When we entered, Rico’s always smelled like old money from its traditional, quiet, upscale nautical atmosphere to the snazzy staff in formal white stiff waiter’s attire, efficiently circulating in the background. Rhonda squeezed my arm in awe, as we both adjusted to the half-light and I surveyed the crowd inside wondering where Hemingway’s pal was hiding. I’d been there before, but never on my own dime, sometimes with a client or two or with a client’s money only, as was the case today. That was even better.
The maître’d said to follow him for my rendezvous with Canyon. He’d already arrived and was waiting somewhere in the background. Rhonda was fascinated by the stuffed fish of every variety from Mako Shark to Wahoo looming over us from the mahogany paneled walls as we passed. Framed celebrity black and white photos adorned all the walls in between the saltwater trophies. We hurried past most without closer inspection, except for the one of Ava Gardner that I gravitated to automatically and paused for just a brief second to admire her beautiful smiling face. Red leather covered booths flanked both sides of the deep navy blue carpeted main dining room and starched white cloth covered tables dotted the middle. Most were empty this early in the day, but would soon be overflowing with well heeled, pleasantly lubricated customers.
Off to one side, a long ornate, mahogany bar sporting red leather high backed stools faced a mirrored background with indirect overhead lighting, illuminating a selection of booze tantalizing enough even for a tea-totaler. Behind it, a slim bartender wearing a starched white short jacket, a snappy black bowtie and a well-oiled hairdo was busy giving a Martini shaker a workout for some lucky customers sitting towards one end of the bar. From the way they were nuzzling in the semidarkness, you could tell they probably weren’t married to each other and were anxious to jumpstart their luncheon buzz and something else more tantalizing afterwards.
We were led into the private backroom normally reserved for quieter, confidential dining. It was typically available, if you had reservations and liked to pay for a more exclusive dining experience. I wasn’t concerned today about that.
“I think I’ve heard of Wes Canyon, but I’m not sure what movies he was in though,” Rhonda whispered, gripping my arm, as we approached. “What do you want me to do now, just sit there and listen?”
“I guess, he’s in the “B” pictures and pot-boilers. Maybe this is his big break. Who knows? Let’s just see how this goes, first. Just follow my lead, doll and jump in, if it makes sense and take notes. Who knows what he’s going to say. Listening will tell us more than talking, get it?”
She nodded an affirmative and I knew this beauty was smart and would be all right to have as a shadow on the wall. I watched her adjust the phony secretarial eye glasses, smooth out her hair and invisible wrinkles in her outfit as we were shown to a darkened booth towards the back.
A well-dressed middle aged man, wearing a navy blue blazer and dapper multicolored ascot over an open white shirt collar was sitting there by himself nursing a cocktail, puffing on a cigarette and from the overflowing ashtray next to him, waiting impatiently. He slid out to meet us as we approached. An automatic smile creased his sunlamp tanned face. His heavily lidded, slightly glazed eyes seemed to refocus when he thought he recognized my beautiful strawberry blonde partner.
Wes Canyon was movie star handsome in the traditional make-believe sense, if you liked them that way. He was a carbon copy of what you’d seen on the big screen, if you could remember ever seeing him. Closer inspection disclosed that he was shorter than usually projected, no battle scars, a slim almost weak build, glistening even white teeth … probably capped, closely cropped hair graying at the temples and from a light shining overhead, his noggin was already thinning a little on top. He was all wrapped up in studio polish, including a Ronald Coleman pencil thin mustache, attempting to disguise a weak long upper lip. For a second, he reminded me of the accountant keeping the books for my detective business. His well-staged manner and appearance naturally included a practiced smooth mellow baritone delivery. The whole persona was fabricated for capturing the unattached hearts of the front row bubblegum set on Saturdays and the blue-haired spinsters taking in a midweek matinee … from a distance.
He had nothing that would normally grate on your nerves unless you looked beneath the surface veneer … which I would, soon enough. Rhonda just stared and I needed a drink after meeting this showboat.
Canyon and I shook hands guardedly and introduced ourselves. He had a surprisingly firm grip for an actor. I introduced Rhonda as my personal secretary, who’d be taking notes and not Rhonda Fleming as he might have thought or maybe the Florentine gardens “Blow Torch” if he’d frequented that dive, which he probably had. Much to her surprise she was rewarded with a toothy smile and a warm Hollywood kiss on the cheek and a hug, instead of a handshake. She pretended she was enchanted immediately with his charming introduction and intimated that she was another fan and admirer of his movies. I nudged her to snap out of the nonsense, as we all slid back into the oversized semicircular booth. Canyon sat on one side Rhonda closer to me on the other. I didn’t want her sandwiched next to the studio “Don Juan” like a warm muffin stuffed in a baking pan and oven ready for consumption. I needed this meeting to stay seriously focused in spite of my attractive companion.
Our waiter appeared and I ordered; a seafood platter of hors d’oeuvres, a George Dickel whisky and soda for myself, a very dry Beefeater Martini for Rhonda, who whispered it was too early for her to drink and Canyon not wanting to be left behind, didn’t object to another refill of whatever he was already drinking, first polishing off the dregs in his glass before the waiter disappeared. No one else admitted wanting any food, as it was still early, but I was starved and with Hemingway paying for it, why not.
