Lullaby Town Read online

  The Oscar Curtiss Talent Agency was two blocks below Sunset Boulevard in a small sky-blue clapboard house with a tiny lawn and a porch and a narrow sidewalk leading up to the porch. What looked like a Friedrich air conditioner stuck out of a window on the north side of the house and hummed loudly, water falling in a steady dribble from its underside. A couple of wine bottles were lying on the lawn. Midnight Rambler. The bottles were capless and empty.

  I parked and went up the walk and through one of those frosty pebbled-glass office doors that no one has used since 1956. There was a large gold star on the door with Oscar Curtiss Talent Agency written in an arc above it and what were supposed to be little spotlights lighting up the sky.

  Inside, there were three young women sitting on a hard L-shaped couch and a black woman in her sixties sitting at a scarred pecan desk that faced the room. Another frosted-glass door was behind her. This one said Mr. Curtiss. The three young women were spread around on the couches in a way that said they didn't know each other. Two of them were reading Variety. The other one was chewing gum. There were a couple hundred framed black-and-white head shots on the walls, but I didn't recognize any of them. The carpet was beige and worn and the hard couch was a kind of green and the walls were a sort of mustard and nothing went together, as if the office had been built over the years without regard to style or esthetic. The Friedrich made it very cold.

  The black woman looked up and smiled nicely. "May I help you?"

  "My name is Elvis Cole. I'd like to see Mr. Curtiss." I gave her the card that said Elvis Cole, Confidential Investigations. The old cards had a picture of a guy listening at a keyhole. The new cards don't. Without the picture is probably better.

  She took the card and nodded pleasantly, still smiling. "Uh-huh. And do you have an appointment?"

  "No, ma'am. I was hoping Mr. Curtiss could squeeze me in." I leaned forward and lowered my voice. Confidential. "It involves a former client of his."

  More smiling and nodding. "Uh-huh. Well, why don't you just wait right there while I go see." She got up, rapped once on the glass door, then let herself through.

  I looked around at the three young women and gave them a smile. The two who had been reading were still reading, the one who had been chewing gum was still chewing gum. One of the readers wore a nice pastel pant suit and had a matching briefcase at her feet. She sat so that one foot was touching the case. The other was in blue jeans and knee boots and a purple sweater. The jeans and the sweater were too small, but she had the body for it. I made them early twenties, twenty-five tops. The gum-chewer had her legs crossed and her arms along the back of the couch and was looking at me with pale, steady eyes. She was wearing baggy culottes and pink Reebok tennis shoes and a blousy top that was tied off beneath her breasts so that her belly was bare. It was too cool outside for the top, but that's show biz. Her hair was pale and washed-out, and so was the spray of freckles across her nose. Younger than the other two. Seventeen, maybe. She blew a large pink bubble the size of a goiter, popped it, then used a lot of tongue to lick it off her lips. Maybe sixteen. Run away and come to the big town to be a star. I said, "Pretty hot outside, huh?"

  She blew another bubble, uncrossed her legs, then spread them.

  I said, "Pretty hot inside, too."

  She spread the legs a little wider, then popped the bubble and licked it off. Maybe I was a producer.

  The glass door opened and the black woman came out with a short, thin guy pushing sixty. Oscar Curtiss. He had dark circles around his eyes and too many teeth and he was wearing a coarse-weave light sports coat and huaraches and baggy pants like they do in Italian fashion magazines. It looked silly. He gave me the teeth, stuck out his hand, and said, "Hey, Cole, goodtaseeya." Then he looked past me at the two readers and the gum-popper, mostly the gum-popper. "You ladies excuse us for a few minutes, okay? Sydney, I'll see you next."

  The gum-popper nodded and blew another bubble. Sydney. Her knees were bouncing open-closed, open-closed.

  Oscar gave her some of the teeth, too, then motioned me into his office. He didn't bother to look at me while he was doing the motioning.

  The office was larger than the waiting room, with a lot of plants and one of those heavy, dark wood secretary desks they made back in the forties. It needed to be oiled. There was a leather couch against the wall and another Friedrich in the window behind his desk and more photographs on the walls, but I didn't recognize any of the people in these, either. Maybe Sydney would be there soon and I could recognize her.

