The Monet Murders (12 page)

“Well, I'd like to help, but there's a complication.”

“Which is? I'll double your fee.”

“I appreciate that, but it isn't a money complication. It seems that she's taken up with a character called Tony Scungilli. Ever hear of him?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“Yeah, I've heard of him. A minor hoodlum.” His contempt sounded genuine. Big-time Hollywood producers don't get where they get by being timid. Manny might be diminutive, but he knew what power was and how to use it. Tony the Snail didn't seem to scare him.

“So, what's the word? Just go out there and give her the message. Like I said, I'll double the fee.”

“What if she refuses?”

“I'll jump off that bridge when I come to it. But Ethel says you're charming and persuasive, which in plain talk means you got a talent for bullshit, so I figure you make a good ambassador.”

That was worth a smile. If there was anyone who needed persuading between me and Ethel, it was me. But as I've suggested, things have worked out well enough for all concerned, so I'm not complaining.

Well, I thought, I guess it couldn't hurt. At the very least I could go out there and see the shape of things, and if I saw an opportunity to talk to her in private, I'd do it. Most likely she'd give me a quick horselaugh, and that would be that. If I didn't catch her alone, I'd try again another day. Manny would want discretion, and so would I, given the array of goombahs wandering the passageways and gambling rooms.

“Would you consider offering her a screen test?”

“I don't want her in the business. I want her in the bedroom.”

“I only ask because when I interviewed her friend at the insurance office, she told me Catherine was a little miffed that you never brought it up.”

“Really?”

“That's what she said.”

“That's interesting. Maybe I made a mistake there. Well, you can mention it, but only as a last resort.” He paused as though coming to terms with something. “I'd much prefer she came back because she wanted to.”

I don't care how many mirrors you have in your house, none of them reflects what you see or even expect to see, most of the time. And there are different kinds of mirrors, different from the ones that steam up in the bathroom during showers. It made you think about a fundamental question—which was better, to be a five-foot-two producer from the Bronx pining for a goddess, or a marginally secure fella posing as a private detective? I liked my situation.

“All right,” I said. “I'll give it the old college try.”

“Good. There's a bonus in it for you if it works. By the way, I thought you said you ain't a college boy.”

“I'm not, but I've read about it.”

“I'm counting on you.”

Maybe he didn't know it, but he was leaning on a very thin reed. I'd give it my best, but I wasn't going to stick my neck out. What's more, I was armed with the discouraging knowledge that Catherine had decided Manny wasn't simpatico. I didn't think Manny needed to know about that. Not yet, anyway. And I supposed it was just possible that after a few days with Tony the Snail, her understanding of the real meaning of simpatico might have changed, maybe even in Manny's favor. After all, if she found Tony to be similarly unappealing, that wouldn't necessarily send her back into Manny's size-28 arms.

So, as usual, nothing was perfectly imperfect. At least I had the screen-test offer as a hole card. What Manny should
do was obvious—he should lead with the offer, give her the test, and then string her along for a few months saying something might come up in the way of a movie role, and then sweeten the deal with some flashy jewelry that wasn't made with zircons. Then maybe marry her. That plan had a chance of working. But Manny wanted her to come back because she realized she really loved him after all. Even a Hollywood producer's ego has an Achilles heel. At least Manny's did.

My next call was long distance to Youngstown, Ohio. That was where my FBI contact worked. He and I had put together a money-laundering sting against the local mafia, with me masquerading as a shady New York banker. As I've mentioned, I'd had a hidden agenda involving scooting off with a large chunk of the money myself, but it hadn't worked out as planned, which turned out to be a good thing in the end. The FBI guy was named Marion Mott, and against all odds he actually went by that name. He was also a poster boy for the FBI—clean-cut, crew haircut, black suit, white shirt, black tie, black oxfords, and a perpetual expression that was a combination of eagerness, Christianity, and a Boy Scout's seriousness of purpose. All told, he might as well wear a sign that said “Kiss me, I'm a Fed.” We had arranged a reasonably clever way for me to drop out of the sting before it went down—a matter of self-preservation, and Mott had agreed to hold off making the pinch for a month or two, so that there would be no connection between me and the arrests. That was the hope, at least.

I hadn't talked to him since then, and it had been three months.

“Mott speaking, sir.” I guess he never knew when J. Edgar might want to call him.

“Marion, it's Riley Fitzhugh. How's it going?”

“Riley! Good to hear from you. I thought you changed your name.”

“Only professionally.”

“How's California?”

“Sunny.”

“So I've heard. Some day, maybe. . . . So, what's up?”

“I've been wondering—how's the scheme working out?”

“Oh. That. Yes, well, we're still building the case. Could take a bit more time than we anticipated. We want it to be airtight.”

Well, that suited me just fine. The more time, the greater the distance between me and the sting. But I thought I detected a slight hesitation or nervousness in his voice. Could it be that the local hoods had somehow put Marion Mott on the payroll? That thought had occurred to me before, and although it seemed unlikely, it's been known to happen. Well, that was none of my business. As I said, I had come to like some of those wise guys, and I felt a little sorry about setting them up.

“I understand,” I said. “I really didn't call about that. I was wondering if you could give me some information.”

“If I can, sure.”

“Do you guys know much about the market for stolen art?”

“Not me personally, but I know we have a team working on that. I hear it's a big business internationally.”

“How about art forgeries?”

