The Glitter Dome (33 page)

“Just think how
many
the doctors could get if they banded together in a show of strength!”

“How many what?” Martin Welborn asked.

“Blow jobs! Whadda ya think, dummy! Blow jobs!” Al Mackey giggled. He was more than half bagged, and all excited from having spotted a World Famous Singer and Songwriter who usually sang and wrote of angst and despair in Los Angeles, but also included the rest of the world.

Finally, Martin Welborn had had enough vodka to walk up to the woman in the cotton gauze dress and say, “This is the second time I've seen you.”

“Pardon?”

“I saw you last week at the skating rink. You're a lovely skater.”

“Oh, do you skate?”

He'd expected her to thank him and walk away. “No, I was just there on business.”

“And what business are you in?” Her eyes were lilac!

“I'm afraid I'm not in show business.” He smiled.

“And what business are you in?” She looked him directly in the eye and required an answer. She seemed genuinely interested.

“I'm a policeman,” he said.

“I've never met a policeman. Are you
here
on business?”

“We're investigating the Nigel St. Claire murder and his nephew invited us to pop in tonight.”

“The movie line would be: ‘It's not official then?'”

“No.” He smiled.

“Herman St. Claire doesn't invite just anyone to a party like this. He must be impressed by you.” She looked at him over the rim of the champagne glass. He had never stood face to face with a woman this beautiful in his entire life. He was starting to get the feeling he'd seen this in a movie somewhere. Several times, in fact. But the vodka mist was warm and reassuring.

“Perhaps you can point out some likely suspects for me?” He smiled, edging just an inch closer. This near, he was sure she was at least forty. It made her all the more attractive. Unlike Al Mackey, he preferred picking on women his own size.

“Suspects? I could point out a hundred or so. Let's do!” He could see that she wasn't entirely sober either. Looking for suspects with a beauty on his arm? He
had
seen this movie before.

“I'm Deedra Briggs.”

“I'm Martin Welborn,” he said, shaking hands as they strolled.

“Are you a captain or what?”

“Sergeant.”

“Well, Sergeant, do you see that group over there?”

“The ones you were talking with? I recognize some of them.”

“That's the royalty. The contract-player days are over, but there's still a lot of power around and a lot of it is in that group. Power at least as far as actors are concerned.”

“Are you an actress?”

He thought she flinched for a split second, but he could have been wrong. She said, “I work at it. And I model a bit.”

“I probably should have known you're an actress. I don't go to movies often.”

“I don't play in movies often,” she said. “Mostly television commercials. It's a living.”

She had a trained voice. She sounded like the prep school headmistress he saw in a television film one night. A headstrong member of the Eastern Establishment who had come to Hollywood to defy her father. Something like that. The television heroine had ridden to hounds.

“You're not what I would have expected from a policeman. An elbow-patches kind of mellow fellow. How long have you been a policeman?”

“In a few more weeks I'll have my twentieth anniversary.”

“Is that retirement time?”

“It could be. I'll be eligible for my pension.”

“Are you married?”

“Not exactly. Are you?”

“Not anymore.”

The music started and a few couples began taking to the floor. The music this early in the evening was obviously tailored to the tastes of the older moguls at the rear of the tent.

“Do you dance?”

“Well, I've seen you skate,” he said. “I'm a little intimidated.”

“Good. I'm a lousy dancer. Let's go find a suspect.”

They walked to the fringe of the mogul group and listened.

“They don't invite actors to intimate parties,” she explained. “Unless they need a court jester or two to amuse the frau of somebody important. Actually, they despise actors. We're unstable, immature, hysterical. Those are
deal
makers. Some of them have never read a book. But they read all
about
the book. Ditto with a script. They have people read the books and people read the scripts and then they use their unerring instincts and spend corporate millions on the tripe you see on the screen these days.”

“I don't see much on the screen these days.”

