Eye Like Blue Steel, For the Lambliff Challenge
Much love and thanks as always to my beta and friend, SweetPoeia. She has taught me so much.
Love and thanks also to OhFreckle for the awesome artwork.
Note: Some of the words used to describe women, Italians, blacks and homosexuals in this story are now considered politically incorrect, but were widely used at the time of this story. Try not to be offended, it’s fiction.
Eyes Like Blue Steel
Los Angeles, the city of angels. Plenty of sunshine all year long and you can pick oranges and avocados right off the trees. The babes are pretty, too. They come from all over this great country of ours to take their chances on making it big in Hollywood. Just this morning I had my poached eggs and bacon served to me by a gorgeous dame who was a dead ringer for Miss Jane Russell. Lady flashed me a lipsticky smile and said that she was an actress while she topped off my coffee. Big surprise there. My suit looked good, my tie was real silk and I just had the Chevy waxed. Maybe she thought I was one of those movie big shots.
I’m not. My mother named me Thomas Joseph Ratliff. Close friends and especially people who don’t like me call me Ratz. A lot of people don’t like me. You can call me Tommy. I’m a private investigator.
So yeah, LA is a great town for a young man with plenty of ambition and who isn’t afraid to roll up his sleeves and get a little dirty. It had been a good weekend. I passed some of the time in Los Feliz with my gal, a swell little chichita named Alice. She has a voice like a strangled bullfrog and hair the color of dried blood. Alice has a taste for tequila and fun. I like her a lot. Her parents don’t approve of me because I am almost 30 and not Catholic. They think my job is sketchy. They are probably right.
Monday morning meant a couple of aspirin, plenty of black coffee and back to work.
I pulled my black Chevy Fastback into a parking spot, fed the meter a few nickels and entered a nondescript building just off Hollywood Boulevard. I took the elevator to the fourth floor.
“Any calls, Sasha?” I asked my secretary as I hung up my new brown fedora on the coat rack. The hat was sporting a peacock feather. Sinatra has one just like it. I think it looks spiffy.
Sasha dropped her copy of Hollywood Keyhole into an open drawer. I’ve scolded her before about reading that trash on the job. Other than her questionable taste in literature, she’s a nice little gal with skin the color of hot chocolate. She’s just about as sweet too, not that I have had a taste-you don’t get your sex where you get your checks, know what I mean?
“Yes, boss,” Sasha said, jumping up to fetch my fifth cup of Joe for the day. “Mister McMichael from over at Paramount called. He wants to meet with you later today. I told him you would be available around two, if that’s ok.”
“That’s fine babe.” I accepted the coffee. I had done some investigations for McMichael before. Not the most exciting work in the world, but his checks never bounced and they help pay the rent here at Ratliff-Pittman investigation. “Did McMichael say what he wanted?”
“Background on a singer. Maybe somebody they are considering signing.”
I laughed. “Heaven forbid they hire a new singer and find out later she’s a commie or has four bastard kids back in Iowa. Please call McMichael back, Doll, and tell him I’ll be there at two.”
“If you see anybody famous on the Paramount lot, you’ll get their autograph for me, right Mr. Ratliff?”
“Sure thing, Toots. You know just last week Grace Kelly and Liz Taylor got into a cat fight over me. Claws were out and the fur was really flying. Is Monte in?”
“Yes, he said to send you in as soon as you got here.” Sasha’s long red nails began a rhythmic clattering on her black typewriter.
~~~~~
“Holy Shit, Ratz! You wouldn’t believe the pictures Isaac got of the banker’s wife.” Monte looked up from a stack of 8x10 glossies. “That woman has some serious skills. C’mon on and feast your eyeballs on these beauties.”
The banker’s wife did indeed have skills, caught with her beestung red lips wrapped around the very impressive, very swollen member of a man who was decidedly not the bank president.
“Who’s the lucky fellow?” I asked, slowly thumbing through the pile of photos and feeling a little envious twang in my own dick.
“Isaac said it’s the poolboy. It’s always the poolboy. He caught the horny old bitch red handed, or should we say red lipped, and that translates into payday, brother. I got kids to feed, you know.”
Monte is a jolly fellow who looks like a beatnik Santa Claus. He does indeed have kids, four of them, and a pretty blonde wife to complete the package. He’s always after me to settle down and let some determined little gal put a collar around my neck. So far I have been successful in dodging that particular bullet, but I suspect there is one out there with my name on it.
