Tough Luck L.A. Read online

  Tough Luck L.A.

  A Ben Crandel Mystery

  Murray Sinclair

  For Tootsie

  1

  I was hitting 60 when I heard the siren, heading west on Sunset, sweeping up around that long curve that overlooks UCLA and Westwood Village. A couple of jazzy Italian jobs had just passed me like I was standing still, so I didn’t feel like I’d been breaking any speed records. I was in another world and wouldn’t have bothered looking into the rearview mirror if Ellen hadn’t casually mentioned something a moment before. She was past wanting to give a damn about me, and, looking back upon it now, I can’t blame her. My lifestyle had plummeted to a nadir of dark brilliance, which is short for saying I had really become a pain to live with. The best thing she thought she could do was to leave me alone.

  As I pulled over she didn’t blink an eyelid. Her blank face was turned up toward the sun and her seat was tilted back against her typewriter, desk lamp, and the box with all the pots and pans. Her office clothes and reference books covered the top of the tonneau and there was a medium-sized carpet bag in the trunk. That’s a full load for an MG. She’d moved everything else into her new apartment the day before. We’d just finished painting the kitchen in the morning. Then we had gone back to my place to get the rest of her things, and that’s why, at this moment, she was sunbathing with seeming content to the accompaniment of a police siren. The tip of her tongue appeared, moistened her lips, then vanished from sight. Modestly, her hands rolled her sleeveless T-shirt back down over her belly, then she became inert again.

  If I’m not careful, policemen have a way of overexciting me. Like a silly old mutt who would rather die than not go after the mailman or gardener, by the time I got out of my car and met the cop halfway, I was almost rabid. I went into my F. Lee Bailey act, ranting and raving and enjoying every second of it. Ellen had to give the guy my registration when I refused to let him see it. By that point, he had taken his night stick out. He noted on the speeding ticket that I’d been uncooperative. And, in the end, with great audacity, I still swore I’d see him in court. Fortunately, the fellow had a well-developed sense of humor. He so much as told me so before he shook his grizzled head and walked away.

  A petty thing. But I lacked civility and was bound and determined to make it all a big deal. I was feeling pretty righteous, and if a soothsayer had told me the truth then—that, in less than twenty-four hours, this very same wise-ass attitude was going to nosedive me straight into the clink on a trumped-up murder charge—I would have belly-laughed and recommended a couple of heaping spoonfuls of Geritol to pep up his flagging iron-poor spirits, then sent him on his way.

  Ellen couldn’t read tea leaves, but it wasn’t hard for her to zero in between the lines. At first, as I resumed driving, she was so angry she just looked straight ahead at the road. Her voice shook as she spoke. My whole defense: two guys had been going faster than I had. Therefore, they were the culpable ones. Erroneous logic, so I was told. The conversation ended. We drove on in silence.

  After a while, I asked, “Are you still angry?”

  “Yes,” quavered a little voice.

  I looked over at her. She was holding her head up proudly and doing her best to conquer the tears that were streaming down her face.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the cretin.

  “Everything, everything with you,” she sobbed at me. Then, quickly, she stopped and got a grip on herself. She looked over at me. Her big brown eyes were hot and shiny. “If you would just stop and think sometimes.”

  “I know. I have a problem with authority.”

  “It’s no joke, Ben.”

  “OK. So it’s no joke.”

  We went on like that for some time, the gist of it all being that still lurking just beneath the venerable surface of thirty-two-year-old Ben Crandel was the angry little J.D. who distrusted, discredited, defied everyone and everything with or without reason—just to avoid responsibility.

  I wasn’t so sure she was right, but I was too much in love with her to make her cry again, so I told her she might have a point. After we got to her apartment and I helped her lug her stuff in, she lowered the axe.

  “I’ll pick you up about five, five-thirty,” I told her.

  “For what?”

  “The Dodger game with Petey,” I said.