“Lucky,” she said, glaring toward the mogul group. “To me they're the most despicable of the lot.” She finished her champagne and staggered a bit. “Sorry.” She took his arm in both of hers and leaned against him.

“I saw you talking to one of them. The tall fellow with all the silver hair.”

“I was in one of his hit movies ten years ago. He's riding a string of losers. I believe he's on his way out. I can hardly bear to talk to him, but at least he
knows
he's a deal maker. Some of the others think they're
artists
.”

“Tell me,” Martin Welborn said suddenly, “under any circumstances would anyone in …
this
world,” and he waved at the big top to encompass the whole circus, “ever under certain circumstances be involved in making any kind of … porn films?”

“Making porn shows? Lord, no. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, we have a suspect who might have some connection and … well, it's remote.”

“Pornography's legal these days.”

“Yes, but I was thinking of kiddy porn, that sort of thing.”

“Sergeant, have you been to the movies lately? Don't you know that naked teenagers are hot commodities this year?”

“I mean
real
kiddy porn. The illegal kind.”

“See that man talking to Herman the Third?”

His name and even his face were instantly recognizable. He was a distinguished producer of some of the most enlightening and uplifting documentaries of our time.

“I recognize
him
all right,” Martin Welborn said.

“He owns the largest collection of porn, including kiddy porn, of anyone in the world, they say.”

“He does?”

“Despicable isn't it?” She laughed wryly. “Talk about lying down with the beasts. Everyone in The Business knows that little tidbit.”

“Really?”

“It's
very
common knowledge. I suspect even your policemen who work that specialty must know about his collection. I imagine his tastes encompass just about anything macabre that could be put to film. Probably has the original sixteen-millimeter prints of Hitler's strangulation of the Rommel conspirators. I heard him discussing that at another party one time. His eyes lit up.”

“Unbelievable.”

“But he wouldn't
make
kiddy porn, though he loves it dearly In fact, little Herman is probably trying to persuade him right this minute to make and distribute his forthcoming feature at Herman's studio. He somehow cadged the rights to a South African epic they're
all
interested in. I don't even know the name of it, but these boys know. They have paid informants at the New York publishing houses to steal and Xerox the potential blockbuster manuscripts.”

“Fascinating,” he said, noting that Herman III's eyes shone like mica.

“You've been a cop twenty years. I've been in this business as long.”

She wasn't ashamed to hint at her age. He liked that.

“But I do believe that those gentlemen aren't interested in any cinematic genre unless it's
safe
and profitable. They're screaming cowbirds. Do you know that species?”

“No.”

“The screaming cowbird waits for another bird to build a nest and then appropriates it. They're parasite birds.”

Meanwhile Al Mackey was nearly on his ear from his tenth double whiskey, without having stopped for a bite to eat. He was reeling from one group to another, waiting for sultry girls to strip down and dance on the piano. He'd seen a few films too. So far, nothing much had happened, although he thought he'd stumbled on an orgy in the making. He saw a very intense group of men and women who turned out to be producers or something, making deals. It was the euphemism that threw him.

“Listen, do you think you could get in bed with us?” a man with a suntan like Herman III asked a woman who was dressed like a nineteenth-century German lampshade.

The lewd proposal stopped Al Mackey dead in his tracks.

She said, “Well I could get in bed with your group, but not until the deal was sweetened.”

Jesus Christ! They have to pay for their orgies? Here on this freaking yellow brick road? But then when she quickly turned to talk to another man, the one with a silver mane said to a sweaty little guy, “Miriam says she could get in bed with us if we sweeten it. I frankly think that it's as sweet as it's gonna get. Remember, Mort, we could get in bed with Merv. He's only asking half a mill and five points after two and a half times negative.”

As bagged as he was, Al Mackey wasn't drunk enough to think
anybody
would pay half a million for a blow job from a
dozen
Mervs and Miriams. He figured out that all this lewd and dirty talk that had him all excited simply involved business. The Business. What a letdown. They mixed their metaphors of sex and money like a horde of hookers.

