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  Chili said, “You want to get back into it, don’t you?”

  “I know I’m better than what I used to do. In Harry’s movies I was always the bimbo. I walked around in a tank top and those fuck-me pumps with stiletto heels till it was time to scream. Harry kills me, he says don’t ever take this business seriously, and he’s the most serious guy I know. He puts studio people down—the main reason, because he’d love to run a major studio.” Karen nodded saying, “If he ever did, he might not be bad. The cheapskate, I know he’d save them money.” She started to smile, just a little, saying, “Another one of my favorite Bette Davis lines: ‘He tried to make love to me and I shot him.’ ”

  Chili smiled with her. He said, “I was thinking, you know what you could do? Make a deal with Harry. You’ll call Michael if he’ll give you a part in the movie, a good one.”

  Karen said, “You’re kidding,” but kept staring at him until finally she said, “In the first place Michael will never do the picture—”

  “Harry told me he loves it, he flipped.”

  “Michael is known for his flipping. He flips over a script, and then when the time comes to make a deal, he flips out. But what I started to say, Michael would never make the picture with Harry, he doesn’t have the track record. It would not only have to be a big-name producer, Michael would also demand script, director and cast approval, and he’d get it.”

  Chili watched her finish pouring the Coke.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Which one?”

  “You want to get back into it, don’t you?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” Karen said. “I’ll let you know.”

  13

  Chili wondered if Leo was attracted to sweaty women in sundresses. Across the counter from him in Hi-Tone Cleaners on Ventura, Studio City, Annette looked kind of damp, clammy. She was on the heavy side, needed to fix her blond hair, but wasn’t too bad looking. It was seven P.M. The help had left and Annette was closing up when Chili walked in, timing it to be the last customer. He gave his name, Palmer.

  Annette stood looking through an alphabetical file on a turntable. “You don’t have your receipt?”

  “No, I don’t,” Chili said. He didn’t have a pair of pants here, either, but that’s what he told Annette he’d brought in. “They’re light gray.”

  She said, “Are you sure? I don’t see no Palmer in the file.” She said fahl with the same kind of accent Fay had. Chili wondered what Leo gained trading for this one. Outside of about twenty-five pounds and those big round jugs in her brown-print sundress. He told her he’d brought the pants in yesterday and needed them since he was leaving tomorrow for Miami. Annette said, “Taking a vacation?” Chili told her no, it was where he lived. She said, “Oh?” showing a certain amount of interest.

  Chili had on his dark-blue muted pinstripe, a blue shirt with a tab collar and rust-colored tie. He appeared reasonable about his pants, not too concerned; he told her if she couldn’t find them it was no big deal, and smiled, easy to get along with.

  “Well, if you’re sure,” Annette said, nice about it because he was, “I can check, see if there’s a pair of pants without a ticket on them.” She stepped over to the conveyor loaded with clothes hanging in clear plastic covers, reached up and pressed a button. The conveyor started moving, bringing the clothes past her before it circled and returned them to the back part of the shop. Annette said, “I think you’re gonna have to help me out here.”

  Chili walked around behind the counter to stand next to her. He looked at clothes going past for a minute before saying, “I’ve seen you someplace. . . . You weren’t by any chance in Vegas last week.”

  Annette had her hand raised to the button, so she could stop the conveyor if they saw his pants. She looked past her bare shoulder at him and he could tell she was smiling, even though he couldn’t see her mouth. She said, “No, but I was in Reno. How about that?”

  “Getting a divorce?” Kidding with her.

  “I took care of that ‘fore I come out here. Got rid of excess baggage. No, this fella I was with took me.

  “I hope your luck was better than mine. I dropped a bundle and it wasn’t my laundry,” Chili said, getting into it, showing Annette what a nice simple guy he was.

  She told him she only played the slots and did okay. “But would you believe the fella I was with lost

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  over a hundred thousand dollars and it didn’t even bother him?”

  “Jesus,” Chili said, looking from the cleaning going by to Annette. “Guy must be loaded, drop that much and not worry about it.”

  “His philosophy is you win some, lose some.”

  “I guess that’s as good a way to look at it as any.”

  “He’s from Miami, Florida, too, originally.”

  “Yeah, what’s his name?”

  “I doubt you’d know him.”

  “He move out here?”

  “I’m trying to get him to. He spends the whole day out to Santa’nita, loves the racetrack.”

  “You don’t lose it as fast betting the horses.”

  “Oh, he wins, don’t worry about that. You know the state lottery in Florida?”

  “Yeah? He won that?”

  “He won, I mean, big. But soon as his wife found out . . . His wife—listen to this. She’s divorcing him at the time, but then when she finds out about the money she wants half as part of the settlement. He said the hell with that noise and took off.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Chili said.

  “Changed his name, too. The wife never even played the lottery herself. But soon as he won, oh, now she wants in on it. Larry said he’d burn the money before he’d give her any.”

  “I imagine he’s doing what he never dreamed of in his life,” Chili said. “Right up there on top.” He turned his head to look at Annette’s bare shoulder and blond hair, dark strands of it combed up from her neck and held with a plastic comb. He said, “Your friend knows how to pick winners,” waited for Annette to look at him and gave her a nice smile.

