All That Glitters

by Michael Murphy

  I bit my lip, tasting blood, as we sailed over the crest of a hill. The wheels almost left the pavement. We scraped bottom and bounced. The Model T’s old springs groaned on impact. The wheel fought to shake loose from my grip, but I held on and maintained control. Seconds later, our pursuers drew closer, revealing two men in the front and a third in the back.

  Laura squeezed my left arm. “It must be the police.”

  An arrest now would stop the progress we’d made and throw a monkey wrench into my plan to salvage my career and rescue Laura’s. Being pursued by anyone other than the cops meant Laura and I were in an even bigger jam.

  Halfway between the Carville Estate and the outskirts of Hollywood, the old car was pushing forty. I wiped sweat from my brow. If we could make it out of the hills, we’d encounter traffic and might be able to dodge these bums.

  I rounded a blind turn. The steering wheel shuddered. Steam boiled from the radiator, and the smell of hot rubber engulfed the inside of the car.

  The sedan’s powerful engine screamed like a vicious chimp. The black car filled the rearview mirror.

  I skidded through a turn, kicking up dirt and gravel at the edge of the pavement, peppering the front of the sedan with pebbles.

  Laura grabbed my arm. “I think you should pull over.”

  No way. I wouldn’t give up.

  The road straightened, and the sedan pulled beside us. In the passenger seat, a broad-shouldered tough guy with a mustache the size of a cocker spaniel thumbed to the side of the road. “Pull over.”

  I wouldn’t give up that easy. I downshifted and tapped the brakes.

  The sedan raced ahead then squealed on smoking tires and fishtailed as the driver hit the brakes.

  I shifted again. The old car surged past the slowing sedan. I silently shouted in triumph, but the small victory wouldn’t last.

  “Take that, you bums!” Laura shook her fist. “I guess now’s not the time to mention you should’ve rented a better car.”

  In spite of the pounding in my temples, I couldn’t help but smile. Seconds later, the sedan pulled alongside us again. An oncoming car approached, and the sedan dropped back. The driver swerved behind us, barely missing our rear bumper. If our luck held, Laura and I might make it to the city.

  The sedan bore down on us again. Like a Coney Island bumper car, the car jolted us with a bang. The steering wheel shook from my grip. Laura shrieked and pressed both feet to the floorboard as we swerved toward a thick pine tree at the side of the road.

  I grabbed the steering wheel and jerked us back to the pavement, kicking up dirt and rocks. I mashed down on the accelerator, but the engine coughed and sputtered as we approached another hill. Steam shot from the radiator, blocking my view through the windshield.

  What was I doing? Arrogant pride in my driving skills had endangered Laura. “We’re not going to outrun them!”

  The sedan rammed us again, caving in the back of the Model T like a cheap tin can. One of the rear fenders fell off and gouged a small trench in the side of the road. The wheel jerked from my hands. The Model T swerved and skidded toward the side of the pavement. “Hold on!”

  We slammed into a boulder, crumpling the front of the Model T. The hood ripped off, bounced on the roof, and banged onto the pavement behind us. I held on as we spun out of control. My head smacked the windshield. Blackness was followed by blinding points of light as we shuddered to a stop. “Laura! Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Just scared.” Laura scooted toward me and stared into my eyes. “You’re bleeding.”

  The driver’s door squeaked open. A strong pair of arms pulled me from the front seat and tossed me to the ground.

  A ragged hissing noise drowned out the throbbing in my head. I shook off the fog and realized the sound was steam spitting from the radiator. The impact mangled the front of the car. Glass and metal lay scattered along the side of the road. Oil seeped from beneath the car’s engine, and gasoline fumes filled the air.

  Laura tried to climb out the driver’s side, but the hulk with the big mustache stopped her and closed the door. “Stay here, doll. If you want to see your boyfriend again, you won’t report this to the cops.”

  “Get away from her.” I scrambled to my feet on unsteady legs and fell. I rose and lunged, pulling the big man away from Laura. His tall partner shoved me against the front fender of the Model T and yanked my arms behind my back.

