CHAPTER EIGHT

". . . and my man Pete told me about your splendid performance vis-a-vis the Morton Diskant matter. Did you know that Diskant is a member of four organizations that have been cla.s.sified as Communist fronts by the California State Attorney General's Office?"

Howard Hughes: tall, lanky. A hotel suite, two flunkies: Bradley Milteer, lawyer; Harold John Miciak, goon.

7:00 A.M.--distracted, a plan brewing: frame some geek for the Kafesjian job.

"No, Mr. Hughes. I didn't know that."

"Well, you should. Pete told me your methods were rough, and you should know that Diskant's record justified those methods. Among other things, I'm seeking to establish myself as an independent motion picture producer. I'm planning on producing a series of films depicting aerial warfare against the Communists, and a major theme of those films will be the end justifies the means."

Milteer: "Lieutenant Klein is also an attorney. If he accepts your offer, you'll receive an additional interpretation of the contractual aspects."

"I haven't practiced much law, Mr. Hughes. And I'm pretty busy right now."

Miciak coughed. Tattooed hands--zoot gang stuff. "This ain--_isn't_ a lawyer job. Pete Bondurant's got his plate full, so--"

Hughes, interrupting: "'Surveillance' sums this a.s.signment up best, Lieutenant. Bradley, will you elaborate?"

Milteer, prissy: "Mr. Hughes has a young actress named Glenda Bledsoe signed to a full-service contract. She was living in one of his guest homes and was being groomed to play lead roles in his Air Force films. She infringed on her contract by moving out of the guest home and by leaving script sessions without asking permission. She's currently playing the female lead in a non-union horror film shooting in Griffith Park. It's called _Attack of the Atomic Vampire_, so you can imagine the quality of the production."

Hughes, prissy: "Miss Bledsoe's contract allows her to make one nonHughes film per year, so I cannot violate the contract for that. There is, however, a morality clause that we can utilize. If we can prove Miss Bledsoe to be an alcoholic, criminal, narcotics addict, Communist, lesbian, or nymphomaniac, we can violate her contract and get her blackballed from the film industry on that basis. Our one other avenue is to secure proof that she knowingly took part in publicizing non-Hughes performers outside of her work for this ridiculous monster film. Lieutenant, your job would be to surveil Glenda Bledsoe with an eye toward securing contract-violating information. Your fee would be three thousand dollars."

"Have you explained the situation to her, Mr. Milteer?"

"Yes."

"How did she react?"

"Her reply was 'f.u.c.k you.' Your reply, Lieutenant?"

Close to "No"--freeze it--think: _Hush-Hush_ said Mickey C. bankrolled that movie.

"Guest home" meant "f.u.c.k pad" meant Howard Hughes left to choke his own chicken.

Think: Glom some Bureau guys for tail work. Glom a slush fund: Kafesjian frame cash.

JEW HIM UP.

"Five thousand, Mr. Hughes. I can recommend cheaper help, but I can't neglect my regular duties for any less than that."

Hughes nodded; Milteer whipped out a cash roll. "All right, Lieutenant. This is a two-thousand-dollar retainer, and I'll expect reports at least every other day. You can call me here at the Bel-Air. Now, is there anything else you need to know about Miss Bledsoe?"

"No, I'll find an in on the movie crew."

Hughes stood up. I laid on the glad hand: "I'll nail her, sir."

A limp shake--Hughes wiped his hand on the sly.

New money--spend it smart. Think smart: Nail Glenda Bledsoe fast. Let Junior carry some Kafesjian weight-- hope his f.u.c.k-up string ended. Figure out that Darktown tail, stay tailless.

Instinct: Exley wouldn't rat me on Johnson. Logic: he destroyed the coroner's file; I could rat him for a piece of Diskant. Instinct: call his Kafesjian fix PERSONAL. Instinct-call me bait--a bad cop sent out to draw heat.

Conclusions: Number one: Call Wilhite and Narco more dangerous; call me a bent cop juking their meal ticket. Maybe the Fed grand jury blues upcoming: true bills, indictments. Rogue cops out of work then, one scapegoat: a lawyer-landlord with a sure police pension. Out-of-work killers, one target: me.

