Shanghai rubys, p.17
Shanghai Ruby's, page 17
I drew a blank and shrugged no connection. He’d struck out on that one and frankly, I didn’t give a damn anyway as his whole story was starting to stink. I glanced at Rhonda and she just stared back at me also registering no recognition either. I had a feeling this guy’s story was going straight down the sewer and him with it. I’d just listen, but I knew it wasn’t going to turn out well and right now I had more important things to do. I checked the time on my watch and motioned to a passing waiter for a final refill on my drink, Rhonda’s was still half full.
He didn’t care that we didn’t know his girlfriend, just wanted to get his dirty laundry out there for all to smell and droned on. “She was a real cutie. Had stars in her eyes for show business and even bigger dreams for humanity. She wouldn’t hurt a fly, but got swept up in a movement that sounded like it had good intentions, but was actually just a front for a gigantic propaganda machine that as you’ve been probably reading about, didn’t take long to establish a foothold with our liberals in the entertainment business. And, I got swept up into her misguided trash can as well and now I’m afraid, I might be doomed. Now, being a Hollywood producer, director, actor or writer associating with the Reds is a catastrophe. You are either banished from the entertainment and movie business in this country when you rat on your friends in the party, if you’re lucky or you are held in contempt receiving a stiff jail sentence for not cooperating followed by banishment as well. Either way, I’m a pariah and either way I’m on a Black list or a list of some kind that seals my fate from making money in this business in the future. I’m screwed and don’t know what I’m going to do.”
I detected a slight tremor to his hand, raising his glass for a quick sip. He absently rotated the glass on the coaster. Clinking the ice cubes against the inside in a swirling motion, a frown crept across his face, as he thought about what he’d just confessed.
What a mess this guy was. “You fool, you joined the party. You are a Red, aren’t you? How in the hell could you fall for that party line crap-ola, Canyon? I stay as far away from politics as humanly possible. Always have. Most of its bullshit anyway.”
“I know, I know, but it was easy and I fell into the trap. I never went to any local party meetings though. My only real connection was knowing Sheila, that’s all. When I worked with the partisan commie sympathizers in France against the Nazi’s, I thought I was doing something at the time to help their cause. They thought they were doing the right thing too, but many were caught and executed for their actions. You must have connected with some in Spain?”
I stubbed out my cigarette and said, “Sorry, pal. I fought on Uncle Sam’s side in the big one. Any of my connections and Rhonda’s brother fighting right along beside me, were with our own troops which sometimes connected with Spanish Freedom Fighters, but that was all. They knew we were there to stamp out the Huns and not get wrapped up in anything Russian. I’m afraid you got swept up in a lost cause here afterwards and should have left that European war and all the crap politics behind when it was over. You didn’t and instead you’re now going to pay a steep price for your mistaken judgment.
“What happened to your girl Sheila? Still seeing her?”
“No … she’s dead. Car crash off of Laurel Canyon Boulevard, a while back.”
He looked down, depressed at having tossed out everything and was now “left without even a pot to piss in”.
“Sorry, Wes, how did it happen?”
“Police said it was faulty brakes, but I don’t believe it. Her Nash was always tuned up and in good shape. I suspected foul play connected with the party, but could never prove it.”
“Who have you told this story to, Hemingway?”
“No, he only knows about my OSS work behind the lines in France and was only concerned that his troublemaking on the set was annoying the “big money boys”, as he liked to call them. A strong arm and a hired gun was all he wanted from you to watch his back, but now that he’s left town, that doesn’t matter. But, only because of what’s just happened today with that car bomb, have I realized that this now is going to crack wide open.”
“Who else, knows this commie connection of yours?”
“I only told Mr. DeCosta a few days ago, hoping to save my job on this movie project as the studios are beginning to slam the doors on even those with connections. He seemed to be sympathetic with my situation, except my conversation must have leaked out. Or, maybe they’re just sending a message to anyone planning to testify sometime in the future.”
