The Glitter Dome (20 page)

Chuey Verdugo, two days after his release, shot Elliott Robles nineteen times at about the same moment Martin Welborn was watching the champagne skater gliding through her floor exercises. Sgt. Hal Dickey of Wilshire Detectives already had the shooter in jail and wanted to inform Al Mackey and Martin Welborn. Chuey Verdugo had used a .22-caliber revolver. It took quite a bit of time to reload enough rounds to fire nineteen slugs into the corpse, and the noise and the loss of time led to his capture by a passing radio car. The shooter said it was worth it.

Martin Welborn didn't react at all when Al Mackey told him in the parking lot. He simply said he'd like to walk for a while.

“How about coming for a drink at The Glitter Dome?” Al Mackey urged afterwards.

“I don't think so,” Martin Welborn said.

“How about going
anywhere
for a drink?” Al Mackey said.

“I'm a little tired. It's been a very long day.”

“How about coming to my place and having a drink?” a very worried Al Mackey said.

“Elliott was a nice goofy kid, wasn't he?” Martin Welborn said.

“Marty, it is
not
your fault.”

“See you Monday, Al.”

“Anybody could've asked the same question during that interrogation, Marty.”

“That's kind of an
unforgivable
mistake, though,” Martin Welborn said. “At least as far as Elliott was concerned.”

“We told Elliott about it as soon as it happened, Marty. Elliott knew the risk. We told him to get out of town. He
knew
the risk.”

“How many times did you say, Al?”

“How many times what?”

“How many times did Chuey Verdugo shoot him?”

“What
difference
does it make, Marty?”

“No difference. Good night, Al.”

“Want me to come to
your
place for a drink, Marty?” Al Mackey said to Martin Welborn, who was walking into the darkness.

“See you Monday, Al,” Martin Welborn said, without looking back.

10

Tuna Can Tommy

The Weasel and the Ferret were going after Tuna Can Tommy. It wasn't their idea of course. Every time those lazy pricks on the vice detail couldn't catch some minor pain in the ass they'd paint a portrait of the pain in the ass as a dope dealer and turn it over to narcotics. Probably Tuna Can Tommy smoked a couple of lids a week. If they iced down everybody who smoked a couple of lids a week they'd have half of Hollywood in the cooler and the other half waiting their turn. Many are chilled, but few are frozen, the two narcs always said.

They'd thought that Captain Woofer would still be tickled to death with the way they brought down Just Plain Bill. But no, a short weekend to recuperate and they get handed some other guy's problem. (The Ferret had night sweats on Friday and Saturday from dreams where the Asian Assassin was chasing
him.)
Thirteen more years for their pensions. Why in hell did guys like poor old Cal Greenberg hang around so long?

It seemed that Tuna Can Tommy made lewd telephone calls to Hollywood housewives. And he occasionally left Polaroids of himself on the windshields of cars parked near the Hollywood Ranch Market. In the photographs he wore a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, a Lone Ranger mask and nothing else. He apparently staked out the area and usually selected cars belonging to women reasonably young and attractive, although sometimes he wasn't so particular. At least one massive momma came wallumping into the Hollywood vice office bitching about a Tuna Can Tommy Polaroid she found on her windshield. She weighed in at two hundred pounds and was surging out of her shorts and tube top, yelling loud enough to scare Gladys Bruckmeyer clear up in the detective squadroom.

Gladys Bruckmeyer was back to duty after her encounter with caterpillars who conquer the kingdom, but was still spooky when it came to sudden changes in decibel level. The detectives pretended not to notice that Gladys Bruckmeyer would cry out every time Captain Woofer called her name. He'd call, “Gladys!” and she'd scream and hit the tab bar which sent the carriage flying, ringing the margin bell.

It was, “Gladys!” ding! “Gladys!” ding! Which was driving everybody crazy until poor old Cal Greenberg sabotaged the typewriter bell when Gladys took one of her frequent trips down the hall to gobble some Miltowns.