Monte and I started Ratliff-Pittman investigations right after our hitch in Uncle Sam’s army ended. We were buddies from the very start of basic training, and we both ended up in the military police, helping to liberate Hitler’s death camps. Later we were stationed together in Nuremberg for the war trials. You don’t need to lecture us about the horrors of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. We saw it up close and personal. I don’t like to talk about it, so don’t ask. I mean it. Don’t.
I’m born and raised in California, Burbank to be exact. Monte is a Texan, although he’s far from long and tall. I convinced him that Los Angeles was the city of the future. The war was over. The good guys had won. Money was moving west, and where the money went, there was always the need for a couple of smart private investigators. We told each other that we could make this dirty world a cleaner, brighter place.
Some days we even believed that.
People are always surprised to find out that I am good at my job, mostly because I’m deceptively small and have an innocent looking face. Alice says I have eyes like Bambi and a mouth that is way too pretty to be wasted on a man. Don’t be fooled, more than one bad guy has been lured into complacency by my angelic face. Some of them are now sleeping it off in Forest Lawn. I’m good with a gun. Not bragging, but I can shoot the nuts off a gnat from 30 feet. Lately I’ve been learning a few deadly moves from a guy I know in Chinatown. Word on the street is that even though I am tiny, don’t fuck with Ratz.
You might think that the life of a pair of Hollywood private detectives is glamorous, but truth is it is mostly poking our noses into other people’s dirty laundry. We haven’t had to patch up any bullet holes or mopped blood out of our thread-bare office carpeting in months.
“So, Sasha tells me we’ve got another job over at Paramount.”
“Yeah, background check on some singer. Hey, maybe she will be easy on the eyes, like that Doris Day, huh?”
“Maybe. Good thing you’re taking this one. I don’t need any blonde trouble with Lisa.”
It was hard not to feel like a big shot when I rolled my black Chevy through the gates of the Paramount lot, especially when the uniformed clown at the guard shack checked his list and said “Come right in Mr. Ratliff. Mr. McMichael is expecting you.” The same friendly kiss-ass greeting was waiting for me in McMichael’s office with a couple of fine looking wrens asking sweetly if there was anything they could do for me, anything at all. I had a few ideas that involved the three of us, a bottle of Jack and a room at Seven Veils Motel over on Sunset. I kept those thoughts to myself since I was on the clock.
My jaw hit the carpet when Rita Hayworth walked out of McMichael's office. Holy fucking shit--Rita Hayworth! So I have a thing for redheads. Sue me.
“Was that who I think it was?” I asked McMichael when I was escorted to his large office. The studio fat cat had a glitzy litter box with a lot of pretty things that sparkled. The rugs were so soft and thick, they tickled your ankles.
“The lady is way out of your price range Ratz, so stop your drooling. You want a drink?”
Two p.m. wasn’t too early to start drinking. It was five p.m. on the east coast, so why the hell not?
“She may be out of my price range, but what’s a man without a dream? So, about this singer you want me to investigate. Is she pretty?”
McMichael snorted out a laugh. “See for yourself, Ratz.” He passed a few head shots across the top of his mahogany desk. A handsome dark haired crooner, with lips like a couple of plump satin throw pillows--something of a fancy boy, in my humble opinion.
I laughed at myself and my ever hopeful dick. “Ok, he’s good looking enough, I suppose, but not exactly my type. What’s lover boy’s name?”
“Adam Lambert.”
“That his real name or just what your PR department decided to call him?” I once wasted three days in Brooklyn chasing my tail doing a background on a curly-haired actor called Tony Curtis, only to later discover that the pretty boy’s mother had named him Bernard Schwartz.
“Interestingly enough, that is his real name.”
“He looks like a nice kid, why the investigation? Is he dicking your wife or something?” McMichael did not appreciate the joke. I studied the photos a little more, and wondered what color those pale hooded eyes might be in person. “Ok, here’s a better question, is he a good singer?”
“Oh fuck yeah. Sweet Jesus! They say that when Sinatra first heard him singing at the Starlight Room, Frankie pissed his trousers and wept like a baby in the men’s room for the rest of the night. He wouldn’t come out of the stall until after the place had closed.”
“Impressive. The kid is better looking than Frank or Bing or any of those other crooners, too. So you are thinking this guy is money in the bank, but you gotta be sure there’s no funny business. Am I right?”
McMichael topped off my whiskey. “Something like that. Lambert is about to make his first movie and MGM has asked us to loan them Brooke Wendle as his leading lady.”