“Any way you look at it, sounds bad to me, pal. I’d say the party’s got your number already for crying on DeCosta’s shoulder and you’re not too popular. I suggest you lay low for a few days. I don’t think they’ll resume with your picture right away after that mess across the street. I’ll nose around DeCosta’s side of the tracks alongside my own business and see what turns up. If there’s anything concerning you, will get back … can’t promise more.”
I thought he’d perked up a little with the bone I’d tossed, except he just shrugged it off when he said, “I’m not going into hiding, Thornton. I’m in no more danger than anyone else around here connected with the party. I can take care of myself.”
I thought, what a fool and said, “Okay, suit yourself, pal. Give Rhonda some phone numbers where we can contact you again. Oh, and one more thing, take a look at this.” I pulled out the newspaper clipping of DeCosta and his friends at the track and pointed to the Ava Gardner clone in the photograph. Canyon slipped on a pair of reading glasses and lost his tan.
“Ever see that dame standing next to DeCosta. She’s a real looker,” I said, pointing to the dish with the big smile and DeCosta’s wrap around hand cupping her breast.
He shook his head slowly, double checking the dated photo and mumbled, “I’m not sure I know who she is, why?” He gulped what was left in his glass as a refuge from the truth. From his reaction, I knew he was covering up something that I’d eventually find out.
I probed once more, “She wouldn’t be hard to miss, Canyon. Maybe works on the studio lot somewhere?
“She must be one of DeCosta’s usual bimbos. Several have been in a few low budget “B” numbers to get their feet wet and tail seasoned by some of the studio big shots. Apparently that one’s worked her way to the top … fast. You know how it goes?”
“Yeah, I get it, anything more?”
“I already told you, I haven’t seen her before,” he replied. “Sorry, you’ll have to ask around.”
That was about it for this guy. I’d pumped his well dry for what it was worth and I didn’t like either his answers or his attitude. Hemingway was wrong on this bird. He wasn’t okay in my book and would probably deserve all that he had coming. I stuffed the clipping back in my pocket as he dug out something of his own inside his coat and silently handed it to me to read.
“What’s this?” I said, flipping through a professionally prepared multipage newsletter entitled the “Progressive Leader” printed in bold lettering across the top. A quick perusal of the well written and persuasive articles answered my question.
When I looked up, Canyon caught my glare and elaborated, “I thought you should see that in case you haven’t already. It’s the latest commie propaganda spiel that’s been circulating around all the movie studios recently and maybe even to some of the other entertainment joints around town … that I don’t know. It’s clearly slanted at promoting communist party membership, agitating for leftist social issues and inciting members to take action by infiltrating and subverting all levels of business and government. This commie, studio, union mess is all connected isn’t it?”
“You could be right, Canyon.” I tossed it back on the table. A trashcan would have been more suitable. “Keep your eyes peeled and ears waxed. Maybe we’ll uncover who’s involved in financing, publishing and distributing that rag. Know anyone in the Screen Writer’s Guild? From what I’ve heard, that seems to be the central hot bed.”
“I know a couple of guys. I’ll nose around from this end, okay?”
He was in a precarious position and knew it. Only by cooperating with a stranger that Hemingway had chosen, could he dig himself out of this hole he’d fallen into.
I nodded and said, “Be careful, Chum.” He offered a clammy hand to shake before we left.
As we slid out of the booth, he gave Rhonda another once over. A recognition finally clicked and he blurted out like a Boy Scout in a bordello with a big grin plastered across his mug, “Say, a-aren’t you that striptease dancer “Torchy” over at the Florentine Gardens nightclub? I-I thought I recognized you when you walked in, but just couldn’t place it ‘til now. Am I right?”
Rhonda shot me a quick sideways glance, smiled sweetly with that “eat your heart out” kisser and shot back in a soft purr, “I’m sorry Mr. Canyon, you must have me mixed up with someone else. I’m only a private detective’s secretary. But, thanks for the compliment … anyway.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have confused you with someone else,” he mumbled an apology. Then he bent closer and offered her another Hollywood kiss on the cheek, as a consolation prize. We left him there in the darkened, empty booth; filling his overflowing ashtray, polishing off more booze and contemplating a dismal future.
