Hollywood Dream Merchants
HOLLYWOOD DREAM MERCHANTS
Charles Tucker
Copyright © 2015 Charles Tucker
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FOR SHEILA
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dream Merchant
Heatwave
The Old Man And His Dog
No Bail
Stick ‘Em Up
Diamonds
Breakfast At Little Louie
Nine Tenth Of The Law
United Bank Of California
The Accused
A License To Kill
I Confess
The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it.
Albert Einstein
DREAM MERCHANT
WAR ON SUNSET BLVD
James Blake. I’m a Private Eye living “the dream” in Los Angles. Henry Hipshman hired us to spy on his wife, Olivia. Within a week we had naked pictures of Olivia making it with her bald headed lover. Against my better judgment we gave the material to Hipshman. He was distraught and visibly upset over the content of the photographs. Olivia Hipshman was no angel. What’s that old aphorism: fools rush in where angles fear to tread. She was so promiscuous I didn’t want to show Hipshman the pictures.
I get a call from the office to beat it over to the Mac Arthur Apartments. 2231 W. 6th Street. Mr. Hipshman had shot and killed his wife, Olivia, and her lover. When I parked in front of the Mac Arthur Apartments there were three police cruisers, two ambulances, and a dozen police officers. I stepped inside the lobby. Paramedics were hauling a body on a stretcher down from the second floor. The head was covered but I knew it was Olivia Hipshman. I went upstairs to apartment 201. More police officers, a criminologist, and a photographer. Standing in a corner away from the activity was Tom Farrow. Tom is an old friend from back in the day, was the lead investigator. He wasn’t happy to see me at his crime scene. Tom Farrow would be your typical Irish cop dedicated to the cause and determined to put the bad guys behind bars. He was my version of Steve McQueen, the actor. Curly blond hair that was all over the place. A square face with a cleft chin like Cary Grant. The eyes were crystal blue — so bright you couldn’t look into them. What I liked best about Tom — he was a straight shooter. Honest guy whose only objective is to do the right thing. His fellow officers didn’t like Tom much. He was dangerous because he would not take a bribe. There was one hitch: Tom didn’t like me being a Private Eye. He thought I should have stayed and worked with him to fight corruption in the LAPD. Tom was a good man and excellent crime fighter. I held him in high regard and I respected him even though we didn’t always agree on anything. Tom didn’t look happy to see me.
“James!”
I looked past Tom to where Hipshman lay sprawled on the floor. Across the room was the naked body of the lover.
Tom groaned, “Hipshman came in here and saw his wife banging her lover. Hipshman pulled out his pistol — A Walter PPK, and bang! Two shots for his wife and then he shoots himself. Tell me, James, did you set this up.”
“You know me better than that.”
“I found a check for five hundred bucks — made out to you — in Hipshman’s pocket. He also left a note addressed to you.”
“What did it say?”
“The poor guy didn’t want you to feel guilty for what he did. What did you do? You put Hipshman onto his cheating wife?”
I confessed: “Not one of our finest moment. And I wouldn’t want this to get out to the press.”
“Sometimes I wonder how you sleep at night. You’re in a rotten business, James. You oughta come back on the Force. LAPD could use an honest cop.”
“I’ll stay in the background for now.”
“You want to notify these people’s relatives?”
“No… you do it, Tom.”
“All right. See you around, James. Stay out of Beverly Hills.”
* * *
Things don’t always go your way in my profession. I felt really bad about Hipshman and his wife. I seriously considered not taking any more divorce cases. They brought the most money when successful. When they go wrong it leaves a sour taste that lingers. You can put a gun in a man’s hand but he has to insert the bullets — that’s the twist. You can’t always know what the other fella is going to do. Before going back to the office I stopped at O’Douls and downed a couple of Cuba Libras. It was 10 o’clock. There was still enough time to make the day productive.
When I came out of O’ Douls I had a different perspective on life in general. Earlier the weather was overcast. Now it was a scorching hot 110 degrees. LA is my town and I love it but when it’s beyond 110 degrees hot it’s unbearable. The heat wave plus the daily smog shrouding the streets and you’ve got a boilermaker. I love LA with all its faults, I still love it. It’s an overpopulated city with crazy people. A land of make believe. A smoggy city subject to earthquakes, killer-mud slides, and traffic congestion. It’s the wild west of freeways where motorists shoot each other. Los Angeles is a way station for people who come here for the jobs. Once they have a grubstake they get out fast as they can. It’s all here in the land of Milk and Honey. Sunny beaches, orange groves, palm trees, and the Real Estate is cheap. Like any other major city Los Angeles has its problems. Years ago Mickey Cohen ruled the City of Angels. It was reported in the Times that Cohen allegedly murdered twenty thugs per year. He operated prostitution rings, long sharking, race wire, and gambling casinos. In 1961, Cohen was convicted of tax evasion and sent to Alcatraz. Cohen being sent away to Alcatraz created a vacuum to be filled by today’s gangsters: Vito Boccia. Marco Giovani. The movie industry is a prime target. Organized crime controls the unions in Hollywood. They have a stranglehold on the Extras Unions. Studio executives are forced to give in to these gangsters’ demands or suffer union strikes that stop their picture productions. Unfortunately, gangsters were back in the City of Angels spreading crime and corruptions upon innocent citizens.
