Masuto put down the phone and looked at Wainwright.
“Well?”
“The Soviet consul general will be on the first shuttle flight he can catch. He will be here today, early afternoon.”
The telephone rang, and Masuto picked it up. “Yes,” he said. “This is Detective Sergeant Masuto.” Pause. “Yes, I just spoke to the consul general. I understand.”
“Checking,” Wainwright said.
“They’re thorough.”
“What can’t you promise?”
“Like Mr. Gellman,” Masuto said, “he wants it kept out of the press.”
“Masao?” Beckman said.
“Find something?”
“Just this, and I don’t know if it means a goddamn thing.”
Wainwright took the paper from Beckman and read aloud, “Mayor Bradley was on hand to extend an official welcome to five Soviet agronomists, here on a three-day visit to observe orange growing in Los Angeles and Orange counties. From here, they will fly to Florida, for an extended seven-day tour of the Florida orange groves-” Wainwright paused and stared at Masuto. “What do we have, a dead agronomist?”
“What the hell is an agronomist?” Beckman wanted to know.
“An educated farmer,” Masuto said. “No-” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, I don’t think we have a dead agronomist.”
“Why not?”
Masuto shrugged. “Nearsighted, fat, soft hands-it just doesn’t fit. Anyway-” He picked up the paper and scanned the story. “You see, they move in a group. If one were missing-no.” He stood up suddenly and said, “I’m going to the hotel. Sy, see if you can catch up with the agronomists.”
“And do what?”
“I don’t know. Nose around.”
“Nose around,” Wainwright said sourly. “I’m not running a police force. I’m running a goddamn curiosity shop. Masao, I want you back here when that Russian comes.” He started away, then turned back. “I’ll talk to L.A.P.D. and see what they’re doing with these Russian farmers. Now I got your disease.”
Sal Monti, doorman at the Beverly Glen Hotel, was reputed to have a very large income, even in a city of noticeably large incomes, even after his split with the hotel management. He ran a service with four assistant carhops, and having seen the way traffic poured into the hotel driveway around lunchtime and cocktail hour, Masuto felt that Monti was understaffed. He was skilled in what he did, had a remarkable memory, and had held down his post for the past dozen years, a long history in the life of Beverly Hills-measured, as Monti put it, from the time of the T-Bird, through the Lincoln Continental period, through the era of the large Cadillac, through the era of the Porsche, into the time of the Mercedes, which shared the present reign with the Seville. It was Monti who coined the phrase “Beverly Hills Volkswagen” for the Mercedes. The present era, just burgeoning, was that of the Rolls- Royce Corniche; and at every opportunity, Monti told the story of the film producer who bought a solid silver funeral casket for sixty thousand dollars and whose partner remarked, as Monti put it, “Shmuck, for the same money you could have been buried in a Corniche.” Now he eyed Masuto’s Toyota with tolerant disgust.
“Sergeant,” he said, “there is going to be a house rule against economy cars. It cuts the ambiance, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ll look it up in the dictionary,” Masuto said. “Meanwhile, I want a few minutes of your time.”
“About the excitement last night? By all means. You can fill me in.”
“No, Sal. You fill me in.”
“It’s eleven-fifteen,” Monti observed. “We got forty-five minutes before the rush starts. Billy,” he called to one of the carhops, “take over.” They sat down on an iron bench under the striped canopy that led into the hotel.
“Tell me about Jack Stillman,” Masuto began.
“This fat guy-what is it? Was he knocked over or what?”
“I’ll ask the questions. Tell me about Stillman.”
“What’s to tell? He’s a booking agent out of Vegas-so it goes. He stayed here maybe half a dozen times.”
“What does he book?”
“I’d give it a guess. The high-priced acts in the casinos. He just married Binnie Vance, the exotic dancer. She’s very hot right now. Or maybe he don’t book at all. Who knows with them characters from Vegas?”
“And when he’s here, do you see him with girls?”
“I guess he was a swinger, as much as the next guy. Not on this trip.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m only sure about what goes in and out of this place. What happens inside is another department. Are you going to give me some flak about the fat man?”
“What are they saying?”
“Nothing. Gellman’s put the fear of God into them. I got it from Freddie Comstock, and he don’t say one word more than that they had a drowning.”
“Sal,” Masuto said, “how many hookers work the Rugby Room?”
“Are you kidding! Sarge, this is a high-class hotel. We got an international reputation. We got presidents and senators going in and out of here. That’s no question to ask. You know that.”
“Cut out the bullshit, Sal. How many? It’s important.”
“Well, look. You don’t get floozies or streetwalkers in a place like this. It’s a different kind of a hustle. A girl works in the Rugby Room, she don’t look no different from the classy broads you see on the street in Beverly Hills. Maybe she ain’t no different. They got class, good clothes, rocks, and they got the looks. They make out for fifty to two notes for a quick throw, and that don’t include dinner and drinks. We don’t have no pimps here, Sarge, you know that. It’s a whole other thing. They come in by twos, two girls, because Fritz won’t seat one broad alone in the Rugby Room-”
“They buy the ticket from you, Sal,” Masuto said coldly. “Either you talk sense to me, or I’ll bust your whole operation wide open.”
“Sarge, you got to be kidding. All right, a man works the door, he depends on tips.”
“I asked you how many?”
“Okay, okay. Maybe a dozen. Then there are floaters. They drive up in a two-seater Mercedes, in a twenty- five-thousand-dollar car-what am I supposed to do? Be a vice squad?”
“Begin with the dozen regulars. I’m looking for a woman named Judy, about five seven, good figure, blond hair, blue eyes.”
“That ain’t no description, Sarge. That’s like a uniform. Anyway, in what you call the regulars there ain’t nobody called Judy.”
“She was wearing a pants suit, light brown suede, silk shirt, gold chains, those boots they wear now.”
Monti shood his head. “It don’t register.”
“Did anyone fitting that description drive up to the hotel last night?”
“Blue eyes, blond hair, stacked-you just got to be kidding. I can name you twenty.”
“And the costume?”
Sal frowned and shook his head. “Jesus, Sarge, when the rush comes, I see them, I write the tickets, but the clothes. Maybe yes, maybe no.”
“How about this morning? Forget about the clothes. Did anyone fitting the description come out of the hotel?”
Monti pointed to the door of the hotel. “Sarge, just watch that door, and if five minutes goes by without a blue-eyed blond broad going in or out, I’ll cut you into my take. It all comes out of the same bottle. It’s the Beverly Hills color. If they want blue eyes, they buy tinted contact lenses. If they want to be stacked, they buy that too. You know that as well as I do.”
Masuto sighed and nodded. “All right, Sal. Thank you.” He rose. “One more thing-did you see Stillman this morning?”
“Not yet, Sarge.”
