The X-Rated Corpse

by Michael Avallone

  THE X-RATED

  CORPSE

  Michael Avallone

  STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

  LOS ANGELES

  2015

  Copyright © 2015 by David and Susan Avallone. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

  http://www.mouseauditorium.tumblr.com

  Story Merchant Books

  400 S. Burnside Avenue #11B

  Los Angeles, California 90036

  http://www.storymerchantbooks.com

  THE CAST OF CHARACTERS

  . . . according to their favorite movie stars

  ED NOON Gary Cooper

  VIOLET PARIS Elizabeth Taylor

  BENNETT ZANGDORFER Clark Gable

  LT. OLIVER OGILVTE Sidney Poitier

  RICHARD X. FAIRMAN Paul Newman

  KANE Ronald Colman

  HOMER DANBURY Marlon Brando

  PEARL ELLISON Sophia Loren

  MONKS Spencer Tracy

  WALTER VAN Paul Muni

  SGT. MADISON Anthony Quinn

  . . . and some of them never go to the movies again.

  This one is for Frank Capra, that eternal lighthouse in a foggy world, and to render long over-due gratitude for the magic that made six of the greatest films of all time. None of them rated X.

  It Happened One Night

  Mr. Deeds Goes To Town

  Lost Horizon

  You Can't Take It With You

  Meet John Doe

  It's A Wonderful Life

  1934—1941

  OTHER GREAT ED NOON

  ACTION ADVENTURES

  by Michael Avallone

  SHOOT IT AGAIN, SAM

  THE HORRIBLE MAN

  THE LIVING BOMB

  THE FAT DEATH

  THE FLOWER-COVERED CORPSE

  LONDON BLOODY LONDON

  THE GIRL IN THE COCKPIT

  THE ALARMING CLOCK

  THE TALL DOLORES

  KILL HER, YOU'LL LIKE IT

  KILL ON THE KEYS

  THE SPLITTING IMAGE

  THE LAST TIME HE SAW PARIS,

  She was scared to death, willing to do anything to save her reputation and career. But now as Ed Noon sat in the darkened room, he saw a Violet Paris whom he had never dreamed existed.

  She was lying nude on a leather couch, her tongue licking her full lips, her creamy thighs parted invitingly. The man with her was naked, too, a big man, big in every way, and bigger now than ever, Thanks to Violet's loving attentions. She gasped with pleasure as he came into her embrace, and within seconds she was crying out, begging for more and more.

  Who was Violet Paris? A great and sensitive actress? Or a debased creature who would stop at nothing to satisfy her raging appetites?

  Ed Noon had to find out . . . even if it cost him his illusions . . . even if it cost him his life . . .

  CONTENTS

  1968—Oscar, Anybody?

  Murder Has Only One Act

  The Dirty Old Fan

  The Beautiful Black Man

  The Goofy Lover

  Twelve O'Clock Eye

  Death at Twenty One

  Never Trick a Chick

  Slay Her as She Lays

  Ultra-Violet

  Fade-Out on a Legend

  Posthumously Yours

  1968—Oscar, Anybody?

  "Mrs. Hayes. Please—"

  "No, General Peabody. On the contrary. You please me. I want you to tell me exactly, this very second, without any of your protocol blather, your red tape nonsense, no, and none of your familiar flag and country double-talk—what the U.S.A. is finally doing about Lieutenant Stephen Hayes and all the other prisoners of war in that god-forsaken chunk of real estate over there in Southeast Asia!"

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hayes. I can't answer that—"

  "Sorry? I want more than sorry from you, General. I want my husband back. I want all our husbands back."

  "I've told you. There's nothing the War Department can do. Nothing anyone can do just yet. Not until Hanoi concedes—"

  "You want me to wait again. Wait another two years? No, General. I won't. I can't. Tell me, General. Am I a widow or am I not? You don't have to hide the truth from me any longer—"

  "As God is my judge, Mrs. Hayes—"

  The wide screen throbbed and glimmered in the darkness. Quivering with that electrical current that can only come with the presence of something tremendous and vital. Something special.

