Eyes Like Blue Steel: Part2
Eyes Like Blue Steel: Part 2
The next morning, my ass was dragging two feet behind me when I got to the office. I hadn’t gotten back to my apartment until almost four a.m. My bed and I had made only a nodding acquaintance during the night. Sasha greeted me at the door with a cup of coffee and her bright and sunny smile. I didn’t fire her on the spot, instead I sent her out for the papers and donuts.
I leaned far back in my desk chair, watching the blades of the ceiling fan go around and round. Don’t laugh. I get some of my best inspiration watching that fan. Monte came into my office chewing on a bear claw. I told him about what had gone down in the park last night.
“And there’s nothing in the papers about it,” I complained. “Two guys get their heads bashed in and there’s not jack shit in the papers. Is life that fucking cheap in this town?”
“Queer life maybe. I’m not saying its right, but there are people that would say if you are lurking in the park late at night, you deserve what you get.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, Monte. Didn’t we just fight a war to prove that bullies don’t get to win?”
“We sure as hell did. So Ratz, what do you have for McMichael about the Lambert kid?”
“He’s a good singer, seems like a nice guy. He has a sweet car and a cute dog. I liked him.”
“C’mon, you followed him into Griffith Park after dark. You can’t tell me he’s not as queer as blue grass.”
“We don’t know that for sure. He said he was walking his dog. I saw the dog. Sure, he wears lavender silk socks, but that don’t prove nothing. He sure didn’t fight like a fag. I am not going to McMichael and ruin this guy’s career without some solid evidence.”
“What the fuck does this guy have to do, Ratz? Get down on his knees and blow you in front of the Chinese theater. We don’t need that kind of trouble again.”
I glared at Monte. We had agreed to never mention the thing that had happened up in San Francisco ever again.
“Maybe you are too close to this case,” Monte said, licking the icing from the bear claw off his fingers. I can get Isaac on it. Get some pictures of Tinkerbelle in action.”
“It’s my case, Monte. I finish what I start.”
~~~
I went downtown to the DA’s office and made a statement. Like Dougie had predicted, there was no medal for shooting homo-bashing bad guys. The DA said that the two birds from the park (Chickenshit had apparently escaped into the night) had been making deals and singing some crazy-ass song about being poor boys with poor sick mothers. They had been paid $20 bucks each to go into the park and stir up a little mayhem. They said that they had been told that there would be an extra $50 each if they landed a few swings on the very pretty face of a certain dark-haired boy singer. I asked if it was Adam Lambert. The DA said that the boys didn’t know their target’s name, but that he would show them a picture of Lambert and get back to me. The only other info the boys could offer up was that the men passing out the twenties had a nice ride, talked tough and sounded as if they were from New Jersey.
~~~
Heading back to the office, I bought a pack of Lucky Strikes from Cheeks at the newsstand. Last night’s fun at Griffith Park may not have made the papers, but Cheeks already had the low down.
“Yeah, sure Ratz. The word on the boulevard is that a couple of mobster types have been soliciting local talent to bust up the nightly teaparties in the park.”
“Do they drive a nice car?” I asked. Cheeks rolled his big brown eyes and gave me a look that said “bitch, please.”
“Mobsters? C’mon Ratz, of course they drive a nice car. Heard it was a Lincoln. The way I figures it,” Cheeks said, popping a stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth. “All those amateurs in the park giving it away for free is bad for business. Taking food out of the mouths of the professional hustlers, know what I mean? If the mob is running girls, you gotta figure they are running boys, too. If there is money to be made, the mob is gonna have their fingers in the pie.”
Cheeks was right there. It’s called ‘organized crime’ for a reason. It’s organized. I asked him if he had heard anything about last night’s attack being specifically directed at Adam Lambert.
“No,” he laughed, “but you’ve heard him sing, you can understand why every crooner in town would like to bust him in that pretty nose of his.”
I slipped Cheeks a fiver and flashed another one at him, saying that it was his if he knew where Lambert liked to eat lunch. He gave me another ‘bitch please’ smile and reached for the five. “Mike Romanoff’s joint. I hear he loves the noodles.”
~~~
Romanoff’s was one of the fancier celebrity watering holes in Beverly Hills. It’s run by a guy who claimed to be a Russian prince, cousin to the late Tsar. He wasn’t, but this was LA. People reinvented themselves here every day. I cruised by the parking lot looking for Lambert’s Jag. Cheeks, God bless him, was right; there was the Jag, top down, looking like a silver bullet, twinkling in the sun.
I told the Captain I was dining alone and would have a club sandwich and a martini at the bar. Hiding behind a fern, my eyes searched the place for Lambert. He was with Brooke Wendle sitting at one of the less fashionable tables in the back. Hang in there, Adam. You’re still the new kid in town. Soon you will be dining near the windows next to Gregory Peck and Bogie.
Then I laughed at myself, realizing that I wanted the kid to success, maybe even cared a little about what happened to him. That would explain why I was lurking behind a potted plant and chowing down on a dried out, overpriced sandwich. If somebody out there wanted Adam hurt or humiliated, I thought he should know about it and keep his blue eyes open.
