Date: Fri, 5 Jun 1998 12:26:29 -0400 From: "J. Hall" Subject: Re: INT:Goldman Pictures, Game, set...gotta match? > The gun shot rang loudly from across the street. Reine fell against him hard, >looking shocked. Jeff looked to see a man in a black hat running down the >street. A crowd surrounded them. He looked into Reine's face, "You okay?" > > > > > Jimmy Paggliata again. We'd been on a midnight recce after a skirmish, our feet nearly frozen i n the fairy fog of the Ardennes. It was Christmas Eve. Turn, grin, whisper behind a tree and then he was laying on me, my face pushed deep into the snow behind a fallen log. I couldn't remember if I'd even heard the shot that caught him and later, much later, sipping cold coffee and shivering in the G-2 tent at battalion HQ I'd asked if he'd made it. The LT looked at my hands, raw and blue from scraping a hole halfway to Africa to roll into, just smiled saying, "Pinioned by Paggliata, what a break, son. Now show me where the Huns are." A Michelin road map of the Benelux lay open on his lap and he ticked off a spot with a broken pencil stub. He'd made it, but his legs hadn't. After the war, I'd shared a drink with him outside his father's diner in Long Beach. Wine and lies and horror stories about V-girls. "You made a lousy mattress, kid," he'd gurgled, the intervening year of therapy doing little for his charm. When his wife came to wheel him off, I promised him I'd keep my head down. She'd given me a look that was both grateful and dismissive. And fearful. Maybe uniforms bothered her and I'd just come off a graveyard at the SO. "Jesus F. Christ," Reinie hissed. Her arms stiffened, pulling me to the sidewalk. "Another of your admirers?" I swept her hair out of my face and tried t o move. She was absolutely rigid. With fear or anger or maybe she just wanted to get a guest shot on Let's Pretend as a Marshall Field manequin. I heard Charlie Hinton's door squeak on bent hinges and held her tight. Other than a nubby burlap welcome mat digging into my back and little slivers of shattered door raining down occasionally, I was moderately comfortable. Hinton stuck a finger through a hole where the tin door number to his apartment had once been and wiggled it around. Peekaboo. He pulled the door open unsteadily, a cocked Colt preceeding his long face. I gave him a little 'ok' sign from under Reinie. He checked the street and came out slowly. "Lareine, I'm not covered for this under State Farm," he sighed sadly. She slowly unlimbered and climbed off me. It was a lot more interesting than when the medics peeled Pags away at the Bulge. Hinton reholstered his piece and leaned down to give me hand up. "Welcome to the family," he muttered, avoiding Reinie's eyes. "Know the shooter?" I knew a lot of shooters. Korean shooters who picked their teeth with hairpins. Jersey shooters who liked to finish off their victims with a round in each kneecap. Taking stock, I realized I knew far too many shooters. A few of them were even cops. "Not unless Frank Sinatra moonlights for Uncle Tony," I grumbled. I rattled off everything I could remember about the gunman. Black snapbrim, thin, good black suit, no vest. "Miami, maybe," Hinton grinned. "You have expensive taste in enemies." "Don't I though. It was a warning, you know that, don't you?" Hinton nodded and lit up a Chesterfield, blowing an incredibly deep, lon g drag out like Sammy, the Human Smokestack. "Yeah, but from who?" he said. A wail came from inside the house and we rushed in. Reinie held up two halves of a large glass bowl, a look of utter outrage in her eyes. "The lamp, he shot the lamp," she moaned. Hinton walked over and picked up a few shards of stained glass off the floor and calmly dumped them into a wastebasket. "It never worked anyway," he said, and told her to throw the rest of it away. "Its a Tiffany, you ass," she glared. An inset cut to resemble an apple leaf popped out and fell to the floor with an ugly noise. "You wouldn't know a Tiffany from a traffic sign, Reinie. It's fake. Like a lot of things Tony gave us. Fake." She tossed her head dramatically and looked at me square in the eye. "Y ou think it's fake?" she asked me. "I think it's a traffic sign," I said. I turned around and walked out. The sound of smashing glass and anger followed me to the curb. Charlie Hinton, LAPD Bunco, was a snappy dresser. I hated dragging the hem of his slacks