Stuart Kaminsky - The Howard Hughes Affair

“Sure,” I said, loud enough for Clarise to regain her confidence. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

Rathbone left me and walked back down the hall. I nodded to Whannel and touched the tip of my hat to Clarise. I hadn’t shaken the depression Anne and my back had hit me with. Instead of heading home, I caught the late show at the Hawaiian. Citizen Kane didn’t make me feel any better about myself so I stopped for a hot dog at a Pig ’n Whistle and went home to bed.

On Tuesday morning, I shaved and finished off half a box of Shredded Ralston while Tom Mix’s picture on the box cheered me on. I tried to look like Orson Welles in the breakfast scene in Citizen Kane , but it was no go with Shredded Ralston. I gave up impressions and I listened to the radio while I got dressed. My back felt better.

I tried not to pay attention to the war news. The rest of the news was a toss-up. Beau Jack had beaten Mexican Sammy Rivers on a TKO in the third in Brooklyn. Someone had accused LA Chief Deputy District Attorney Grant Cooper of bugging the mayor in City Hall. George Murphy had the flu. We were going to get more rain.

I went to the hall phone with a pile of nickels, and started calling the people on Hughes’ list. Major Barton didn’t answer. Benjamin Siegel’s butler, who could have used elocution lessons, said “the boss” was out for the day, but he’d leave a message. Norma Forney’s office said she was in a conference, but I could call back. The Gurstwalds were home, and after three minutes, Anton Gurstwald came on the line and agreed to talk to me “if Hughes really thinks it necessary.” I said Hughes thought it was essential, and he grunted and told me to hurry over, since he had work to do in the afternoon. Mrs. Plaut gave me a broad smile as I passed her on the porch and went into the grey morning. It wasn’t raining yet, but it soon would be. The Gurstwalds lived on the outskirts of a town called Mirador, not far from Laguna Beach off the Pacific Coast Highway. Since Hughes’ house, at least the one he had been using for the party, was also in Mirador, I could talk to the Gurstwalds and the Hughes’ servants, thus cutting through five-ninths of my list in one day, which would be enough work to award me the evening off so I could invite Carmen to the wrestling matches at the Eastside arena. There were six matches, with top bill going to Chief Little Wolf and Vincent Lopez. I’d splurge and buy the 75-cent seats and watch Carmen build up to a blood lust, which usually took her about two hours. The prospect cheered me on through Santa Monica, Torrance and Long Beach, where the rain hit fast and hard. By Newport Beach, the rain had stopped and a heavy, humid heat had collapsed on the world.

I turned off the highway at the Mirador exit and in two minutes found myself on the town’s main street. The street was wide and almost empty. An automobile door of unknown vintage lay in the middle of the street with a grey cat on top of it. The cat was on its back with its paws up, waiting for the sun. A kid sat on one curb watching the cat and me and scratching dirt from his neck. Behind him were four or five stores that looked abandoned. On the other side of the street, two cars were packed in front of three stores, one of which, called “Hijo’s” displayed a bulging live Mexican in a plaid shirt and cowboy hat. He looked at me and not the cat. Next to Hijo’s was a small brick building with a sign in the window saying “Mirador Police.” The windows were blocked by Venetian blinds, but some cops were probably there, because a yellow Ford with a star painted on it was parked in front of the building.

Two other stores were boarded up, and another store had “Live Bate” hand-painted in green on its window. The green paint had dripped down the B forming a tail.

I pulled over to the kid with the dirty neck and got out of the car.

“Know where the Gurstwald place is?” I asked, helping him watch the cat.

The kid nodded yes. The next job was to get him to share the information. From the smell, I could tell we were close to the ocean. I could also hear the roll of waves in the distance.

“Think you might tell me?” I said, still looking at the cat. The Mexican in Hijo’s window stirred and got up. I watched him for a few seconds until he looked directly at me, and then I turned my attention back to the cat on the car door. I pulled out a quarter and held it out where the kid could see it.

“Thirty cents,” said the kid.

“I can find out for nothing from the cops,” I said. The kid shrugged. He was skinny, dark and dirty, but he had class. He just kept looking at that cat.

“All right,” I said. “Let’s not quibble about a nickel.”

“We ain’t quibbling,” said the kid. “We’re negotiatin’.”

I gave him the thirty cents, and he told me how to get to the Gurstwald place. For another dime, he told me how to get to Hughes’ house after I gave him the street number. The big Mexican in the cowboy hat had stepped out of Hijo’s, put a toothpick in his mouth and started across the street toward us, neatly circling the car door. He was either heading for the kid and me or the empty stores behind us.

I started for the car.

“Hey,” said the Mexican, pointing at me with his toothpick. “You. What you doin’?”

“I’m getting in my car and heading for the Gurstwald place,” I explained. “What are you doing?”

The Mexican came right at me out of the sun, and I could see the badge on his shirt for the first time.

“I think you better answer me,” he said. “What are you bothering the kid for?”

“Shit,” I sighed as quietly as I could, but he had good ears.

“Who you callin’ shit?” he demanded.

“No one,” I said. “I’m not looking for trouble. I’m just visiting some local residents.”

“We don’t get many visitors,” he said, putting one hand on the fender of my Buick to keep the car from going away till he was ready.

“I can see why,” I said opening my door. He kept his hand on the fender.

“Good,” he said. “Just do your visiting and drive on through when you’re done.”

I turned the motor over and shook my head.

“That’s too bad,” I said. “I was thinking of picking up a few pounds of live bait.”

The Mexican tipped his hat back and bit a small chunk off his toothpick. Then he examined what was left of the wood and spoke.

“Better to forget the bait than be it,” he said softly.

“Didn’t I see you in a Republic Western a few years ago?” I said seriously.

“I think I don’t like you,” he replied, spitting out the toothpick.

The kid had been watching us with such interest that he forgot about scratching the dirt from his neck.

“I don’t argue with people who carry guns,” I said. “Now if you’ll just remove your hand, I promise to treasure the print and never clean it.”

I swerved past the cat on the door and watched the Mexican deputy and the little kid grow small in the rear view mirror. I thought I saw a figure come out of the police office, but it might have been someone coming from the “bate” shop or “Hijo’s”. Whoever it was, I could do without further Mirador hospitality.

The Gurstwald home was about two miles back on a paved road on a cliff over the ocean. It looked like it had a few dozen rooms. It certainly had a large brick wall around it with a heavy metal gate. It seemed an unnecessary precaution, since no one could find the place and no one seemed to live anywhere near it. The Gurstwalds valued their privacy.

I parked at the side of the gate and walked towards it. A well-built young man with short blond hair, wearing denims and a blue cotton shirt with long sleeves rolled up to show his muscles, stood on the other side.