And another thing: Nobody said good-bye. It was as though a sign of farewell would split these tenuous relationships forever. Upon parting, everyone touched cheeks, bussed the air, and said, “Let's have lunch.”

But there were acres of tits! Tits around here must grow bigger and faster, like mushrooms in a cave. It must be the climate around Beverly Hills. He spotted Herman III talking to another mogul. Al Mackey staggered over and interrupted.

“Hi, Herman.”

“Hi, Marty. Having a good time?”

“Al.”

“Al, how's it going? Having fun?”

“Oh, yeah, Herman.” Then he took the baby mogul by the arm and dragged him aside. Herman III, who didn't drink, had to turn away. Al Mackey was blowing 100 proof.

“What can I do for you, Al?”

“Herman, can you introduce me to someone?”

“Who?”

“Anyone. You know what I mean?”

“A bimbo?”

“Yeah. A bimbo.”

“Look, Al,” Herman III said apologetically. “I can make an introduction, but, uh, you gotta do your own moving. I mean, I'm not a pimp.”

“Of course not, Herman! The very idea!” Al Mackey cried. “But can't you just point me in the right direction?”

“Okay, Al.” Herman III smiled, and Al Mackey vowed to get a suntan and have his teeth capped. Jesus, around here he felt like his old man must have felt as a bogtrotter at Ellis Island.

“Thanks, Herman, I'll be over there with
that
bunch. I like to listen to the actors.” At least they
really
talked dirty.

“Anything for L.A.'s finest. But remember, I'll just introduce you to a girl I think is gonna like you. I'm not a …”

“Whore. I know you're not.”

“Pimp.”

“That neither. Thanks, Herman.”

By this time, Martin Welborn had discovered that Deedra Briggs had lied to him. She was a wonderful dancer and made him look good. They were in each other's arms now, and he felt the thrust of breast and drumming of blood, and Martin Welborn was saddened to learn that this kind of party broke up earlier than police parties in Sherman Oaks. People in The Business went to bed early and did not abuse their bodies in the same way that police detectives did.

She had long since begun dancing with both arms around Martin Welborn's neck. “A mellow fellow in elbow patches. You're what I've been looking for …”

“… all your life,” he said.

“Right.” She giggled.

“Deedra, could I … Would you like to see me again? Sometime? Not necessarily …”

“Will you take me home?”

He couldn't believe it. “I should say so!”

“I don't have a car here. Jags just don't function well in California heat. I was warned.”

“Sure I'll take you home!” Martin Welborn said, and she buried her face in his neck as they swayed.

So, while Herman III was off being neither a whore nor a pimp, Al Mackey decided to make some small talk with the mogul crowd. He introduced himself to the tall mogul with the silver mane, who had been talking to the girl Marty was scoring with.

Making conversation wasn't easy with these people, since they all seemed to be intent on digits and numbers. Al Mackey quickly ran out of things to say. Then he thought about a novel he'd read lately.

“Have any of you read the novel about black fishermen in Bermuda who get caught in the typhoon and end up in Cuba? I just read it last week and I think it'd make an interesting movie, I mean, film.”

The three moguls looked at him suspiciously, but finally a fat mogul said, “Blacks aren't in anymore. I wouldn't think you could cast it. Any white parts?”

“I wouldn't touch another hurricane picture,” a tall mogul warned.

“You wouldn't stand a chance with an all-male picture,” a thin mogul advised.

Al Mackey was delighted that they were talking at him and he turned to the one with the silver mane and said, “How about you? Think it could make a good movie? I mean, film?”

And the tall mogul with the silver mane responded instinctively. A layer of egg white seemed to flow across his eyeballs from the upper regions. He seemed to be looking at Al Mackey through the wrong end of a telescope. He stared at Al Mackey with those oysterish unseeing eyes, and the words
slithered
out, all caked with mildew: “All right, because you're a friend of Herman's. Messenger the script over to my office. I'll take a look and call you.”