  “I forgot. But I don’t think I should come.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we aren’t going to be a couple for at least a while, and it’s not fair to Petey to lead him on.”

  “That’s crazy. He just likes you.”

  “Well, I like him too. Maybe I’ll work out something to see him separately.”

  “You’re talking like he’s our child or something.”

  “Would that be so strange?”

  A knife passed through my gut. All I could do was look at my feet.

  Ellen went on: “He’s very dependent on you, Ben.”

  “So?”

  “Well, it seems like you’re afraid to be alone with him. It doesn’t seem like you’ve really talked to him for a long time.”

  “We talk all the time.”

  She wasn’t listening. “It’s like you’ve reached a certain point and you’re not sure whether you want to go further.”

  “No.”

  “Then why haven’t you told him about yourself?”

  “You think he cares about all the morbid details of my life?”

  “You don’t think he’d be interested to know that you were also brought up in boys’ homes?”

  “Why should he?”

  “You’re afraid to get closer.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  I turned away and walked back down to the street. Ellen caught up with me, gave me a peck on the cheek, and told me to send her best to Petey. She also reminded me to hold to our promise. We were supposed to think about ourselves and our relationship. This was Ellen’s idea, of course. I wasn’t allowed to see her for six months. My only hope was that she’d change her mind.

  2

  Afterward, I was edgy. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be alone with the kid. I just felt like a deadbeat and I was afraid he’d start thinking it was something he’d done. At times he can be very sensitive. It’s like a time bomb with a bad timer. You can guess but never know exactly when. So I called Vicky. I ran around with her before I met Ellen. Then we stayed buddies, which wasn’t all that easy. She was only a kid, but in the time I’d known her, she’d been through hell and there was nothing anybody could do to help her. She had a stubborn streak a mile wide. But she’d come out OK. We had a decent, close relationship—like sister and brother—and I had no intention of using her as a shock absorber for easing my bumpy ride with Ellen. Just a good time at the ballgame for the kid and my peace of mind. But she was edgier than I was and didn’t want to go.

  “Kids can see right through us,” she told me.

  “See what?”

  “You know,” she said.

  I couldn’t see how the kid would possibly have any inkling that she’d once been a prostitute, but I wasn’t about to argue with her. I asked her what she was so itchy about.

  “Somebody’s following me.”

  “Honey,” I said calmly, “somebody is always following you.”

  “I know. It happens whenever I get upset.”

  “You become painfully self-conscious.”

  “But this time—”

  “This time, what? It’s always ‘this time’.”

  “It’s the same guy over and over.”

  “How many times?”

  “A couple.”

  “He’s smitten.”

  That got a laugh out of her. “I’m crazy,” she said.

  “Me too,” I told her.
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  Even though her twenty-first birthday wasn’t until the following week, she was going out of town, so we made plans for lunch the following afternoon. But I still couldn’t talk her into the ballgame.

  3

  “Is my check ready, Mr. Herbert?”

  I could tell the fat old coot was going to play with me. His little pinhead eyes were dancing around, jiggling with his fat jowls while his big lips were scrunched up around his ever present, dog-eared, rancid, rum-soaked, five-cent Crook, moving it up and down, around his mouth. The cigar was what seemed to keep the whole engine of his face going. The cigar or food. I’d never seen him without either. Take away the mouth movement and he’d probably fall face down into his blotter, go into a coma.

  “What do you think, son?” he whispered out of his throat. It didn’t make him sound tough. It was like he was whining all the time. He puffed that saliva-darkened, fetid-looking thing, inhaled a little too much, and coughed the smoke toward my face. He was disgusting. His dress shirt was about five sizes too small, so he wore it open. Underneath, over the distended belly, his undershirt was pulled tighter than a dancer’s leotard. You could see the great crater of his navel right through the stretched cotton.

  “I don’t know. Were there any problems in the manuscript?”

  “Manuscript, ha!” he chortled. “Your roman à clef.”

  “I thought it was just like the last one—except this time it was a schoolteacher instead of a housewife.”

