Shortcut Man Page 3

  An evil smirk stretched Gregory’s Teutonic features. “Do I look like the Sympathy Department?”

  My left hand had reached full vibratory status. “Not yet,” I replied. Then the celestial forces of karma drew my fists forward in a left, right, left to the gut followed by a right uppercut to the chin, which snapped his teeth together like a dollar mousetrap.

  He sailed back into the wall and slid down to a sitting position with a thud.

  “Get up, motherfucker.” I grabbed his collar and jerked him to his feet, pushed him back into his chair.

  Under his chair was his contingency plan, an aluminum baseball bat. He rose and swung. I saw it coming, heard it whistle past my chin, saw it smash the front of his glass souvenir cabinet.

  He looked at me, had the sense not to beg; I broke his nose with a straight right.

  You know why, in the movies, the sound of breaking bones is simulated by breaking fresh celery? Because breaking bones sounds exactly like breaking fresh celery. The battle of A-1 Contractors was over.

  “Take out your cashbox, fuckstick, and be quick about it.”

  He did so.

  “Open it, and count out sixteen hundred for Mrs. Wagner.”

  He did so.

  “Now another hundred for Finny.”

  His eyes questioned who Finny might be, but another honeybee was placed on his desk.

  “Now, five hundred for me.”

  He counted five for me, then sagged back.

  I stepped forward and he flinched. “Now listen, Chuckie, to what I’m going to tell you.”

  Gregory nodded. His shirtfront was a cheerful, sopping crimson.

  “It’s wrong to take advantage of little old ladies. You get me?”

  He got me.

  “If you ever do this again, to someone I know, I’m going to come back and fuck you up big time. Get me?”

  He got me.

  “Fly right, Chuckie.”

  I left his office, shut the door behind me. The lady looked at me. “You punch his lights out, Mr. Harvey?”

  I smiled. “Yes, I did.”

  She lit up a cigarette, exhaled calmly toward the ceiling. “Have a nice day.”

  I drifted back down Sepulveda. Sometimes the valley was a nice place. Harvey, Henry, what’s the diff?

  I slid in a Pearly King CD.

  Are your blue eyes blue or are they green?

  You’re the finest thing I’ve ever seen

  I know you’re speaking words

  I don’t know what they mean

  Are your blues eyes blue or are they green?

  I didn’t know till I knew

  Baby been waitin’ for you

  Are your blue eyes blue or are they green?

  CHAPTER SIX

  No One Files on Dick Henry

  Meanwhile, at the corner of Hollywood and Cahuenga, in a fourth-floor office at the Hollywood Professional Building, Tisdale, gingerly fingering his nose, was in consultation with Myron Ealing, Esquire.

  Ealing, who weighed 420 pounds, had his fist elbow deep in a five-gallon tin of stale Christmas popcorn. He was shaking his head from side to side.

  On the recommendation of Bobby the Weasel, Tisdale had climbed four flights of stairs to find this monstrous Jabba. And had paid Jabba fifty dollars up-front. But the guy just kept shaking his head.

  “What I’m trying to get across, Mr. Tisdale,” said Ealing, expectorating a husk of the caramel corn from the tip of his tongue, “is that no one files on Dick Henry.”

  “What does that mean?” He’d paid fifty for this? “There was a crime committed. My shit is half gone.”

  “No one files on Dick Henry,” repeated Ealing, “nothing comes of it.” Good old Dick. Dick knew every clerk in city government. For a crisp, new honeybee and a smile, papers were mutilated, shredded, burned, lost, or damaged by insects.

  He just knew too many people. DWP. Edison. The Gas Company. Your death arrow could come from anywhere. That humongous water bill had to be a mistake, but, Christ, clutched in the teeth of the bureaucracy, the details could take weeks to straighten out. In the meantime you went thirsty and couldn’t flush your toilet.