“Brooke Wendle, the leggy little hoofer with the curly red hair? The Rockette?” McMichael confirmed that was indeed the lady in question. “If you’ve got that fine little filly in your stable, my compliments.” I saluted the exec with my glass. I’m short, but I like my women tall. I understand the urge a man feels to climb Mt. Everest. Sometimes the view from the top is worth the long, hard climb.
“So, let me get this straight, this Lambert character is signed to MGM and not Paramount, but you still want me to investigate him because of your interest in the dancer? Isn’t that kind of irregular?”
“Is that a problem, Ratz?”
“Fuck no, give me $35 a day plus expenses and I will investigate my own grandmother. If this warbler is a pinko commie or smoking funny Mexican cigarettes, he won’t be able to hide it from me.”
“Miss Wendle is going to be a big star. She’s America’s sweetheart and we don’t want her reputation tarnished by any scandal.” McMichael’s eyes softened when he said her name. I wondered if Mrs. McMichael knew about her husband’s very personal interest in the dancer. But I wasn’t being paid to snoop into that triangle.
~~~
I spent all the next day down in San Diego, looking into Lambert’s past, grateful that the guy came from sunny Southern California and not someplace boring and cold like Kansas. To hear the neighbors tell, Lambert was a Boy Scout who kept his nose clean and helped little old ladies cross the street. If the singer had so much as lifted a Baby Ruth from the corner sweet shop, nobody was talking. Worst thing I could find was that Lambert was secretly a ginger and there were widespread rumors of freckles.
Back in LA, I decided to pay a visit to the nosiest guys in all of Hollywood, a little busybody that goes by the name of Cheeks. He runs the newsstand near the Pantages Theater. Cheeks is a little guy like me with a big mouth and big eyes that don’t miss much. If it is happening on Hollywood Boulevard, Cheeks had the down low and for a few bucks, he’ll talk your ear off. Half the dirt you read in Hollywood Keyhole comes right outta his big mouth.
“Heya Ratz, shot anybody today?”
“Not yet, but it’s still early in the day.” I slipped him a fiver. “So, what do you know about a tall, good looking torcher named Lambert?”
Cheeks let out a low whistle. “Just that Sinatra is holed up at his house in Palm Springs taking secret vocal lessons. Word around town is that Frankie ain’t been this upset since Ava Gardner fucked that bullfighter in Spain.”
I laughed. Poor Frankie, shoved aside by someone younger and prettier. That’s gotta hurt. “Heard anything specifically juicy about this Lambert character?”
“Yeah, he’s a peacock, drops a wad on his threads. He likes Italian shoes, I hear.”
“That ain’t illegal. Anything else?”
Cheeks thought for a minute. “Heard he might be Jewish.”
“Yeah, so are the Three Stooges. Gimme something I can work with, Cheeks.”
Cheeks appeared to be thinking, probably considering how much more info to reveal. I flashed another five. “Wait, I did see him coming out of Musso and Frank’s the other night with a tall drink of water named Raja on his arm.”
“Raja? Who’s she? An actress?” I’d never heard of the dame.
“That’s just the thing, Ratz. If Lambert tries to get a hand under the lovely Raja’s skirts, he’s in for a big surprise, if you know what I mean.” Cheeks waggled his eyebrows Groucho style at the word ‘big’ and looked down at his crotch. I knew exactly what he meant. Raja was packing something extra and I don’t mean a gun.
I decided it was time to take a look at the man in action. Cheeks said Lambert was singing tonight at the Starlight Room. I bid him a good day with a tip of my fedora and told him to keep his eyes open and his ears to the ground. I had plenty of fivers.
~~~~~
“Ooooh, Tommy Joe,” gushed Alice, “you want to take me to the Starlight room tonight! You never take me anywhere nice.”
“Not true Dollface. Didn’t I take you to a John Wayne double feature at the El Capitan just last week? I even paid for the jujubes.”
“Well, sure, but the Starlight Room to hear Adam Lambert sing. Gee, it’s not even my birthday. I like Adam even more than Perry Como. He’s a real dreamboat.”
“Just wear something pretty, babe, and I will pick you up at seven."