  That inexplicable ingredient called star quality.

  The four-star Air Force General being enacted with vigorous and telling authority by that veteran player, Walter Van, didn't have a chance. The woman with him, up there on the screen, filling the celluloid with a rare beauty and a shining evanescence, a glow, almost a mysticism of supreme uniqueness, was the only one that anyone was watching. You couldn't take your eyes off the incredibly lovely, darkly brilliant young woman who was portraying Mrs. Aggie Hayes, war widow.

  She was soaring and eloquent. Vivid and unforgettable.

  The camera was making love to her.

  As it had Garbo, Crawford, Dietrich, Monroe and so few others.

  But none of those forever-females had ever had what Violet Paris had. It was the kind of star magic that comes perhaps once in anyone's lifetime. Once is more than anyone can handle.

  "General Peabody, I want to see the President."

  "Now, hold on, Mrs. Hayes. I've been more than lenient with you. What you ask is out of the question."

  "Is it, General? Really? Why can't I see my President? Me—an American citizen who willingly allowed her husband to go off and fight a stupid, terrible war—— "

  The words, the gestures, the shining clarity and truth of that unforgettably beautiful face and the stirring voice, got under the skin and stayed there. Your ears echoed with the rhythms.

  And Violet Paris entered the soul and stayed there.

  Stayed there for five long years more. Of magic and enchantment and personal extraordinariness. Super-stardom. And Love.

  Making legends and millions of dollars out of dreams.

  Everybody's dreams.

  Until somebody killed her, that is. . . .

  Murder Has Only One Act

  The first time I saw Violet Paris in the flesh was the last time. The world wasn't young and gay, either.

  Death came to her violently at approximately three thirty on a Wednesday morning while her Hollywood world slept. The next day and all that week and maybe for a lifetime of cultists thereafter, the universe wept. All over the news media.

  I felt a little misty myself.

  Although I had only seen her once, I never forgot her. She wasn't a very forgettable woman.

  The town had good reason to grieve and go into temporary mourning. Violet Paris had lit up the bleak silver screens of the Seventies, with that particular incandescence of style and personality that makes living legends out of mere parcels of flesh-and-blood women. She had been a flame-thrower among the feeble popguns billed as Streisand, Welch, MacGraw and Farrow. Ultra-Violet out-gunned them all.

  Liz and Loren and maybe Audrey had been the very last of some kind of great femininity and beautiful charisma that a dying Art had known until Violet Paris bloomed overnight.

  In the sad end though, her uncommon clay was common enough. The jewel-handled dagger buried to the hilt between her twin 38's, confirmed that grimly enough for the baffled Beverly Hills Police Department. The Legend died in a pool of her own blood on the floor of the lavish living room she called the 'Pad'.

  But alive, Vio
let Paris was the uncommonest female who had ever stared myopically back into a camera lens. She was to small and big screens, to projection rooms, theatres and Drive-Ins, what Shakespeare was to the King's English. What Ted Williams was to a fast ball over the heart of the plate. What Kelly was to a production number in an M-G-M musicial. What a Playboy centerfold is to a certified bachelor. A non-pareil. A titan. A classic. All that kind of jazz. A one of a kind from the bottom line up.

  Before her murder, maybe only a half a day away, she called me on the telephone. I was in Hollywood that week on a pass. Some independent film makers who were headquartered in Television City had flown me in from New York at their expense to play at being Technical Advisor on a movie they were planning to make about the private detective business. The job never did pan out and that's another story. One that just doesn't belong here.

  There wasn't any time to puzzle over how she had tracked me down to a second floor room at the Hotel Dunlap, a none too fancy domicile on a quiet side street just in from Sunset Boulevard. The Mountain had come to Mohamet.

  When you're the Number One Box Office Queen from Nova Scotia to Big Sur, all things are possible. I never asked her. It didn't seem important at the time. It still doesn't. Death dwindles all meaningless questions.

