by T. N. Robb
"I'm afraid I can't be of much help. You see Buddy protected me from his business dealings, and everyone associated with them. I guess you could say he held me up on a pedestal, or so I thought. As far as the names of the women, you'll have to get them from the tapes. Nick hadn't given me much as far as specific names."
"Who'd the pink Cadillac belong to?"
"I don't know."
She motioned for him to follow and showed him the rest of the house—a contemporary kitchen, a guest bedroom, a maid's room, and the master bedroom. It was done in pale blues, blues the color of ice, with a large bed that dominated the room. Lana pulled open the drapes, revealing another magnificent view of the Pacific. "This was one of the rooms your brother bugged." She glanced toward the bed, and turned away.
He could imagine what goodies Nick must've gotten on tape in here.
"What other rooms did he bug, do you know?"
"The living room," she said, walking back into it.
"What about the maid? Was she around all that time?"
Lana shook her head. "No. I didn't hire her until after Buddy was killed, and then only because I was reluctant to stay out here alone at night."
She pivoted, as if looking for something, and raked her fingers through her hair as she walked over to a sunny nook in the corner and sat on the wide, cushioned ledge below the windows. She opened them; a warm, salt-swollen breeze rushed into the room. She leaned back, the breeze ruffling her hair. He stopped next to her, leaned over next to her to look out the window. He was close enough to catch the faint fragrance of salt on her skin and the vestige of perfume.
"This has always been my favorite spot in the house, because it catches the morning sun. I like having my coffee here, especially on days when it's sunny and cool out."
Interesting, Cleary thought, running his hand over the windowsill. A part of a label was still on the window, and the frame looked new. So did the floor. Yet, she was talking like the nook had always been here. He didn't know what that meant, and was about to ask when he reconsidered. He filed it away with bits and pieces of other information, his head a sea of trivia and facts that might or might not connect in the future.
"Feel like a swim?" she asked suddenly.
He looked down at himself and laughed. "I'm not exactly dressed for it"
"No problem. I'm sure there's a pair of swimming trunks around here somewhere." She touched him, fingers cool and soft against his arm. He hoped it wasn't his imagination that her hand lingered longer than was necessary. "Let's have a look, hmm?"
They returned to the bedroom and she opened a bottom drawer of the bureau. "I put a lot of Buddy's stuff in here until I could decide what to do with it." Her long fingers lifted shirts, socks. "Oh, wait a minute. Maybe I put the trunks in the closet."
If it had been dark, Cleary would have hit the Pacific as naked as a newborn. Lana went over to the closet, lifting up on the balls of her feet and patting around on an upper shelf. Just then, the phone rang. She hurried across the room to answer it.
" Hello?... Oh, yes, sure, he's here." She covered the receiver with her hand. "It's for you, Jack. It's your secretary."
Damn, just when things were getting interesting. He reached for the receiver. "Dottie?"
She was talking fast and furiously, as if she were in a hurry, maybe en route to a tryout at Paramount. "Sorry to cut in on your clambake, Cleary, but the lab just delivered some surveillance photos Nick had taken at Williams's beachhouse last week. You'll never guess who he's got coming out the front door." Just say it, Dottie. But no, now they were playing guessing games. Okay. "Who is it?"
"The guy on the radio, the Gator. I recognized him right away. I've seen him at the clubs."
"I'll be right there."
TEN
Air Waves
A crowd of teenagers was milling about as Cleary entered the lobby of KGFJ. In one corner, dressed penguin style, a doo-wop group practiced their harmonies. There was also a Gene Vincent clone in the crowd, and a squeaky-clean, penny-loafered crew quartet. As he waited to talk to the receptionist, he watched the groups avidly performing for each passing DJ or record-company type.
The receptionist, a young man dressed in a mohair suit and a Milano collar, was deeply engrossed in conversation on the phone. A personal call, Cleary thought. Finally he leaned over the desk, and spoke into the man's ear. "I need to see Mr. Baytor."
"I'm sorry, but Mr. Baytor's not available. He's on the air." Then he flashed an acrid smile, dismissing him.
Cleary was unperturbed. "It's important that I see him," he said. "We've got some business to discuss."