~~~
The Starlight room, high on top of the Bel-Air hotel, is swankified all right. The ceiling sparkles with a thousand tiny silver lights and the flowers on the table weren’t plastic. This Lambert kid drew a well-heeled crowd. The dames, decked out in their satins and silks, moved like they were gliding on ice. Alice had borrowed a white fox stole and a rhinestone tiara from a friend. She looked like a little girl dressed up as a princess for Halloween. I ordered her a Shirley Temple cocktail and a double Jack on the rocks for myself. We settled into our banquette on the second tier, waiting for the show to begin.
“Look Tommy,” Alice said, “Isn’t that Brooke Wendle, the dancer? We saw her in that Gene Kelly movie, remember?” Alice’s mother apparently had never told her that it was impolite to point. “She’s so pretty.”
I took a long look at the leggy redhead who was being escorted to a ringside table by a brick wall of a man I knew casually named Little Johnny. ‘Pretty’ didn’t even begin to describe the lovely Miss Wendle. She wasn’t the kind of broad you would buy a box of jujubes. She was the kind of a broad you would buy a house with a pool in Hollywood Hills. Johnny apparently was being well paid by someone to protect Miss Wendle’s nicely shaped fanny. He relieved her of a mink large enough warm a dozen Eskimos.
Alice’s bullfrog voice broke my appreciation of the view. “I hope Adam sings If I Had You. That’s my favorite.”
I realized that I had never heard this Lambert torcher sing. Whenever I turn on the radio, it’s to catch the ballgame or Jack Benny. He cracks me up.
The orchestra members, all dressed in white suits began taking their places on the bandstand. The lights dimmed, the ceiling twinkled, and a single spotlight illuminated an empty microphone. A few of the dames squealed in anticipation. Lambert made them wait for it. Fucker sure knew how to make an entrance.
He took the stage wearing a white tuxedo with a satin shawl collar and a lavender bow tie. Yeah, lavender. That got my attention. Only guys that were a little funny wore lavender ties.
His lacquered hair was as shiny and dark under the spotlight as raven’s wing. I had to hand it to Lambert-the joker could sing. Tall and squared shouldered with eyes like blue steel, he was much better looking than that skinny, big-eared Frank Sinatra. No wonder he had all the hens in the joint going off the deep end.
Lambert caressed the microphone stand with the sensual hand of a lover, crooning out song after song about love and hope and heartbreak. Alice had stars in her eyes, as did every other frail in the place when he sang, “If I had you, that would be the only thing I’d ever need.” Lambert ended the song by blowing a kiss to the lovely Miss Wendle. His voice was a genuine guaranteed panty-peeler. I regretted my inability to sing.
After his set ended and Lambert left the stage, the room fell into a brief miserable silence, as if all the light and joy had been swept away. The band began to play String of Pearls. I asked Alice to dance, spinning her around the floor to the sweet, smooth sounds of the orchestra. With a little careful maneuvering through the crowd, we danced until we were near Brooke Wendle. I wanted to get close enough to smell the lady’s perfume.
“Put your eyes back in your head, Romeo,” Alice chided playfully. “I’m your date for the night.”
“Business, Babygirl, just business. You know you’re my little cutie.”
Brooke was dancing with some schmoozer that couldn’t stop staring at her tits. Adam Lambert appeared at her side, telling loser to get lost. The alpha dog was cutting in. Loser did not argue, leaving gracefully, his head hung in defeat.
Lambert was taller than he had looked on stage and was so close that I could smell his cologne mixed with Brooke’s. He smelled good too. They made a wonderful smelling couple. Adam said something to Brooke that made her crinkle her pretty nose, toss her red curls and laugh. The diamond sparkler on the third finger of her left hand was the size of a buffalo nickel.
The orchestra began playing Moonlight Serenade. I was trying hard to eavesdrop on their conversation and at the same time not step on Alice’s feet. I heard Lambert excuse himself to go to the men’s room. He gave Miss Wendle a peck on the cheek that made her blush prettily.
I made the same ‘men’s room’ excuse to Alice, suggesting that she take the time to powder her nose. The men’s room was an elegant affair, all polished mirrors and dark woods. My entire studio apartment could have neatly fit into one of the stalls with enough room left over for a dog house. There was a real live attendant on duty, ready to pass out warm towels, light your cigarette or shine your shoes for a quarter. If I had ever taken a leak in a finer establishment, I couldn’t recall the occasion.
I decided the shine on my shoes looked fine and moved to the urinals beside Lambert, who was unzipping. I fished out my own dick---ready aim, but no fire, in spite of downing two double Jack’s. I glanced over Lambert. He was having no such problems-- a noisy stream was forcefully hitting the back of the porcelain.
