Date: Tue, 9 Jun 1998 02:48:01 -0400 From: "J. Hall" Subject: Re: [WRITERS] INT:Goldman Pictures, Luck, if you ever were a Lady to begin with.. [For those of you just tuning in: Lareine Hinton is a very bad girl. Very. Her uncle, Tony DeLauro has a cozy racket running all sorts of vice underground - literally, in some cases, under the floors of various soundstages at Warners, Paramount and god knows where the hell else -and she wants the business..badly..The shamus in this story, unfortunately, is one step behind her..usually..referred to the case by his ex-partner, one P. Marlowe, the original terms of the deal were to shadow her, keep her out of trouble as she wends her sweet way through Hollywood, circa 1952, in search of an acting career. Things, of course, are never as they seem. Her plans to send Uncle T back to the slammer and inherit the business are in serious jeopardy when she finds out that he's been gambling heavily with Miami mobster Meyer Lansky. As for the detective, he's been struggling to keep his skin, avoiding being shotgunned on Ventura Blvd, turned into steak tartare by an out of work bodybuilder in a gay tikibar, riddled with various and assorted small arms. 'Reinie' has a past. A past like Caligula had a past. Of course the gumshoe could just turn around and go home to his cat, his goulash-slinging landlady and his beggar's practice in Studio City. Unfortunately, the principal weapon in Reinie Hinton's arsenal is seduction..or is it?...oh, and she can shoot the tires out of a Lincoln from the passenger seat of a Crosley at ramming speed too..And now, today's episode..] Robyn wrote: Her eyes locked with Jeff's, "Of course you do, too." She kissed him gently on the cheek. "But I just had an idea of how to get rid of my Uncle. And Frank Costello is the key to this plan. Trust me?" "How many times have I heard that from your mouth in the last few days?" Her lips made themselve comfortable around the reply, but her eyes were wary. "Why don't you trust me?" she quavered, close enough for me to taste her first whiskey sour. Behind her back hard men in dark clothes were making small talk and tinkling ice in the house glasses. I turned away as Costello approached her, peeling himself away from an off-duty showgirl. Trust was a horserace with Reinie and I had that sick feeling I'd bet the butter money on a longshot named Hope Springs Eternal. Her eyes did that side to side search women do when they want an answer quickly. A beautifully manicured hand with rings on the last three fingers fluttered down from behind her and came to rest on her shoulder, a caress from good old Frankie. My heart went cold and so did her gaze. "I'll be in the bar if you want me," I said, and brushed past a goon in dry cleaning into the Casino. She might have even tried to stop me, but the padded door clicked shut as a pair of honeymooners staggered by giggling, their arms around each other, a paper tub of silver dollars shared between them like an offering to Luck, their eyes full of instant wealth. And maybe a little love. Who knows, stranger things have happened in Las Vegas. The Altamira was never one of my favorite places. It was a faux palace Of moorish gaud, thick-walled and ornate with plasterwork archways of pink and yellow, heavily carpeted and ice cold with air conditioning against the sweltering Nevada heat. If this was DeLauro's joint, he'd probably sent some poor schmuck through art school in Seville just to get the curlicue touches on the balustrades right. His private gaming room was almost spartan by comparison. That is, if the Spartans had been fond of hi-fi, blackjack and blondes in satin dresses cut down to there. I started across the main casino to the elbowroom bar tucked away near the bandstand feeling naked without my .38 and making at least three of Lansky's boys among the milling herd of gamblers, cigarette girls and floorworkers. All of them had snappy suits, black silk on white linen. Only their eyes, deadly and watchful, were cheap. I found an empty stool in the corner, and put my back up against the wall. From my vantage point I could see anyone coming or going out of the hidden door to DeLauro's hideout. Unless there were other boltholes. Maybe Tony had a firepole straight into the dressing rooms of the Follies girls hidden under the couch Lansky was loafing on. A cheerful little brunette bartender in a laceup renaissance blouse took my order for scotch and laid a bowl of pretzel pieces in front of me. "My name is Rachel," she said happily. "Nice for you, " I smiled back and crunched a few pretzels. They were fresher than the Hy-Tone Extra Sourdoughs I had in my apartment. "Lucky tonight?" she asked. Her voice was a blend of smoke, Georgia and mild interest. The perfect woman. She brought me a double Walker on the rocks when I told her luck was an uncertain vessel on a wine-dark sea. Literary too. I watched the door and tried not to get plastered. Rachel went to the other end of the bar where the money was, a flimsy excuse for desertion in my book. Once in a while she winked at me while pouring Beam for a pair of Texans flush from a poker game. The winks got fewer as the Texans began to tip like she came with the peanuts. A well tailored type with a bow-tie over a Saville Row blazer sat down next to me and immediately replaced the half-smoked English Oval with a fresh nail. He fumbled around for a match then looked at me when he failed to find fire. "Would you be so kind?" I nodded, and lit him up, shaking the match. He sucked in smoke and blew it out hard then followed my eyes. The