“Same team. Apparently a lot of the underground buyers for this stuff are wealthy people—mainly Americans and Europeans—who think they're buying the real thing. They
think they're getting stolen masterpieces at a deep discount when in fact they're paying through the nose for a forgery. They're the perfect suckers because they're afraid to display the painting and just put it in a vault or a locked studio or something. And they don't tell anyone about it, so the scam almost never gets exposed. One of our agents told me there were so many Whistler's
Mothers
out there, they could start a maternity ward. Everyone thinks he's got the real thing and that the one hanging in the museum is a fake. That's the standard sales pitch in the con. That's about all I know about it, though. Why do you ask?”

“I'm working on a case.”

“Of course. What's your new name, again?”

I told him.

“Funny name.”

“I agree. Are any of your guys working in L.A.—the art team, I mean?”

“I don't know, but I could make a few calls.”

“That'd be great. And maybe you could find out if there's an art expert out here—some professor at USC or UCLA or someplace—that could examine a painting to see if it's real or a forgery. I assume the FBI would have some sort of contact in that line of work.”

“I can ask.”

“Thanks. How's your mother these days?”

“Oh, she's fine. She often asks about you.” Marion still lived at home. “She'll be pleased to hear that you called.”

I gave him my phone number, and he said he'd get back to me as soon as he could.

I glanced at my watch. It was only three in the afternoon. It didn't seem to make sense to go out to the Lucky Lady
at this hour. Better to wait until evening, when the crowds would be bigger. That might improve my chances of talking to Catherine without being observed.

So, what to do until then? I could toss playing cards into my hat, read an improving book, or maybe take a pleasant drive up the coast to Malibu.

CHAPTER FIVE

M
yrtle wasn't at home when I got there. I used the spare key she had given me and went inside to wait for her. There was a note on the table that said she was at the studio but would be back around six. There was cold beer in the fridge and some chicken salad. I was to make myself at home. There was lots to tell me. Three exclamation points followed by the standard hieroglyphics indicating kisses and hugs. She was obviously in a very good mood. Well, she deserved it.

Myrtle's note sounded so happy that I have to admit to feeling a little guilty about my morning with Rita. I resolved
that Rita would be a one-morning stand and would remain only a fond memory, although I didn't throw away the scrap of paper she'd given me with her phone number and the inevitable words “call me.” Well, I'd have to stay in touch with her just to see how her screen test turned out. Besides, Myrtle and I had been straightforward with each other and had not made any binding agreements. Even so, I felt a little funny about the morning.

Right at six, a car pulled up in front of the beach house. It was an open red-and-silver two-seater Duesenberg driven by a guy with shiny black hair parted in the middle and a Mediterranean complexion, meaning a combination of well-tanned and natural olive. He was wearing a white tennis sweater, white flannels, and an expression of self-satisfaction, like a man who had straight teeth and money in the bank. Well, who could blame him, driving a fancy car with Myrtle at his side. He was also, I have to admit, an extremely handsome young man, which meant he was on the acting side of the business, not the business side of the business.

I also have to admit to a sudden pang of jealousy. It was unfair, of course, but who cares about fairness when it comes to, well, whatever it was between Myrtle and me? Maybe this was the kind of character who might be the one Myrtle could fall completely in love with. You couldn't throw a brick in this town and not hit someone beautiful, male or female. And Myrtle would have to be a little susceptible, given her truly stunning change of fortunes. Anyone would be. Morally, of course, I didn't have a leg to stand on, given my morning romp with Rita. But that didn't matter just then. I've been morally legless before, and it didn't change the way I felt then, and it didn't change the way I felt now.

I opened the front door and went out to the car. It was an obvious, too-obvious, declaration of possession, and I knew it was kind of a low trick, but I did it anyway. Myrtle did not seem the least bit flustered when she introduced me.

“This is Rex Lockwood,” she said, after introducing me. Lockwood smiled and displayed his, yes, perfect smile. “Glad to meet you, old sport.”

Very lame, I thought—another guy modeling himself on Gatsby. He didn't look like what I thought of as Gatsby, but he did look familiar, somehow. That wasn't surprising, though; every young would-be actor these days was fashioning himself after someone who had already made it. Ramon Navarro was a popular model just then, and this Lockwood was doing his best to imitate him. No doubt somewhere Navarro was sincerely flattered.

“Rex Lockwood, eh?” I said. “What was it back in Topeka?”

“Chicago, you mean. But I'll never tell,” he said, laughing. “What about you?”

“A dark secret.”

Myrtle jumped out of the car, kissed me on the cheek, and danced into the house, pausing only briefly to wave good-bye to Rex as he reversed his astonishing car and headed back to wherever he'd come from. Central casting, most likely.

“Who was that?” I asked Myrtle, once she had finished kissing me, which took a while.

She smiled slyly and tilted her head coquettishly, something she had apparently picked up very recently. “Jealous?”

“Of course. I've always wanted a Duesenberg.”

“Don't be jealous—that's not his car; it's his father's. We're in acting class together.”

“You and Rex's father?”

“No, silly. It's every day between one and five.”

“That sounds like fun.” And it did, in a way. “How long will that go on?”

“Until I know what I'm doing, I suppose.”

“That won't take long.”

“Thank you, darling. Do you like me to call you darling? Everyone at the studio says it all the time.”

“Well, then, it's not so special, is it?”

She thought about it for a moment.

“No, I suppose it isn't. I know. I will call you ‘miljenik.' That's Croatian for ‘darling.' How do you like that?”

“Better.” But to be honest, most Croatian sounded like a hysterical fundamentalist speaking in tongues. I did like listening to her talking it in her sleep, but that was because I liked listening to her talking in her sleep. Esperanto would have been equally appealing.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Afterwards.”