“Hey pal, I know it’s a beauty,” Adam said, “but if you keep staring at my cock, I am going to get funny ideas about you.” He gave me a long slow looking over, head to toe. I felt like Little Red Riding Hood being sized up by the Big Bad Wolf. The singer smiled. His teeth were Hollywood white and as perfect as a box of Chiclets.
“I wasn’t staring,” I managed to stammer out. My eyes were back to minding their own business for once. Lambert was right, that tool of his was impressive, long and thick with a moist rosy-pink head. That rumor of him being Jewish must be true. Not that I had been looking. No sir. Not me. My own dick has served me well over the last 29 years. We’ve had some good times together, but compared to Lambert’s, my pride and joy looked as if it belonged on a kid.
I finally convinced my bladder to take care of business. Lambert was finished, shaking the dew off his lily and zipping up. He washed his hands, accepting a warm towel from the attendant and tipping the gent an entire greenback. Generous fellow. I like that. It shows character. He settled into one of the brocade lounge chairs near a potted palm in a Chinese vase and opened a silver cigarette case. The attendant was Johnny-on-the-spot to light a gasper that I knew from my time overseas was French. I decided maybe a smoke was in order too. I sat down in the opposite chair and lit up a Lucky.
“Didn’t mean to rattle your cage back there, friend,” Adam said softly. It sounded like an apology.
“No harm, no foul,” I said. “My date very much enjoyed your set tonight.”
“I saw her, little redhead with a big laugh? I could hear her all the way on stage.”
“That’s her. Ali has a mouth on her, but she’s a sweet kid.”
“And what about you, my friend? Did you enjoy my set?”
“I’m more of a Spike Jones fan.”
Lambert threw his head back and laughed at that. It was a nice laugh. He was wearing amethyst cufflinks that matched his lavender tie. Lavender silk socks, too. What a dandy. He extended a hand. “I’m Adam, and you are…?” The hand was large, soft, and dusted with freckles. His nails had been buffed to a high gloss.
I introduced myself. Lambert seemed like a chatty lad, and I was paid to snoop. “I see we both have a taste for redheads. Miss Wendle is charming.”
“Yes indeed she is,” Adam said blowing a prefect smoke ring. He watched it slowly drift up to the ceiling.
“Was that an engagement ring I saw on her hand?” Impertinent, sure, but again, I’m a curious kitty and paid to snoop.
He stammered for a moment, and then smiled. It was not the proud smile of a man who was about to make a gorgeous woman his wife. The smile stopped someplace before it reached his blue steel eyes.
“Yes,” he said.
Some matches are made in heaven. This one was sounding to me like it was made in the boardroom of the studio PR department. Hollywood made more arranged marriages than the royal families of Europe. I wondered if McMichael knew his pretty dancer was intended for another.
“Congratulations, you must be very excited.”
“There would have to be something terribly wrong with a man who couldn’t get excited about marrying a woman as lovely as Miss Wendle.” He stamped out his cigarette and left the men’s room without another word.
~~~
Alice and I danced and drank a little more, mostly we laughed. Fancy boy Lambert came back out on stage at ten p.m. sharp for his second set. He was as smooth as his first time out, even camping it up a bit, lounging on the piano while a juicy little minx named Camilla Grey tinkled the 88s. Lavender tie aside, the kid was going to be a star. He was a magnet and everybody in the joint had iron in their eyes, myself included. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him.
It was getting close to midnight. My Alice is a good girl. Her daddy waits up. I was helping her into the Chevy when I notice Lambert and Miss Wendle under the hotel’s canopy, waiting for the valet to bring their car around. The happy couple was surrounded by autograph seekers. I don’t get that whole autograph thing. Only signatures of any value to me are on the bottom of checks made out to TJ Ratliff. I stalled a bit, pretending to wipe something off my shoe, curious to see what Lambert was driving. That little piece of info might come in handy in my line of work.
The valet brought around a Jaguar XK120 that had more curves than Mae West. Sweet baby Jesus-- a Jaguar XK 120 roadster convertible, the first Jag built after the war. It was a sexy, silver beast that cost more than my parent’s house. Brooke wrapped a pretty scarf around her pretty curls and they took off into the LA night. Gorgeous car, gorgeous woman, gorgeous voice, I fucking hated this guy.
