said, “Did she show up last night?”

  Hagopian was watching the naked salad tosser again. “Huh?”

  “Pam.”

  “Yes, she reappeared. The three of us went to dinner.”

  “Three?”

  The nude Mercedes brought Hagopian his manhattan and left.

  “Pam insisted we take the tow truck driver along with us. She met him when she drove my Jaguar into … well, listen. Enough of Hagopian’s troubles. Did you learn anything out in Manzana?”

  “I talked to the woman who runs the inn and to her daughter, who works in the post office.”

  “Any idea who the girl was who made that reservation?”

  Easy got the photo of the San Amaro gang out and pointed to three different places. “Our phantom lady is either Jackie McCleary or this girl here, Perry Burley, or Eva Lerner down here. Or none of the above.”

  Taking the photo, Hagopian said, “Perry is large in the chest. Nobody is sure who they saw?”

  “Innkeeper isn’t sure. Her daughter feels the same way, except she saw a little more.”

  “Such as?”

  “The girl who made the reservation as Hollis apparently did mail the first letter to McCleary at the post office the morning she was out there in Manzana,” said Easy. “Mary Jo, the post office girl, remembers her. Remembers she was wearing a turquoise ring on her wedding ring finger.”

  “Women notice things like that.”

  “Mary Jo also remembers the girl was driving some kind of sports car.”

  “Women can never tell one car from another. Pam can’t. She cracks them up indiscriminately.”

  “Mary Jo didn’t see the car. She heard it. Idling outside the post office and then gunning off.”

  “Hearsay evidence,” said Hagopian. “So now do you think it’s possible Jackie McCleary is alive?”

  “I think somebody wanted McCleary to believe she was for a couple of days. Showing up in Manzana at all was a little risky, but it created the impression there was a tangible Jackie around. In case McCleary had checked with the inn before going on out there,” said Easy. “I want to talk to the surviving members of the San Amaro gang. It would take somebody who knew Jackie fairly well to try this.”

  “If it is one of her old buddies, they’re taking a chance. They’re the most likely suspects.”

  Easy finished his beer. “Whoever it is figures McCleary won’t go to the police. He wants to believe his daughter is still alive and in trouble. The number two letter was meant to keep him from starting any kind of investigation. But the old man is used to giving in only so far to his daughter, then he does what he wants. Also, they may think they’re a lot cleverer than they are.”

  “Everybody does in this town.” Hagopian started to reach into his briefcase, then stopped and blinked at the far end of the room. “That’s sort of fetching, isn’t it?”

  Four naked girls carrying string instruments came out on a low stage, seated themselves, tuned up and began playing classical string quartet music.

  “What did you find out about the San Amaro gang?” Easy asked.

  Hagopian continued to watch the naked string quartet. “Mozart. I’ve never heard Mozart in quite this context before.” He reached all the way into the scuffed case and handed Easy two folded sheets
of yellow paper. “First, about the San Amaro gang. They are: Ned Segal, Lee Ott, Perry Burley, Mitch Stammsky, Eva Lerner, Harry Dune and Judy Teller. Five of them still live in Los Angeles and environs. I gave you names, addresses, phone numbers and bios when I had anything. You can start with Judy Teller.”

  Easy glanced from the beach photo to the list. “The little redheaded gossip columnist? McCleary didn’t give me her name.”

  “Her name was Adrienne Grossman then. There she is right on the other side of Jackie in your picture. See, her right nipple is about to pop out of her suit,” said Hagopian. “She writes for TV Look now and then. You can meet her this afternoon.”

  “How?”

  “TV Look is throwing a cocktail party up in their offices, for staff and friends. I’m certain that little bitch will be there.”

  “I’ll have Nan, my secretary, contact the gang and set up interviews for tonight and tomorrow. I want to ask them what they think about the possibility of Jackie being alive.” He studied the list the dark writer had provided. “Eva Lerner is one of the girls the inn people thought looked familiar. She’s not in LA anymore?”

  “Name is Eva Schatz now and she’s living in Chicago,” replied Hagopian. “Not that she couldn’t fly out here for a quick impersonation. She’s married to Jerry Schatz, the talk show host.”

