Private Eye 1: Private Eye

  For Sandy Dustin

  He is a relatively poor man, or he would not be a detective at all. He is a common man, or he could not go among common people. He has a sense of character, or he would not know his job. He will take no man's money dishonestly and no man's insolence without a due and dispassionate revenge. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him. He talks as the man of his age talks—that is, with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness.

  But down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid.

  Raymond Chandler

  AWOPBOPALOOBOP ALOPBAMBOOM

  Little Richard

  ONE

  The Crescendo Club

  Los Angeles—1956

  The convertible, a '56 Eldorado Cadillac, black on gleaming black, whispered along Sunset Strip through the hot California night. She had a dual quad, high-compression full bore 365 and racing suspension. Her grille exploded in chrome, and the ornament on her hood was half woman, half rocket. It was poised above a crest comprised of seven ducks, a Gascon escutcheon cradled in a golden V, and two killer Dagmars. She had Sabre wheels, a predatory fin, and was as complex as the thirty-six-year-old man at the wheel, Jack Cleary.

  Two days' growth shadowed Cleary's square jaw, which was tipped back at the moment for a meditative pull on a pint of I.W. Harper bourbon. His six feet and 180 pounds filled a rumpled and expensive sharkskin number by Don Loper. He was five days into a bender and felt like hell.

  He pulled the Eldorado into the parking lot of the Crescendo, a nightclub on Sunset Boulevard. He knew it would be jammed with several hundred boulevard hipsters, Valley cats and sweet sixteens, misinformed wise guys, and terminally blasé record-biz hustlers. They'd be killing time with seven-sevens and cherry Cokes, hyped on swizzle-stick chatter. But it didn't much matter. Bourbon tasted the same anywhere.

  Cleary paused in the doorway a moment, eyes adjusting to the dim light. Center stage, he recognized Guy Fontaine decked out in a black gab monkey suit and flashing two grand worth of orthodonture. He was two-fingering the mike and crooning the saccharine sentiments of "Be My Love."

  "What is this, Roth, a Frankie Laine marathon?" a wide-beamed, whiskey-breathed man growled a few feet away from Cleary.

  "It's called en-ter-tain-ment, Husky, something you and your hillbilly wouldn't understand," snapped a spunky little bald-headed man who was puffing on a thick cheroot.

  "He should've been off twenty minutes ago. How many encores is this gondolier lounge act of yours gonna do?" Husky responded. Then, with an annoyed look, he motioned backstage to a kid with a honky-tonk pompadour and guitar. "Get out there, Eddie."

  Cleary scratched his beard, and stepped farther inside. He scanned the crowd, then weaved his way through the blur of bodies toward the bar. He fumbled with his pack of Lucky Strikes, tried to light one with a match from the sodden pack on the bar. A hand suddenly slid into his vision, and a flame flared from a Marine Corps Zippo.

  Cleary glanced up at Nick, a tough, good-looking man with the hardened features of an ex-marine, wearing the threads of a high-living man-about-town. The sight of him tugged at deep emotions, uneasy feelings he would have liked to drown forever.

  "Where the hell you been, the beauty parlor?" Nick asked.

  Cleary dragged on the Lucky and shrugged.

  "I've been trying to get you on the horn for five days, man. Ever since that bogus review board hearing. Jesus, you look like hell."

  Cleary accepted the criticism with a tight smile. "I've been thinking about things,"

  Nick regarded him for a moment. He knew the opposite was true. Then he grinned, clapped him on the shoulder. "Whatta you drinking, bourbon, what?"

  "Nothing, right now."

  Nick leaned closer, his voice softer now, consoling. "Jack, you knew that hearing was gonna be a kangaroo court job. You knew it was going against you."

  Sure, he knew. But it didn't help. Not when he had to sit there and helplessly watch those bastards drag his name through the mud, accusing him of things he not only hadn't done, but had never thought of doing. The kangaroos had kicked him off the LAPD and here he was, so drunk he was sober.

  "Forget it," Nick said. "You got it behind you now."

  "Yeah." Cleary turned his attention to the stage where a kid with a Gibson hollow body slung over his shoulder was moving in on Fontaine. Cleary pegged the kid as another back-bayou grit-eater three months out of Tupelo with his blue twill Sunday suit, a polka dot colonel tie from E.W. Wrathers, and two-tone oxfords.