I took Franklin Avenue east back to Los Feliz. Alice was chatty on the drive home, raving about Adam Lambert and hoping that her Papa didn’t skin me alive for keeping her out late. We necked in her driveway for twenty minutes until her father appeared in the doorway, rapidly flicking the porch lights off and on. He’s a tough hombre that works the docks. I never knew if he wanted to pepper my flat ass with buckshot or pray for my heathen soul. Probably both. I told Alice that I would call her, and I meant it. A serious case of blueballs is my nightly reward for dating a nice Catholic girl. Alice is saving it until she gets a ring.
Driving west back to my dump of an apartment in Hollywood, I passed the silver Jag heading east on Los Feliz Boulevard. How many cars like that beauty could there be in this working class neighborhood? Los Feliz is not Beverly Hills.
I was curious. Don’t believe what you may have heard about curiosity killing the cat. Curiosity gets this kitty a paycheck.
The Jag turned north on Crystal Springs Drive. Lambert lives in Hollywood, Hancock Park to be precise, which is only a few blocks from my place, but many dollars signs to the north. Our beds were in the complete opposite direction of wherever it was he was heading.
One good thing about the Chevy Fastback-- there are a lot of them on the road. Every GI returning from the war bought one. Unlike a silver Jag, they blend right in with the rest of the traffic, even late at night. I drive this particular bucket for a reason.
I followed the Jag into Griffith Park. Griffith Park? Now why the hell would Adam Lambert, boy singer, be heading into Griffith Park on a Saturday night after midnight? I could only think of one reason and it didn’t involved feeding the sealions at the zoo. McMichael over at Paramount would definitely be interesting in hearing about this turn of events.
Griffith Park is vast, covering thousands of acres high above the city. There are certain areas in the park where-and shall we be delicate because there might be ladies present-where like-minded gentlemen can congregate to make each other’s acquaintances and perhaps share some physical activity in the great outdoors, if you catch what I am pitching. I knew Lambert’s lavender bow tie was hinky.
The Jag entered a remote, densely forested part of the park. Word on the grapevine is that if a fellow parks along the side of the road and stays in his car; he is looking for a date. Somebody to take home, maybe not to Mother, but you know what I mean. If a man is looking for a little more on-the-spot action, he takes one of the narrow paths into the foothills in hopes of meeting Mister Right-This-Moment so they can commune with nature and shoot a few wads together. Clothing is optional. Hey, don’t ask me how I know this-- I am paid to know things.
I kept my distance, lurking in the dark as I watched Pretty Boy park the Jag and get out. He had a flashlight with him and was carrying something white under his arm. I couldn’t see what, maybe a blanket. I guess it must not be date night because he torched a smoke, looked around nervously and disappeared up a trail. Gotcha, you horny bastard! I wished Isaac and his camera were here. With info this juicy, McMichael wasn’t gonna yelp when I added cocktails and dancing at the Starlight room to my expense account.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am an open-minded sort of guy, but this open-minded guy is trying to make a living. When I am off the clock, whatever floats your boat is jake with Thomas J. Ratliff. I saw enough human misery during the war that I always figure whatever makes a couple of consenting adults happy, why the hell not? If men want to rub up against each other in the park, carry on brother. I don’t judge. Just don’t bring kids into it. I carry a gun.
I got my flashlight out of the glove box. I hadn’t gone 50 yards up the path, when I encountered my first set of shadowy figures, the beast with two backs, one frantically pumping into the other under the protection of a large California Live Oak. Their loud moans were of either passion or pain. I didn’t get close enough to find out which.
Another few dozen yards up the hill, I came upon a pale, chubby man who was totally nude except for black motorcycle boots. Clothes were invented for a reason, Pal. Not everybody should get naked in public, even late at night. He was leaning up against a pepper tree, smoking with one hand, casually stroking his little stub of a dick with the other. “Whatchalooking for, honey?” he asked.
I tipped my hat. “I’m looking for the Greek Theater. I heard Rosemary Clooney was singing tonight. Don’t you just love Rosemary Clooney?”
“Greek Theater isn’t open this late, cutie. But if you are looking for some entertainment…” He offered his penis to me, like that was going to be a substitute for Rosie singing Mambo Italiano.
“Perhaps I have been misinformed,” I said. I heard a familiar laugh farther up the path. I remember liking that laugh-- Adam Lambert. I moved towards the siren song of his laugh, leaving my chubby friend to find another playmate.
The trail spiraled up to the peak of a steep hill. Lambert was sitting on top of a picnic bench, smoking one of his French cigarettes. The view was spectacular, all the promise and bright lights of Hollywood twinkling off in the distance. The night air smelled of sage and semen and French tobacco.