So the Weasel and the Ferret were ordered by Captain Woofer to quit basking in celebrity for capturing Just Plain Bill, and get out there and rid the Hollywood citizens of Tuna Can Tommy. All theirs because the squirrel is suddenly transformed into a dope dealer by an “anonymous informant” who talked with the vice sergeant. Times are pretty goddamn bad, the Weasel complained, when cops started using the same lame lies to each other that they should save for the real Enemies in the judiciary. But the Weasel and the Ferret had to spend most of Monday morning in a fruitless stakeout near the Hollywood Ranch Market for a fruitcake with Polaroids who signed each photograph “Love from Tommy,” and who ended his lewd phone calls with, “Love ya! It's Tommy!”

“In the first place, what's he doing so bad in leaving his own personal valentine on these cars?” the Weasel whined, during the second hour of their stakeout.

“Guy doesn't ask for nothing,” the Ferrett moaned. “Just to show these broads how he looks naked in his Lone Ranger mask and boots. What the hell. How many strangers you run into these days who leave an
I love ya!
on your car?”

“Most people just say, ‘have a nice day,'” the Weasel agreed.

“Those lazy pricks on the vice detail,” the Ferret groused.

“They probably couldn't catch him if he left his last name,” the Weasel bitched. “We'll have to pick up a Polaroid. See what his chubby body looks like.”

“Vice couldn't catch him if he left his telephone number and address,” the Ferret said. “I'll be so glad when this loan-out is over. I wanna get back downtown and away from Woofer.”

“Wonder why vice calls the squirrel Tuna Can Tommy?” the Weasel mused. “And I wonder how
we
got picked for this whole Hollywood assignment in the first place?”

The way the Weasel and Ferret were picked was elementary. Captain Woofer simply begged Deputy Chief Francis to loan him a team of narcs to help mollify the merchants and politicians constantly harping about Hollywood becoming a slum. And when Fuzznuts Francis asked what kind of narcs he wanted, Captain Woofer said to send him a pair of grungy, ugly, filthy, hairy, disgusting, creepy scumbags who would fit in with the run-of-the-mill Hollywood street folks.

The scumbags were sitting in their battered Toyota by the Hollywood Ranch Market, sharing these woes, when they received the radio call which would plunge them yet deeper into the Nigel St. Claire murder case. The radio call was to phone the station. The Ferret went to a telephone booth and after a few minutes came hurrying back to the Weasel with a happy smile in his beard.

“Huzzah!” the Ferret cried. “We may wrap up Tuna Can Tommy even faster than Just Plain Bill!”

“He give himself up?”

“He made another lewd phone call last night, only
this
victim says she thinks she recognizes the voice!”

“Yeah?” The Weasel was already firing up the Toyota. “Where we going?”

Rita Roundtree was reading
Daily Variety
when the two narcs entered the fast-food famous-name restaurant, and took their seats at the counter. She glanced at the two hairballs in leather jackets and took her time finishing the column about a 25-million-dollar movie that was boffo in six openings. Then she looked at the extravagant ads that
some
talent agencies took for their clients and wondered why she'd hooked up with such a low-rent agent, and no wonder she hadn't had a job since four months ago when she had
one
line in a pizza commercial. It was so discouraging she let out a big sigh.

Her sigh took her high-riding 38D cups even higher than the hairballs' hopes. They of course knew who
she
was from her telephone call to the vice unit. When she finally decided the two leather-covered creepos wouldn't go away she moved sluggishly down the counter, one of an army of Hollywood waitresses seduced not by dreams of streets paved with gold but of sidewalks paved with
stars
in solid brass.

“What can I get you?” she asked lethargically.

“You Rita Roundtree?” The Weasel grinned.

“How'd you know?” She was suspicious.

“We're from Hollywood Station,” the Ferret said.

“You're cops!”

They were used to it. The Ferret slipped his badge from under the shoulder of his leather jacket, showed it to her, and put it back. He didn't bother with the identification card. She'd never recognize the clean-cut young kisser on that old card anyway.

“It's just like in the movies,” the Ferret said. “When does Tommy come in here?”

“I don't
know
his name's Tommy,” Rita Roundtree said, disappointed that the cops they sent didn't look like Starsky and Hutch.

“He
calls
himself Tommy, right? You told the lieutenant you recognized his voice?”

“He comes in here for breakfast, maybe four, five times a week. He was trying to disguise his voice but I know it was him.”

“What'd he say?”