  "Thank you, thank you, you're wonnerful, wonner-ful," Fontaine was cooing in his best bedroom voice.

  "Ah, excuse me, Mr. Fontaine," the kid interrupted. He glanced back at his band, a piano player, a bass fiddler, and a drummer, who were moving onstage. "Sorry to barge in and all, but I think you're runnin' a little over."

  "The bus station's the other way, Abner." Turning back to the audience, he continued, "You're gonna find this next tunic gem so rightful and delightful."

  "Sir, my name's Eddie Burnett, and I do believe it's time for my shot."

  "I'll give you a friggin' shot."

  Suddenly, Fontaine wheeled around from the mike and let loose a wild roundhouse at Eddie, who deftly ducked the blow with a perfect Gene Vincent 180-degree bob and weave. His outstretched guitar neck inadvertently smacked Fontaine square across the cummerbund, sending him flying off the stage.

  Cleary could hardly believe what he was seeing. A couple of months ago, he might have made a move to restore order. But now he simply gazed in stunned silence with the rest of the civilian crowd.

  The kid seemed paralyzed. Time stopped for one crystal moment as if resisting the inevitable future. Then, as if seizing the bull by the horns, the kid cast a quick look back at his band, suddenly slapped the mike stand viciously down onto the stage, catching it with his left foot inches shy of the boards. He kicked it back up and, in one smooth motion, cut a 360-degree spin, dropped to one knee, and snared the mike on the flip side. He screamed into it. The piano, stand-up bass, and drums all exploded into the song as a wild shriek erupted from some of the crowd.

  Cleary groaned, his senses assaulted by a wall of sound as the kid segued with a groin-screaming split and exploded into verse. Eddie Cochran, Carl Perkins, Presley. Damn hillbillies. Now, here's one more, he thought. This rock'n'roll stuff might last a year. At best. Still, he saw that every bebopper under twenty-five was stampeding toward the dance floor, surrendering unconditionally to its inexorable pull. Strange times all around, he thought.

  He looked back at Nick, and grinned. "What you doin' in this joint? You run outa gas on your way to Ciro's?"

  Nick laughed and yanked on his tie, loosening it. "Surveillance." He almost shouted the word, but Cleary barely heard him. He nodded his head toward a table near the stage, where a corpulent man all cuff links and teeth yukked it up with two women. He leaned toward Jack. "Adultery case for the wife of that sawed-off hormone in the high-volume suit with the top-heavy redhead. Name's Buddy Williams."

  He looked like a hyperkinetic West Coast hustler with a Palm Springs tan, Cleary thought. His wardrobe was strictly Eddie Fisher. He was flashing a good three pounds of ivory and finger popping to the music. "Who is he?"

  "Independent record promoter. Has this cozy cabin out in Malibu that I've had wired for the past two weeks. Got fifteen tapes worth of mood music, waves, and size eight loafers hitting the floor."

  "Jesus," Cleary replied, dragging from the Lucky. Nick, in a slightly defensive voice, countered, "How the hell you think I cover my overhead: with old war medals?"

&nb
sp; "I didn't mean it like that." Knowing Nick, there was probably more to the tapes than he was letting on. Cleary smiled apologetically and loosened Nick's silk tie another notch. The gesture was interrupted by a voice behind them.

  "Ticktock, Cleary."

  Cleary rolled his eyes and turned. Bunny Von Deek stood there grinning. He was thin, with greased-back hair like a tango instructor's. His after-shave left a sickeningly sweet scent in the air. "Manny kinda thought that mebbe you were here to see him."

  Cleary shifted his eyes past him to the loan shark at a nearby table, the real reason for his visit. He stabbed out his Lucky. "Tell Manny to keep his goddamned bra on. The loan's not due for another two days."

  "But Manny said—"

  Nick's hand suddenly darted toward Bunny's face, palming it, vaporizing his words in mid-sentence. Nick looked at Cleary. "You lose my number, kiddo, or you just like dealing with social diseases?" He turned his dark, cold eyes on Bunny. "Something I can help you with?"

  Bunny shook his head free of Nick's grip. He patted the air with his hands and backed away. "Nope, Nuthin."

