Date: Mon, 1 Jun 1998 16:13:17 -0400 From: "J. Hall" Subject: Re: INT: Goldman Pictures, Ungawa Means I Love You, Doesn't It? > "You think I tipped them off, don't you?" > She turned to him and for the first time he saw a cold, hard side of her. "If >I wanted you dead, I could have done it myself. I didn't tip them off." > The car drifted to a stop at a red light. Lareine stepped out of the car. > "What are you doing?" > "Leaving, Jeff. I'm going to get out of here while I still can. I would >suggest you do the same. Traffic's backing up, you better go." > She slammed the door and disappeared into the night. > > Rear view mirrors are wonderful things. I kept an eye on her till I rounded Washington and then pulled over between a paint delivery van and a canary yellow Willys Jeep that might have once sported Patton to Bastogne. Currently it was loaded with teenagers, most of whom looked only slightly less dangerous than the German Army. I peeled off a fiver and asked the most conscious one, a pneumatic brunette in toreador pants, to keep an eye on my bucket. She favored me with the condescention of immortals, laughed a "Sure thing, pops," and handed the bill to the driver. They immediately peeled out into oncoming traffic and vanished, leaving an elfin smokestorm of smoked rubber behind. Maybe it was my aftershave. Women were ditching me like a suitcase of full of ammunition in a six alarm fire. On the Titanic. I stood there for a moment and waited for meteors. When none hit, I lop ed off around the corner into an alley. Reinie had slipped into the doorway of a nite-cap joint I'd once used as a stakeout front while following Stan Laurel. The 'Burmese Tiger' had a select clientele of actors, writers, stuntmen, merchant sailors, cowboys, firemen, off duty cops and even the assorted circus midget. The only woman I'd ever seen in the place was Bankhead, and after sharing Gin Rickeys and liar's poker with me one rainy evening when Laurel was visiting the secretary across the street, she'd announced it was even too butch for her. A haggard cook's boy was dumping uneaten salad into a can by the back do or when I trotted up. I asked him in Spanish if he'd seen Carole Lombard pass this way recently. He crossed himself and said: "Deo gracia, no...no se!" I nodded, palmed my LA County DA's star that I'd never returned and said , "Excellente," then slipped past him into the kitchen. He continued dumping lettuce as if men in dark suits chasing ghosts happened by every day. There was no one in the kitchen. With Dinah even. A pot of goo that might once have been curried mutton simmered unhappily over a low fire on a ten burner gas grill and I resisted the urge to stir it, and instead I snuck up on the dining room door to peer through the inset smoked glass window. The Tiger had been a tiki bar in the '30's, and the current ownership hadn't minded a bit. Tiny tables, illuminated with hurricane lamps dotted the landscape under erratic curtains of cargo netting. Assorted oversized tikis marked the waitress stations and a long teak bar ran the length of the place to the left. A pair of matching water buffalo heads, apparently captured at an extremely inopportune moment in death sneered at the customers over a pile of gin bottles and stacked champagne glasses. Someone had added a fake tiger skin to the opposite wall as a marketing sop, but otherwise it was early Sadie Get Your Gunbearer. A waiter pushed through the door on the other side of me and nearly dropped an empty tray on my head in astonishment. "Not you again," he groaned. I stood back and let the door swing shut. He was nearly six foot, as muscled as a stevedore and darker than a Union Station shoeshine and wore nothing but a Gunga Din loincloth and a look of dismayed annoyance. "No shooting, buddy," he said and put the tray down on a countertop. He peeked a glance at the door and swung his eyes down to me. "You nearly shut the place down last time. I can't lose this job, I gotta part coming up in a month and this is my mealticket till then. Whyn't you hustle off somewheres and bust those reefer-heads over at the Mocambo Club." His annoyance fought a skirmish with something stronger and lost. I wondered if my obituary would be any funnier if it said I was killed by a man in a diaper and dumped in a can full of old lettuce. Probably not. "That was an accident," I explained, backing up. "Stan Laurel was in trouble." "Who ain't?" he breathed, his arms beginning to flex. I waited for the punch, and ducked under it only to run head on into the next one from his left. I guess he'd seen Boys Town too. Punch, jab, back