Chapter Seventeen
A yellow checker taxicab pulled smartly up in front of Rico’s and unloaded a well-dressed couple, eager for a lobster luncheon. I was going to send Rhonda back to the office in that crate to pick up her coupe and begin tracking down that pawn ticket in El Segundo, but changed my mind. That could wait. I’d keep her with me for something to eat. After spending so much time listening to Canyon’s doubtful depressing story line in that gloomy cave, I needed some fresh air and a change of atmosphere. I knew my sexy partner probably did too. When I mentioned another plan, her eyes brightened and she perked up. I didn’t have to say more.
We’d both had it with Rico’s, for today, anyway. I whipped the Buick convertible east onto Santa Monica Boulevard with Rhonda glued by my side. My suggestion for lunch at the Brown Derby near my office on North Vine Street was just what we both needed before continuing and I felt elated to be outside in the sunshine. Even moving through the midday traffic was a relief from that dark mausoleum where we’d left Canyon.
I popped out the dashboard lighter for a smoke and glimpsed Rhonda as she began to drop her secretarial disguise, which would have only fooled a blind man anyhow. She shoved the cheaters into her purse and turned that blonde mane loose in the wind, letting it whip around her beautiful face in the warm sun. Turning towards me with a puckered smile she said, “Wasn’t it ironic where we were sitting in that restaurant?”
“About what, baby?”
“I mean the “Red” colored booths and all the black and white photos of Hollywood’s elite plastered around the restaurant on the walls. They might be “hot shot movie stars” with the public, but now they’re on the “hot seat” with the Federal government.” She laughed at her joke and so did I.
“That’s cute, baby and a smart observation. I thought the same thing as we were leaving.”
“And what about that phony story from Wes Canyon? Didn’t that sound a little rehearsed? I mean, he even had the glum expressions and all to go with it. If he was that worried, why was he still in town?”
“You read my mind again, sweetheart.”
Tex was right. This kid was sharper than a freshly cut diamond and catching on so damn fast, I might cut myself trying to unwrap her tight package later. That cabeza had more than just a beautiful face. She had brains as well as a showgirl’s figure.
“I think he’s not telling us something, Matthew. Don’t know what, but he’s at least hiding behind that excuse of a girlfriend. Doesn’t that sound weak to you?”
“Yeah, his whole story stinks, especially hiding under a woman’s skirt. But, Hemingway’s no fool. He may like this guy for his movie, but he wouldn’t like what we heard today and would dump him faster than a plate of green cheese. Maybe Canyon’s not in trouble with that commie congressional committee after all and has something else going on.
“Like what?”
“Don’t know yet, but will find out, if I have time. We’ve got more iron’s in the fire than getting involved with that guy, angel. Let’s just concentrate on those first. I’ll snoop around at the Majestic after lunch on McCullen’s dame, while you track down some of those other clues we picked up on the crime scene, okay?”
“Sounds good to me, Matthew. I’m getting hungry. Look, there’s the Brown Derby,” she said pointing to the famous restaurant across the street, as I slowed to enter the parking lot.
* * *
It was midday and the Derby was packed. After greasing the palm of the maitre’d up front, we were escorted to a private, comfortable booth half way towards the back. My strawberry blonde partner garnered the usual admiring smiles and nods, including a few envious raised eyebrows, from some of the tinsel town celebrities seated at the surrounding tables. She tossed them her most captivating smile, leaving them guessing her unknown identity, as we slipped into the booth, warm thighs touching again underneath the starched table cloth.
I ordered two very dry Bombay Gin and Noilly Pratt Vermouth Martini’s to get us in the right mood and wasted no time placing our order. We both gravitated to the Derby’s “Daily Luncheon Special”- Calf’s Liver & Onions with Bacon paired with a tossed salad, a small side of fried potatoes, fresh garden peas and a glass of Burgundy wine for me and chilled Chardonnay for Rhonda.