  Nick pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, and slipped Cleary half. "Few hundred hold you for the week?"

  Cleary nodded. He didn't like taking money from Nick, but it was better than dealing with another loan shark. "Just till I find something. This gonna short you at all?"

  Nick laughed. It was a quick, full sound. "You kidding? Me? The Joe DiMaggio of private eyes? C'mon, let's have a drink, Jack." He signaled to the bartender. "Hey, Scotty..."

  "Thanks, Nick, but—"

  Nick cut him off. "What, you rather have the goddamn bottle in a bag?"

  "I gotta go. I'll call you."

  As Cleary turned to leave, Nick grabbed him affectionately around the neck and Cleary winced, knowing the other man sensed his pain. "Listen, Jack."

  Cleary turned, feeling clumsy, awkward, like a kid who was all legs.

  "Get a shave, for chrissakes," Nick said.

  "Right." Cleary smiled tightly and headed for the door.

  * * *

  The music pounded at the back of Nick's head as he turned to watch his brother leave. The son of a bitch was hurtin' so bad, you could see it in the way he walked, shoulders hunched over, that goddamn shuffle, moving like he was encased in a steel bubble, or something. So what's it gonna be, Jack? he silently asked. Another week dancing all night with your bourbon?

  Nick was older than Jack by two years, but until he had been booted off the force, Jack had always seemed like the older brother, the one who came out punching.

  He started to turn around to order a Cutty on the rocks when he felt someone staring his way. He turned his head slowly, and saw a man seated a few bar stools away looking past him with the blank eyes of a psychopath. He wore expensive threads, a flashy diamond ring, and from the way he sat, Nick knew he was packing lead on his lower back.

  When the man noticed his glance, he blinked, and turned his head toward the crowd. Nick watched as his gaze settled on the table in the corner. Was he imagining it, or was the guy up to the same thing he was, watching Buddy Williams?

  Nick noted that good ole Williams was toasting his tablemates with what had to be his fifth Singapore Sling. He wondered if the drinks were burying his private pains in the same way that Jack was losing himself in the bourbon. His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Rollo Augustine, the club's owner, who was squeezing out from behind the bar with a fistful of cash. He was three hundred pounds of Brooklyn guinea-gone-Hollywood in an awning-sized Banlon shirt.

  Nick nodded to him, then grimaced and stabbed a thumb toward the stage. "You mad at the world, Rollo, or just behind on your mortgage?" he yelled.

  "The kids love this music, Nick. It's like the latest thing." He waved the bartender over. "Foam-rubber dice, Scotty. I want a coupla pair at each end of the bar and maybe a few gross of guitar-shaped swizzle sticks or something."

  Nick shook his head. "How 'bout a cut-rate deal on sombreros, Rollo? I hear flamenco music's gonna be big next month."

  Rollo busted up laughing, then thumb-shuffled his bankroll. "Long live rock and roll."

  As if drawn by the flash of the bills, two men sidled up to Rollo. Nick had never seen them before, but immediately pegged them as agents or managers. "All ready, Rollo?" the size extra-large asked, a broad smile on his face.

  Rollo gripped his shoulder. "You bet, Mr. Husky." He counted out the bills. "One-twenty for the minimum."

  Over his shoulder, the other man, beet-faced and bald, screamed over the music. "Maybe we'll just wing back to Vegas where they understand artists like Guy Fontaine, wha'ya say to that?"

  Rollo glanced back at the man who looked about a third his size. "Peppy Roth. Be still my beating heart." He turned back to the other man, and counted out more bills. "And here's three even for tomorrow night, and you be sure he's here on time."

  Husky smiled and gazed down at Roth. "Ya know, I thought Fontaine sounded a little gut-shot up there tonight."

  "You two-bit Okie son of a bitch," the little bantam rooster spat, and lunged forward as Nick sidled against the bar, allowing the two men to hurtle past and into a nearby table loaded with drinks. He watched, amused, as Rollo and two bouncers restored order. Not your typical night at the Crescendo, he thought, and glanced toward the stage where Eddie Burnett was still raising the decibels.

  He shifted his gaze across the room, and noticed that Williams had vanished from his table. He futilely scanned the bobbing, sweating bodies on the dance floor as the wall of sound from the stage seemed to peak. He glanced down the bar, and saw the stool where dead eyes had been sitting was empty, an untouched drink and half-smoked cigarette the only testimony to his former presence.

