Private Eye 2 - Blue Movie Read online

  "She really stirs a crowd," someone said from behind Cleary.

  He looked to find Milchik chewing on the cigar.

  "I thought I shook you."

  Milchik grinned, displaying tobacco-yellowed teeth. "I'm just like a bad habit, Cleary—always with you. You finked out on me."

  "Don't bother me, Milchik."

  The columnist was shaking his head as he watched the star accept the admiration of her fans. "Most any guy in this country would give his left arm to spend one night with that lady, and look who she settles for—a two-bit thug from Cleveland of all places."

  The man Milchik was talking about stood just behind Rita, clapping jubilantly.

  "That's him?" Cleary asked, wondering if he was looking at the same man to whom Milchik was pointing.

  "Nicholas D'Rosa... or Nicky The Rose. He answers to both. The Dapper Adonis of the Underworld."

  "I'll be damned."

  On closer examination, Cleary noticed the diamond studs on D'Rosa's shirtsleeves. Though fewer in number, they easily outtwinkled the fake gems on Rita's dress. His teeth flashed too-white against the olive complexion of his face, and the camera flashes exploded on the oil covering his black hair. Obviously the man wanted to look like a Hollywood celebrity, but he never would. He would always look like a gangster, even with Rita Marlo on his arm. Not that Cleary had started the case knowing Rita Marlo's heartthrob was a midlevel mobster—a fact his client hadn't bothered to share with him. Jack Cleary despised surprises, but for the moment he suppressed his anger.

  Beyond the glass-enclosed lobby of the theater, the army of cops was beating back fans to form a human tunnel through which Rita could escape. Just inside the door, a PR man busied himself in a futile effort to organize an impromptu press conference in a corner.

  "Guess I'd better get over there," Milchik said. "I might get to ask a question."

  "Try not to sound as dumb as you are, Milchik."

  "Gee, thanks, Cleary." The columnist hurried toward the crowd of newsmen.

  Cleary kept his eyes on D'Rosa. If Cleary hadn't been educated by the newspaperman, he would have pegged the man as the star's bodyguard. For one thing, D'Rosa hung just behind Rita, his eyes always on the crowd. Even when well-wishers spoke to him, his eyes remained busy. A matter of habit, Cleary figured.

  The PR man tried to guide Rita to the newsmen, but she was having none of it. She motioned for them to gather around her. Her face beamed as she graciously accepted the continuing cries of "Bravo."

  The publicity agent threw up his hands in amused exasperation. The reporters quickly encircled her and started shouting out question. With the calm control of a seasoned star, Rita picked out one and motioned for the others to be still. To Cleary's amazement, they obeyed.

  "The critics didn't have much good to say about Dangerous Summer, Miss Marlo. What would you say to them?"

  Rita flashed her pale blue eyes at the TV cameras. "Oh, but you're wrong. The critics—the ones who matter—loved it. Look around you. These are the critics. Look outside. Those are critics, too. They love Hollywood, the lights and glamor and excitement of it. This movie is pure Hollywood. Those critics you are talking about, well, they're just spoilsports—and frustrated actors."

  The crowd hooted in agreement. Cleary had to smile. The lady was good. He had to give her that.

  "No more questions," the PR man was shouting. "Pose for us!" a cameraman cried. Rita cooperated. But the reporters were moving away. Cleary's eyes followed them. They migrated toward Milchik, who was addressing questions to a young, wiry man with a thick head of curly hair. Cleary moved toward the conversation.

  "Mr. Tomac, as president of the union, do you think it's good for your people to close down the major studios?" Milchik was asking.

  Aaron Tomac was trying to get away, but the reporters, like a pack of dingoes, had now circled and blocked his escape. The photographers were still busy with Rita Marlo

  "We'll wait and see what the studios put on the table in November, Mr. Milchik. If they force a showdown, the union war chest will allow us to fight for as long as it takes."

  "In other words, you'll shut the industry down if—"

  "There are no other words. I prefer to use mine rather than yours, Milchik. The choice belongs to the studios. Not me. Now, I'd like to get home to my wife and kids."

  "What about Congressman McNeil's bill?" Milchik asked. "How will it affect your movement?"