  Laura’s frightened voice came from inside the car. “Jake, I’m okay!”

  I spun free and punched the tall man in the kidneys. He screamed as I pressed his face against the hot metal of the steaming radiator.

  The big man who weighed at least three hundred pounds pulled me off his partner, wrapped his meaty arm around my head, and squeezed. Like a professional wrestler, he hefted me in the air and slammed me to the ground.

  Air burst from my lungs. I continued to struggle as the two of them pushed, shoved, and dragged me to the black sedan.

  The man in the backseat rolled down the window. “Bring the dish.”

  I sucked in gulps of air.

  The broad-shouldered lug pinned me against the car. “The boss said just bring this one.”

  Holding his red face, the tall man yanked open the Model T’s door. “Come on, doll, guess you’re coming with us.”

  The big man forced me into the backseat. Blood dripped on my trousers.

  The door opened again, and Laura fell inside and threw her arms around me. She inspected my damage. She breathed a sigh of relief. She sat beside me with the stiff-upper-lip expression she always summoned during moments of crisis. “You okay?”

  “I’ll live.” I had a few bruises, a cut over one eye, and a ripped suit coat, but I was more worried about her.

  The man beside me poked my ribs with a pistol. The same bum who had confronted Laura and me outside the speakeasy the night we followed Todd Carville.

  “What do you want with us?”

  “Not a thing, Mr. Donovan, but my boss would like to chat. If you’d pulled over, I would have explained that.” He handed me a handkerchief. “Don’t bleed in his car.”

  If I was going to get us out of this jam, I had to regain my composure. I dusted myself off as best I could and straightened my tie. “We haven’t been properly introduced. You know my name, and this is Laura Wilson.”

  “Why not?” He held the .45 steady. “The name’s Leonardo De Palma, Junior. My friends call me Leo.”

  The driver with the burn on one side of his face turned and sneered. “His enemies call him Leo the Barber.”

  Laura leaned forward and placed one hand on the front seat. “Because he gets out of so many close shaves?”

  Leo pulled a straight-edge razor from his pocket then stuffed it back in his suit.

  The big thug in the passenger seat laughed until he snorted. “Good one, Miss Wilson.”

  She smoothed her dress as if she was a Southern Belle at a cotillion. “Thank you.”

  I ignored the gun barrel inches from my side. “You work for Gambino, isn’t that right, Leo?”

  The gun never wavered. “I provide security for Mr. Gambino’s various establishments.”

  “How does one get a position like that, Mr. De Palma?” Laura asked politely.

  Leo’s gun held steady like he’d done this plenty of times. “One graduates with a degree in accounting four months before the stock market crashes. I did odd jobs awhile and demonstrated I’ll do whatever it takes. Last year, the company I was working for transferred me to Los Angeles.”

  “Now you work at a speakeasy, carry a gun and a straight edge, and force people off the road.”

  Leo’s jaw clenched. “I do what I have to. Now shut the fuck up. Pardon my French, Miss Wilson.”

  Laura smiled like they were old pals. “Apology accepted.”

  The man definitely had two sides—one intelligent and sophisticated, the other dangerous and brutal. A deadly combination I couldn’t underestimate.

  We reached
the city. Only a handful of cars were parked in the small lot behind Gambino’s speakeasy. Leo stuck the .45 inside his suit coat. “Don’t try anything, Mr. Donovan, Miss Wilson.”

  I forced myself not to fight my way out of the situation. I held Laura’s hand as the three goons escorted us to the back entrance of the club.

  They led us through a musty-smelling storage room filled with dozens of barrels and wooden crates containing bottles of whiskey and other bootleg liquor. Leo rapped on a closed door. “I’ve got the package, boss.”

  A thin man, mid-thirties with slick black hair, sat at a massive oak desk. He wore a tailored three-piece gray suit with a red carnation. A diamond on his right hand was bigger than a sugar cube and no doubt left a heck of a bruise. I didn’t need an introduction. This was Slick Ray Gambino. He rose and set both hands on his hips. “Who’s the dame?”