Brooke looked lovely in a sapphire blue dress with a big matching picture frame hat. Being a dancer, she wasn’t as chesty as some of the starlets in the joint, but that was fine by me. She had plenty of what it takes and I don’t mean maybe.
From the way they were looking at each other, trading little kisses and laughing, I didn’t think McMichael had a thing to worry about. It looked like love to me, not that I am an expert. Adam and Brooke finished their lunch. He called for the check. I slipped a few bucks to their waiter and asked if he would deliver my card along with the bill.
Need to speak to you ASAP. Important. Excuse yourself to the men’s room
Ratz
Adam came into the men’s room a few minutes later, turning my card over and over in his hand. “You’re a private investigator?” he asked, without even saying ‘Hello’. I tried not to feel hurt.
“Yeah, but don’t sweat it, chum. I’m on your side.”
He smiled like he believed me. Gee whiz, the fucker was handsome. He and Miss Wendle were going to have some good looking kids. Maybe.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
“Those attacks in the park last night, I don’t think those cavemen were headbashing at random. You may have been the target.”
He seemed to sag for half a second, then recovered. “Me? I don’t understand. Why would anyone want to hurt me?”
“Don’t be dense, kid. You’re a young, good looking guy and you can outsing any torcher in this town. You’re a threat and some of the boys play rough when they get threatened.”
“But everyone has been so nice to me.”
“Sure, as long as your talent translates into money in their ass pockets. Welcome to the land of make believe.” Adam was looking at me like I had just told him there was no Easter Bunny. “For fuck’s sake, Adam, all I am saying is just be careful, ok. Don’t do anything you wouldn’t want on the front page of the Keyhole. Don’t give them any ammunition. You have my card if your need to reach me.”
“Is that the only reason you wanted to see me…in here.” He gestured around the men’s room.
“I didn’t see a reason to alarm Miss Wendle, unnecessarily. Why else would I want to see you?”
“Oh, I thought maybe…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but his voice was a silky purr against my ear.
“You thought wrong, Pal. You thought wrong.”
~~~
I followed the singer around town for the rest of the week. Apparently the life of a rising Hollywood star is as exciting and action-filled as the life of a hardworking Hollywood private dick doing a routine investigation.
Lambert went to work bright and early at the MGM lot working on his film, another one of those corny westerns apparently with singing cowboys. I wondered briefly how he would look in chaps, then tried to shake that image out of my head. I took a little gal I knew from MGM’s makeup department out for pie and coffee. She said that that Adam was funny and polite, although a little gossipy once he was in her makeup chair. I tailed him into a Ralph’s one afternoon, lurking behind a tower of canned soup while he shopped for produce. He noticed me, gave me a nod, then and saluted me with an eggplant. Mr. McMichael will be just thrilled to learn that he bought bread, a carton of eggs, some deli turkey and dog food. He went clothing shopping -a lot. He visited his grandmother in a nursing home in Anaheim. He walked Buttons, but only around Hancock Park. Maybe he was on his best behavior because he knew he was being followed, but he was giving me nothing.
~~~
Yeah, and ‘nothing’ was exactly what I told a couple of tough guys that came into my office one afternoon, wanting the down low on Lambert. These must have been the same greaseballs Cheeks had heard about because I recognized New Jersey accents. Monte and I had a guy from Atlantic City in our unit during the war. His name was Vinnie. Nice enough fellow, but once that accent is scorched into your brain, you’ll never forget it
Fortunately these clowns were waving cash instead of guns at me for once. I like cash much better, but I had to remind my new friends that the ‘private’ in private investigator still meant something, at least to me. They put their money away, which kinda broke my heart, but I’ve got principles. They said I would be seeing them again. I believed them.
~~~
Lambert sealed the deal for me as far as I was concerned when I spotted his Jag in front of Miss Wendle’s apartment building at ten p.m. It was still there at six a.m. the next morning. To me, that negated all the funny business in Griffith Park after dark.
I dictated a report to Mc Michael telling him that he had nothing to worry about. Adam Lambert was as clean as an Eagle Scout and as straight as the Kansas turnpike. He was an animal lover and a Good Samaritan, although he was a certifiable clothes horse. His worse vice seemed to be shoes.
Monte and I got into a shouting match earlier in the day about my report. He thought I should mention the Griffith Park incident. I argued back that McMichael had only asked for information on how Lambert’s activities reflected on Brooke Wendle. Far as I could tell, he was genuinely fond of her and treated her like a princess. Monte threw his hands up in the air and said it was my case, in a tone that sounded more like ‘its your funeral, Pal.’ He said he didn’t want the agency to end up with egg all over its face when Lambert turned out to be a flaming homo.
~~~
A few days later, Sasha came into my office breathing like she had just run a four minute mile. She had flushed a pretty color and was acting kittenish.
“Adam Lambert, here to see you, Mr. Ratliff.”
What the fuck? Not my Sasha, too? This guy-- he was pure catnip to the ladies. “Well put your tongue back in your mouth and send him in.”