"Not now you don't," the receptionist said, then took his hand off the receiver of the phone. "I don't care if it's Queen Isabella of Denmark's birthday, I am not wearing a Davy Crockett cap," he said to whoever was on the phone. Now his eyes widened. "Fine! Forget it, Adrian! Cancel the marshmallows, cancel the balloons, cancel—"
Cleary's hand slammed down over the button on the phone's cradle, disconnecting the call. Then he calmly took the receiver out of the receptionist's hand and hung it up. "Don't you know it's rude to talk on the phone when someone's trying to ask you something?" He smiled. "Now. Where do I find Baytor?"
"Well, excuse me for living, Atilla," the man responded, "but you do not have an appoint—"
"My manager givin' you a rough ol' ride?" a voice cut in from behind Cleary.
He turned to see Johnny Betts approaching with a guitar case, two-tone bucks, and a traffic-stopping Eddie Cochran rockabilly suit.
Reaching the desk, he slapped Cleary soundly on the back. "All those late hours, eh Hoss?" Betts grinned at the receptionist. "Name's Eddie Burnett. I'm a slice early for my live gig with the Gator." Forgetting Cleary, the receptionist beamed at Betts. "Oh, yes. We've been promoting it on the air all afternoon. Have you heard it?"
"I'm hep," Betts said with a grin, then winked at Cleary, who looked distinctly unamused.
The receptionist pushed the desk buzzer, unlocking a nearby "Personnel Only" door, and pointed the way.
A moment later, Cleary was striding down the long corridor with Betts on his heels, lugging the guitar case. "You don't hear too well, do you, Betts?" he said, glancing over his shoulder.
"Say what?" He cupped his ear, then bent over laughing. "If I did, you'd still be jitterbugging with Tinkerbell back there. You got no finesse, Jack. Your brother had finesse. It's something you gotta work on."
"Well, I hope you can get your money back on the costume rental 'cause I'm not auditioning this week," he snapped as he continued down the corridor.
"Costume rental!" he shouted after him. "Hey, man, I own these threads."
Cleary spotted Bobby Baytor through a window, seated in his broadcast booth before a large hanging microphone. As in the surveillance photo of him, the Gator wore a distinctive goatee. He was garbed in a long-sleeved Banlon shirt and shades that would blot out the afterburner of an F-14.
He pushed his way into the booth, and heard the Mad Rapper spewing a string of words Cleary hardly recognized as English as he cued up a 45 on his console turntable and leaned into the mike "...This ain't no hoot. This ain't no nanny. The Gator came to rock and the Gator's got your granny! Yooooooowwww! Chomp, chomp, chomp!!"
Then he assumed a relatively human-sounding voice, and added, "This KGFJ groove goes out to Charleeene from Nicky... 'Ooooooooooby Dooby' by Roooooy the big O Orbison!!"
As the music kicked in, Baytor switched off his mike, and spun around. He glanced at the clock on the wall, then at Cleary and Betts. "Who're you?"
"I'm here to ask you about Buddy Williams. What was your connection?"
Baytor stared at him, his expression changing from mild annoyance to anger. "How did you...? Get out. I'm on the air. I don't have to answer any damn questions."
"This won't take long if you cooperate."
He jabbed a finger at Cleary. "You are trespassing, man," he hissed, then suddenly lurched for the phone to call security. Ge
tting no dial tone, he shot a beleaguered look over at Cleary, who held the frayed end of the phone line he'd ripped out of the wall.
"That's not answering my question, Baytor. Next time it'll be your goddamn neck that gets yanked. Now start talking, pal."
"I don't know diddly 'bout any Williams. Now if ya don't mind, I got a show to do."
Betts, posted by the lone exit of the cramped room, was leafing through a stack of 45s, and, to Cleary's chagrin, reacted aloud to each and every one of his musical faves. Cleary ignored him, and moved in closer to Baytor. He slid off the man's sunglasses. "Take a look," he said, tossing a surveillance photo taken at Williams's beachhouse, onto Baytor's desk. "See the little man with the goatee? Looks just like you, doesn't it? I'd even swear it was you. Out at the beach catching some rays, working on your tan, no doubt. And working on something else, too. Right Baytor?"
"Get lost."
"That beachhouse of his was wired to the gills; every last conversation was taped."