  “Why don’t you shut this place down and we’ll go

  have a drink.”

  “What about your pants?”

  “I got other pants. Come on, let’s do it.”

  “Gee, I’d like to,” Annette said, “but I have to get cleaned up and meet my fella. He gets back from Santa’nita we meet at his ho-tel, have a drink in the Polo Lounge and go on out for dinner.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You been there, haven’t you?”

  “Where’s that?”

  “The Polo Lounge, in the Beverly Hills Hotel? It’s late now—the best time’s around six, you see all kinds of celebrities in there.”

  “Is that right?”

  “I’ve seen movie stars right at the next table.”

  “You have? Like who?”

  Annette said, “Let’s see,” and thought about it staring at the clothes going by. She pressed the button to stop the conveyor. “I can never think of their names, after. There was one, he played in a western use to be on TV. What was his name? . . . They give you, with your drinks they give you corn chips with that guacamole dip? No charge. You see men, they have a phone brought to their table and you actually hear them talking about movies they’re gonna make and what stars’ll be in them. It’s exciting to hear it, movie stars being mentioned like they’re just, you know, regular people.”

  “I’ll have to stop by there,” Chili said, “maybe next time I come out. The Beverly Hills Hotel, that’s where your friend stays, huh?”

  “He has a suite costs him four hundred a night. Living room, bedroom, a balcony you can sit out on . . .”

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  “Sounds good. Listen, I was thinking,” Chili said, “your friend’s wife, she could have somebody looking for him, hire somebody.” He watched Annette giving it some thought. “In case anybody comes by asking about him . . .”

  “I’ll just say I neve
r heard of him.”

  “Yeah, except if the person happens to know you’re an old friend maybe.”

  “I see what you mean,” Annette said, giving it some more thought. “Just say he hasn’t been here then.”

  Chili moved back around the counter telling her not to worry about his pants, he said those things happened. He was anxious to get going, stop and have a bite to eat before taking that canyon road, full of hairpin turns, back over the mountain to Beverly Hills. For a moment he wondered what the mountain was called and thought of asking Annette, but changed his mind and was almost to the door when she said, “I remember who it was now, the movie star? Doug McClure.”

  Chili paused to say, “Oh,” nodding.

  “He was so close,” Annette said, “I could’ve touched him.”

  He wondered if maybe the lights outside the Sunset Marquis had been left over from Christmas: little pinpoint lights in the trees along the front, on both sides of the canopy that came out from the entrance. It was a slick place, only three stories hidden away in a lot of foliage down the hill from Sunset Boulevard—outdoor dining and the pool right in the middle, in a courtyard. Harry had recommended it and made the reservations, saying it used to be popular with rock groups and guys whose wives had kicked them out of the house for one reason or another. What Chili had in 325 was a twohundred-buck suite with windows facing apartment balconies about fifty feet away; but that was okay, he wouldn’t be looking out much. There was a phone in the bedroom, another one on the counter separating the living room from the kitchenette. Chili got the number of the Beverly Hills Hotel. When he asked for Larry Paris, the operator said just a moment, she’d connect him, Chili wondering how the little drycleaner had ever come this far as dumb as he was, going to the track every day and living in a four-hundred-dollar suite Chili would bet couldn’t be any nicer than this one. It had an oriental look to it, maroon lamps shaped like pagodas. He let it ring till the operator came back on to say Mr. Paris’s room was not answering. Chili had no intention of speaking to him anyway. He hung up and phoned Tommy Carlo at home, six P.M. in Miami.

  “How about Nicole?”

  “You mean Nicki,” Tommy said. “I got hold of the guy use to be her manager through the booking service. You remember him? Marty, little guy with hair down to his ass?”

  “Yeah, sorta.”

  “He’s the A and R guy for a record company in Los Angeles, scouts new talent. He says Nicki’s getting ready for a gig at Raji’s on Hollywood Boulevard. She’s been rehearsing there, putting a new band together and that’s prob’ly where you’ll find her. Raji’s on Hollywood Boulevard. I think Marty said east of Vine, you got it?”

  Chili was making notes on the Sunset Marquis pad by the phone. “Yeah. What about Bones? When’s he coming?”

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  “I don’t know any more’n I told you already.”

  “You find out anything, call me, okay?”

  Chili gave him the number and said, “I’ll see you.”

  “When?” Tommy said.

  It stopped him.

  Chili said, “I don’t know, I may be going into the movie business, see what it’s like.”

  Now it sounded like Tommy was stopped. “What’re you talking about? You wanta be a movie star?”

  “I’m no actor. I’m talking about producing.”

  “How you gonna do that? You don’t know shit about making movies.”

  “I don’t think the producer has to do much,” Chili said. “The way it is here, this town, it goes out in all directions with all kinds of shit happening. You know what I mean? Like there’s no special look to the place. Brooklyn, you got streets of houses are all exactly the same. Or Brooklyn in general, you know, has a bummed-out look, it’s old, it’s dirty. . . . Miami has a look you think of stucco, right? Or high-rises on the beach. Here, wherever you look it’s something different. There homes’ll knock your eyes out, but there’s a lot of cheap shit, too. You know what I mean? Like Times Square. I think the movie business is the same way. There aren’t any rules—you know, anybody saying this’s how you have to do it. What’re movies about? They’re all different, except the ones that’re just like other movies that made money. You know what I’m saying? The movie business, you can do any fuckin thing you want ’cause there’s nobody in charge.”