  He shut the door and followed me in, holding my card. "Elvis Cole, huh? I like it. It's got catch. It's got pump and pizzazz. You got a nice look, too. You know who you look like?"

  "Buddy Ebsen."

  "Nah. Michael Keaton. A little taller, maybe. A little better built. But sensitive and sharp. A guy you don't mess around with."

  "I always thought I looked like Moe Howard."

  "Take my word for it. You got the look and the name. Some of the kids come in here, Christ, they got names flat as piss on a plate. Pat Green. Steve Brown. I say that's no good. I say, you know what you need?"

  "Pizzazz."

  "Fuckin' A. Look at Steve Guttenberg. Take away the Guttenberg, whattaya got? Nuthin!" He sat behind the desk and shot a glance at the door. "Listen, I don't have a lot of time."

  "A long time ago you represented an actress named Karen Shipley. I'm trying to find her." I took out the 8 x 10 and showed it to him.

  He nodded. "Yeah. Sure. I remember Karen. Great kid. Terrific body."

  "Do you still represent her?"

  He handed back the head shot. "Nah. I haven't heard from Karen in, what is it, ten years, something like that?" He put another glance on the door, anxious to get to other things. "She musta went to another agency."

  I nodded. "Did you continue to represent her after her divorce from Peter Alan Nelsen?"

  Oscar Curtiss stopped looking at the door and sat forward in the chair and blinked at me. "That's who she was married to?"

  "Yeah."

  "Karen Shipley was married to Peter Alan Nelsen?"

  "Yeah."

  "The Peter Alan Nelsen?"

  "Peter Alan Nelsen wasn't Peter Alan Nelsen when they were married."

  Oscar slumped back in his chair and said, "Jesus H."

  "He was in film school when they married. After he busted out of USC, he divorced her. Now he wants to find her again."

  "Sonofabitch. I remember when she got divorced. She came here with the kid and sat down right over there and said she was divorced and needed to work. I said, sit-ups, Christ, a body like yours you wanna get it back, do sit-ups. Peter Alan Nelsen. Jesus Christ." He wasn't looking at me anymore. He was staring somewhere in midspace, seeing the old scenes, worrying them through to recall if he'd done anything that could piss off Peter Alan Nelsen. All the worrying made his eyebrows dance around on his face.

  I said, "Do you know how we can contact her?"

  "It's been years. Christ, I saw her a couple more times after that, then zippo. Nada. I never heard from her again." The mouth started moving with the eyebrows.

  "Okay. Where was she living?"

  "It was somewhere over there." He made a gesture that could mean anywhere in the northern hemisphere.

  "That's a little broad, Oscar."

  "Christ, I never visited. She came here."

  "Maybe you've got records."

  He stopped all the moving around and looked at me with the kind of look they give you that tells you that the lights are going off behind their eyes. Getting The Big Idea. He said, "Maybe I should deal direct with Peter on this. We might be getting a little personal here, you know, and he might appreciate keeping it in the family, as it were."

  I pointed at the phone. "Sure. He's at the Paramount office now. Give'm a call and tell him that even though he's trying to find his ex-wife and his kid, you're foot-dragging because you want to suck after some kind of deal. He'll like you just fine for that."

  He said
, "Hey, I'm doing a favor here, right? I'm trying to help here, right?"

  "Quit being small-time and tell me what you know, Oscar. You're coming across like a chiseler."

  "I look like I'm rolling in it here? I wanna help. I wanna do what I can. But, hey, Peter Alan Nelsen gives you the nod, my friend, you're made in this town." Peter Alan Nelsen, spitting a green M&M on Donnie Brewster.

  "Sure, Oscar."

  He worked it through some more, trying to get a fix on what was real and what wasn't and what he could get if he played it right and how much it could cost if he played it wrong. He said, "Listen, Elvis, I help you out here, you tell Peter, okay?"

  "I'll tell him."

  "You promise?" Like we were in fourth grade.

  "I promise, Oscar."

  "Hey, I wanna help. I wanna do anything I can for Peter Alan Nelsen." Nothing like sincerity.

  "Where did Karen live?"

  "I'm thinking."