  Alan Trudeau, that idiot producer, had filed on Dick. Oooo, foolish, so foolish. But Trudeau was a fool, the kind who fully believed in the importance of his own importance. In addition to his incredible water bill, $36,000, his new 700 series BMW had been impounded from the safety of his locked garage in his gated community. Paperwork suggested he’d ignored a ticket for an equipment violation. Trudeau did not remember the citation. A king’s ransom was demanded for the vehicle’s return.

  Trudeau had persisted in folly. Subsequently, he found the towing company’s byzantine chain of ownership, like a slumlord’s, defied legal ascertainment. But charged on a fifteen-minute basis.

  An unconnected man had no choice but to capitulate. Trudeau settled for a queen’s ransom. With a five-hundred-dollar inconvenience fee. Then his filing was dismissed. Boll weevils had rendered the forms illegible.

  “You mean you won’t do squat for me,” said Tisdale. “Is that what you mean?” At every instance in his whole goddam life, his encounters with the system had been fruitless and negative. Fuck this fat jerk-off.

  Ealing eyed the imbecile across his desk. How could he put it so this fifteen-watt bulb might fully understand a forty-watt concept? “It’s like this,” said Ealing. “There’re only so many ways to fuck a chicken. And you lack the necessities and the technique. And you don’t want the trouble you’re going to get, believe me. My best advice to you is go on home. Or wherever you’re living.”

  “I want my money back.”

  Myron Ealing rose and pointed to the office door. “Get out of my office.”

  “Gimme my money.”

  Graceful as a ballerina, Ealing was around the desk in an instant, looming like a dark cloud. He pointed a cucumber-size finger down at Tisdale. “You paid for my advice. You got it. Do I have to sit on your head?”

  Fifty dollars lighter, goddammit, Tisdale set foot on Hollywood Boulevard. Screwed again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Green Hat

  Myron Ealing had called with a referral. Had Dick heard of Artie Benjamin? Producer?

  Producer of what?

  In this case, erotica.

  Whaddaya mean, in this case?

  Shit, Dick, I mean he does porno. Has a little warehouse over there in Van Nuys. Fifty titles. Buffalo Bill in Hollywood.

  Should I remember that?

  Everybody else does.

  And the nature of his problem?

  His wife.

  I arrived at Rexford Drive in Beverly Hills as the sun set. Artie Benjamin’s house was a chesty new construction, too big for the lot: plinths, columns, moldings, crowns, fatted grandeur in pastel pink. But all plaster and hollow. You could knock it over with a Subaru.

  A Filipino man in black opened the door. His eyes were unblinking mahogany malevolence.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Benjamin,” I said, pleasantly.

  The door was drawn back. The large entryway had been decorated from a catalog and was characterless in a beige, three-star-hotel kind of way.

  I was led upstairs into an office.

  A banker’s lamp filtered green light across a huge desk. Behind the desk a round-shouldered individual, wreathed in smoke, sat back in a tall reclining chair. The Filipino went behind the desk and stood to the man’s left side.

  My eyes got accustomed to the light. Artie Benjamin was not a handsome man. I put him in his mid-fifties. His face was fleshy and rough, his eyes close set. Dark hair had been artfully arranged on his scalp to make the most out of little. A sharply sculpted mustache drew a fine line between nose and thin lips.

  “So you’re Dick Henry.” He gestured me into the chair across his desk.

  “And you’re Art Benjamin.”

  I’d learned a few things about him before my visit. He’d inherited a lot of money from his father who was the nationa
l king of cardboard. A regnancy of which I had been previously unaware. The monarch’s shadow had been hard to outrun and Artie had never managed. So he did a bit of this, a bit of that, had married and divorced a couple of times here and there.

  Then, in Las Vegas, he had crossed paths with an adult film expo and one thing led to another. Buffalo Bill in Hollywood had nothing to do with riding horses. But it made $16 million for an investment of $46,000, and suddenly Artie had a career. Some fool had called it art, and Artie had the smarts to shut up. That the spectacular talents of Buffalo Bill’s lady saloonkeeper, Thirsty Thelma, were cut short by the self-administration of heroin only added to the dark-star aura of Benjamin’s success.