  Tommy said, “Hey, Chil, you know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “You’re fulla shit.”

  He sat down on the sofa to relax for a while in his new surroundings with the oriental look, turned on the TV and punched remote control buttons to see what they had out here. . . . As many Spanish programs as Miami . . . The Lakers playing Golden State . . . Shane. He hadn’t seen Shane in years. Chili got low in the sofa, his feet on the glass coffee table, and watched from the part where Shane beats the shit out of Ben Johnson for calling him sody pop to where he shoots Jack Wilson, practically blows him through the wall. It was almost real the way the guns went off in that movie, loud, but still not as loud as you heard it in a room, shooting a guy in the head just a little too high, and now the guy was coming out here.

  Chili left his rented Toyota in the hotel garage, hiked up Alta Loma the half block to Sunset and had to stop and catch his breath from the climb, out of shape, before walking along Sunset till he was opposite white storefronts across the street. It was dark, a stream of headlights going by. He stood waiting for a break in the traffic, his gaze on the white building, and began to wonder why a light was on in Harry’s office. He was pretty sure it was Harry’s, the wide window with the venetian blinds. Maybe the cleaning woman was in there.

  Chili jogged across the wide street, let himself in and climbed the stairs to ZigZag Productions, dark except for a light at the end of the hall. It was Harry’s office, but not a cleaning woman who looked up from the desk as Chili entered.

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  It was the colored limo guy, Bo Catlett, wearing glasses and with a movie script open in front of him.

  Catlett said, “This ain’t bad, you know it? This Mr. Lovejoy. The title’s for shit, but the story, man, it takes hold of you.”

  14

  Chili walked toward the desk thinking he’d better nail the guy right away, not say a word, hit him with the phone, wrap the cord around his neck and drag him out. Except the guy had not busted the door, jimmied the lock, he wasn’t robbing the place, he was sitting there with his glasses on reading a script. The guy telling him now, “I started reading, I couldn’t put it down. I’m at the part—let’s see, about fifteen pages to go— Lovejoy’s coming out of court with his sister, can’t believe what’s happened to him.” Chili reached the red leather chairs facing the desk, the guy saying, “I want to know how it ends, but don’t tell me.” Saying, “Yeah, I can see why Harry’s dying to do it.”

  The guy talking about the script, but saying to Chili at the same time, Let’s see how cool you are.

  Chili sat down in one of the red leather chairs. He unbuttoned the jacket of his pinstripe suit to get comfortable and said, “I don’t like the title either.”

  For a moment he saw that dreamy look in the man’s eyes, almost a smile.

  “You understand I knew Harry was lying,” Catlett said. “I’m talking about his saying this was

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  n’t any good, but holding on to it, man, like you have to break his fingers to get it from him.” Catlett paused. “I’m explaining to you what I’m doing here. Case you think I come to rob the place, rip off any this dusty old shit the man has.”

  Chili said, “No, I’d never make you as a burglar, not with that suit you have on. It tells me what you do—when you’re not taking people for rides in your limo.”

  “It’s funny, I was thinking along the same line,” Catlett said. “Guys in your business you don’t see dressed up much anymore, but you have a nice suit of clothes on.”

  “You mean the movie business,” Chili said.

  There was that little slow
gleam in Catlett’s eyes again, showing understanding, maybe appreciation.

  “Movie people don’t dress up either, ’cept the agents. You see an agent duded up it means he’s taking a serious meeting someplace, at a studio or a network. Or he wants you to think it’s what he’s doing. Or the older crowd, at Chasen’s, in the front room, they dress up. But I’m talking about your main business, working for the Italians.”

  “Yeah? How you know that?”

  “Man, listen to you. You street, same as me, only we from different sides of it,” Catlett said. “See, the first thing I wonder about I see you, I ask myself, What’s this man Chili Palmer doing here? Is he’n investor? Harry called you his associate, but what does that mean? I never heard your name spoken in the business or read it in Variety or The Reporter or anyplace. I kept thinking till it came to me. It’s wiseguy money financing Lovejoy and Frank DePhillips, the man, put you here to look out for Harry, see he doesn’t mess up or keep people like

  myself from bothering him.”

  “You’re part right,” Chili said.

  “Part or mostly?”

  “You know DePhillips?”

  “Enough about him.”

  “Then you oughta know if I worked for a guy like DePhillips,” Chili said, “we wouldn’t be talking. I would’ve thrown you out that window by now. I don’t work for him and I don’t work for Harry, either. It’s what he said, I’m his associate.”

  Catlett slipped his glasses off. “You must bring something heavy to the deal.”

  “That’s right, me,” Chili said, and watched the man’s smile come all the way, showing goldwork on his teeth.

  Catlett said, “But no special talent, huh? Walk in off the street and become a film producer. You the financial or the creative side?”