I glanced around and noticed it wasn’t the first choice for many in the restaurant. Several preferred what I’d noticed listed on the luncheon menu as the Trout Amandine. However, what they were eating looked strange and smelled worse. Whatever it was, appeared to be smothered in something like cornflakes, maybe an attempt to mask the offensive odor. From the gagging sounds emanating from the surrounding tables, I was convinced it was something else, but wasn’t sure what and tried to ignore it.
Rhonda caught the scent too, sniffing the air several times. She leaned in closer and said, “M-Matthew, I-I don’t know what those other people are eating, but I’m beginning to feel queasy.”
I suggested holding her nose while sipping some wine to coat her palate. I had my doubts about that remedy and from her pale and sweaty countenance, I knew she wasn’t lying. I was feeling slightly nauseous myself. But what I really thought about saying would have been far less effective, but more entertaining….
“If you’re feeling faint Rhonda, just bend over; put your head between your legs and … yodel.”
She’d shoot me a startled expression and mutter, “The tabletop is in the way and, and … I don’t know any alpine songs.”
Naturally confused over this suggestion, I’d mention an alternative solution and say, “I’ll help. I’ll put my head between your legs, if you’ll do the musical bit, okay? Just, make something up. Trust me, it will work.”
She wouldn’t be confident with my plan, but would shrug her shoulders with resigned reluctance and acquiesce. I would follow with self-doubts of my own, especially after listening to her practice a couple of times. She’d sound more like a strangled cork getting jerked out of a wine bottle than a Swiss miss in heat.
I’d bump my head a few times adjusting my own position and get ready. When all was finally in order, a sweeter and purer Alpine aria would never grace the wooded valleys and mountainous peaks in all of Bavaria, like hers during that wonderful unique following moment.
The Derby would come alive with “the sound of music” and all the surrounding tables and booths from front to back, including the waiters and bartenders would join in harmonizing and humming along. Her melodious voice would echo off the walls and reverberate as far and wide, as the parking lot outside.
I sat there, chuckling at this daydream, when Rhonda broke up my reverie. She said, “Matthew, what were you thinking about? You were smiling for once, at something funny?”
“Ah- yes, just a passing thought about you, sweetheart and a very pleasant one, too.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m feeling better now, too. That sip of wine seemed to work and I don’t smell anything unpleasant anymore either.”
After we finished our lunch, I couldn’t resist asking my waiter about our neighbor’s luncheon choice. He pinched his nose and whispered something confidential about another spicy Derby creation, Creole Macaroni & Cheese Fish Casserole, substituted at the last minute to cover a gap in the menu. Just the thought of that combination was enough to make you nauseous.
Ours was a hit though with both of us anyway and after a few more glasses of wine, I left a healthy tip for the excellent service, as usual.
As we neared the front door, Seymour Swartz, one of the Derby co-owners that I’d helped squeak out of a connection in a local murder case was delighted seeing me again, this time under less strenuous circumstances. He pumped my hand vigorously while ignoring me and staring at Rhonda, “Who is this beautiful young lady, Matthew,” he fawned, grinning like a movie star pervert, holding her out stretched hand, longer than she wanted. “Please bring her again soon to grace our humble establishment. You look so familiar, sweetheart,” he said, casting a glance at some of the black and white photos plastered on the walls, trying to spot someone that he’d forgotten was there. Haven’t I seen you in something recently?”
He’d probably seen her out of something recently at the Florentine, which I was sure he attended, but didn’t comment other than, “Sy, we’ve got to leave. We’re already late for another appointment, especially after this morning over at the Majestic Studios, so-ah-.”
He looked confused; another one still trying to place my cupcake and just smiled not certain that he understood what I was mumbling about. Just to cinch our return soon, he threw in a complimentary free pass to cover the valet parking, good anytime. That made my day.
We left arm in arm. On the walk back through the parking lot, I envisioned Rhonda chattering about a return engagement as the Derby guest soloist and me, performing an encore in our office to investigate the tensile strength of my new couch hide-a-bed.