  "Look in your files."

  "Christ, I'm supposed to keep files on people forever?"

  "Returned checks. Tax information."

  "Nah."

  "Correspondence. Maybe an old rolodex."

  "Christ, I keep all that stuff I'd be buried in paper. We're talking a lifetime ago."

  "Okay. Maybe there's something else."

  "I'm thinking."

  "You know any of her friends?"

  "No."

  "How about family?"

  "Uh-uh."

  "Boyfriend?"

  He shook his head.

  "Did she say if she was thinking about moving away or taking a trip?"

  His brow knotted and his face clenched and he hit the side of his head a couple of times with the heel of his hand. Worried that he wouldn't be able to come through and trying to shake something loose.

  I said, "Man, you two were really tight."

  He waved his hands. "Hey, we never had no big heart-to-hearts. One day she just wasn't around anymore. I thought she dropped me. You know, went to another agency. I didn't hear anything from her and I tried calling the place she lived, but she was never around, so after a while I figured that's it."

  I stood up and walked to the door. "Okay, Oscar. You tried. Thanks, anyway."

  He jumped up and came around the desk and grabbed my arm. He grabbed hard, like if he didn't something rare would get away. He grabbed the way you grab when the rare thing has visited once before, long ago, and you blew it, and now you're getting a second chance. "Hey, you know what? I got some old stuff in storage. I'll dig through it. Maybe there'll be something, huh? Maybe I'll find something that'll help out." I don't think he meant help me.

  "Sure. My phone is on the card."

  "You tell Peter I'm trying, okay? Tell'm I'm bending over backwards. Tell'm I really liked Karen, and I thought the kid was terrific."

  "Sure."

  I opened the door and we went out. The black woman was talking on the phone. The two young women who had been reading were still reading and the Sydney was still blowing bubbles. Oscar gave with the big teeth and made a big deal out of walking me to the outer door. "Hey, you can tell Peter I'll get on the search tonight." Putting on the act. "And tell'm I'd appreciate it if he gives me a call. There's a couple of things I'd like to talk with him about."

  I said I would.

  He made the big teeth some more, then left me at the door and sat on the couch next to Sydney with his hand on her thigh. The other two young women were watching him. He said that I worked for Peter Alan Nelsen and that he and Peter were thrashing out a deal together and that things were gonna start hopping around there soon. When he said it, he gave Sydney's thigh a little squeeze.

  She watched him with the large pale eyes, blew another pink bubble, then popped it with her tongue. The eyes never once blinked and never once left him.

  I walked out. So long, Norma Jean.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The sun was dropping fast, the way it does in the fall, and the air lost its midday warmth and took on an autumn chill as I wound my way up Laurel Canyon to the little A-frame I keep off Woodrow Wilson Drive

  above Hollywood.

  The cat that lives with me was sitting by his food bowl in the kitchen. He's thick and black, with fine shredded ears and broken teeth and the scars that come from a full, adventuresome, male-type-cat life. Sometimes he has fits.

  I said, "Is dinner ready?"

  The cat came over and shoulder-bumped against my leg.

  I said, "Okay. How about meat loaf?"

  He shoulder-bumped me again, then went back to his bowl. Meat loaf is one of his favorite things. Right up there with Kitnips.

  I took a meat loaf out of the freezer, put it in the microwave to thaw, turned on the oven to preheat, then opened a can of Falstaff. It was twenty minutes after five. Business hours were until six. I drank some of the Falstaff, then phoned the Screen Actors Guild and spoke to a woman named Mrs. Lopaka about Karen Shipley. Mrs. Lopaka confirmed everything Pat Kyle had told me and added nothing new. I thanked her, hung up, then dialed the Screen Extras Guild and then AFTRA. Ditto. I called the machine at my office, hoping that there might be a message from the phone company or from B of A. Nada. Somebody named José wanted someone named Esteban to call him back right away. José sounded pissed. I called my partner, Joe Pike.

  Pike said, "Gun shop." Pike owns a gun shop in Culver City.

  "We're on the job again. Backtrack to a woman and child."

  "You need me?"

  "Well, I'm here at the house and I'm not yet pinned down by snipers across the canyon, so I guess not yet."