“Rosemary Clooney, that’s a good one.” Lambert gestured that I should have a seat next to him on top of the table. I did. He offered a smoke. I accepted. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my flask. I offered him a snort of Jack. He accepted.
He had changed from his glad rags into black denim pants, a simple white tee shirt and a black leather jacket with silver studs. It roughed up his glamourpuss looks a bit, but still suited him. Lying next to him on the picnic table was a leather dog collar and leash. I didn’t really want to know what he intended to do with the dog collar, but I had a few ideas. Like the lady said, this isn’t my first trip to the rodeo.
“Lose your dog?” I asked, indicating the collar and leash.
“Oh, she’ll be back, she took off after a rabbit.” He pointed to a place over the ridge. “So Tommy Joe Ratliff, we meet again. I am beginning to suspect that this is not a coincidence.”
“You don’t believe in coincidences?” I asked, the picture of innocence. I believe in coincidences just about as much as I believed that Lambert was in the park walking a rabbit-chasing dog.
He looked me over thoughtfully. “You’re too small to be a cop, so you are probably a reporter for one of the scandal sheets looking to uncover some dirt on the new kid in town. That or else you are just another sad, desperate queer up here on this hill tonight trying to get his cock sucked. How am I doing?”
“‘Try none of the above.” I offered him another snort of Jack. He accepted, wiping the mouthpiece of the flask daintily with an embroidered hanky that looked silk. Not something you would expect to see coming out of the pocket of a black leather jacket. The quiet of the night was shattered by the sound of some lucky fellow screaming out his orgasm with a hearty “ah fuck yeah!”
Lambert shook his head at the sound. “What do you think, Tommy? All these lonely men up here night after night, wandering the hills, looking for a connection, looking for love and settling for so much less. Is love even possible? Can it be found in a place like this, waiting for you just beyond the shadows? All those song I sing about romance and everlasting love, I want them to be true.” Lambert made an elegant gesture with his cigarette. “The people that come to hear me sing, they want to believe that the words to my songs are true. We all want to believe in love.”
How does a guy like me respond to something like that? I had no fucking clue, but there was sweetness, a naïveté, about Adam Lambert that I hadn’t noticed before. For some daft reason, I liked the kid.
“Sorry,” he said, accepting the flask once again. “You must think I am a complete sap, carrying on like this. It’s late. We should both go home.”
“No,” I said, maybe a little too quickly. “I’d like to believe that the words to your songs are true. I want to believe in love.” He smiled at me gratefully. Then he ran one of his buffed fingertips under my chin, tilted my head and looked into my eyes. His large hand curled around my neck, pulling me closer. Holy crap, he was going to kiss me! I didn’t know if I should pucker up and reach for my gun.
My quandary was solved when a little white furball with black eyes came yapping up the path. “Buttons! There you are, you naughty girl running off like that.” Holy crap again, the dog was real. You could have knocked me over with a feather. Adam scooped up the mutt and gave her several kisses on top of her head. I was almost jealous of the furry little bitch. We sat together quietly for a few minutes..
“The view is beautiful from up here, isn’t it? Someday,” Adam gestured towards the city lights below us, “someday all of that is going to be mine.”
He had the talent and the looks. There was no reason to think that the big time couldn’t be his for the asking. I offered him another snort of Jack. He accepted. We sat together, Adam stroking the top of his dog’s head.
The stillness of the night was shattered by shouting and terrified screaming. Men in various states of dress were running in every direction, some of them stumbling, tripping on trousers that were still bagged around their knees. One of them yelled over to us, “Truckload of rednecks with baseball bats, better run!” My gun found its way automatically to my hand.
“What should we do? Hide or run?” Adam asked. He didn’t sound that scared, just an academic question. Do you want chocolate or vanilla?
“I got this, just stay behind me.” He almost laughed. Adam had six inches and maybe 50 pounds on me. What he didn’t know was that I had a Colt .38 Special in my right hand and wasn’t afraid to use it.
Flashlights swept the path. There were nasty catcalls of ‘come out, come out where ever you are, you cock sucking fairies.’ Men, ignorant goons with ball bats were out for a fun-filled night of drinking and queer bashing. I’d been in Germany and had seen firsthand the atrocities that Hitler’s Schutzstaffel had inflicted on the homosexuals. A couple of drunk, toothless yokels up from the valley were not going to scare me.
