You might wonder why I was nuts enough to want to go back to Niptown after that slimy meal I had failed to enjoy a few evenings back. Well, I'll tell you. Earlier this morning Grumbles said that I should go to the barbershop on First and Alamo Streets. It provided a fantastic shampoo, he promised. I hadn't washed my hair since leaving home, and it was currently itching almost as much as when my high school sweetheart had given me a good case of the crabs. Sure, I could have washed it in Mumbles's sink, but why not pamper myself I decided.
I should have known better. I found First Street without any trouble, but I don't know how many Angelenos I asked for directions to Alamo Street before one said, “Oh, you mean Alameda Street.” Mumbles had struck again. The place itself looked decrepit, as I expected any nip place to look. It had a sign outside, but it was written in nip. I went in and saw that the joint looked like a restaurant rather than a barber shop. A slant-eye who looked like Mr. Moto came up to me, and I told him in my best pidgin English that I wanted a shampoo. He nodded and led me to a table. More than half a dozen other slant-eyed yellow midgets were dipping some slop with their filthy chopsticks into a large bowl filled with steaming water. I bent over the bowl but realized that there was no shampoo in it, only pieces of food. I called the honcho nip over and asked how he expected me to clean my head if I didn't have any shampoo. Were those pieces of food actually what his people used for a shampoo, I asked? He babbled in some Nip talk that I couldn't understand. Finally, one of the men at the table knew enough English to explain to me that the restaurant's specialty was shabu-shabu, a customary meal in which patrons dipped their vegetables and meat into a bowl of boiling water. I left the restaurant hungry, unshampooed, and sore as hell at Mumbles.
My lunch came in a small diner located at the foot of Bunker Hill. I was tired and my feet were sore, especially since I was wearing my galoshes. I had a slab of meat loaf smothered with mustard and another cup of java. I had been single-handedly doing wonders for the Maxwell House company today, and I made sure to hit the john before paying the cashier and leaving. I spotted a newsstand on the way to Angel's Flight and the apartment, and picked up the latest copy of Black Mask, which had a story by Cornell Woolrich. Now I knew that there was a fancy school in upstate New York called “Cornell” and that “Woolrich” had an expensive ring to its name, and so I kind of figured that this guy knew something or other about writing detective stories. And while I didn't need any advice from anyone as to what a dick does, I figured that I'd spend the p.m. reading what other dicks did. That put me to sleep fast.
The next day was raining cats and dogs and all the other creatures that fled with Noah during the great downpour. Geez! We usually have a helluva lot of the white stuff back home this time of year, but I thought that the City of Angels would be…well, if not heaven, at least a pretty nice place weather-wise. Mumbles, once he finally staggered from his bedroom, set me straight: the winter months in LA were no picnic. In fact, the few weeks before I arrived had seen buckets upon buckets of the wet stuff. “It rains like hell,” he said. Or had he said “hail”? It didn't much matter. Thanks, pal, I told myself. I owe you one for not telling me this before I hopped a train and came out here.
Both of us stayed in the entire day. We lounged and we drank. Then we lounged and we drank some more. Mumbles made a few calls that he obviously didn't want me to hear. He needn't have bothered to speak in low tones since I had all I could do to understand him when he was shouting. For my part, I called Light Fingers Louie, but the talented safecracker wasn't in. He could have been at the Pink Pussycat Lounge or using his dubious abilities to make an illegal buck or two. I guessed the latter. I also called Sheldon Blatt and left word with Hitler's daughter, Hedwig, that I would be seeing Scarlett tomorrow.
Rain or no rain, Mumbles and I decided to go out for chow after having examined the paltry, unappetizing remains that made the fridge look like a sick ward in a hospital where the patients were waiting to be carted off for burial. Mumbles suggested some wop food in a restaurant that was located nearby in a neighborhood filled with chinks. The Old Chinatown had been destroyed to make room for the new Union Station, but the New Chinatown was opening.