Number two: Find a burglar/pervert confessor--some geek to take my 459 fall. Palm squadroom bulls for leads; keep Junior on the case legit. No legit B&E man?--Joe Pervert buys the dive.

I drove over to Hollywood Station. No file-room clerk--I boosted "459 Cleared," "False Confessions," '49--'57. A 187 sheet on the board--the "Wino Will-o-the-Wisp." Perv stuff, nice--I grabbed a carbon.

Conclusion number three: Call me still short of scared.

Griffith Park, the west road up-streams, small mountains. Steep turns, scrub-hill canyons--Movieland.

I pulled into a makeshift lot--vehicles parked tight. Shouts, picket signs bobbing way back. I hopped a flatbed, scoped the ruckus.

Union placard shakers-Chick Vecchio facing them off--the stiff-arm fungoo up close. A clearing, trailers, the set: cameras, a rocket ship half Chevy.

"Scab!" "Scab sc.u.m!"

Over, buck the line--"Police officer!" Punk pickets--they let me through, no grief. Chick greeted me-smiles, back slaps.

"Scab sc.u.m!" "Police collusion!"

We walked over to the trailers. Catcalls, no rocks--sob sisters. Chick: "You looking for Mickey? I'll bet he's got a nice envelope for you."

"He told you?"

"No, it's what my brother would call an 'inescapable conclusion to the cognoscenti.' Come on, a witness flies out the window with Dave Klein standing by. What's a card-carrying cogno supposed to think?"

"I think you almost did some union thumping."

"Hey, we should have called the old Enforcer. Seriously, you got ideas? Mickey's got a bad case of the shorts. You know any boys who won't cost us an arm and a leg?"

"f.u.c.k it, let them picket."

"Uh-uh. They yell when we're shooting, which means scenes have to be redubbed, which costs money."

Someone, somewhere: "Cameras! Action!"

"Serious, Dave."

"Okay, call Fats Medina at the Main Street Gym. Tell him I said five sparring partners and a roadblock. Tell him you'll go fifty a man."

"For real?"

"Do it tonight, and you won't have union trouble tomorrow. Come on, I want to check out this movie."

Up to the set. Chick held a finger to his lips--scene in progress.

Two "actors" gesticulating. The s.p.a.ceship close up: Chevy fins, Studebaker grille, Kotex-box launching pad.

Touch Vecchio: "Russian rocket ships have dropped atomic waste on Los Angeles--a plot to turn Angelenos into automatons susceptible to Communism! They have created a vampire virus! People have turned into monsters who devour their own families!"

His co-star--blond, padded crotch: "Family is the sacred concept that binds all Americans. We must stop this soul-usurping invasion whatever the cost!"

Chick, cupping a whisper: "The hoot is my brother's killed eight men, and he takes this noise serious. And feature-him and that bottle-blond fruitcake are porking in trailers every chance they get, _and_ chasing chicken down at the Fern Dell toilets. You see that guy with the megaphone? That's Sid Frizell, the so-called director. Mickey hired him on the cheap, and to me he reads ex-con who couldn't direct a Mongolian cl.u.s.ter f.u.c.k. He's always talking to that guy Wylie Bullock, the cameraman, who at least has got a place to live, unlike most of the b.u.ms Mickey's hired. Feature: he hired the crew out of the slave markets down on skid row. They sleep on the set, like this is some kind of f.u.c.king hobo jungle. And the dialogue? Frizell--Mickey shoots him an extra sawbuck a day to be scriptwriter."

No Mickey, no women. Touch: "I would slay the highest echelon of the Soviet Secretariat to protect the sanct.i.ty of my family!"

Blondie: "I of course empathize. But first we must isolate the atomic waste before it seeps into the Hollywood Reservoir. Look at these wretched victims of the vampire virus!"

Cut to werewolf-mask extras hip-hopping. Hip, hop--T-Bird popped out of back pockets.

Sid Frizell: "Cut! I told you people to leave your wine back with your blankets and sleeping bags! And remember Mr. Cohen's order--no wine before your lunch break!"

A geek lurched into the s.p.a.ceship. Touch squeezed Blondie's a.s.s on the QT Frizell: "Five-minute break and no drinking!" Background noise: "Scab sc.u.m! Police puppets!"