Baytor pushed away the photo as if trying to distance himself from the evidence. He was beginning to look acutely uncomfortable. Beads of sweat pimpled his brow. The song ended, and he flipped the 45 over and cued it up on the turntable without comment.
"Now you can talk to me about Williams, or to my friends downtown," Cleary continued. "They're always up for a good payola story from a celebrity speed freak."
Betts looked up at Cleary, surprised by his wealth of information, then shook his head mournfully at Baytor. "As a charter member of your fan club, Gator, I am mortified, man, just mortified."
Cleary shot Betts a look, silencing him.
"You got proof I was selling airplay, pal? If you do, I'd like to see it."
Cleary leaned closer to him. "How 'bout I just beat the living crap outa you instead? How would that be, Mr. Gator? More to your liking?"
Baytor held up his hands, palms out. "Hey, be cool, man. I don't know zip about that bon voyage Buddy got, honest. And that's the Gator truth of the matter."
"That's what bothers me," Cleary responded, dryly. "Maybe you could tell me who he worked for."
"Starlite Records."
"Get serious. I can read the papers. Give me a human dimension, Baytor."
He shrugged. "How should I know, man. Do I look like the Encyclopaedia Britannica?"
Cleary leaned over, picked up Baytor's sunglasses, and snapped them in two. He tossed the pieces onto Baytor's desk. "Next, your eyes, pal," and he grabbed Baytor by the collar and drew a fist back.
"All right. Guy name of Mickey Schneider signs the checks, whatever that tells you. That's all I know. Believe me, that's all."
He glanced at the Orbison record, which was almost over. "If I don't get back on the air, we're going to have lots of company."
Cleary let go of his shirt and Baytor fell back against the chair. As the refrain of the song ended, Cleary strode toward the door.
Betts stepped forward, placing a 45 on Baytor's desk. "To Rhonda from Johnny, Gator. The B side."
Cleary emerged from the KGFJ building into the warm night, and headed down Sunset on foot. Betts, jazzed from the confrontation in the booth, was hard on Cleary's heels, lugging his guitar case.
"Man, talk about casual. You played the Gator back there like a freakin' minuet." He bumped Cleary accidentally with the case. "I mean, how'd you know he was an amphetamine hype with a payola bankroll?"
Cleary glanced back, his annoyance as stubborn as an itch. "He's a ten-grand-a-year record spinner with"—he jerked his thumb toward the KGFJ parking lot—"a Packard Caribbean, record-promoter playmates, and pupils the size of caraway seeds." He shrugged. "I filled in the blanks."
Visibly impressed, Betts paused on the sidewalk. "All right, Sherlock!" He hurried after him. "So where do we go from here?"
Cleary stopped dead in his tracks, turned, and looked Betts square in the eye. "We are going nowhere. We have seen the last of each other."
Frustrated, Betts rolled his eyes at the skyline in a classic "what a drag" look. "Talk about looking a gift horse in the tonsils, Cleary. I mean, listen up a minute, will ya, man?"
Cleary, who was about to turn away, pointed a finger at Betts. "No, you listen up, mister. I'm sure you're a regular Boy Scout beneath all the tattoos and Brylcreem, but I've got serious work cut out for me, and the last thing I need in my rearview right now is some thrill-crazy, rock-and-roll delinquent with a 'Blackboard Jungle' wardrobe, a nightmare for a car, and a haircut that needs a building permit. You got it straight?"
He glared at Betts, who jabbed his hands in his tight black jeans and hunched his shoulders. Cleary turned on his heels and continued down the sidewalk toward the side street where he'd parked his Caddy.
Betts stood there a moment, wondering whether to take it personally. As he drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out in a disgruntled sigh, his peripheral vision gradually registered the approach of a familiar '56 Packard 400 turning onto Sunset from a side street. As the car slowly approached Cleary from behind, Betts saw a split-second flash of neon careen off a slowly raised metallic object in the passenger window.
Sensing what was about to happen, Betts shouted Cleary's name, the sound cutting through the pea-soup-thick night air. Cleary figured Betts was about to curse him, and ignored the warning yell.
Betts took off at full sprint down the sidewalk, his two-tone bucks pounding the pavement, the sound echoing in his ears. As he ran, he flipped open the guitar case, dropping it as he grabbed the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun.