Much to my surprise–and maybe his–Joe's Italian American Restaurant, located at Broadway and College Street, proved a treat for the palette, as the gourmays like to say. At first I thought otherwise when I called for a glass of wine and the greaser asked if I wanted Dago Red. I told the idiot that I wasn't no Eyetalian communist. Mumbles stepped in and told him that we'd like a giraffe of something or other. What we got tasted pretty good, although I doubt if the waiter understood what Mumbles had ordered. The food hit the spot. Mumbles had spaghetti and meatballs, and since I knew that when in Rome do what the Romans do, I ordered two tuna fish sandwiches and a side order of beets.
We paid the tab and left. The rain was coming down meaner than ever. We ran to Mumbles's car, drove home, had a nightcap, and went to bed. Not a bad ending for a not-nice day.
Chapter 10
The next day I took a bath and shaved, pouring on a liberal amount of Bay Rum afterwards, but decided not to change my underwear since I had not as yet been wearing them for a full week. I did put on my fancy duds, however, in anticipation for the drinky-poo or two or more that was on tap for my visit to Scarlett. Having neglected to unpack it, the suit that I had brought from home possessed more wrinkles than the old actress Maria Ouspenskaya. But the shirt and tie were clean. Or nearly so. Then I put on my coat, my green fedora, and my galoshes and headed for my appointment. The shamus was on his way.
The Garden of Allah, a complex of a hotel and about two dozen bungalow apartments where Scarlett was living, was quite a bit west of where I was staying, say, a continent or two. At least that's what the taxi meter seemed to be indicating. I asked the driver if he couldn't give a discount to a stranger in town. Instead, he gave me something else after I paid him without a tip, and I responded. His finger should be all right in a few weeks or so.
The joint—not the driver's—was located at Crescent Heights and Sunset Boulevard, a posh section of West Hollywood. According to Mumbles, the place had belonged to some famous actress with the name of Nazimova, or Nazi Mova, or something or other. Once inside the complex, I saw that it was no flophouse. I didn't even spot any Arabs wearing towels rolled around their heads, only people who looked like they belonged in a nice place. On the way to Scarlett's bungalow I passed a mean-looking cop. The guy was tougher looking than King Kong and almost as big. He glared at me as we passed; I glared right back after we had passed.
Scarlett was wearing a scarlet dress and had scarlet lipstick smeared over her pretty face and lips. She also seemed a few sheets to the wind. I guessed this because she didn't seem to know who I was. Then I gave her my name, but that didn't seem to help.
“Scarlett, I'm Dick DeWitt, Cousin Sheldon's favorite cousin, Don't you remember?”
She squinted and took another slug from the glass she had been holding. “Oh yeah, you're the one who likes sugar-coated nuts. How could I forget? Come on in and make yourself at home,” she invited.
We had broken the ice. She had remembered me for what I wanted all dames to remember about me: my nuts.
I took off my coat and hat and handed them to Scarlett. She walked over to a closet, opened the door, and threw them on the floor. Then she noticed my galoshes and asked if I wanted her take them. I said no. I didn't want her throwing them on the floor, too.
“Sit down on the couch next to me, Mr. Dick DeWhat, and tell me who you are again.”
If the dough weren't so good, and if I didn't need it so bad, I'd have told Scarlett that I didn't give a damn, told Sheldon Blatt likewise the next day, and looked up the schedule for trains heading home. So once more I identified myself to the souse.
She poured herself another drink from a container that was on the coffee table but, I was willing to bet my life, contained no coffee. Then I noticed another glass with the remains of a drink. A sharp
gumshoe never misses a trick, and I grasped the meaning right away.
“Tell me, Scarlett, why do you drink from two glasses rather than one?”
At first she was speechless, in awe, no doubt, of my powers of observation and radiocination.
She hesitated. “Mr. DeWhat, you're a clever man. Yes, a clever, clever man. Here, have a drink.”
She filled the dirty glass to the brim. I didn't especially want to drink from it, but I had exposed myself to worse, as the time when Gardenia, a.k.a Gonorrhea, Gertie planted a smacker on my lips a few years ago. I wanted to learn more but knew that I had to be subtile. “Who's the boozer who was here before me?” I asked.
Scarlett turned scarlet. My question seemed to sober her up a bit. She chewed on her lovely lower lip, tugged at her bra, and belched. She might be a lush, I told myself, but this broad's a real femme fatal. Now that I had her off balance, I decided to ask another subtile question. “And while we're at it, Scarlett, how does an unemployed babe like you afford to live in a place like this?”