  Finally Artie spoke. “Ever been married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Divorced?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever wear the green hat?”

  The green hat. “What does that mean?”

  I felt the Filipino’s eyes upon me. Impersonal, cold. Like refrigerator beams.

  “Your wife. She ever fool around? Was she unfaithful?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “You’re a man who’d prefer not to know?”

  “Knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

  “Why were you divorced?”

  I shrugged. “Generally, strangled communications. Specifically, the unscheduled delivery of a pumpkin pie.”

  Benjamin wrinkled his nose. “I hate pumpkin pie.”

  “So do I. What’s on your mind, Mr. Benjamin?”

  “It’s my wife. I want you to find out about her.”

  “You love her?”

  “No.” He hadn’t liked the question. “But she’s mine.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty-nine. I think.”

  “You got a prenup, right? Why not just divorce her and get it over with?”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I just want to know. One way or the other. Is she cheating. I don’t want pictures and all that. I just need to know.” Thumb and forefinger ran over his mustache.

  “Don’t you already know she’s cheating?” Of course he did.

  “I want to find out for sure.”

  It was times like these I questioned my vocation as a shortcut man. Every cheating spouse, though all unique human beings and no doubt possessed of wonderful qualities, sang a variation on the same theme. She/he doesn’t understand/know who I really am.

  At that exact moment I felt I’d spent too long exploring the lower aspects of the human condition. I recalled the plumber’s piquant umber motto: your shit is my bread and butter. Why couldn’t I have been satisfied getting my butter as an air-conditioning mechanic?

  “I’m told you’re the best in the business,” said Benjamin.

  I decided I didn’t want Benjamin’s business. “I’m pretty expensive, Mr. Benjamin. Actually, very expensive.”

  “What’s your price?”

  “Eight down, seven on delivery of oral report.”

  “Fifteen large.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You don’t even put it on paper?”

  “Nope.”

  “You are expensive.”

  Expensive indeed. Maybe I’d head over to Las Brisas and get a few beers with Rojas and company.

  “All right.” Benjamin pursed his lips and nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  So there it was. Greatness thrust upon me. “All right. Get me some pictures and some numbers and I’ll start in.” Arnold Kugler, my CPA, would have been proud of me. Honest work.

  Benjamin shook his head. “Forget the Mission Impossible routine. I’m giving a little shindig Friday night. Why don’t you come by and meet the woman herself? I’ll introduce you as one of my new associate producers.”

  Wasn’t this lovely.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  All the Things You Are

  Lynette was sleeping in my bed. I stared down at her. Is a lie a lie when it’s told to a beautiful woman? No. Because beautiful women were lies in and of themselves. Without a single word they made extravagant promises. And in the next breath they broke them. Like Lynette. Like Julia.

  Though Julia wasn’t half as lovely as Lynette. But she did have a certain, undeniable architectural appeal.

  I’d met Julia during my Navy days in Pearl. In those days, convinced my personality congealed in the presence of beauty, I had taken Julia to a jazz club. Where if conversation ran dry I’d be able to snap my fingers and pretend no words were necessary.

  Up front, a balding, thirty-year-old man with a wandering eye, Martin Levy, presided over a battered white Steinway like a praying mantis.

  After a couple of tunes, Julia turned to me and asked a question I might have paid her to ask. She motioned toward Levy. “How do you know if a guy can really play or if he’s just fooling around?”

  I played a little guitar back then, in Clapton’s name, and had recently perused several articles on jazz improvisation.

  According to somebody, “All the Things You Are” stood far above all other songs, improvisation-wise. If you could blow over the chord changes in that song, written by Jerome Kern, whoever he was, you could call yourself a righteous jazz musician. I imparted this lore to Julia and watched her breasts heave in gratitude.

  “You know an awful lot about jazz, Dick. I’m really impressed.”

  Impressed? With that my tongue was loosed and I commenced foreplay. I dropped a few paragraphs about vertical and horizontal improvisation. The difference between the styles of bebop Charlie Parker and cool Miles Davis.