  I did wonder how she might have known about me and what kind of fool I really am. I could only suppose we had some mutual friends in Show Biz. A lot of the old Times Square crowd are now working the Hollywood beat. Johnny Seven, Warren Kemmerling, Arte Johnson, Owen Pavitt, Henry Beckman, Warren Oates and Bern Hoffman. I had no actress friends. With them it had always been Lovers or Nothing. I settled for Nothing.

  Again, it didn't matter.

  When Violet Paris talks to you on the telephone, in person, how it all came to pass is Monday Morning Quarterbacking. As worthless as that, somehow. Nobody needs a critic.

  Never ask miracles for testimonials. I always try not to.

  "Mr. Noon, I'll get to the point. I'm sure you're as busy as I am." Her voice was a musical instrument designed for savage males. A tool she could obviously pluck at will. The way she spoke my name was worthy of a Garbo without the Swedish accent.

  "I always have time for women who look the way you do."

  She didn't even honor that with a mention.

  "There is a very foolish man in my life who is threatening me with a blackmail proposition. I think you can help. Could you call on me tonight?"

  "Yes," I said "But there's a kicker."

  "And that means?"

  "I'm licensed only in New York State, Miss Paris. As far as Sunny Cal is concerned, I'm just another taxpayer."

  "That's exactly why I want you. You're not local. He won't know you. That ought to make the problem simpler all around. No?"

  "Yes—maybe—hard to say. Without knowing the facts."

  "I'll be off the set at ten. Please make it tonight. There just isn't any time left in all this. It's very important to me and I'll explain all the details when I see you."

  I laughed. As uncommonplace as she was, she was being so typical. A Queen Bee around whom all others must revolve, buzz and obey, setting their own life and pursuits to the regal hum of the Hollywood Star. Don't-call-me-I'll-call-you. You could drop dead that way, waiting for a phone to ring in California.

  "This isn't funny, Mr. Noon."

  "Sorry. Just clearing my throat. What's the picture you're working on now, Miss Paris? "

  Now, she laughed. "You'll have to excuse me but it's called Flame Over Saigon. Funny you should ask. I'm fighting to have that title changed. Why?"

  "Nothing. Only a buff's interest."

  "Then you will come tonight?"

  "Your wish is my command. Ten, you said—?"

  "My love scene is through at ten. I should get back to the Pad about eleven. It's a late hour, but could you be there at midnight? The house is about a half hour from where you are."

  "Give me the address. I've got a compass."

  She did. I am, first, last and always, the eternal movie fan. I would have gone out to see her if her pet poodle was missing. I thanked her, accepting the invitation formally, knowing she had given me the number of a probable two-million dollar watering hole in a Beverly Hills neighborhood where the garbage pails would have mink-lined lids. Then I went into the bedroom part of the suite and laid out my best blue suit with .45 to match. She had indicated that there was a special private police force which scoured the ritzy precincts of her movie-star milieu but she would give them the hour and particulars of my midnight arrival so I wouldn't have any trouble invading Cinderella Suburbs after dark. It seemed that Glenn Ford, the Paul Newmans and Rita Hayworth lived right down the block.

  After the historic phone conversation, mental images of Violet Paris leftovers clung to the corners of what little space I had left in my brain for anything else.

  Violet Paris, indeed.

  Lips blooming on a Rodin statue, breasts, hips and thighs courtesy of the Renaissance. Coloring, style and vivacity strictly Twentieth Century, with large dollops of Cinemascope, glorious Technicolor and Helena Rubenstein and Edith Head. Talent—it had to be God-given. The mold had been broken by her. Right down the middle.