away. My head rung like the Universal gong and black things flew around the edges of my eyesight. Bats. With little razory teeth. Staggering, I dropped to a knee and then got up again, knocking pans off a lower shelf. He glanced again at the door. "You shut up with that," Gunga commanded. "Mister June don't like big noises. It scares off the customers." The bats danced around then faded, leaving a dull roaring in my hears. He'd only hit me once, off a cheekbone and I was not looking forward to a second time. I picked up a long stainless steel ladle off the floor and waved it at him. Gungaboy laughed, his feet planted perfectly apart like John L. Sullivan . "C'mon then, little man, whatchu gonna-" When he glanced at the door again I swung it up between his legs as hard as I could with both hands, uppercutting like I'd seen DiMaggio do once against the Indians. He let out a shrill peep then sagged into a kneel. "Ah god," he moaned, and I hit him again, across the chops. It snapped his head back but he still didn't fall. I dropped the ladle and went for a pitcher of iced something sitting nex t to the stewpot. He was wavering, attempting to stand and I swatted him with it, spattering ice cubes and sliced lemons across the wall. He collapsed and went still. I walked over to a sink and poured what was left over my head then rubbe d ice into my face. Nothing felt broken but I'd probably have a nasty mouse in the morning. My cat would probably recognize me, he'd seen me like this before. He was heavy as hell but I dragged him over to an open pantry. A check of the dining room showed little activity. Apparently no one came here for the food. I picked up Reinie easily, a splash of color under the tigerskin. Some detective, she was the only woman there, if you didn't count the Joan Crawford lookalike at the bar. I knew him and I didn't. She was out there at a table near the far wall under the damned tiger skin, back to the wall, holding a highball glass and smoking furiously. A pair of empty glasses testified to either absent companions or our little spat had driven her to an alcoholic binge. I shuffled back to the pantry and had another brilliant idea. Gunga-boy was heavier than he looked and it took me a half an hour to ge t his loincloth off. Underneath he'd been wearing a skintight pair of black lace knickers and I tossed an empty potato sack over him when I left. Not everyone can wear black and I felt an obligation to fashion directors everywhere. I pushed a hardbacked chair up under the doorknob to the pantry and wedged it tight. It didnt fit well and I had to tie it up with one of my shoelaces. I caught a glimpse of myself in a stainless steel cooler door and stopped. Too pale. Too short. Too many Luckies. Otherwise I was a perfect match. I sucked in my stomach and flexed. Something in my face told me to stop that and I relaxed. The bats flew off disappointed that I didn't have a stroke. I figured I had five minutes before she was coshed. Quick peeks through the glass as I roamed around looking for something to darken me showed she was alone, and working on her fifth drink. The choice between lukewarm curry and shoe polish seemed an easy one but I couldn't find any shoe polish. Dick Powell always found shoe polish when he was trapped in a tiki bar pretending to be a Tahitian waiter. I never could. I went with the mutton. The kitchen helper hadn't returned and I chanced a look out the back doo r before jamming a hardbacked chair under the pantry doorknob. A huddle of white against the alley wall revealed he was a wine cognoscenti after all, and I left him to finish what was left of a vintage claret he had obviously liberated in lieu of stock options. I stunk. There was no way around it, but I was darker than amber. Most of me, anyway. If my loincloth slipped a little.. I pushed open the door, grabbed a drink tray off the bus table and shuffled over toward her table, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. The place was almost empty save for a few late-night couples who barely gave me a glance. Mr. June, the owner and bartender had his back turned to the cash register, happily counting out the night's take. She didn't even look up when I cleared my throat. "Another one," she slurred and shoved the glass at me. I took it from her. "Doctor Livingstone, I don't presume?" I said quiet ly. Reinie peered up at me through a set of lazy blonde bangs. Even her wig was drunk. "Does your tobacco taste differently these days?" I said, and she began to laugh. "Hello, Tarzan," she said, and dropped an ice cube down my loincloth. ...to be continued..