  “Look at all this crap I’ve got to read. Do you think I like this?”

  He looked at me demanding my approval, so I said, “I know.”

  “You know your last one stunk too—only I thought this one’d be better.”

  “Sir, I’ve been at this for years and—”

  “Well, ya haven’t been workin’ for me, see.” He said this in his best Little Caesar imitation. Then he leaned over the desk and shoved a bunch of figure-smeared financial statements in my general direction. But before I could really look at them, he pulled the papers back toward his belly. “Look, now you’re in the double distribution category. Know what that means? We pay more, we expect more. What’d you get for your first three—five hundred?”

  I nodded.

  “For seven-fifty, it’s gotta be quality. What you gave me is artsy-fartsy.”

  “Maybe if you could pinpoint what you consider the difficulties.”

  “Do I have ta spell it out for ya? My other writers come to me, I tell ’em, ‘Listen, this is no good.’ They give a look of understanding lightning quick, immediately. ‘More fucking and sucking?’ ‘That’s it,’ I tell them, and they go home and finish their work.”

  “So, that’s the problem, as you see it.”

  “Look, you’re new, relatively. I’ll spell it out for ya: More come sequences. OK.?”

  “I’ve got an orgasm on every other page as is,” I tried to explain.

  “Well, there’s your problem. Why go for every other when you can strive for completeness?”

  “Sir, you’ve got to build up to something. It’s much more erotic that way.”

  “Listen, who’s working for who here?”

  “OK, OK, I’ll do it. But I’ve got to have half of the money now. My rent’s due. I’ve got car payments. I—”

  “That wasn’t in our agreement, was it?”

  “But can’t you please try to—”

  “After you’re dependable, sometimes we give advances. Now, I can’t. I simply can’t.”

  “OK.” I could see myself from afar, like I wasn’t really doing this, but just imagined myself to be standing here on this asshole’s threadbare carpet, listening attentively and looking sincerely into the beady little conniving eyes of a fat, pimping moron lecturing me on the art of writing pornography.

  “All right then. But not just more sex. Remember.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Kid, Jesus Christ! Have the teacher tell her kids to come on her face, over her tits, up her ass—you know, make it sloppy. Use your imagination, OK?”

  I should have known better than to try to be logical, but the academician in me was foolishly demanding that context be balanced with content. “So you want me to change this thing from a rape story to a nymphomaniac piece.”

  With astonishing agility, Herbert bounced to his feet. “Fuck the goddamn story! This is the Pussy Prize, not the Pulitzer. More come, more sperm. Period.”

  He walked around from the back of his desk and I wasn’t sure what he was going to do. I just prayed that whatever it might be, he wouldn’t sit on me. He looked furious as he moved around me, bumping into my shoulder and practically sending me sprawling through the fourth story. Nice. I rubbed my shoulder to get rid of the cooties. Herbert turned around as he passed by, acknowledging that our paths had crossed accidentally on purpose. Then he continued on about his business as he sorted through stacks and stacks of porno strewn over a large side table. He waded through what he didn’t want, discarding the cheap paperbacks to either side of his fat arms as they parted through the sea of desperate fantasies. Books toppled to the floor, but I wasn’t about to help. I just stood and waited for my exit line.

  Finally, he seemed to come across a few books that he’d been burrowing for. He perused these carefully for a second or so, flipping through pages and reading with his lips moving, cigar wagging. Then he grabbed three or four more at random and shoved the whole lot of these in my direction.

  “Here. Read these. Dick Jones is one of our biggest penmen.”

  Golden rule: Keep quiet. Do not speak when you need money, and opening your mouth will not help you get it. Repeat: Keep mouth closed. Take orders with shit-eating grin. I looked around the room. Consistent with theme, posters from X-rated films adorned the walls, a couple out of the half dozen or so supposedly derived from Adult Press Books. Herbert had bragged to me about that before.