  On the small bandstand, a perspiring Martin Levy finished up his set to decent applause. Then he stood around, mopping his forehead, waiting to be appreciated.

  I walked up front with a pleased Julia. As I wondered which eye was looking at me, I tailored a careful compliment, specific enough so he’d realize I knew something about music. But Julia beat me to it.

  “I like your horizontal improvisations,” she prattled.

  “Really? Far out.” Levy was apparently delighted. “What about my verticals?”

  “Those, too,” said Julia solemnly.

  Levy grinned and I knew, in his head, he was tickling her tonsils.

  He returned to the both of us. “People like you guys are so cool,” he gushed. “That’s who I’m playing for. That’s why I play.” An eye rolled over Julia’s big breasts.

  Well, fuck the both of you, I thought. We’ll see how good you really are, you one-eyed eater-of-dung. I shot a chilled glance toward Julia, then turned to Cyclops. “Can you play a tune for us?”

  He waggled fat, stubby fingers, smiled. “For you guys, anything. What do you want to hear?”

  “Could you play ‘All the Things You Are’?” By that guy.

  The suggestion stopped Piano Man in his tracks.

  I eyed Julia. See.

  “‘All the Things You Are’?” Levy looked a little flinty.

  Poseur pays the price. And keep your fucking eye off Julia’s tits. “I dunno.” I shrugged carelessly. “Maybe it’s not your bag.”

  “Actually, man,” said Levy, “it is my bag. I just played it.”

  If I’d had the resources, I would’ve asked him to play it again and play it right this time. But I had no such resources. I was rooted to the spot and vacant of all intelligence.

  Julia turned, looked at me as if I had six legs and had crawled out from under the nightstand. Her nose was a little long, I realized. And one ear sat a little higher than the other.

  In any case, that was how Julia met Martin Levy and started her long descent into addiction, HIV, and death.

  And that same incident was one of the signposts helping me conclude music was not my life path.

  I was destined to become the Shortcut Man.

  Lynette stirred, opened one eye, smiled at me, pulled me into bed. Touching is not a lie.

  CHAPTER NINE

  You Know My Wife
?

  The Caddy purred west on Sunset. The neon always cheered me up. Fuck Julia.

  I checked my watch. I would be fashionably late to Artie Benjamin’s porno soiree.

  The street was parked up. A college kid from the valet service in a USC jacket was making tickets and directing things. After two Lexi, I was next.

  Richie Rich was not impressed with Detroit’s finest circa 1969. He leaned in, bored, pointed down the street. “Deliveries in the rear.”

  I grabbed him by the tie, pulled him close. “Then bend over, darling.” After a quiet, intimate moment, we achieved a new level of understanding.

  “Maybe, uh, you’re going to the party,” he reasoned.

  “And you want to park my car.”

  It so happened he did.

  The place was packed. I didn’t know a soul. I began to wonder what were the duties of an associate producer. Though it seemed anyone could probably do it.

  My time in Hollywood had vaguely acquainted me with the duties of a regular producer. It was a matter of gathering. Gathering money, resources, favors, people. Bringing them all together at the exact moment the whole exceeded the sum of the parts. Holding it all together when the dream deflated into reality. Substituting Toronto for New York, Arcadia for Beverly Hills, Chevrolet for a Cadillac. Every so often it worked out and your name went on the side of a bus that rolled through neighborhoods where no one spoke English.

  I ran into seven associate producers before I finished my first drink. I had not as yet seen my host. I hoped he remembered inviting me. I shrugged to myself. He had eight thousand reasons to remember. Or to forget.

  Then I spied him and we walked toward the rear of the house.

  Not all of the partygoers seemed to know their host. Benjamin gestured at them. “All the friends that money can buy.”

  Then I saw Benjamin’s Filipino with a tray of drinks. “Have you seen Judy?” Benjamin asked him.

  The Filipino nodded, his eyes transmitting a careful message not meant for me.