  "It's a union-busting piece of crap," Tomac said, obviously irritated even at the mention of it. "Labor is terribly disappointed in Tom McNeil. We always considered him a friend. We were wrong. No more questions—at least, no more answers."

  The columnist obviously had other questions, but the show biz writers quickly pushed him aside. No matter, though. In the confusion, Cleary had watched as Tomac slipped away from the newshounds. For the first time, Nicky The Rose moved away from Rita Marlo. He followed Tomac out of the theater.

  TWO

  Jack Cleary didn't give a damn about Tomac, but D'Rosa was something else. He was being paid to watch the man. Cleary was old-fashioned that way. When someone was paying him good money, he always did his best to deliver, even if it meant bucking the flow of a Hollywood movie premiere. At the same time, he didn't have much use for a client who didn't tell him the whole truth, but that was a problem he would handle at the appropriate time. As Nicky The Rose followed Tomac through the lobby crowd and out into the melee in the street, the former cop kept a safe distance behind. He pushed his way out of the building, nodding to one or two of the uniformed cops who recognized him, and whose faces registered surprise at his presence at such an exclusive gathering.

  D'Rosa caught up with Tomac at a black Buick parked on the corner where a side street intersected with Hollywood Boulevard. Cleary hung back in the fringe of the crowd. As Tomac started to slip his key into the ear door, D'Rosa grabbed his arm, wheeled him around, and was in his face at once, shouting something that Cleary wanted to hear. Tomac, unprepared for such a professional assault, backed up against the Buick. With the mob growing ever louder, Cleary had no hope of eavesdropping from such a distance. He started toward the two men.

  The night had turned cloudy, and the klieg lights above Hollywood Boulevard crisscrossed against the low cloud cover. Cleary kept a wary eye over his shoulder as he ambled toward the street-comer argument. Behind him, the fans were becoming hysterical, almost violent, as Rita Marlo prepared to make her exit.

  The argument at the Buick appeared to escalate. Trouble had a certain stench to it. Any veteran cop could smell it way ahead of time, and Cleary detected the aroma of a coming calamity. He picked up his pace.

  As he neared the two men, the sudden movement of a yellow cab caught his eye. It pulled out of the cab row on the side street. Its headlights were off, and its tires squealed as it lurched forward. Cleary's eyes swiveled back toward the two men, but something stopped them short of their mark.

  It was an old man with a cane...

  ... stepping into the street...

  ... into the path of the taxi as it gathered speed, too much speed for this part of town.

  "Hey!" Cleary shrieked. "Look out!"

  The old man stopped and turned. The cab swerved to miss him, but his sudden stop put him right in its path. A headlight shattered as it clipped the old man's hip. His body rolled up and over the fender.

  The cab continued on, heading straight for Tomac and D'Rosa. So was Cleary, who by that time was reacting out of pure street instinct. Their argument had come to a temporary end. Both men stood helpless as the yellow monster bore down on them. Cleary lunged. He had no idea why he decided to go for D'Rosa. If there was a man who deserved saving, it surely wasn't a thug from back East. Cleary's shoulder punched into D'Rosa's gut just as the cab reached them. It grazed them both, sending the two men spinning down on the street.

  Tomac, paralyzed by shock, never moved. The grill of the car caught him at the level of his hips. The sound of breaking bones was fo
llowed by Tomac's shriek of pain as he was knocked up in the air and struck again by the windshield. Tomac's body bounced over the roof of the cab, completely cleared its trunk, and landed in a crumpled heap on the street

  Women from the premiere crowd screamed, their voices drowning out the whine of the cab's racing engine. Cleary lay on his back, his gaze affixed to the cab, expecting it to stop. It didn't. As the crowd charged toward the scene of the accident, the cab squealed away down Hollywood Boulevard. Cleary squinched his eyes at the numbers on the license plate, but a sudden flash of white light blinded him. The first explosion was followed by an endless succession of camera flashes. The photographers from the theater were on the scene already, capturing the gore for posterity.

  "Who are you?" D'Rosa asked.

  Cleary glanced over at the man. The evening clothes Nicky The Rose wore hung in tatters, and blood flecked his face.

  "Do I look as bad as you do?" Cleary asked.