  Standing between Laura and me, Leo ran a finger around the inside of his tight collar. “Laura Wilson.”

  Gambino huffed, and his nostrils flared like a racehorse entering a starting gate. “You kidnapped a movie star and a famous mystery writer?”

  “No, boss. We were going to invite him to meet with you, but Mr. Donovan didn’t want to come willingly.” He glanced at me. “Is that fairly accurate?”

  Laura smirked. “I suppose technically it’s true.”

  Gambino rushed around his desk and smacked Leo across the face. “You roughed him up, tossed her in the car, and pulled a heater on them both, I assume.”

  “It didn’t happen that way, Mr. Gambino.” Leo ran a hand over his chin. “Mr. Donovan wrecked his car. He received a few scrapes and cuts, but the Model T he was driving looks even worse.”

  The tall driver snickered then cleared his throat. His face took on a somber expression.

  Gambino thumped his chest. “You think this is funny?”

  “No, boss.”

  Gambino ran a hand through his hair. “Beat it, the three of you.”

  They didn’t have to be told twice. Gambino gestured toward two vacant leather chairs facing his desk, like we were old friends who’d dropped by on Sunday after church.

  Laura sat in a chair, checked her look in a compact mirror, and fluffed her hair. She was playing a role.

  I sat and dabbed at the cut over my left eye with the bloody handkerchief.

  Gambino crossed the room to a cabinet in the corner where a white sign on the wall read House Rules: Members Only, Prohibition Will Be Strictly Enforced, No Gambling, No Weapons, No Profanity in Front of Ladies. Management. He tossed me a cigar box with a red cross on it and returned to his desk.

  Laura grabbed the first-aid kit, such as it was. Making every effort to keep blood from her dress, she cleaned my cut with alcohol then placed a bandage above my brow.

  “Mr. Donovan, Miss Wilson.” Gambino cleared his throat. “This never should’ve happened.”

  I shrugged. “You have an employee who doesn’t follow orders.”

  “What I got is a putz from Chicago who hasn’t realized we do things differently in Los Angeles.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Sorry about your car.”

  Laura looked up through her eyelashes. “It was a rental, and I hardly consider it a loss. Matter of fact, Mr. De Palma did me a favor. I told Jake, I don’t know how many times, to take the clunker back and get something a little sportier. I mean, I’m an actress.”

  “You deserve something with pizzazz!” Gambino fingered his diamond ring. “I mean, you’re a classy dame.”

  Laura batted her lashes. “Thanks. Had Jake listened to me, we would’ve been able to outrun Mr. De Palma’s black sedan.” She’d assumed the role of a flirtatious dame to get the upper hand.

  “A rental.” Gambino snorted. “You should’ve come to me, Donovan. I own a car dealership. I could have fixed you up.” He slid open the top drawer in his desk and tossed me a business card with Gambino Chevrolet in bold letters.

  I stuffed the card into my ripped suit coat pocket. “Why all the fuss?”

  Laura patted my hand. “Jake’s a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy.”

  He tossed Pat Lonigan’s newspaper story about Eric’s murder to me.

  “I’ve read it.” I handed it to Laura, who ignored the story and set it on the mobster’s desk.

  Gambino’s eyes narrowed. “Implies the mob was behind the murder of Eric Carville.” He glared at me with the same disdain he had for Leo. He didn’t smack me on the mouth, so I considered myself lucky for the first time since we left the Carville Estate.

  “The mob. And that would be you.”

  “Listen, buster, I’m a legitimate businessman, but I’m Italian, so the cops and nosy newspaper reporters think I’m some kind of gangster.”

  I chuckled. “Legitimate businessmen don’t rough up potential customers.”

  “I returned from a business trip, and Leo told me you were casing the joint the same day this garbage”—he crumpled up the newspaper and tossed it into a trash can in the corner—“appears in the papers.”

  “Maybe I’m just a silly dame, but how does this involve Jake?” Laura held up both hands. “He wasn’t the son of a bitch who wrote the story.”