  Nick hurried through the crowd toward the backstage door, his circuits overloaded. Words, sounds, images flashed through his head. Elvis, Eldorados, Monroe, martinis... juke joints and James Dean. DA's and Chevrolets. Lead sleds and feds. Movie stars, mobsters, Ciro's, the Strip. Cars... stars... bars... guitars.

  He looked up to see Burnett slide the full width of the stage on his knees to the sound of a vicious back beat, a rat-tat-tat that reminded him of—Suddenly a body, arms outspread, hurtled through the backstage doorway twelve feet into the crowd.

  The smoky air erupted in screams. People scrambled from their tables. Glasses shattered on the floor. Lying face up, blood oozing from holes in his chest, his face, was Buddy Williams, deader than an empty bottle of Cutty.

  TWO

  Bikers

  A relentless ninety-degree Santa Ana pushed down through the San Gabriels from the Mojave, and was cranking the city to the kindling point. The heat almost overrode the sultry beat of Gene Vincent's "Be-Bop-A-Lula," which thumped from the Dew Drop Inn, a North Lankershim juke joint, where Cleary had been shooting pool for more hours than he cared to think about.

  The liquor and the long hot nights were taking their toll on him. He was bleary-eyed, rumpled, and smelling of alcohol. His unshaven jaw completed that down-on-his-luck look. Yet, he was somehow in tune with his surroundings amid the treacherous assemblage of bikers and hot-rodders, and their eye-shadowed, beehived mamas. He was losing at life, and winning at pool.

  One helluva consolation, he thought as he pushed up one of his soiled shirtsleeves, leaned over the pool table, and called a shot. He had run the last table and was lengthening his string. "Four across the side," he called out, a smirk on his face. He shot, and the ball bounced off the cushion, glided across the table, and hit the hole dead center.

  He sauntered a couple of steps, eyes shifting from the cue ball to his opponent: a biker who sported three-inch burns, jackboots, and a forty-weight pompadour. Cleary smirked again as the man sullenly chalked his cue, and burned a greasy hole through him.

  "Three in the corner." The ball cracked into the pocket. He studied the table a moment as the cue rolled to a stop. "Seven bank in the corner pocket "

  He leaned over and, just as he slid his cue stic
k forward, a voice called out, "Ten bucks you can't even see the corner pocket."

  Distracted, Cleary missed the shot. Without standing, he turned his head and frowned up at Nick. He looked as crisp as a new bill, standing there in the doorway, backlit by neon. Jack straightened up, attempted to throw his shoulders back, then simply shrugged. His spirits were riding a ninety-proof wave, and he covered his embarrassment at his disheveled condition with a cheery grin as the biker stepped up to the table.

  "Small world."

  Nick looked around at the clientèle. "Heard you were in a game up here from a coupla patrol guys I ran into." He shot a sharp glance at Cleary. "At lunch."

  Cleary shrugged again. "Been on a streak." He pulled out a wad of bills from his pocket, smiled, and held them out. "Thanks for the loan."

  Nick stared at him, making no move to accept the money. Avoiding his eyes, Cleary tucked the money in Nick's suit coat.

  "So, is this the bottom yet, Jack? Or you still got a ways to go?"

  Cleary patted his shirt pocket, pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes. "Long drive from the Strip, 'specially in this heat."

  Nick shook off Cleary's offer of a cigarette. "Had a good reason."

  Cleary fumbled with his matches. One after another refused to light. He shook his head, cursed. "Some jerk spilled his drink on them. Thought they would've dried by now."

  Nick handed him a small gift-wrapped jewelry box. "Here, this should help. I'll need it back in a couple of days. To get it engraved."

  Cleary glanced from the package to Nick, then opened the box. Inside was a knockout solid gold lighter.

  "Happy birthday, Jack."

  He couldn't take his eyes off the lighter. Finally he looked up; Nick was grinning. Cleary threw an arm around him. "You son of a bitch." He nodded toward the bar. "C'mon, wha'ya drinking?"

  Nick shook his head. "We'll paint the town tomorrow night. Figured maybe dinner at Mocambo and a ringside table at Ciro's for Sinatra's last set."