  D'Rosa was carefully climbing to his feet. He tested his arms and legs and then offered Cleary a badly scraped hand. "Man, you don't look bad at all to me. You look like an angel. Lemme help you up. I don't know who you are, pal, but I owe you one."

  The lobby of the Egyptian Theater had become a sullen place. The transformation had been quick and certain, just like the death that had occurred outside. Before the hit-and-run, the cops had been tolerant of the mob. After all, they were there to see Rita Marlo. People like Rita made Hollywood, and the cops were as thankful for that as anyone else. After the death of Tomac, the detectives and lab guys appeared, and they didn't tolerate the nonsense.

  Most of the famous faces were gone, not interested in the kind of publicity or entanglements that were now associated with the premiere. Potential witnesses were separated from the bulk of the crowd. Those who claimed to see absolutely nothing were sent home where, no doubt, many of them would suddenly become up-close and personal witnesses to the tragedy of the opening night. The few fans who did dare to remain stood all the way across the boulevard behind yellow police barricades. Reporters and photographers continued to mingle among the medics and the few remaining celebrities in the subdued lobby. Milchik moved from one person to another, occasionally making notes—more often than not, hardly bothering. When he saw the photographer who had accompanied him, he called him over.

  "You got a shot of those two yet?"

  "Sure, Andy—a dozen or so."

  "Together? Like that?"

  "Well, no man—not together."

  "So, shoot it. I still can't believe you missed the accident."

  "I was in here, Andy. I couldn't get out."

  "Snap the goddamned picture."

  D'Rosa and Cleary sat on a plush red couch. Neither even blinked at the flash from the photographer's camera. They had grown accustomed to it. An ambulance attendant was wrapping a bandage around a scrape on D'Rosa's arm. The gangster grimaced and yanked his arm away.

  "Gawdamn, pal! Be gentle," D'Rosa growled. "That's not a friggin' leg of lamb—and don't make it so damned tight."

  "Sorry, sir."

  "I feel like a mummy with all this tape."

  Cleary suppressed a laugh. The man he had saved now looked more his part, his tux ripped and dotted with blood, most of it Tomac's. A white bandage was wrapped around D'Rosa's head.

  Rita Marlo hung by the side of the couch. Her hand was on D'Rosa's shoulder. "Oh, darling. When I think about how close I came to losing you tonight—are you sure you're all right?"

  D'Rosa smiled, flattered by her attention. "Sure, babe. I'm the guy that lived—leastways, so far."

  He glowered down at the medic. "This guy here might kill me, though."

  "Does it hurt?" she asked.

  "Naw. Hey, there!" D'Rosa motioned to Rita's publicity agent.

  The man hurried over. Avon Marlo came with him. "You feeling better, Nicky?" the buxom redhead asked.

  "Sure, hon. Feelin' mighty fit. Hey, maybe I forgot to tell you. You look almost as good as your ravishin' mother."

  Avon curtseyed.

  "Get them both outta this mess," he said to the PR man.

  "Sure thing, Mr. D'Rosa."

  He turned to Rita. "I'll see you back at the house. Get on home and stop worrying—both of you. You hear me?"

  "Will he be okay?" Rita asked the medic.

  The young man nodded.

  Avon touched her mother's arm. "Come on, Mom. Let's scram. Nicky's fine. He's a tough guy."

  Rita leaned down and planted a long kiss on D'Rosa's split lip. She then looked at Cleary. "Thank you so much."

  "Just wish I could have helped the other guy, too."

  "You got the important one," D'Rosa quipped, laughing afterward.

  "Oh, Nick. Don't be crude." Rita winked at her lover. "Of course, it is true, Mr. Cleary."

  The two women were led off. Cleary saw Johnny Betts emerge from a small gathering. He was coming toward Cleary, but the detective caught his eye and managed a discreet nod. Johnny stopped, surprisingly understanding the gesture, and eased back toward the group from which he had emerged.

  D'Rosa studied the bruise on Cleary's forehead. "You took a bad rap."

  "I'll live."

  D'Rosa pulled his arm away from the medic. "That's enough for me. Start on my pal, here."

  The medic, clumsy because of his anxiety, quickly secured the bandage on D'Rosa's arm with tape and turned to Cleary.

  The private detective held up a hand to stop him. "I'm okay."

