I pointed to the dead dog, its paws starting to curl with rigor mortis like it was going to be begging biscuits for eternity. “Maybe not. You sure ain’t gonna have a trusty mascot, but you might get a little taste of the rest.”
* * *
Morris went to his bedroom and passed out. I laid down on the homey dreambed, holding a stuffed panda, the lights off to insure some good brainwork. Straight manipulation of Mickey and Howard fell by the wayside quick, so I shifted to the Other Guy Routine and made a snag.
Sid Weinberg.
RKO Line Producer.
Filthy rich purveyor of monster cheapies, drive-in circuit turkeys that raked in the cash.
A valuable RKO mainstay–his pictures never flopped. Howard kissed his ass, worshipped his dollars and cents approach to movie making and gave him carte blanche at the studio.
“_I’d rather lose my you know what than lose Sid Weinberg_.”
Mickey Cohen was indebted to Sid Weinberg, the owner of the Blue Lagoon Saloon, where Mickey was allowed to perform his atrocious comedy routines without cops hanging around–Sid had LAPD connections.
The Mick: “I’d be without a pot to piss in without Sid. I’d have to buy my own nightclub, and that’s no fun–it’s like buying your own baseball team so you can play yourself.”
Sid Weinberg was a widower, a man with two grown daughters who patronized him as a buffoon. He often spoke of his desire to find himself a live-in housekeeper to do light dusting and toss him a little on the side. About fifteen years ago, he was known to be in love with a dazzling blonde starlet named Glenda Jensen, who hotfooted it off into the sunset one day, never to be seen again. I’d seen pictures of Glenda; she looked suspiciously like my favorite teenage killer. At eight tomorrow night Sid Weinberg was throwing a party to ballyhoo _Bride of the Surf Monster_. I was to provide security. Mickey Cohen and Howard Hughes would be guests.
I fell asleep on the thought, and dreamed that benevolent dead dogs were riding me up to heaven, my pockets full of other guys’ money.
* * *
In the morning we took off after the prodigal daughter. I drove, Mo Hornbeck gave directions–where he figured Gretchen Rae would be, based on their last conversation–a panicky talk two days ago; the girl afraid of phone taps; Mo saying he would let the evidence chill, then dispose of it.
Which, of course, he didn’t. According to Mo, Gretch told him Voyteck Kirnipaski had given her a list of financial district sharks who might be interested in her Hughes Enterprises graphs: when to buy and sell shares in Toolco, Hughes Aircraft and its myriad subsidiaries–based on her new knowledge of upcoming defense contracts and her assessment of probable stock price fluctuations. Mo stressed that was why Gretchy raped the Bullocks catalog–she wanted to look like a businesswoman, not a seductress/killer.
So we slow-lane trawled downtown, circuiting the Spring Street financial district, hoping to catch a streetside glimpse of Gretchen Rae as she made her office calls. I’d won Mo partially over with kind words and a promise to plant Janet in a ritzy West LA pet cemetery, but I could still tell he didn’t trust me–I was too close to Mickey for too long. He gave me a steady sidelong fisheye and only acknowledged my attempts at conversation with grunts.
The morning came and went; the afternoon followed. Mo had no leads on Gretchen Rae’s home calls, so we kept circling Spring Street–Third to Sixth and back again–over and over, taking piss stops at the Pig & Whistle on Fourth and Broadway every two hours. Dusk came on, and I started getting scared: my Other Guy Routine would work to perfection only if I brought Gretchy to Sid Weinberg’s party right on time.
6:00.
6:30.
7:00.
7:09. I was turning the corner onto Sixth Street when Mo grabbed my arm and pointed out the window at a sharkskin clad secretary type perusing papers by the newsstand. “There. That’s my baby.”
I pulled over; Mo stuck his head out the door and waved, then shouted, “No! Gretchen!”