nudged his co-worker, who looked over at us. I moved deeper into the place with Cooper at my side, taking one long step for every two of mine.
In the storefront with its long counter, scale and display cases, we found Lombardi with his two helpers in white, making the place kosher-style. The one called Steve was the first to spot us. He nudged Lombardi, who turned around. I didn’t like the look of anger that touched his face. I liked the smile that replaced it even less. He smoothed his hair with his left hand and offered his right to Cooper. Cooper took it.
“An honor to meet you,” said Lombardi. Cooper said nothing. He had put on a steel look from some role in the past. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Cooper is not going to do
“I see,” said Lombardi. “That’s too bad. Too bad for maybe you and Mr. Cooper. There are certain influential people involved in this movie who will be very unhappy to hear that, very unhappy.”
Lombardi looked at me for the first time. His smile grew on his marked face. “And you-you know that big mouth of yours is going to get you into a lot of trouble. I can think of lots of things to do with tongues that wag.”
“Pickle them and sell them for thirty cents a pound sliced?” I tried.
“Something like that,” he said. Then he turned to Cooper. “You know we have a mutual friend, Lola Farmer.”
Now it was Cooper’s turn to smile. “I’ve talked to Miss Farmer. If you’re planning to let the newspapers know what happened back in 1933, go ahead. They’ve torn me up about Clara Bow and Lupe Velez and the Countess DeFrasso. You’re talking about a long time ago.”
“I understand there are other things besides our mutual friend that might make you consider this offer,” Lombardi said, taking a step closer to Cooper. Cooper didn’t back off. He met Lombardi’s smile with his own through clenched teeth.
“Not … a … chance,” Cooper said.
“We’ll see, Mr. Big Brave Cowboy Star,” hissed Lombardi.
There were a few seconds of silence, broken only by the sound of men in the next room grunting to install a machine.
“When you wanna call me that, smile,” said Cooper with a massive, teeth-clenched grin.
Lombardi was no Walter Huston. He backed away, his smile fading and the look of hate returning.
“Get off our back,” I said. “Tell your friends to get off our back. Find another star. Maybe Joel McCrea is free.”
The two guys in white stepped forward toward us, ready to attack us with coils of Polish sausage.
“It doesn’t end like this,” said Lombardi.
“I think we’ll all be better off and live longer if it does,” I said, motioning to Cooper to back away. The place was crawling with workmen, so I was sure Lombardi wouldn’t do anything. I wanted to give him time to think over what had taken place. If he was convinced that Cooper wouldn’t take the role no matter what, he might pass it on to the ones who were pushing it. I hoped they’d see that there would be no percentage in giving Cooper a tough time. They’d have nothing to gain except a lot of trouble.
“You did that line well,” I said to Cooper as we settled back into the car.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ve had a lot of practice. Do you go through this sort of thing a lot?”
“It happens,” I said, heading for Pico Boulevard.
“They had me scared,” he said. “I don’t mind admitting it.”
“You didn’t show it,” I said. “I was scared too. That’s part of what makes it worthwhile. That touch of fear. It brings out the fact that you’re living.”
From the corner of my eye, I could see that Cooper was looking at me as if I were an alien life form. Then some touch of recognition appeared on his face. “I get something like that when I drive a fast car on a narrow road,” he said. I nodded, and we were quiet for a while.
I explained that I thought the visit might convince Lombardi to lay off. There was no guarantee, but it had been worth the effort. Cooper gave me the name of the town in Utah where he was going for the next few days. I didn’t write it down. I’d remember.
I dropped Cooper at the Goldwyn Studios, where he had an appointment with the people who were doing the wardrobe for the Gehrig movie. He reached through the car window to take my hand.
“Thanks,” he said.
“My job and pleasure, Mr. Cooper,” I said.
“Call me Coop,” he returned and strode away.
My confidence in front of Cooper was not matched by my nagging questions. Someone had tried to kill me and had put my kitchen knife in Costello. Even if we had convinced Lombardi, and I doubted if we had, he might have no control over the squat man or any of the others who had an interest in seeing to it that Cooper made
I went back to the Farraday Building. Shelly was sitting in his own dental chair, eyes inches away from the dental journal in front of him. He heard me come in and leaped out of the chair, removing his cigar.
“Now, Toby,” he said. “I can explain about last night.”
“Forget it,” I said, going past him and examining the coffee pot. It had something in it that looked like silt. I poured it into a cup that looked as if it had been cleaned within the decade. “Last night when you left the Big Bear Bar, a guy followed you, a big guy. Did you see him?”
Relieved, Shelly pushed his glasses back on his nose and said, “Right, yes, a big guy. I got into my car and he watched me. There wasn’t anyplace to hide on the street. Then another guy who had been in the bar came up behind him.”
“Squat guy, looked like a brick?”
“Right,” beamed Shelly. “That was all I saw. I pulled away. They stayed there talking.”
“Shel,” I said, sipping the sludge, “that big guy’s partner was killed last night, a knife in his back and his body left in my room. It could have been you. Maybe it should have been.”
Shelly wiped his hands on his smock and looked at the door as if the killer were right behind me.
“Being a dentist may not be as exciting as being a detective,” I said, pouring the rest of the glue into the spit sink, “but it is safer. Stick to the reconstruction of Mr. Stange’s mouth. It will stand as a memorial to your true calling.”
Shelly nodded morosely. I left him to think about it and went into my office to make a phone call or two. Call number one was to Mickey Fargo. There was no answer at what might have been a hall phone. I decided to try for him anyway. Shelly hid in his dental journal as I came out. We didn’t talk.
Tall Mickey Fargo lived in a building on Normandie not far from Slauson. The building was another one of those that were slapped up fast to absorb the people who were streaming into Los Angeles in spite of the war scare. The defense plants, airplane factories, boat yards and oil wells were promising easy money, and I knew how much people were willing to risk for easy money that seldom turned out to be so easy.
A guy about sixty-five or seventy and a woman the same age sat in wooden kitchen chairs on the front stoop of the building. I made my way through them and found Mickey’s mailbox. The card on it read, Tall Mickey Fargo, King of Deadgulch. Mickey or someone had drawn a steer skull in the corner. There was no bell, but it was easy to find the right door. I knocked, half-expecting to get no answer and considering the easiest way to break in and look around. But a voice answered my knock, and I recognized it as Mickey Fargo’s.
“Coming,” he said, and a few seconds later the door opened.
He was wearing an old denim shirt and dark slacks. A big wide belt with a massive silver buckle tried to hold up his stomach.
“You’re the guy who messed up my fall yesterday,” he said, stepping back to let me in.
“Sorry,” I said, accepting the invitation. “I didn’t mean …”
“Hell,” bellowed Fargo, his jowls bouncing merrily, “that’s all right. Max says he got enough. Damned fall, though.”
He limped into the room and pointed to a chair. I sat and looked around the room. The walls were filled with photographs of Fargo with men in cowboy suits. He watched me looking at the phctos and said solemnly, “They’re all there. I’ve worked with ’em all-Hoxie, Mix, Jones, both Maynards. Hoot, Harry Carey. You name ’em, they shot me.” He laughed, but something caught in his throat, and it turned to a gag. He hurried off red-faced for a glass of