  "That's a nasty bruise—" The attendant started to say.

  "Can you make it go away?" Cleary asked.

  "No, I can't do that, but—"

  "Then, beat it—if you're finished with Mr. D'Rosa, that is."

  The ambulance attendant shrugged and started packing up his medical kit.

  D'Rosa patted Cleary on the back. "You saved my life. That makes us pals. In case you don't know, my name's Nick D'Rosa"

  He took the offered hand. "Cleary... Jack Cleary. You wrap up an evening like this very often?"

  D'Rosa stood and went to a mirror to assess the damage to his appearance. The bandage around his head was mussing his hair. He ripped it away. "Shit, I don't need this." He started to straighten his hair.

  When it was in place, he turned back to Cleary. In a gesture of finality, the medic offered to paint disinfectant on a small abrasion on his palm.

  "Beat it, kid. Oh, and thanks." He turned to Cleary. "What'd you ask me?"

  "I asked if this happened to you very often."

  "Whadaya think? I'm with the sexiest piece of tail in Lotusland. My life's one big adventure story."

  "Who was the guy you were talking to?" Cleary asked, feigning ignorance.

  "Ah, just some union boss. The world's better off without him. Oh hell! Here comes the big heat." D'Rosa settled down again on the couch beside Cleary.

  Detective Charlie Fontana came marching toward D'Rosa and Cleary. "On your feet, D'Rosa. Let's take a drive downtown."

  D'Rosa didn't offer to move. "This is gettin' to be a bad habit, Fontana."

  Cleary watched D'Rosa's eyes. The guy was accustomed to confrontations with the cops. He glanced up at Fontana and read the cop's mind. He knew Fontana just about as well as he knew himself.

  "I said get up," Fontana snapped.

  "What's this make? Four goddamn times this month?"

  "Five, asshole."

  D'Rosa shrugged. "So, who's counting?"

  Cleary saw Fontana's fists clench, but the cop caught himself. He turned to two uniformed officers. "Take him."

  As they leaned down, D'Rosa bounded to his feet. They grabbed his arms.

  "Easy!" D'Rosa snapped.

  "I hear you and Tomac weren't getting along," Fontana said. "The word I get, you two were about to duke it out just before the so-called accident "

  D'Rosa's lip curled. "Five hundred witnesses will tell you I had nothin' to do with what happened. Just ask this guy here. He pulled me outta the way."

  Fontana
turned his eyes on Cleary. "Take Mr. D'Rosa away."

  The two uniforms started to tug on him. D'Rosa jerked his arms free.

  "I can walk by myself, goddammit." He turned to look down at Cleary. "Come on over to Rita's place tomorrow. I'll be there all day. I owe you a lunch at least, and I'm cookin' something special."

  Cleary shrugged. "I'll do my best."

  The two men watched as the cops guided D'Rosa to the door. Fontana was the first to speak. "Half of Hollywood was out there gawking at Rita Marlo. Not a one of them can give me a description of the driver."

  Cleary got to his feet, a hand bracing his knee, and pulled a cigarette from his pack. "What about the old man who stepped out in front of the cab?"

  "He's evaporated. Poof!" Fontana snapped a finger. "Gone, just like that."

  Cleary chuckled. "Sounds a little suspicious."

  Fontana glanced around the lobby. "You're moving in pretty highfalutin circles, Jack."

  "Beats the hell outta swizzling beers with cops."

  Fontana shook his head.'"Don't forget your origins, buddy. It's a mistake a lot of people make."

  "There's always somebody around ready to remind me of my origins, partner."

  The last part of what Cleary said was true. Charlie Fontana had been Cleary's partner for six years before Cleary had been suspended from the department on trumped-up charges.

  "You got anything that might help me, Jack? Maybe like a description of the driver? Or, better yet, make me smile and give me a tag number."

  "Not a thing. I'd have to say it was a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sorry, Charlie."

  "See ya around, Jack."

  Cleary watched as the short, muscular cop walked away. With Fontana's help, he had managed to clear himself with the department, but he hadn't gone back to his old job. The review board hearing—and the go-to-hell attitude of most of his superiors—had left him with a bad taste toward the department. Instead, he'd taken over the private detective agency that his brother had operated before his death.