No Glenda Bledsoe.

Touch oozed by the camera slow. "Hi, Dave. Looking for Mickey?"

"People keep asking me that."

"Well, it's an inescapable conclusion of the cognoscenti."

Chick winked. "He'll show up. He goes by this bakery to get week-old bread to make sandwiches with. Feature the cuisine we get: stale bread, stale doughnuts and this lunch meat sold out the back door at this slaughterhouse out in Vernon. I quit eating on the set when I caught fur on my baloney and cheese."

I laughed. Script talk: Blondie and an old geek dressed like Dracula.

Touch sighed. "Rock Rockwell is going to be such a big star. Listen, he's actually telling Elston Majeska how to interpret his lines. What does that imply to the cognoscenti?"

"Who's Elston Majeska?"

Chick: "He was some kind of silent-movie star over in Europe, and now Mickey gets him pa.s.ses from this rest home. He's a junkie, so Mickey pays him off in this diluted H he gets cheap. Old Elston says his lines, shoots up and goes on a sugar jag. You ought to see him snarf those stale doughnuts."

Pops peeled a Mars Bar, weaving--Blondie grabbed his cape.

Touch, swooning: "One man sandwich with the works!"

Frizell: "Glenda to the set in five minutes!"

"When I met Mickey, he was clearing ten million a year. From that to this, Jesus Christ."

Chick: "Things come and go."

Touch: "The torch pa.s.ses."

"Bulls.h.i.t. Mickey got out of McNeil Island a year ago-and n.o.body has grabbed his old action. Is he scared? Four of his guys have gotten clipped, all unsolveds--and I mean n.o.body knows who did it. You guys are all the muscle he's got left, and I can't feature why you stick around. What's he got left, the n.i.g.g.e.rtown coin business? How much can he be turning on that?"

Chick shrugged. "So feature we been with Mickey a longtime. Feature we don't like change. He's a sc.r.a.pper, and sc.r.a.ppers get results sooner or later."

"Nice results. And Lester Lake told me some out-of-town guys are working the Southside coin."

Chick shrugged. Wino cheers and wolf whistles--Glenda Bledsoe in a pom-pom-girl outfit.

Feature: Tall, lanky, honey blond. All legs, all chest--a grin said she never bought in. A little knock-kneed, big eyes, dark freckles. Pure something-- maybe style, maybe juice.

Touch shot me details: "Glamorous Glenda. Rock and me are the only males on the set immune to her charms. Mickey discovered her working at Scrivner's Drive-In. He's smitten, Chick's smitten. Glenda and Rock play brother and sister. She's been infected with the vampire virus, and she puts the make on her own brother. She turns into a monster and sends Rock running off into the hills."

Frizell: "Actors on their marks! Camera! Action!"

Rock: "Susie, I'm your big brother. The vampire virus has stunted your moral growth, and you've still got two years to go at Hollywood High."

Glenda: "Todd, in times of historic struggle, the rules of the bourgeoisie don't apply."

A clinch, a kiss. Frizell: "Cut! It's a take! Print it!"

Rock broke the clinch. Whistles, cheers. A wino booed; Glenda flipped him the finger. Mickey C. ducked in a trailer, lugging groceries.

I eased around the set and tapped the door.

"Wine money not disbursed until six o'clock! The tsuris you stumbleb.u.ms inflict! This is a motion picture location, not the Jesus Saves Rescue Mission!"

I opened the door, caught a flying bagel. Stale-I tossed it back.

"David Douglas Klein, the 'Douglas' a dead giveaway you are not of my kindred blood, you farshtinkener Dutch f.u.c.k. Refuse my food, but I doubt you will refuse the money Sam Giancana has transmitted to me for you."

Mickey tucked a wad under my holster. "Sammy says thank you. Sammy says d.a.m.n good job on such short notice."

"It was too close to home, Mick. It caused me lots of trouble."

Mickey plopped into a chair. "Sammy doesn't care from your troubles. You of all people should know the ethos of that farshtinkener crazy c.o.c.ksucker."

"He's supposed to care about _your_ trouble."

"Which in his brutish spaghetti-bender fashion he does."