“You ask a lot of questions for a fisherman from North Dakota.” Scarlett gave another belch and poured herself another drink. “You're not half as dumb as you look. In fact,” she said as she gave her bra another tug, “you're sort of cute in a not very attractive way.”
My natural charm and way with words had won her over. Now all I had to do was find out where she was hiding the damn book with all the names. But how to do that was not going to be easy. It called for more subtility.
“Here, Scarlett, let me refresh your drink,” I said. I poured some more liquid refreshment into her glass without realizing that the glass was already full. Some spilled on her nice wooden coffee table. So what?
“Look, Dick,” she said as she mopped up the spill with the end of my tie, “I'm gonna come clean with you because I know you can be trusted.”
This gave me a pang of remorse. Now I would have to send the tie to the cleaner's. The way she yanked at the tie hadn't done my neck much good either.
“You're right to wonder how a little girl with no job like me can afford to live in a swanky place like the Garden of Allah. Did you know that Rudy Valentino bought the place for his wife, the actress Alla Nazimova, who then lost it after their divorce? She still lives here in one room after she sold the place to crumbums who turned her home into apartments. Would you believe that I sometimes see Dietrich, Barrymore, and Garbo, who also live here?
“Now someday I'm going to be as famous as those stars if Cousin Sheldon, the fat louse, would get his fat ass moving. All right, he does give me some money—which I deserve! Do you know what it's like to have to look at his ugly kisser and listen to him brag about himself?” Then she gave me a hard look. “And he's going to pay a lot more, a very lot more, if he doesn't come through. Who says so?” She took another swig from her glass. “Me and my little black book say so.”
I gave her my toothy grin. “But Cousin Sheldon and his fat ass are still out of town. Who was here before me, if you don't mind my asking?”
Another swig before she said that she did mind my asking but would tell me anyway.
“Cousin Sheldon's not the only creep who's worried about a little black book. You see, I know a big-time cop who's also got the hots for me. And this palooka talks a lot when he gets polluted. And, you see, I remember a lot. And I write things down so that I'll keep remembering. You think that I've got the goods only on some Hollywood frauds thanks to Cousin Sheldon's loose lips? Well, I've got just as much, maybe more, on crooked cops and city officials than you can shake your little pinky at. What do you say to that? And,” she added with a smile as broad as the Amazon, “I've got a second black book, and the cop's also helping me with the rent.”
There was probably a lot I could have said, maybe should have said, but didn't say. I could have said I was speechless, but that would have been saying something. And while I was saying to myself that I was speechless, she threw herself at me.
“Oh, Dick, you've got to help me. I'm just a poor innocent small-town girl who's lost her way. I'm just that 'babe in the wood,' as Mr. Gershwin says, and like that babe, I need 'someone to watch over me.' ”
The babe, frankly speaking, struck me as a two-timing, blackmailing slut. Not that I have anything against blackmailing sluts, a couple of whom I've done the horizontal mambo with in the past. I realized that I could have asked Scarlett for mambo lessons right there and then, but the thought of Louise crimped my style. That Scarlett was now drooling on my semi-clean shirt didn't put me much in the mood either.
“Dick, she said, “you look like the kind of man who can handle himself.”
Sure I handled myself. I handled myself plenty. What do you expect from a healthy, virile man who hasn't had it with a dame in a while? But I didn't like to discuss my private doings with my privates with others.
“Now let's not get into that, Scarlett.”
Suddenly she seemed to sober up. “Listen, fisherman from North Dakota or wherever you come from, I need someone to protect me. I obviously can't ask the cops or anyone who has anything to do with Hollywood. I'm scared, don't you see? I'm scared for my life!”
She began to sob and pressed her face against my chest. That really got to me. Now I had to deal with getting her lipstick and mascara off my shirt. I wanted to tell her about Cousin Sheldon and my real relationship with the fat slob but couldn't. And wouldn't. And I sure as hell didn't want to get in hot water with the coppers. I had had more than enough of that back East. I didn't know what to do. For one of the few times in my career as a dick I found myself in a quarry.
