MURDER UNSCRIPTED (Coming October 1, 2017)

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I spotted a payphone right outside the main gate, fished around for two quarters, and sacrificed them to Ma Bell. I punched in my office number and Mavis picked up on the second ring.

“Collins Investigations.”

“It’s your boss, kiddo. What’s up?”

“You got a call from a guy by the name of Chad Wentworth. Vandalia Bond and Casualty. You know him?”

“I don’t know him, but I’ve worked with Vandalia. What did he want?”

“Sounds like he’s got a job for you. Something to do with Americana Pictures.”

She gave me the number and I told her I would check in with her later. After three rings, a very soft voice answered at Vandalia Bond and Casualty. I identified myself and asked for Chad Wentworth. The phone was picked up following a couple of seconds on hold.

“Mr. Collins?”

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

“I understand you’ve worked for us in the past?”

“Right. A few years back. What’s up?”

“We hold the completion bond on a picture called Flames of Desire. It’s shooting over at Americana Pictures. Are you familiar with them?”

“Absolutely. Sam Goldberg’s studio.”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, he referred you to us. Apparently a death has occurred on the set. There’s a good chance the project is in jeopardy. We’d like to put you on retainer to look into it for us.”

“All right,” I said, taking my notebook from my pocket.

“Goldberg suggested you come to his office so he can get you up to speed. Any chance you can get out there today?”

“I’m on my way.”

“Fine. I’ve got your previous contract in front of me. Is your fee still the same?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Then until you drop by the office, we’ll use our conversation as a handshake. Is that acceptable?”

“Okay by me.” I wrote down the address as he gave it to me. “Who died?”

I heard him shuffling some papers. “One of the stars. Elaine Weddington.”

My pen froze above the slip of paper as I stared at the phone. After a long moment, Wentworth called my name.

I put the receiver back to my ear. “Yes, yes, I’m here.”

“Is there anything else you need from me, Mr. Collins?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, then, I’ll look forward to meeting with you.” He rang off and I stood in shock, the phone hanging limply from my hand.

My knees felt like they were going to buckle. A completion bond company insured a movie, protecting a producer’s investment in case something should go wrong during the production.

Something had definitely gone wrong on this movie. And it resonated deeply with me.

Elaine Weddington was my ex-wife.

RED DESERT (Coming Oct. 1, 2017)

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I walked into my office and found some mail on the desk. Bills, mostly, save for today’s edition of The Hollywood Reporter and two residuals. The net total of both would buy me a steak dinner, providing it was a cheap cut and I didn’t order any booze or dessert.

A doorway draped with beads separates my office from my living quarters. As I walked through the strands, I was engulfed by the heat that remained in the studio apartment from the day’s sunlight beating through the south-facing windows. Hitting the light switch and the one for the ceiling fan, I peeled off my shirt and opened the French doors overlooking Hollywood Boulevard. I turned on a large floor fan and put it in front of the windows. It didn’t do much good against the dog days of August, but was better than sitting in dead air.

I punched the remote and flipped the television to a Dodgers game. They were losing to the Giants. I grabbed a beer from the mini-fridge and filled a glass with Mr. Beam to keep it company. After cobbling together a pastrami sandwich, I put it and a bag of chips on a footstool, picked up the copy of the Reporter, and leafed through it. I certainly don’t pretend to have my finger on the pulse of the Hollywood scene, but I try and keep up with who’s doing what to whom in the biz.

As I took a bite of the sandwich, my eye caught a story on one of the inside pages. The headline read: WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN SWIMMING POOL.

The story went on to say that Janice Ebersole, girlfriend of Mike Ford, had been discovered nude, floating in the actor’s Los Feliz swimming pool. It had happened last night. Police said the preliminary investigation was inconclusive. The victim apparently had slipped and struck her head on the edge of the pool. Death appeared to be from drowning.

My sandwich sat untouched in front of me. The story hit home. I knew Mike Ford. We had worked together years ago doing summer stock. Both of us had subsequently come to Hollywood, albeit a few years apart. We’d remained good friends, catching ball games together and enjoying the occasional poker night. He’d even provided me with employment a time or two over the years. A mere month ago, he’d invited me along on a trip to Magic Mountain with his daughter and Janice.

I picked up the remote and channel-surfed until I saw local news footage on the story. On the screen Mike was seen leaving his house on Nottingham and crawling into a black SUV. Reporters hounded him, but he had nothing to say. I was stunned. Mike was a great guy and a fine actor. He’d been handed a couple of good breaks and had capitalized on them to the point where he now commanded top dollar. He’d also gone on to direct some of his pictures. His success as an actor had even garnered a handful of awards, the most noteworthy being the little golden guy called Oscar.