around and felt like Wee Willie Winkie. A green Ford pulled up in front of his place and two overfed men in drab grey winter suits got out, took a look at me then the door and then each other. "Hiya guys," I waved, my back against a mailbox. "We got a squeal about shots fired," the left one said. "This block," the right one said. "Know anything about that?" Lefty asked. I tossed a pebble at his tire softly and shook my head no. "This block. Lady called," Righty said. Old partners. They nearly spo ke with one voice. I'd seen it a thousand times. "Brother you look terrible," Lefty said, not even waiting for me to answ er. "Sick. You look like you been sick," righty said. "Lose some weight, buddy?" I held up a hand, Hinton's jacket sleeve draping over my wrist. "Malaria," I said, deadpan. "Then I got shrunk by cannibals." Lefty peered at me closely and sniffed. "Man, what the hell is that smell?" Righty grimaced. Reinie swept out of Hinton's place like Gloria Swanson, walked past the two flatfoots and snapped her fingers at me. I got up slowly, enjoying the way Lefty's tongue was hanging out. Righty must have been a nose breather. "Yes dear?" I beamed. Mr. Happy Detective, just waiting for a streetcar or passing damsel in distress. "I'm starving, baby, let's go get some breakfast," she commanded. "Mutton," Lefty announced. "My mother always made mutton stew on Sundays." "Curry," Righty said."That's what that smell is." Reinie took my arm and we began walking. Slowly. "On second thought," s he said, her nose wrinkling, "I think you need a bath first." Hinton trudged out and stood on the stoop, grim as hell and the two bull s gazed up at him with interest. "Hey Loot," Lefty said, "I got the wierdest squeal last night..somebody stuffed a nekkid waiter-" "-in a Crosley and set it on fire near Columbia and right after that a busdriver over on Western claimed she seen Gunga Din-" Righty chimed in, their voices nearly identical. "- yeah, Din, and that new actress, Monroe -" "- not Monroe, it was Lana Turner, drunk as a lord -" "- headin' up Washington on foot." Righty exchanged a meaningful glance at Lefty. "And the cit said this guy, Din, he was draggin' a tigerskin behind him." "Oh by the by, Loot," Lefty continued, meaningful glances aside, "we got a call shots fired this block. You hear anything?" Hinton looked skyward and we turned the corner, Reinie's arm locked tightly over mine, her mouth a set line, but her eyes laughing like hell. I didn't argue about the bath. We caught a cab on Washington to my plac e. "I'm starving." "You said that five minutes ago, Reinie," I said, and lazed back in the tub. She poked a foot out of the suds and tickled my chin with it. "Well, if you had any food around here besides goulash and pretzels I wouldn't be complaining." Her nails were painted fire engine red and I kissed one lightly. She'd eaten the bowl of stew my landlady had left on the doorstep along with half a dozen stale pretzels. "Goulash is a known aphrodesiac," I laughed. "And you didn't leave me any, you beast." She rubbed her foot down my chest softly. "Funny, I don't recall you having any trouble." The phone rang, distant and tired. "You get it this time," I grinned. "Fat chance, buster," she said, and threw a bar of Lifebuoy at me. I le t it ring for a few minutes then sloshed out to answer. It was Marlowe. I stood there dripping onto my old persian rug and listened. Then hung up and started drying off. "Who is it?" she yelled. I came back in after I'd thrown on a clean shi rt that actually fit and sat down on the edge of the tub. "Phil," I said. "Your uncle just lost most of the Business to a man called Meyer Lansky in a crap game in Vegas. So much for your inheritance." She looked stunned for a moment then began laughing. "Most of it? Jesus, why most of it?" "Tony and Lansky are taking a break until tomorrow, the game's on hold," I answered. I watched the way the water played on her and took the shirt off, then slid back in the tub. She started to rise and I pulled her back down. "Marlowe has us on a plane leaving from LA International in three hours. I think we can get another set of tennis in before that." Two sets actually. When the plane touched down a little man in a tight dinner jacket met us with a car. "Welcome to Las Vegas, Mrs Hinton," he grovelled. "Welcome yourself, Frenchie. Where the hell is my uncle?" to be continued...