Adam and I moved cautiously down the path. Buttons was growling like she was ten times the size. Three baboons had discovered my chubby nude friend from earlier cowering behind the pepper tree. Ugly names were being called and baseball bats were raised. The poor fellow, resigned to his fate, crouched down o protecting his head.
“Drop it, assholes, or I pump lead!" I said, stepping into their flashlight beam and pointing the Colt.
“Who the fuck are you, some kinda elf?” He was a skinny little chickenshit, not much bigger than me. Chickenshit guffawed. I didn’t get the joke. What kind of a moron calls a man with a gun an elf? Chubby was still on his knees, pleading. He had pissed himself. I could hear Adam circling behind me, staying in the shadows.
“I don’t think he’s an elf. I think he is a fairy.” More hee-hawing. This riot of a guy was as witty as a boulder.
“He ain’t the nancy boy we’re looking for, but the elf will make good batting practice.”
My Colt was cocked and my trigger finger was itching. “Party is over, boys. Time to get back on your turnip truck and go home to your ugly mamas,” I said.
“Yeah?” said a mountain of beef. “Who’s gonna make us?” He was obviously the brains of the outfit. “Three of us and only two of you, Elf,” Beef pointed out in case I couldn’t do basic math. Idiots!
Adam stepped out of the darkness. Beef’s eyes went wide with recognition. The ape lunged for Adam, swinging the bat at his head like it was a piñata. Adam ducked, graceful as a cat, and kicked the guy in the crotch. Beef Mountain grabbed his nuts and went down hard, rolling in pain. Another bat came at me like a club. My Colt spit lead. I shot the bat in the middle; the wood exploded in the Neanderthal’s hand. I felt like fucking John Wayne. Not dissuaded, Caveman made an impolite implication about Adam and me. I shot him in the elbow. Now a shot to the elbow won’t kill you, but you will remember Tommy Ratliff every time it rains for the rest of your life.
“I got four more bullets, boys. Who wants them? Because I am willing to share.” Caveman was screaming in pain and bleeding out buckets. Beef Mountain was still writhing on the ground. Ask me if I care.
Siren and flashing red lights down below on the road. The bulls had arrived and who knew what else. Hopefully a meat wagon. No telling what kind of damage these brainless apes had done to the nature lovers in the park.
Adam was speaking gently to the chubby fellow, helping him into his clothes. Chubby was still crying. Adam looked pale even in the dark, and was biting that pretty lower lip, but he was a brave little soldier that could deliver a vicious kick to the nads. “We’ve got to get you outta here pronto, Adam,” I said. “I would hate to see an innocent man’s name get into the Hollywood Keyhole just because he out walking his dog late at night.”
Together we got Chubby back to his car. He said he thought he was ok to drive home. I stopped to speak to a homicide detective I knew named Doug. We drank together sometimes. Doug is ok. He said that along with a lot of lacerations and broken bones, the three trolls had beaten two citizens of the night so badly that one didn’t make it. The other had his brains turned into vegetable soup. He would live, if you could call it that.
A couple of uniforms were leading Caveman and Beef Mountain away in handcuffs. Apparently Chickenshit had turned tail and ran into the night. I told Dougie I was sorry I hadn’t shot all three when I had the chance. Dougie said for me not to expect a medal anytime soon. A lot of the boys in blue didn’t like fags. Doug asked me what I had been doing in this particular part of the park this late at night. I said I had been helping a buddy walk his dog, indicating Adam, who was leaning against his Jag, holding Buttons. Dougie told me to come down to headquarters sometime tomorrow to speak to the DA. I said I would.
“Look Adam,” I said walking over to the Jaguar. “You seem to be a nice guy and you’re a hell of a singer. Let me give you some advice. LA is a tough town. You spit on the sidewalk on Hollywood Boulevard, it is going to make the rags. There are people who would pay good money to find out you were in the park tonight and would use that info against you.”
“Are you one of those people, Tommy?” He was looking at me with those blue steel eyes very intensely. Fuck, he was a good looking guy.
“Just keep your nose clean and find some other fucking place to walk your little dog.” I ruffled Button’s ears.
Adam nodded that he understood. He offered me his hand and then held it for just a moment too long. I got the idea again that maybe he wanted to kiss me. Instead he asked, “Would you like to go someplace and talk? Maybe get some coffee?”
“Nah,” I said, “I’m tired. Shooting people really takes the starch outta my shorts.”
Eyes Like Blue Steel: Part 2