  Herbert leaned over his desk and pounded a metal hotel register bell in staccato bursts with his hammy palm. The sound was barely carrying because both of the large wire-meshed windows facing Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue were open to a cacophony of street noise as cars, motorcycles, and large diesels either cruised slowly by rumbling their engines or downshifted as they accelerated up the gradual slope of Highland on their way toward the Hollywood Freeway. I was about to ask Herbert if he was trying to tell me something, when he knitted his brow into a straight line paralleling the creases formed over his wispy, receding hairline, and yelled out, “George, get your goddamn ass in here! George!”

  Helen, Herbert’s wife, came in calmly, taking all of this very much in stride. A beatific, almost idiotic smile showed her nice teeth. They were big and shiny, though not as brilliant as her platinum, lacquered mane.

  “George went to get the car washed, honey.”

  “He was supposed to check with me.” Herbert looked hurt. His cigar stump waggled downward.

  “Hungry, honey?”

  “Call Greenblatt’s. Get me roast beef and turkey.”

  “Right away, hon.” Helen said this affectionately. She turned around, and a noseful of perfume and powder wafted my way. She had enough layers on to put blush and color over the face of a baby elephant, and through it all you could still see the dark circles under her eyes. Her eyes contradicted her smile—they were glazed and rather lifeless. Prince Valium, horse tranquilizer, whatever it was she took, that’s how this nice woman was able to manage. I couldn’t blame her. After all, I didn’t have to live with him.

  “And wait a minute. I want some barley bean soup—not Greenblatt’s, Canter’s.”

  “Not on Wednesday, dear. They’ve just got split pea today.”

  “Then get me split pea,” he blustered. “And pastry—whatever looks good. You know.”

  Helen walked over to the window. She put her hand above the old-fashioned iron-barred steam heater, then knelt down to turn it off. Her backside pressed up against the knitted woolen skirt, showing off a shapely bottom.


  Herbert gazed down at the woman but didn’t seem to notice or appreciate her. I could see that he was anxious for her to be on her way.

  Helen straightened up and started back out again. At the door, she turned around. “When you have a minute, I’d like to talk to you about what we should do about the living room, Irv.”

  “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a very important conference?”

  Helen’s smile abandoned her, leaving deep lines around her mouth. She suddenly looked capable of sobbing.

  Herbert belched almost demurely, patted his stomach, and said, “Pick out what you want.”

  Helen turned her toothy look back on. “Thanks, Irving.”

  She left, and Herbert frowned as he busied himself trying to find a match to rekindle his stogie. When he did, he settled back and puffed up his cheeks like a blowfish as he blew smoke and smirked and shook his head.

  4

  Assuming that Herbert was finished turning his screws on me, I figured it was time to leave. But it was obvious he didn’t want to let me out of his sight. He motioned for me to sit, then he started rummaging through another cluttered pile of porno books and papers on his desk. More reading samples? He shoved aside his paper weights: a big, icy hunk of polished quartz; your typically tasteless personified nut after the bolt, both with gangly wire-pronged arms and legs, mounted over a chunk of walnut; and to top it all off, a large plastic eight ball—you were supposed to ask it a question, then turn it over and your fortune floated up into an inky window across the bottom. I picked it up and kept turning the thing over and over to find out how many fortunes it had.

  “Ask again later.”

  “You may rely on it.”

  I was being told that “It’s doubtful” when Herbert found what he’d been looking for and held up a couple of best smellers with cheap color photographs on the front of a woman reclining over bed or sofa in an unmistakably compromising position.

  “Look at that,” he said.

  Both poses were essentially the same—the typical frontal bit with the same enticing female. It was Vicky, sprawled out over a king-sized bed. The blankets and sheets were turned back, her legs were spread wide apart with both arms slightly hunched in from the shoulders, encircling her breasts and pushing them up and outward toward the titillated fantasist. On one book she was being mounted by a little teddy bear. On the other her delicate hands reached out upturned against the inside of her thighs.