door had peeked open and a face, pale under slicked hair, leaned out to check the floor action. "House man?" he asked, his smile hovering between informality and starch. "Private," I said quietly The paleface retreated and the door closed silently. "Oxford or Cambridge?" "Neither, actually," he laughed, and put down his tumbler of vodka to extend a well-tanned hand. I shook it carefully, but he gripped me like a Mason finding another lodge brother in the Sahara. "I finished my degree in Austria, Kitzbuhel to make a point of it. Had a bit of a flap over a lady at Eton, never really looked back." Rachel waltzed back, the Texans gone. "Mr. Fleming!" she cooed, and leaned across the bar to plant a buss on his face. I decided the door to Tony's playpen was less interesting than Rachel's embarassment of riches and turned to watch the exchange. Fleming..I knew that name from somewhere. "Please, dear, call me Ian," he smiled and held up his glass. "Can you do something about this? Something Russian perhaps, with a bit of ice?" She did something about it, and leaned down to let him talk to her cleavage. Perhaps it was his accent, or the deep tan, or his gold cufflinks, but I had the distinct feeling I was being outclassed. Zero for two today. I knocked back my Walker and set it down, feeling woozy. Plane rides were never my idea of travel and I realized I hadn't eaten decently in days. The room spun slowly, like the Huntington Beach carousel on the last day of summer, and I sat back suddenly. "He don't look too good," I heard a Georgia peach say, and suddenly I was wrapped in the arms of a large fuzzy bear. Who smelled really great. I mussed around in my jacket for the .38 that wasn't there and felt a firm but gentle hand push my hands down. "You haven't got a weapon," Fleming was saying, and the room stopped rolling. He was off his stool, an arm around me like an uncle. "A 1942 Berolinni strap holster, but no piece. Damn good thing too," he chuckled, "I almost missed you going for it with our hostess here such a dazzler." I relaxed and looked at the two of them. Uncle Ian and Aunt Rachel. And over there, behind the door was Hunk, Auntie Em and the Oilcan Man all gambling away with Dorothy's garter-snaps. "Rachel," I sighed unhappily, " I think I'd like to see a menu." She dug around under the bar and came up with one, looked at Fleming, whom she was obviously in deep telepathic communication with and handed him one too. I pointed toward a picture of meat he ordered something in French. She puttered off and made a call to the kitchen. Later, when I was feeling almost human again, I realized Fleming was picking my brain about the Hollywood that Mickey Cohen had lost. He seemed genuinely interested and occasionally made notes on a cocktail napkin with an ebony MontBlanc pen. Something about a book he was going to write, spy stuff set in a Casino. I prattled. He didn't. When we finally got around to explanations of why we both were in this oasis of excess, I'd explained, after the fifth or sixth happy mouthfull of sirloin, that I was keeping an eye on a lady for either Phil Marlowe or her Uncle Tony, depending on who you asked and what time of day it was. He seemed to understand perfectly. "That one?" he perked up, pointing toward the now open door to Tonyland. Reinie was there, hung all over Frank Costello, grinning like one of Mr. Disney's Cheshire cats. I made a move to rise and he kicked me under the table we'd been sharing. "Sit, my friend. That's Frank Costello, he has a habit of shooting annoyances and in your mood, I think you'd be an annoyance to him. No?" I bit the inside of my mouth. Fleming was right. I watched them walk through the casino like the two lovebirds I'd seen earlier, his hand on her hip, moving slowly in circles. Yeah, I'd be an annoyance. They disappeared into an elevator and I sat back. "Now we go," Fleming said with a sharp grin. "Where?" "Where that tall dark chap is motioning us," he said, standing up. Tony DeLauro was waving at us with a sick look from the open door, beckoning. "Spot on," I said. "That's-" "Yes, I know," Fleming said, "We've met. Sicily, '44. You have wonderful taste in everything but enemies." We walked. Or rather, I followed Fleming past the crap tables to Tonyland. DeLauro hung on the doorframe, his face ashen. "He got it all," he croaked. "Even Reinie." "Did you really think he wouldn't, Tony?" I said angrily, my words drifting up into the air condtioning vent above us. "You gotta get her back," he said then brightened, looking carefully at my companion. "Hello Commander, long time no see. The boys with you?" Fleming shook his head. "Sorry, just me. And of course young James here. I have a plan if you want to hear it. Do you?" DeLauro did. As I listened, I realized this could almost work, Fleming was that persuasive. Tony stood there with his older Dean Martin face, a little tendril of hair drooping perfectly off his forehead, cogitating. I peeked into the gaming room behind him, having seen only Reinie and Costello come out along with a couple of goons. Empty. The firepole must have been busy. Fleming leaned close to DeLauro and murmurred something in Italian and both men laughed horribly. I grimaced, and they laughed even harder. Fleming took my arm like my old Uncle Morrie used to do and began leading me quickly toward a side door. "Where the hell are we going?" I gritted. "Backstage to the Follies, of course," he said. "Don't stop and don't look back, just keep going. We're being followed." I kept going. Later, I wondered who this James was. to be..continued..