The reporter tossed the story back to the studio and they went to commercial—another irritating shot of a couple sitting in separate bathtubs gazing into a sunset.

I nibbled on the pastrami sandwich, which tasted like Play-Doh. I sipped my beer and absentmindedly surfed through a few channels, finally landing on Turner Classic Movies. All of a sudden, coincidence exploded from the screen. There in front of me was William Holden floating face down in a swimming pool. The scene was from Billy Wilder’s classic, Sunset Boulevard. Norma Desmond’s delusion eventually led to the demise of Holden’s Joe Gillis.

As I listened to Holden’s voiceover, the similarities between reel and real life came cascading into my head. Art imitating reality? Not quite. Unlike Norma Desmond, Mike Ford hadn’t lost his senses. Of that I was certain. What he had lost was a girlfriend.

VELVET ON A TUESDAY AFTERNOON (Coming Nov. 1, 2017)

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My cellphone went off, and law-abiding citizen that I am, I pulled over, put the car in park, and looked at the screen. It was Carla Rizzoli, my client.

“Hey, Carla. Thanks for getting back to me.”

“I’m glad you called. I’ve got some great news.”

“What’s that?”

“I got booked on that movie I told you about.”

“Well, all right. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I start on Monday.”

“That’s terrific.”

“Any news on your end, Eddie?”

“A little, actually. Where are you?”

“At the Follies. I’m between sets.”

“Well, I’m in the neighborhood. Thought maybe I could swing by and bring you up to speed.”

“Absolutely. You know where it is, right?”

I told her I did and said I’d see her in a bit. Popping into a gentlemen’s club in the middle of the day wasn’t something I was accustomed to, but hey, business is business, right?

I nosed back into traffic and continued west on Century. At La Brea I turned right, did the same on Hardy, and then a left on Larch. The street held a mix of apartment complexes and single-family dwellings. Phil Scarborough’s address was on the left. I parked across the street. The house was small and painted egg-shell blue. A front yard was neatly trimmed, and a set of rose bushes ran along an open porch. A red Toyota RAV4 sat in the driveway.

I walked up to the threshold and noticed an elderly black man next door. He was on his knees, working on an array of yellow flowers surrounding a small tree in his front yard. When he saw me, he sat back on his haunches and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

I knocked on the aluminum screen door. Venetian blinds covered a window and the only sound I could hear was a plane approaching LAX from the east. I knocked again and turned to look at the Toyota RAV4, locking the license plate digits into my head. A third knock also resulted in nothing, so I turned to go and saw a small gap appear in the Venetian blinds. Someone was inside but wasn’t about to answer the door.

As I started heading back to my car, the gardener next door got to his feet and stepped to the edge of the driveway. “I ain’t seen the guy lately.”

“Phil Scarborough, right?” I said.

“That his name? You got me. Never really met him.”

“Is this his Toyota?”

“Don’t rightly know. I seen another fella show up a few days ago. Could be his.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Nice-looking yard you got there.”

“Whatchu lookin’ for him for? You police?”

“No, sir. Publishers Clearing House. He might have won some money.”

“Sheeet, man. You yankin’ my chain. Crawl back in your fuckin’ car and skedaddle outta here.” He shook his head and started walking down his driveway.

I got behind the wheel, picked up my camera and zoomed in on the Toyota RAV4. I took a couple of shots and then focused on the license plate and got all the digits. While I was at it, I aimed the camera at the window with the Venetian blinds. This time the gap was bigger and a person’s face was clearly visible.