Driving slowly down Wilshire gave me time to reflect. All of my life I wanted to be a movie star. To have fame and fortune come my way. To romance gorgeous movie Queens, and to have Paparazzi following me everywhere I go. I wanted to have more money than I could ever spend. I made it to Los Angeles all right but that was about it. After two tours in Afghanistan I joined the Los Angeles police department. I didn’t last long with the LAPD. I didn’t like the way they went about their business. They are the most hated bunch of cops in the nation. Busting heads with brutality was their game when I was there — (look what they did to Rodney King ) They were particularly tough on people of color. I believe in truth, justice, and the American way so I quit the LAPD and became a private detective. Two of my buddies from the Afghanistan War, Jack Kelso, and Mark Wilcox became my Operatives and we’re making a living. Mostly, we get a lot of divorce cases and men cheating on their spouses. It’s not glamour like being in a movie but one can always hope. There’s that old story about Lana Turner being discovered in a drug store at Hollywood and Vine. That was not where Lana Turner was discovered. Here’s the myth: In January 1937, 16-year-old Judy Turner ditched high school to grab a Coke at the Top Hat café, near Hollywood High.
The gentleman who discovered her was Billy Wilkerson, publisher of the Hollywood Reporter. Lana Turner confirmed the story for Wilkerson’s son.
So I figure if it could happen to Lana Turner, it could happen to me. Right? You can always hope. Any free time I have I’m up and down the Sunset Strip. I admit I am a Star Gazer. I partially live at the Comedy Store, West Sunset Boulevard. The Comedy Store hosts the most popular comedians in the country. A bevy of beauty queens and movie producers hang out here on Thursday nights. Thursday nights are my nights to relax and get away from the business.
Later that day the crew was waiting for me at the office. It feels good to walk into our offices. Why? Because Arlene Wilson is waiting with a warm smile. We’re lucky to have Arlene working for us. Not only is she sexy to look at, she is scary smart. She’s a brunette, tall and statuesque. You can be carrying the weight of the world and a smile from Arlene will set you free. The crew already knew about the Hipshman case and didn’t want to bring it up. Arlene climbed upon the corner of my desk as she always does when something is up.
“No more divorce case for a while.” I tried to sound convincing. “I know we’re low on money. But let’s go for the high profile stuff.”
“What ever you say, boss.”
“Let’s get an air conditioner unit in here — ”
“It’s hot as hell. Am I the only one feeling the heat?” Kelso bellowed.
Arlene laughed at Kelso. Then she climbed down off my desk and looked at me
“James Blake this must be your lucky day.”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You got a call from Louie B. Ayers. Fox Century. He wants you to call him back soon as possible.” Louie B. Ayers, at the time, was the most successful movie mogul in the picture industry.
“You’re kidding.”
Arlene said, “Here’s the number.”
Kelso and Wilcox were excited, thinking how badly we needed a client with dough.
* * *
During the drive to Fox Century studio, I wondered why Louie B. Ayers wanted to see me. My return call to Ayers was a short one. His secretary asked me to come to Fox Century soon as possible. My name would be a call sheet at the studio gate. I was to drive to the Administration Building. I got past the gate but it took me a long time to find the Administration Building. There was so much to see. I slow cruised between these huge airplane hangers that were sound stages. Everywhere there was excitement and chaotic moment of bit players dressed in pirate costumes, cowboys, and fairy dancers.
Inside the Administration building Ayers’ secretary seated me in the waiting room. The interior of the administration offices wasn’t all that fancy. There was a woman and a little girl seated across from me. The little girl pushed into her mother’ arms as children do when they are afraid of something. It clicked in my mind that little girl should be showing joy in that she might be picked to star in a motion picture. That wasn’t it though, this little girl was unhappy and this was the last place she wanted to be. I don’t know why but it disturbed me and I felt uncomfortable seeing her so distraught. The girl was clearly irritated and even the secretary noticed it. I sensed the secretary had witnessed similar scenes many times.
The intercom on the secretary’s desk buzzed. “You may go in now, Mr. Blake. Mr. Ayers will see you now.”
When I meet people I ask myself which movie star do they look like?
The secretary was a sophisticated looking woman who looked like Hildegarde Knef, the German actor. She led me into the big man’s office. It was way too big and more like a home on wheels. Everything about this studio was big and expensive looking. My first thoughts were how much Louie B. Ayers looked like Edgar G. Robinson. He glared at me from a huge round shaped mahogany desk. He didn’t approval of my looks; I wasn’t the expected person he thought I would be. He had bushy eyebrows that hid dark blunt eyes. If a person’s eyes are the mirrors of the soul — Ayers’ didn’t have one. His face was full of wrinkles that said, to me, he was carrying the world, and his studio on his shoulders. I cast him as a very cynical person.