While we worked on our drinks, both of the non-eaters helped me polish off the platter of finger food anyway. Canyon and I first sparred with a few similar war time experiences in the European theater, while Rhonda worked on her Martini, listened and scribbled down a few things of interest. We finally hit common ground … our connection with the OSS and underground partisans, his in France and mine in Spain that included Rhonda’s brother Tex. Then, we got down to the business at the Majestic that Hemingway was worried about. For openers, I produced the envelope with Hemingway’s letter that he’d left for me and slid it across to Canyon.
“Take a look at this and then fill me in on what’s going on around here, especially right now across the street. Isn’t that convertible that just got torpedoed, Hemingway’s loaner?”
“I heard that’s the one. I was here having a drink when it happened, so don’t know much more.”
“Close call for Hemingway, eh?” I said, digging deeper.
“N-no, I don’t think so. That could have been meant for anyone, maybe even me,” he muttered in a nervous staccato.
“What makes you think so?”
“DeCosta loaned his crate out to a lot of people at Majestic, besides Hemingway.”
“Well, somebody must have tripped the explosives. Any idea who bought the farm and why?”
“N-nope, sorry. No idea.”
He was probably lying, as he looked down, avoiding my stare. In between several more, short belts, he sucked on the ice cubes in the nearly empty glass to calm his nerves. It didn’t seem to be working. He signaled a passing waiter to hit him again for another refill and then slammed his glass on the table, impatient with the service.
Rhonda shot me a startled glance and nudged me with her knee under the table. She’d also observed his nervous smoking gestures, agitated speech pattern and rapid booze consumption.
This guy was a derailed train wreck about something. He’d chain smoked a carton load before we’d even arrived. And he continued, torching and snuffing one right behind the other, filling our end of the restaurant with more smoke than was legally allowed by the local fire marshal. I also wondered how many drinks he’d already polished off before we arrived.
“So, what gives around here, Canyon? And by the way, what was your real name before you went Hollywood?”
“You are a detective and direct too. It was Marvin Mumford, what difference does it make?” he said, fidgeting in his seat.
“I just like to clear the air with who I’m really talking too, okay? Marvin Mumford, eh? Let’s just stick with the new moniker … good choice. Now, what makes you think someone could be after you, Wes?”
“You must have heard of the House Un-American Activities Committee that’s been turning up the heat on the Hollywood set. Some are already going down the drain.”
“Yeah, I read the papers, so?”
“Several years ago, the theatrical carpenters union, and others were threatening a big strike for more pay, benefits and everything else with all the studios, big and small. The teamsters, who handled all the studio transportation, were against it and with all their muscle and connections it fizzled out, but it was still simmering below the surface. Last year it surfaced again at MGM over in Culver City.”
“Yeah, I know all about it, I was there. I’d been hired by the big boss, to help restore order for the studio. Picked up a scar or two on that day,” I said, pointing to my forehead. “It wasn’t good, turned out to be a real bloodbath. Movie industry trade employees, communist sympathizers and members of the communist party united on one side against law and order and the moving picture business management on the other. It was finally settled, but not a pretty sight and could have been done with less bloodshed. Social upheaval and revolutionary revolt was the order of the day. That stinks in my book.”
He didn’t waste another breath on his speech, before polishing off the last drop of his vodka, desperate to receive another immediately by our now hovering waiter.
“Okay, I get it, but how does that affect you or Hemingway? What’s the connection here, fella?”
“Maybe it affects me, not him. Especially if they thought I was going to use DeCosta’s auto, which he also told me I could to do when we were on one of the sound stages shooting a scene a couple of days ago. Someone must have overheard him talking to me.”
“Does the studio own that car or is it just a rental? Do you know?”
‘I think it belongs to Mr. DeCosta personally. Hemingway told me he had DeCosta “by the balls” as he put it and DeCosta was trying to get him to cooperate with everybody working on the picture so he could wrap it up. He lent him one of his cars to drive around town while he was here. I guess trying to get him to spend more time off the lot when they were shooting. But what Hemingway was talking about, I have no idea.”
“More. Where do you come in? Why would somebody be after you?”
He shook off imaginary cobwebs fogging his memory and paused after another short pull on the sauce, searching blankly for an out to his confession somewhere across the empty room.
Rhonda paused from taking notes and tapped me again with her knee, noting his hesitation to go on. I reached under the table cloth to touch her warm thigh for concurrence and instead felt the outline of her garter belt snap attached to the top of her stockings. She glanced sideways, smiled as I played with the covered clasp. Then she reached under, patted my hand warmly, squeezed it between her legs and then removed it slowly and whispered-
“Easy, big guy … not now.” Her promise followed by a cagey grin.
I smiled back at her tease. This kid was good all right. She’d interrupted my brief flight into a mid-day fantasy and I squirmed a little in my seat, adjusting my shorts into a more comfortable position.
The fleeting thought about a continuance later with this doll quickly evaporated, as Canyon picked up the threads of his story again and droned on. “It’s about testifying before the committee and probably worse … I-I’d have to give names,” he muttered.
This came as a shock and caught me off guard. “What the hell are you talking about, Canyon? You aren’t a Red or a Commie sympathizer, are you?”
“Well n-no, not exactly. This whole thing was a mistake right from the beginning and I regret it, believe me. You see, Mr. Thornton, I was indirectly connected to one of the local partys right after I returned from the war. I’d met this young woman working on one of the movies I had a small part in and just got sucked in with her. Maybe you’ve heard of her, Sheila Perkins?”
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.