  In an era where it had been hard to be impressed, she had been impressive. Nobody more exciting or talented had showed up in Filmville since the debut of Audrey Hepburn. Ten long years after Roman Holiday, a nineteen year old newcomer named Violet Paris, fresh from Xenia, Ohio, with a figure like Venus de Milo, a face like the stripling Ingrid, won the Best Supporting Actress Academy Award for her performance in The Indifferent Drummer. Six short years after that fact, in another Year of the Oscar, Violet Paris had become the Best Actress with her incomparable delineation of Aggie, the heroine of Jo Malmedy's classic story of a Prisoner-Of-War's young wife, Widows Walk Away. In the long history of the Academy, only Helen Hayes had ever accomplished that hat trick. Not even the Davises or the Hepburns or the De Havillands. Winning both Supporting and Best Actress Oscars. And now, the peerless Violet Paris was playing in a film to be called Flame Over Saigon—

  I was very anxious to meet the woman who had made me squirm like an unhappy snake at a showing of Widows Walk Away.

  The indelibly lovely Violet Paris had been heart-breakingly fine and memorable as the doomed, rebellious Aggie Hayes who never knew if her pilot husband was alive or dead while the Administration played terrible waiting games with Hanoi during the Vietnam War.

  She had been every soldier's wife, every woman, everywhere, with bells on. All the way back to Eve. All with a face and an acting style out of a dream. A Sex Symbol who could also act with the best.

  So, at exactly midnight that same day, with the clustered lights of Los Angeles a far-off curtain of twinkling lights in the darkness, I crossed the threshold of Violet Paris' 'Pad'.

  There was no trouble at all about special private cops.

  I breezed through the spacious, massively fashionable blocks like a visitor from another planet. My rented car was not stopped. I saw no sign of anybody. Not so much as a movie star walking a dog. The little cosmos was a world unto itself. Beyond prying eyes.

  The lady let me in herself.

  Something about no maids, private party and let's-talk-this-thing-out-alone. Which was impressive, also. Being alone with Violet Paris at midnight in a Lincoln Center of a Hollywood home which held a thousand corners of intimate darkness and gloom, was the Impossible Dream. Ten million other guys walked in with me. With the same lances.

  The Pad might have been Shangri-La. Or Xanadu.

  It looked like it cost nearly as much.

  All I can remember now, with her dead, is that she wore a tight Bolero jacket, blacker than India Ink, over a sleeveless, crimson, high-necked blouse, Capri slacks bluer than poker chips and her jet-black long hair was an artistic bun towering above that face that nobody ever wanted to turn away from. Or change in any way.

  "Well, I'll be damned," she said.

  "You did say twelve—"
>
  "No, no. You're prompt. I like that. It's just that you look so much like Bill Holden. Anybody ever tell you that?"

  "Not really. I'm flattered."

  "You should be. Bill's really what they mean when they say a man is good-looking. You must be about the same age, too."

  "Only around the edges." I grinned, looking for a place to drop my pork-pie. There was a phenomenally long table in the king-sized entrance hall we were standing in. I put the hat there and she moved ahead of me. Tigerishly, glitteringly. I followed the towering bun atop a head that belonged on rare old coins. It was fun.

  She wasn't drinking tonight, she said, and she didn't want me to, either. So I didn't push the point. I found an arced, surrealistic butterfly chair somewhere among the fantastic trappings of a wide, low-ceilinged room which had to be the set of Lana Turner's last soap opera and tried to get comfortable. It really wasn't possible. To be suddenly cheek-to-cheek with the likes of Violet Paris, was a little too unreal, even for a dreamer like me. There are limits.

  "Tell me about it," I said.

  She didn't smile. She opened her mouth and talked. Her teeth were Cineramically architectural, all there and all even and white, but her story was something for the scandal magazines. And rotten newsstand gazettes like Screw. A tale for a Porno Parlor.

  "Mr. Noon, there is a very famous producer in this town who you will identify as soon as I give you his initials, let alone his name. I slept with him to get my first featured part. He was in love with me, he said. I had no time for love but I gave him my body because my eye was on the sparrow. There was only time to do the things that would get me where I wanted to be. There isn't any sense in our discussing the morality or the ethics involved. I did have the talent. But he had the power."

  "I think I understand," I said because there was no reason to interrupt her just yet. She paused to pull a lovely ear lobe and I watched her, entranced. Curled up on the lounge beyond the low onyx coffee table, with her legs tucked beneath her curved and formidable figure, she was fantasy in the flesh. I felt drunk.