  Pike didn't answer.

  "You know the director, Peter Alan Nelsen? He's our client."

  Pike didn't answer some more. Trying to talk with Pike is like carrying on a fill-in-the-blank conversation.

  I said, "Try to make conversation, Joe. It's easy. All you have to do is say something."

  Pike said, "You need me, you know where I am." Then he hung up. So much for conversation.

  The microwave dinged. I took out the meat loaf, transferred it to a metal pan, opened a can of new potatoes, drained them, put them in the pan around the meat loaf and sprinkled them with garlic and paprika, then put bacon over the meat loaf and put the pan in the oven on high. I like the skin on my meat loaf to be crispy.

  The cat said, "Naow?"

  "No. Not now. About forty-five minutes."

  He didn't look happy about it

  I finished the Falstaff, got another, drank most of it on the way up to the shower and the rest of it on the way back down. When the meat loaf was ready, I put out two plates and sliced off the ends for me and a center cut for the cat. He watched me put the end cuts and the potatoes in my plate and the center slice in his. He purred loudly as I did it. I sprinkled Tabasco on mine and A-1 on his, then took the beer and both plates out to my deck. There's a Zalcona glass table out there with a couple of matching chairs and sometimes we eat at the table, but sometimes we take down the center section of the rail and sit at the edge of the deck and look out over the canyon. With the rail, you are separated from the view. Without the rail, you are part of it. We eat there often.

  When we were finished, I said, "Well? How was it?"

  The cat stretched and broke wind. He's getting older.

  I took the dishes inside, washed them, put them away, then stretched out on the couch with a finger of Knockando to read the latest Dean Koontz when the doorbell rang. It was Peter Alan Nelsen and his best friend Dani. Peter was dressed the same way he'd been dressed earlier, but Dani had shifted to buff-cut blue jeans and a designer sweatshirt with little pearl beads worked into the fabric. The sweatshirt was a pale lavender and looked good on her.

  Peter walked in without being asked and said, "Whadaya say, Private Eye? You ready to rock?" He was squinting a lot and swaying from side to side and he smelled like his clothes had been doused with bourbon.

  He staggered into the center of the floor and looked around and said, "Hey, this is neat.
You live here alone?"

  "Yeah." The cat started to growl, a hoarse sound in his chest.

  Peter saw my drink. "What's that, scotch?"

  I got a short glass and poured a little of the Knockando. I held the bottle toward Dani, but she shook her head. Designated human.

  Peter went to the glass doors and looked out at the canyon. "Hey, I like this view. This is okay. I got a place up on Mulholland with a view. You gotta come up sometime. We'll have a party or something."

  "Sure."

  Peter saw the cat sitting sphinxlike on the arm of the couch. "Hey, a cat."

  I said, "Be careful. He's mean and he bites."

  "Bullshit. I know about cats." Peter swayed over to the couch and put out his hand. The cat grabbed him, bit hard twice, then ran under the couch, growling. Peter jumped back and shook his hand, then bent over and peered under the couch. I could see the blood from across the room. "That sonofabitch is mean."

  Dani stood quietly to the side, maybe looking a little sad.

  I said, "Peter, it's late. I'm tired and I was getting ready for bed. What do you want?"

  Peter straightened up and looked at me like I had to be kidding. "Whadaya mean, sleep? It's early. Tell him, Dani, tell him it's early."

  Dani glanced at her watch. "It's ten after ten, Peter. That's late for some people."

  Peter said, "Bullshit. Ten after ten ain't nothing to guys like us." He looked at me. "I figured we could go out and knock back a few, maybe shoot a little pool, something like that." He sat down on the couch and threw an arm over the back, forgetting about the cat. The cat growled, and Peter jumped up and moved to the chair across the room.

  I said, "Another time."

  Peter frowned, not liking that. "Hey, you don't want to party?"

  "Not tonight."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'm tired and I want to go to sleep, but most of all because you're so drunk you sound like you're speaking Martian."

  Dani made a soft, faraway sound, but when I looked at her, she wasn't looking at either me or Peter. Peter scowled and leaned forward in the chair. "You got some smart mouth on you."

  "The rest of me ain't stupid, either."