Adam was wearing a beautiful grey flannel suit, pale grey dress shirt and a black tie. Diamond cufflinks sparkled at his wrists. His hands were covered in black pigskin gloves.
I offered him a drink from the office bottle. He accepted but I could tell he was checking to make sure the glass was clean. He looked around the office, noticing the artwork. Apparently he did not appreciate poker playing dogs.
“I know it’s not much,” I said as a way of apology, “but we don’t spend a lot of time here. I would hate a life where I was saddled to a desk.”
He laughed. He has a pretty laugh. I inquired about Miss Wendle. She was apparently in good health. Buttons was in good health as well. I wondered why he was there, but I can be a patient kitty. Lambert was gonna spill when he spilled, so I took a sip of my Jack.
He asked about Alice, who was also in good health. We Californians are a healthy bunch.
Finally, he asked about the headbashing gorillas from Griffith Park. I hated to tell him that the police didn’t seem to care. He took a sip of his Jack.
“That’s not right.”
“Preaching to the choir, my friend, preaching to the choir.”
“So Tommy, are you still being paid by Paramount to follow me? I always knew when you were around. I spotted you several times. Sometimes I even left you a little trail of breadcrumbs so you wouldn’t get lost.”
That was a punch to the gut. I thought I was more subtle than that. “Maybe I just like hearing you sing.”
“And do you also like watching me try on clothes?” He had a twinkle in his eye when he asked.
“You’re a snappy dresser. I was looking for some fashion tips.” I poured another shot into his glass. Something about this kid, I felt protective of him. I said that I was finished tailing him. My report was filed, the check was cashed and the money had gone to keeping the office lights on. I told him he had nothing to worry about from me, repeating the part about Eagle Scouts and Good Samaritans.
“Tommy, can I ask you one thing?” His voice was soft, like honeyed velvet.
“Shoot,” I said. I didn’t mean it literally.
“I need your help. Someone else is still following me and I’ve also been getting threatening letters. I am supposed to open at the Sands in Vegas next week. I am being strongly advised to cancel my engagement.”
The Sands was Sinatra’s and the rest of the Ratpack’s favorite dive in Vegas. I wasn’t surprised he was being threatened. The Sands. Fuck! Adam Lambert had balls as big as his voice
“That’s enemy territory, my friend. But don’t cancel. You can’t give bullies the power. I could snoop around for you, figure out who was behind the threats, but I think I already know. Those Jersey knee breakers play rough and they don’t appreciate a smart guy like me who uses his brain before he uses his gun. You need a bodyguard, somebody with some size to him, like Little Johnny.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem to hire Johnny, but Tommy, I like it that you are smart, and you’re funny. So will you come to Vegas? You can bring your girl. All expenses paid.”
I really didn’t have to think about it too long. My heart was going pitter-pat. Adam Lambert thought I was smart and funny.
~~~
Alice told her family she was going to stay with her cousin in San Bernardino for the week and came along for the ride. She played the nickel slots and won $40. Brooke and Alice went shopping and lounged by the pool. They got their nails done. We ate a lot of 99¢ shrimp cocktails. Adam sang. I snooped.
Adam was being harassed all right, but it was pissy, little annoying shit; things not even worthy of a frat house hazing. We played a round of golf one day. Adam’s ball would land in the middle of the fairway, and then mysteriously disappear. Someone put red pepper in his throat atomizer, and greased the bottom of his shoes. They rearranged the lettering on the Sands marquee to read ADUMB LAMBCHOP. His phone would ring in the middle of the night, but no one was there. His refrigerator was running and he let Prince Albert out of the can. The jokesters even turned the tables on me. I ordered a cheeseburger from room service and when I lifted the silver dome, there was a dead rat. I sent it back with a message for the chef that it was undercooked.
I strongly suspected that it was Sinatra’s henchmen behind the fun and games, but they were hesitant to pull out any of their big weaponry because, bottom line, Adam’s voice got butts into the Sands showroom every night. The Vegas boys that ran the Sands were making money. Even Frankie throwing a hissy fit can’t argue with good old American dollars. Frank vowed that he and his pals would never play the Sands again.
Final night at the Sands, Adam reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a thick, square ivory envelope. It looked like it contained an invitation rather than a paycheck. My name Thomas was printed on the front in an elegant script done in purple ink.
“What’s this?”
“Tommy, if you ever want to get to know me, I mean really know me, I can be found at Raja’s most evenings. Just present this card at the door.” He locked eyes with me briefly, took my hand in both of his and held it for just a moment too long. Then he turned and left.
Raja. I had heard the name before. Cheeks had mentioned that while Raja was one hell of a broad, Raja was no lady. The invitation was a pricey thing, engraved rather than printed with curlicues and cherubs. The pleasure of my company was requested at Raja’s: A Gentleman's Club. No date. No time. Apparently the party was never ending at Raja's joint. There was an address that I thought was somewhere off the Pacific Coast Highway, near Pacific Palisades.
I tucked the invite into my glove box and tried my best to forget it was there.
I wasn't that successful.
Part Three