“They let any asshole with a few bucks rent whatever he can pay for. I figure the Chinese guy for a coke dealer.”
“Must’ve been, to afford this place,” Stallings said and wandered away. When the stop-and-go traffic stopped again, he hurried across the highway to the yellow duplex and knocked on its door. It was opened seconds later by Rick Cleveland, the Gone With the Wind alumnus. Cleveland was still wearing a bathrobe but this one was canary yellow and came down to his calves. He also wore some new sandals along with a lighted cigarette in the left corner of his wide bitter mouth.
“Got some excitement over your way,” he said around the cigarette.
“Damned if we don’t,” Stallings said. “Mind if I use your phone?”
“Help yourself,” Cleveland said, opened the door wide, stepped back and then followed Stallings into the duplex’s living room.
“It’s right over there,” Cleveland said and pointed.
Stallings took the sack-wrapped bottle of Scotch out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Cleveland. “Pour us one while I make my call.”
The old actor slipped the bottle out of the sack and brightened at the sight of its label. “Jesus. I haven’t had a jolt of this in years.”
Stallings went over to pick up the phone and tap out Howard Mott’s number. As it rang, he noticed that Cleveland had moved to within easy listening distance while working on the bottle’s cork.
When Mott answered the telephone, Stallings said, “The sheriff’s people just took Artie away in handcuffs. The rumor is that he killed a Mexican cabdriver.”
“You’re not alone, then,” Mott said.
“No.”
“Where’d they take him—the Malibu jail?”
“Probably.”
“Then I’d better get busy—except we have a problem. Not enough baby-sitters.”
“Tell you what,” Stallings said, raising his voice slightly. “There’s an actor friend of mine out here who might be willing to help out while you tend to Artie.”
“You’re up to something, Booth.”
“I thought you’d like the idea. Let’s see what my friend says.”
He turned to Rick Cleveland, who had poured two stiff drinks and now stood no more than four feet away, sipping one of the drinks and holding the other in his left hand.
“You want to make five hundred bucks tonight?” Stallings said.
“How?”
“Help me bodyguard Ione Gamble.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Yes or no?” Stallings said.
“Hell, yes.”
Into the phone Stallings said, “We’ll be there in twenty or twenty-five minutes.”
“After you get there, take a look in the lower left-hand drawer of my secretary’s desk,” Mott said.
“The blonde’s desk?”
“The brunette’s.”
“One other thing, Howie.”
“What?”
“Take Artie some cigars.”
Rick Cleveland was wearing a tweed jacket, blue shirt and faded Levi’s jeans when he and Booth Stallings reached the illegally parked Mercedes 500SL. Cleveland stopped and stared at the car. “Christ, that looks just like the one Ione Gamble drove that night.”
“That’s because it is the same one,” Stallings said.
They drove to Howard Mott’s hotel in twenty-one minutes. Mott opened the door to the suite, was introduced to Cleveland and, in turn, introduced him to Ione Gamble, who was seated in the lone easy chair in the secretaries’ office. Gamble smiled up at the actor and said, “I must’ve seen you a hundred times on one screen or other.
Funny we haven’t met before this.”
“Haven’t been working much lately,” Cleveland said and looked curiously at the two desks and the two word processors.
“I must go,” Mott said. “Good of you to accommodate us, Mr.
Cleveland.”
“Glad to help out,” Cleveland said. “At least I think I am.”