  “Anytime a famous former Pinkerton detective shows up in town parked outside one of my joints, I get kind of nervous he might be working for the feds or the local yokels. I made some calls and found out he’s pals with the newspaper reporter.”

  “That’s why you sent some thug to run me off the road, ruin my car, and kidnap us?”

  He held up both hands. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Then we’re free to go?”

  “Sure…right after you tell me why you were outside my joint the other night.”

  I decided to risk opening up to the guy. “The cops think I might have knocked off Eric Carville.”

  Gambino laughed. “You serious?”

  Laura nodded. “It’s the truth, and I for one don’t find a thing funny about the situation.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “Who’s the detective on the case?”

  “Annabelle Church.”

  Gambino winced. “If she don’t like somebody, you might as well check yourself into the pen now. She’s a real ball breaker. Pardon the expression, Miss Wilson.”

  “I’ve met her. She’s definitely a ball breaker.” She crossed her ankles, revealing plenty of her shapely calf. “And call me Laura.”

  I didn’t like Laura pretending to flirt with the mobster, but he liked her, so the act must be working. “I wasn’t casing your joint. I followed Todd Carville. He dropped by—”

  “Todd Carville came here?” Gambino jumped to his feet and paced the room while Laura and I watched. What had I said that upset him? He stopped at a liquor cabinet next to the safe and made a big deal about selecting a bottle of whiskey. He returned with the booze and three glasses. “You like a snoot, Donovan?”

  I shook my head.

  Laura scooted the chair closer to the desk. “I could use one after getting run off the road and kidnapped by one of your…business associates.”

  Gambino handed Laura a drink and poured one for himself. He swallowed it in one gulp and let out a sigh. “Todd Carville was here last night?”

  I nodded. “Several minutes after Todd went inside, Leo knocked on the side of my car and made it clear we had to scram.”

  “He met with Leo?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  Gambino slammed his hand on the desktop. “Leo, get your ass in here.”

  Leo poked his head in the door. “Yes, Mr. Gambino?”

  “Todd Carville come in while I was out of town?”

  “You were gone—”

  Gambino pounded the desk with his fist. “Last night!”

  Leo slipped into the office and stood with his back pressed against the door. “I think I would have remembered that, boss. We were pretty busy. Maybe he dropped by for a drink after work. It must be a coincidence.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably it.” Gambino dismissed L
eo with a wave. “Scram.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Beat it!”

  When he left, Gambino stared at the closed door. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  Leo the Barber was a loose cannon, and we both knew it. “Neither do I.”

  I glanced at Laura then tried to drive a wedge between Gambino and his head of security. “Leo’s an educated man.”

  “You think Italians don’t go to college, Donovan?” Gambino looked ready to explode.

  Laura came to my rescue. “I’m sure Jake meant no offense.”

  “Leo’s a smart guy. I have to admit, though, sometimes he’s too smart for his own good.” Gambino poured himself another drink. “So, Donovan, how come the cops think you might have bumped off Eric Carville?”

  I described tangling with Eric at the party then being asked later to assist with the crime-scene investigation.

  “No good deed goes unpunished. Now you’ve got to prove your innocence. I know the feeling.” He pointed to the crumpled newspaper. “You believe what this hack wrote, that I had something to do with the murder?”

  “I’ve put together a list of suspects. Your name’s not on it. I’m trying to understand the killer’s motive, but I do have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “No pun intended.” Laura finished her drink and set the glass on the desk, and Gambino refilled it.

  I shot her a look of disapproval. “Maybe I will have a drink.”

  He filled the third glass and handed it to me.

  I tossed back the booze like we were old drinking buddies. “I hear you’re interested in purchasing Carville Studios.”

  He grinned like a kid on a Coney Island ride. “I love the movies! Sure, I’d like to run a studio someday. I’ve had conversations with several studios over the years. Had lunch with old man Carville right after his heart attack, but nothing ever came from it.”

  “But Todd Carville…”

  “You think Todd came in to try to interest me in buying the studio? I met the guy once when he came in a month ago to pay off his brother’s gambling debt. Like I said, I was in…out of town.”