“Same thing every one a those heavy breathers says when they get on the line.”

“Specifically,” the Ferret said, looking at those high risers.

She caught him ogling. “Would you like me to whisper all the dirty words in your ear, Officer?” she said, and it was clear the Ferret was not her type.

Which let the Weasel know they might as well forget the fantasies and get down to business. “We'll have you make a crime report if we get him,” the Weasel said. “We have to know the exact words so we can make a case in court.”

“He said he hoped I wore bikini panties cause he'd like to get a mouthful of the crotch and suck them right off my cunt like spaghetti off a spoon, is what he said, if you gotta know.”

“Yeah?” cried the Weasel, pretty damned impressed with this Tuna Can Tommy.

“Really?” cried the Ferret, deciding it was a neat idea if you think about it.

“He's a goofy fat guy,” Rita Roundtree said, pouring them coffee. “Got these tufts a red hair growing out his ears and nose. Yuk! I hate tufts a hair growing out ears and noses.”

The Weasel and Ferret immediately looked at each other's ears and noses, but they both had such long hair and bushy beards it was impossible to tell.

“How come the lieutenant told us you wanted to see us right away, if he comes in for
breakfast?
” the Ferret asked.

“He eats his breakfast at noon, that's why,” Rita Roundtree answered. “Same thing every time. Two over easy, hashbrowns, bacon, ham
and
steak. A real geeky porker.”

They only had to wait twenty minutes for the porker. Several other noontime customers had entered but the clump of red hair on the head of the fat man told them even without her nod. Tuna Can Tommy made a little small talk with Rita Roundtree, and eyed her ass when she gave his order to the fry cook. Of course so did every other man at the lunch counter, except for two body builders who were holding hands and sharing a chocolate malt.

Tuna Can Tommy drank three cups of coffee after breakfast and left Rita Roundtree a two-dollar tip which made her somewhat regret calling the cops. With all the cheap fucks around here, a lewd phone call from a big tipper who wants to suck your drawers off isn't too high a price.

The Ferret went for the Toyota and the Weasel tailed Tuna Can Tommy on foot. It was a piece of cake. A big-time Hollywood dope dealer? Those lazy pricks on the vice squad.

They tailed Tuna Can Tommy to an apartment building just two blocks from the famous Chinese Theater. The throngs of tourists nosing around the concrete footprints (John Wayne's look so
small
, they invariably cried) made it that much easier to do the surveillance on foot. The Weasel found it so simple, he practically walked into the apartment building and up to the third floor
with
the fat man. He spotted the apartment number, returned to the mailbox, and saw that Tuna Can Tommy's real name was Dudley Small. He rejoined the Ferret, who had parked the nark ark and was hotfooting it toward the apartment house, wiping his ever-sensitive smog-filled eyes.

It was a 1920s Spanish-style apartment building, which meant it had a basement for sure. Ten minutes later the two young narcs were in the basement with their homemade resistors, wires and alligator clips, perfectly willing to risk a few years in the slam for illegal wiretapping.

Poor old Cal Greenberg had said it best: An unlucky policeman's life passes through four phases—cockiness, care, compromise, despair. The lucky ones don't reach phase four. The Weasel and Ferret were still in phase one. Swashbucklers.

But the telephone box was practically inaccessible with all the furniture and piles of junk stacked everywhere. Besides, the guy wasn't worth all this trouble. The Ferret went back to the car and returned with a stethoscope from their bag of tricks. Then they were in the upstairs hallway, the Ferret watching the stairway and the Weasel with his stethoscope pressed to the door, listening for hot talk from Tuna Can Tommy. But the telephone was too far away.

After fifteen minutes Tuna Can Tommy made a call. All the Weasel could hear was a brief muffled monologue. The Weasel took the stethoscope out of his ears, signaled to the Ferret, and both narcs then went to the window leading out onto the fire escape. Tuna Can Tommy's draped window was four feet from the railing, close enough to hang on with one hand, reach across the brick wall with the other, and raise the window if it was unlocked. The entire illegal maneuver if mismanaged could result in a three-story fall to the alley below. They didn't hesitate. After a quick huddle, the Ferret, being the most agile, climbed over the railing and the Weasel went to distract Tuna Can Tommy. Daredevils.