Time flew; names, dates and locations in police jargon kept me awake. Then I saw something that I’d perused a dozen times before, only this time it seemed off.
It was two memo slips:
1/18/47: Harry – Call Buzz Meeks at Hughes and have him call around on possible E. Short movie bus. associations. Bleichert says the girl was star struck. Do this independent of Loew – Russ.
1/22/47: Russ – Meeks says goose egg. Too bad. He was anxious to help – Harry.
With Betty’s movie mania fresh in my mind, the memos looked different. I remembered Russ telling me that he was going to query Meeks, the Hughes security boss and the Department’s “unofficial liaison” to the Hollywood community; I recalled that this was during the time when Ellis Loew was suppressing evidence on Betty’s promiscuity in order to secure himself a better prosecuting attorney’s showcase. Also: Betty’s little black book listed a number of lower-echelon movie people–names that were checked out during the ’47 black book interrogations.
The big question:
If Meeks really had checked around, why didn’t he come up with at least a few of the black book names and forward them to Russ and Harry?
I went out to the hall, got the Hughes Security number from the White Pages and dialed it. A singsong woman answered: “Security. May I help you?”
“Buzz Meeks, please.”
“Mr. Meeks is out of his office right now. Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Detective Bleichert, LAPD. When will he be back?”
“When the budget meeting breaks up. May I ask what this is in reference to?”
“Police business. Tell him I’ll be at his office in half an hour.” I hung up and leadfooted it to Santa Monica in twenty-five minutes. The gate guard admitted me to the plant parking lot, pointing to the security office–a Quonset hut at the end of a long string of aircraft hangars. I parked and knocked on the door; the woman with the singsong voice opened it. “Mr. Meeks said you should wait in his office. He won’t be very long.”
I walked in; the woman left, looking relieved that her day’s work was over. The hut was wallpapered with paintings of Hughes aircraft, military art on a par with the drawings on cereal boxes. Meeks’ office was better decorated: photos of a burly crewcut man with various Hollywood hotshots– actresses I couldn’t place by name along with George Raft and Mickey Rooney.
I took a seat. The burly man showed up a few minutes later, hand out automatically, like someone whose job was ninety-five percent public relations. “Hello there. Detective Blyewell, is it?”
I stood up. We shook; I could tell that Meeks was put off by my two-day clothes and three-day beard. “It’s Bleichert.”
“Of course. What can I do for you?”
“I have a few questions about an old case you helped Homicide out with.”
“I see. You’re with the Bureau, then?”
“Newton Patrol.”
Meeks sat down behind his desk. “A little out of your bailiwick, aren’t you? And my secretary said you were a detective.”
I closed the door and leaned against it. “This is personal with me.”
“Then you’ll top out your twenty rousting nigger piss bums. Or hasn’t anyone told you that cops who take things personal end up from hunger?”
“They keep telling me, and I keep telling them that’s my hometown. You fuck a lot of starlets, Meeks?”
“I fucked Carole Lombard. I’d give you her number, but she’s dead.”
“Did you fuck Elizabeth Short?”
Tilt, bingo, jackpot, lie detector perfect as Meeks flushed and fingered the papers on his blotter; a wheezing voice to back it up: “You catch a few too many in the Blanchard fight? The Short cooze is dead.”
I pulled back my jacket to show Meeks the .45 I was carrying. “Don’t call her that again.”
“All right, tough guy. Now suppose you tell me what you want. Then we settle up and end this little charade before it gets out of hand. Comprende?”
“In ’47, Harry Sears asked you to query your movie contacts on Betty Short. You reported back that it was a washout. You were lying. Why?”