  “We’ll scratch her for now,” said Easy. “Okay, I’ll start with Judy Teller.” He noticed Hagopian was grinning and had his hand back inside the old briefcase. “What else have you got?”

  “I remembered who the unidentified guy in the picture is.” He produced a wad of photocopied newspaper clippings. “You must have seen these in the paper couple weeks back. The first one ran on September 17th.”

  Easy leafed through the clippings, reading the heads and subheads. “‘Mystery Murder Victim Found,’ ‘Who Is Long Dead Man Found On Channel Islands?’ ‘Island Mystery Man is Long Missing Heir,’ ‘Dead Man Was Missing Six Years. Remains Uncovered On San Obito Island Those Of Chicago Real Estate Heir.’”

  Hagopian nodded. “Booth Graither, son of Graither Enterprises. There he is bright and boyish, hugging Jackie McCleary.”

  “It’s Booth Graither sure enough.”

  “They found what was left of him in a cave on San Obito. Fire fighters. There was a small forest fire there on San Obito Island on the 16th. Somebody stumbled onto what was left of Booth. He’d been shot three times with a .32 revolver. No weapon located, but one of the slugs was still rattling around in his skull. From what survived of his effects and from his teeth they were able to identify him. He’d been listed as missing since 1964.”

  “The first story to positively identify him ran on September 19th,” said Easy. He studied the sheaf of clippings. “It says Booth Graither may have had a large amount of cash with him.”

  “Yeah, he was what they call an eccentric. An eternal college boy. He’s thirty-one in the picture there, looking twenty-one. He had a long record of wandering off. Borrowing cash from his father’s safes and taking a trip someplace. Maybe three months in Mexico, five weeks in Canada, couple months in Hawaii. Usually he’d come back with no trouble. If he stayed away too long his father would hire private detectives to track him down and bring him back. He usually never spent much of the dough.”

  “How much did he borrow? I don’t see a figure given.”

  “I came across the figure $100,000 someplace. And none of the serial numbers were on record.”

  Easy asked, “His father kept that much cash around?”

  “He’s a little eccentric himself,” explained Hagopian. “Eccentric and rich.”

  “According to the LA Times, the private detectives trailed him as far as Union Station in LA. They never found a trace of him after December of 1964.” Easy sat back in his chair. “The LA County Sheriff’s Office estimates he’s been dead approximately five years.”

  “We know he was alive in the summer of 1965.”

  Easy said, “What’s out on San Obito? Nothing, is there?”

  “San Obito was sort of a second-rate Catalina in the 1920’s and 30’s. Resort hotels, restaurants, a tennis club. All abandoned and closed up for years, not even a caretaker on the island. I think the courts are still in the process of deciding who exactly owns what’s left standing out there.”

  “What would Booth Graither have been doing on the island?”

  “Getting himself killed. It’s a nice secluded location.”

  “Booth Graither’s been dead for five years. Jackie McCleary’s probably been dead for five years,” said Easy. “I wonder if he died about the same time she disappeared off that yacht.”

  VI

  THE LARGE ACTRESS LEANED closer to Easy and repeated, “Blow Job.”

  Easy said, “No, I haven’t read it.”

  Mona-Mona Harve bit into a pizza cracker and told him, “It’s a very significant book. It covers not only ecology, genocide, racial tension and youth in search of ideals but it comes to grips with the really biggest problem of our culture at the moment, suburban malaise. I’m sure you know all about that.”

  “No, I have a little place in Coldwater Canyon.” Easy turned his head briefly from the large golden-haired actress and again studied the hundred or so people crowded into TV Look’s penthouse offices.

  “What do you think of Blow Job as a title?”

  “Evocative.”

  Mona-Mona dipped her narrow tongue into her gibson and flicked the little white onion around for a second or two. “We’ll no doubt have to change it for the film. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, Mr. Easy, motion pictures are still dependent on the silent majority for their continued well-being. Blow Job is, as you say, evocative. Not to say honest. They’re thinking of retitling the film Confessions Of A Sensual Housewife. How’s that strike you?”