“Scarlett,” I said, “as much as I'd like to help a fair damsel in distress and you, too, I have to earn a living. The fish are swimming even if the cotton isn't tall back in North Dakota. I have to leave here as soon as the convention's over, which will be in a few hours.”
She gave me a steely look. No, make that a “you'll-be-sorry” look that would have halted that bum of Hitler when he marched into the Rhineland.
“Don't worry about money,” she said. “I have enough to hire you as my bodyguard and private eye.” She paused. “Let's leave it at bodyguard. The idea of you as a detective boggles the imagination.”
I wanted to boggle more than her imagination at this point. I also wanted the money. But a little inner voice told me to step away from this mess or I'd regret it, and then some.
“Sorry, sweetheart, but I just can't do it. It's not only my job that's in question, I have to go home and feed my pet marmot before he gets too hungry and starts nibbling on my grandma.” That sounded like a full-proof argument to weasel out of the deal she offered and to scram, but I had underestimated the little lady.
“Okay, DeWho, you don't want the job? You don't want to help little old me out of a pickle? Well, what would you say if I told Cousin Sheldon that you had your way with me? I don't think he'd like that. And I know my cop friend would become even sorer if I told the same story to him.”
“Think it over, dearest Dick, and give me a ring in the morning. I think by then you'll have seen matters my way.”
I wanted to wipe the smirk off the souse's puss. I also wanted to call Union Station for the next choo-choo leaving for home. No, make that leaving for anywhere.
Chapter 11
I needed to talk with someone who could understand my predicament [predicate] and give me some good advice or at least give a boost to my morals [moral?]. When I got back to the apartment, Mumbles was still out playing poker with his chums, or in this case, chumps, since Mumbles usually came home flush with winnings. I'm not sure if he was that good a player, or if the others didn't catch what he said when he made his moves. Who could I call? Light Fingers Louie? Out of the question. He was a great safecracker and snitch, but otherwise had half the brains of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy in the movies. Polish Phil? Sure, he would have been my first and best choice, but hadn't he already left for Florida? Maybe not. It was worth a try since I had everything to lose out here.
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It was around 10:30 in the East. I let the phone ring eight or nine times and was about to hang up when Phil answered.
“Hi, Phil, this is your buddy Dick DeWitt. I'm surprised I got you in. I figured you were long gone and in Florida working on a tan and betting on the nags at Hialeah Park Race Track.”
“Nah, I heard that too much sun ain't so good for you. It gets you wrinkled like an old prune. And some say it can do worse.”
“Come on, Phil. You're as bad as my Aunt Hester, who thinks that it's scary to have something called elevated chlorophyll in your body. Did you ever hear of such nonsense?”
“No, buddy boy, that's taking it too far. But the real reason I'm not going South is that I hear J. Edgar Pain-in-the-Ass Hoover and his goody-two-shoes boy scouts are going to roust the real estate guys I was going to do business with. What's this country coming to? If things weren't bad enough, the feds don't want hard-working people to make a living. I'm telling you.”
I agreed with the Polack and then told him my hard-luck story.
“What's with you, Dick? You didn't have enough trouble with the Llama and the cops here a few months back, and now you're in deep doo-doo at the other end of the country? Do you look for trouble or does it follow you like flies buzzing around you know what?”
I told him that I didn't look for trouble and that I hadn't seen a single fly since I got here. He sighed and told me that I should drop everything and come back home to the city where I was born and loved.
Something—like common sense—told me that he was right. But I'm stubborn. I cling to what I want like a bulldog, and what I wanted in this case was to do the work of a gumshoe and earn some simoleons. I thanked the Polack for his advice, but said that I would stay put, at least for the time being. He told me to be very, very careful because he didn't want to hear about them finding my bullet-riddled body somewhere in the deserted Hollywood Hills or in lonely Griffith Park. He told me to be particularly aware of corrupt cops, especially one of them who looked and was built like King Kong and who would kill his mother for laughs. I laughed at that one, said good night, and wondered if I'd ever see a cop who was a King Kong look-alike.
The Hollywood Starlet Caper Page 6