Cleary glanced back just as Betts hit him with a running, broadside tackle. He tumbled to the ground and was about to roll over and grab Betts by the throat when he heard a volley of gunfire shatter the windows over his head. Shards of glass sprayed over him as the bullets tore into the fashionably dressed mannequins inside the Sy Devore haberdashery. The mannequins folded, disintegrated in an explosion of plaster, mohair, and highboy collars. Instinctively Cleary assumed a crouched firing position just in time to get off two rounds at the quickly accelerating Packard. Beside him, Betts fired the sawed-off.
As the car disappeared down the boulevard, a few terrified citizens peered cautiously out of nearby storefronts. Cleary rose shakily to his feet, brushed off his coat, glanced at Betts. The kid looked about, then discreetly slipped the sawed-off into the custom-designed sling inside his sport coat.
"Serious work is right." He threw a look at Cleary. "Later, C-man." He headed back down the boulevard, slowing a moment to pick up the guitar case.
When Cleary recovered his voice, he yelled, "Hey, Betts."
But Betts was ignoring him. The kid closed the guitar case, then glanced over his shoulder as Cleary walked up to him. "You calling, man?"
Say it, man, Cleary chastised himself. Just spit it out. He finally extracted the words with about as much ease as he would his own teeth.
"Putting aside your taste in clothes and music, and the fact that I need a UN translator to understand you half the time... I mean, just for the sake of discussion..." Running out of words, a pained grimace contorted his face. "Oh, screw it. C'mon, we got work to do, Betts."
Restored of his sense of dignity, Betts stood his ground just long enough to run a back pocket comb coolly through his styled do. Then, with a shake of his head at the man's total lack of eloquence, he accepted Cleary's offer. "All right, Mr. Personality."
He sauntered after his reluctant mentor, their implausible alliance forged under gunfire.
ELEVEN
Starlite
As a newspaper delivery truck pulled away from the Starlite Record Building and onto a vacant street, Cleary eased away from the curb, drove the Eldorado around to the back of the building, and parked it in a dark corner with a view of the street. It was just before dawn, and he cut short a yawn with his palm.
"You think you can handle the lock on that door?" he said, motioning toward the rear entrance.
"Piece of cake," Betts answered, though he was too far away to even see the loc
k. "You ready? Let's go?"
"Just wait a minute."
"Wait? Wait for what? We already waited fifteen minutes across the street."
"Let's have a little chat." Something in Cleary's tone clued Betts that he was rubbing him the wrong way. "Where you from, Johnny?"
"Outside Memphis."
"How'd you meet Nick?"
"Through a probation officer. See, I ran into a little trouble after I first got out here."
"What land of trouble?"
"I was caught with my hands in a cash register."
"Too lazy to get a job?"
"Thought I'd save some time. That's all past, though. Your brother turned me around."
"Yeah. I can see that."
"I mean, you know, I haven't gone out and done anything stupid. Except for maybe the night at the courthouse."
"Where you get your money?"
Betts threw him a look that said back off. "I pick up jobs here and there, and Nick paid me. What is this, 'The Sixty-Four Thousand Dollar Question'?"
Cleary met Johnny's eyes. "I like to know who I'm working with."
"Yeah, well you go about it like a cop," he said, with a touch of defiance.
Cleary looked away.
"Guess there's a reason for that, huh?" Betts said in a softer voice, realizing he'd hit a nerve.
Cleary nodded noncommittally, then pointed out to the street as a patrol car eased by. "Let's wait one more minute to make sure he keeps going. If he comes back you're a singer from out of town. I'm your manager. We drove all night, and just arrived for your audition."
"Sounds cool," he said, drumming the dashboard.
Cleary glanced at his watch, waited. "All right. Let's do it."
Buoyed with confidence, Betts took the lead, and in less than a minute jimmied the lock on the back door. Inside, it took him just thirty seconds to open an office door that said, MICKEY SCHNEIDER—PRESIDENT.
As Cleary circled around Schneider's desk, Betts stopped to gaze appreciatively at a gold record hanging on the wall. "Dig it, man, Donnie Hammond." He tilted each of the framed records and photographs on the wall looking for a safe. Then he moved on to the file cabinet.