  “Not as evocative.”

  “Exactly.”

  A tired, five foot tall man in a double-breasted black blazer hurried up and tugged at Easy’s arm. “Listen, I hear Easy does it.” He pumped his tiny fist into Easy’s side three times. “Hello, Mona-Mona. They’re looking good.” He reached out and tickled the underside of her right breast. “That’s clever. Being Mona-Mona. One Mona for each one. I’ve heard of the California climate being good for growing things but this is ridiculous.” He punched Easy once again and jigged away into the crowd.

  “That was Tully Lent, the comic.” The actress gave Easy her glass to hold while she readjusted the front of her dress. “He has a breast fixation. Who doesn’t around here?”

  A six-foot tall Negro came over and picked Mona-Mona up and lifted her several feet into the air. “Love you,” he told her and set her down.

  “Hello, Ranch. John, do you know Ranch Newbin? Ranch, John Easy, the noted private investigator. Ranch is an actor.”

  “Almost,” said the black man. “Actually up until last month I was quarterback with the Yazoo Desperadoes. My good looks have spelled ruin for my sports career, however. I should have sensed something last season when my teammates voted me the best looking quarterback in the South. That’s something when those crackers vote a spook handsome.” He reached out and gave the tall actress a hug. “I tested for the part in Blow Job. I haven’t heard anything for sure yet, Mona-Mona. Have you?”

  “No, but I’m getting very positive hints, Ranch.”

  To Easy the new black actor said, “I was moderately nervous. Since for most of the test they were shooting only the lower portion of my body. I’m handsome down there, too, but it’s my face, after all, that’s my fortune.”

  “You radiate charisma,” the golden-haired actress assured him.

  “Even in those crotch shots?”

  Easy grinned at both of them and wandered away. Hagopian was not yet here at the late afternoon gathering. Easy hadn’t spotted Judy Teller either.

  “Listen. I hear you’re a private dick. I always take mine out in private, too.” Tully Lent danced around him and went to join a group of three platinum blond men. />
  “Say, John Easy, isn’t it?” asked a chubby, quietly dressed man to his left.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Harry Dryden. I interviewed you once for a piece I was doing for the LA Times. That was in my pre-howl days.”

  “Oh, yeah, hello, Dryden. Pre-howl?”

  “You know my wife, don’t you? Calls herself Jane Barham when she writes. Independent little bitch.” The chubby man turned his head from left to right, slowly, a few times. “She seems to have moved away at the moment. Independent little bitch. She’s got a novel which is number three on the bestseller list right this minute.” Dryden chuckled. “I’m not jealous at all. Not bothered one bit. Would have been in my pre-howl days.”

  “Pre-howl?” repeated Easy.

  “Therapy,” explained the chubby, young writer. “We drive up to Carmel once a week to attend sessions at a private institution. Now, the notion behind howl therapy, Easy, is simply this …”

  Easy saw the slim, red-haired Judy Teller standing by herself at one of the wide windows. Her chin was resting on the rim of her glass. There was a dark, angry look on her pretty face. “Excuse me, Dryden. I have to check something.”

  “Well, go ahead, you big son of a bitch. Leave me standing here like my independent little bitch of a wife,” said Dryden. “Boy, if I wasn’t so benefited from my howl therapy I’d be pissed off at you.”

  Tully Lent spun by Easy as he worked his way over to the small girl television columnist. Lent said, “Listen, Easy. I hear you’ve been under more beds than a chamber pot.”

  When he reached the side of Judy Teller, Easy said, “Miss Teller.”

  “Go tell him I don’t want to talk to him,” she said, not turning. “He’s a rat.” She glanced back and her lavender-shadowed eyes opened wider. “Oh, you’re not a go-between, are you?”

  “Not between you and a rat, no.”

  The girl smiled a narrow, quick smile. “You don’t even look like a show business person at all. You have a non-rat aura.”

  “I’m John Easy. I’m a private investigator,” he told her. “I’d like to talk to you.”