Suddenly, involuntarily, I started laughing. I was giddy thinking at last we had a paying client. I had always known I would make the big time and here I was with the great Louie B. Ayers. It was like some strange Déjà vu where this guy and me had played this scene before.
“I assure you, Mr. Blake. It’s a very serious matter.”
“Forgive me, Mister Ayer - I had a funny thought.”
“Ah, yes. I enjoy a man who has a good sense of humor. Encouraging. I must say. Something to drink, Mr. Blake?”
He stood up from behind his desk and walked across the room to a small wet bar. There he clinked ice cubes into his whiskey glass.
“No thank you, sir. Never drink when I working.”
“Good fellow. Thank you for coming, Mr. Blake. I wasn’t sure you would.”
“I need the work. Why did you want to see me?”
“I lost my star. Anne Marlowe. You know who Anne Marlowe is — of course.”
“She’s a red hot sex Goddess.”
“All over this world! Top box office for the last two years. She stormed off the set two days ago. Her agent, Harvey Mills, says she won’t return unless her salary is increased. I was paying her 10 millions for Star Dust, my latest picture. Now she wants 20. The dizzy dame is pissed because Sandy Dennis demand 20 millions for her films.”
“Has she done this before?”
“Twice — I won those battles. However this time I’m not so sure. There are some elements I have no control over. I’m bleeding a million bucks a day — you have to find her. ”
“What makes you think I can find her? I’m not into the Hollywood jet set stuff.”
“I checked you out. Your agency has a reputation for being tough guys. Fifty-thousand to start with a sizable bonus at the conclusion.” He smiled. “Now tell me about yourself, Mr. Blake.”
“Not to much to tell. You probably already done a background check. Afghanistan… Los Angeles Police Department… fired for insubordination. Now… what else aren’t you telling me?”
“I’m worried because Anne is obsessed with a low life named Tony Fognini. Fognini is a gangster who works for Vito Boccia. Boccia is primarily interested in establishing casinos that have restaurants as fronts. Fognini is trying to persuade Anne to front his gambling stomps. To add a little glamour so the joints will draw movie stars. The word is Anne let Fognini slaps her around. She takes the abuse because she likes the hard sex stuff. She's afraid to leave Fognini because of his Mob connections. To keep her in line he has threatened to slice up her face.”
“I will do what I can, Mr. Ayers. I’m guessing that if Anne Marlowe doesn’t want to found, she won’t be. It’s important that we understand each other. Other than Marlowe — what else do you have in mind?”
“I don’t want you to kill anybody, Mr. Blake. Would you?”
“Would I what?”
“Kill someone — if you had to?”
“Where are you going with this?”
“ I have bodyguards working for me that don’t have spines. You probably read about how this industry is being taken over by gangsters. They are coming after me but they know I’ll fight back. That’s why I’m hiring you to watch my back.”
“I don’t know if I can get next to this Fognini character. I don’t have a badge anymore. My career with the Los Angles Police wasn’t a rewarding experience. Not even a little bit.”
“Don’t worry about that. The Hollywood police are indebted to my studio. They won’t get in your way if you have to break a few eggs.”
He picked up an elongated envelope. He nonchalantly tossed it on the desk in front of me.
“50 thousands with a bonus included if you’re successful.”
“I’ll have contract papers drawn up and send you a copy.”
* * *
Our first meeting was left on hold. The old man said he would have further instructions for me later. I must admit that I took
my sweet time leaving the studio lot. There I was back on Century lot watching all the bit players dressed in colorful customs, marching in and out of the sound stages. I savored the atmosphere. I was pleased that now I was apart of it.
The next morning the phone ringing awakened me. I rolled over and picked it up. To my surprise, it was Louie B. Ayers. It was eight o’clock.
“Sorry to wake you old man. I need you at Steven Kaufman’s apartment.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Kaufman was found murdered in his apartment.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get over there before the police arrive. See what’s there that might be hurtful to my star. Photographs —letters — foolish shit—dizzy dames do when they think they’re in love.”
“You mean Anne Marlowe was having an affair with this guy Kaufman? I thought you said she was doing Fognini?”
“Never mind that for now. Kaufman’s manservant found him. He called me before he did anything else. I would go myself but I can’t chance being seen”
“All right I’ll do it. But later on you and I have to talk.”
* * *
Kaufman’s place was the typical LA style bungalow complexes on Alvarado Street in the Westlake Park area of downtown Los Angeles, a trendy and affluent neighborhood. This one had six units with a wide sidewalk between the bungalows. The last one belonged to Kaufman, or it had been until early this morning. There were windows on all the facing units and anyone leaving would be seen. Before I was half way down the walk, going to Kaufman’s bungalow, a black man came out of the front door, screaming at me. I didn’t know what was happening at first and then I saw this man was rather scholarly looking. There were people inside Kaufman’s place.
“Are you Mister James Blake?”
“Yes, yes… yes. Who are you?”
“My name is Francois. Mr. Ayers told me to meet you and give you this — ”
He looked to be a very scholarly, light skinned black man. Francois was excited and his hands were twitchy. He was sweating and nervous because he was breaking the law — he should have phoned the LAP two hours ago.