MARTINI SHOT

The Sportsman’s Lodge is no ordinary run-of-the-mill hotel. It sits on six acres in the San Fernando Valley just off Ventura Boulevard, east of Coldwater Canyon. In operation since the 1880s, the place was a favorite gathering place for the luminaries of Old Hollywood back in the day. The now-defunct Republic Studios were nearby and many of the old western stalwarts found it to be a convenient watering hole. Clark Gable frequented the hotel. Bogie and Bacall hung out there, as did Tracy and Hepburn. John Wayne taught his kids how to fish from the trout ponds that dotted the grounds. The fish have since been replaced by swans, but the ponds remain.
Several years ago a wealthy developer bought the real estate and made plans to tear down part of it and build what would amount to a shopping mart. Just what the San Fernando Valley needed, another shopping mecca. I didn’t see any signs of construction as I pulled into the parking lot and found a space next to sleek BMW convertible. I was fifteen minutes early. A red and white tour bus occupied one corner of the lot.
I walked under the porte cochere and nodded to two elderly gentlemen sitting on a redwood bench next to the front entrance. Glass doors silently slid open as I approached the front door and stepped into a blast of welcome air conditioning. An attractive Hispanic woman stood behind the front desk and flashed me a big smile as she bade me welcome. I told her I was meeting someone and she told me to let her know if I needed any help. I said I would.
The stuffed head of some animal with curved horns hung on one wall of the lobby. In
keeping with the “sportsman’s” theme, I suppose. But the horned animal didn’t look down upon over-stuffed leather furniture, dark wood, and raw beams in the ceiling, décor one would normally associate with a hunting lodge. Rather, the beast looked over sharp angles and sleek lines, more in tune with Art Deco.
I ambled over to a bank of leather benches facing an outdoor Olympic-sized swimming pool. Deck chairs canted at a forty-five degree angle surrounded the concrete lip, like sentries awaiting their entrance into an Esther Williams aquatic ballet. To my left three young boys and a girl pushed through a glass door into the pool yard. Towels were draped around their necks and flip-flops on their feet smacked on the tile floor. Two moms followed them with looks on their faces like they’d rather be in the cocktail lounge. My eyes followed the kids as they jostled each
other and I watched two of the boys do a cannonball into the pool, soaking two elderly matrons seated in deck chairs at poolside, tall fruity drinks at their elbows. The moms apologized, but it apparently didn’t do any good, since the wet matrons picked up their towels and their fruit salads and huffed and puffed their way to a table farther away from further cannonballs. From behind me a voice said “Mr. Collins?”
I turned. The girl was at my eye level and looked like a miniature version of Elaine
Weddington, my ex wife. A lump formed in my throat. She had to be Kelly Robinson. Standing on either side of the girl were her parents, James and Betty Robinson. I stood up, surprised. The surprise came from the fact that both the Robinsons were black.

FROG IN A BUCKET

“Reggie, come over here.” He came alongside me and his flashlight caught the slab of plywood laying at an angle. We each grabbed one end of it, lifted, and laid it aside. Underneath, sunk into the dirt, was a trapdoor made of two-by-six boards with metal strips spanning them. Recessed metal rings were embedded in every corner. We each grabbed two of them, grunted with the weight, and lifted. More stench greeted us: mildew, dust, and a pervasive odor of something that had died. We laid the trapdoor on top of the piece of plywood flooring and directed the beams of our flashlights into the hole. A wooden staircase led down, its steps so rickety they could collapse at any time. I stuck my flashlight under one arm, turned around and started to back into the hole.
After I got three steps down I grabbed my flashlight and used the other hand to hold onto the side of the staircase. “Keep your light on me until I get to the bottom,” I said. “And be careful. These steps are pretty damn narrow.” I reached the bottom and directed my light up at Reggie. “Okay, come on ahead.”
“Maybe I better stay up here,” he said.
“Why? You claustrophobic?”
“Nah, nothing like that. But the thought occurred to me that we should maybe be on the lookout in case those guys decide to come back. If we’re both down there and they show up, we’re sitting ducks.”
“Good thinking,” I replied.
I ran the beam of my light around the interior of what could have been a root or wine cellar, although that didn’t seem feasible. Nobody in their right mind would store wine in this kind of environment. The space was about twenty feet square. Its walls were concrete blocks, not set in cement, but just staggered on top of each other. Heavy planks spanned them, forming a ceiling. The floor was dirt. Whoever fashioned this basement had had one hell of a job on their hands. Lowering this many blocks and planks down here was no simple feat.
My light revealed a battery-operated lamp hanging from a hook in one of the planks. I found the switch and turned it on. Two fluorescent rods lit up, but not with enough light to reach into the corners of the enclosure. However, they did reveal another, smaller surge protector secured to one of the concrete blocks. Its male plug was connected to the cable snaking down from the stall above. A coil of electrical cable lay on the ground beneath it.
“There’s juice down there?” Reggie said from his perch at the top of the stairs.
“Just a battery-powered lamp,” I said. “That generator has to provide anything else.”
“What’s the place look like?”
“Concrete blocks for walls, planks for ceiling. The floor is dirt. Damp as hell.”
I went back to probing the interior with my flashlight. Another smaller mattress was propped on one end in a corner. A soiled sheet lay on top of a small wooden table next to it. Underneath the opposite block wall was an oblong mound of dirt, a shovel and an empty bag of quicklime in the corner.
“Looks like there’s another grave down here,” I called up to Reggie.
“Crap,” he muttered in response.
In another corner stood a tall metal cabinet, much like an athletic locker. The door was ajar. I swung it open. Empty plastic jewel cases occupied the top shelf. I picked up one of them and saw the name “Betty” scrawled on it with a Magic Marker. Every one of the cases had names on them. “Julie,” “Cate,” “Fran,” and on and on. Near the bottom of the pile was a case with “Meredith” on the label.
“There’s a stack of empty DVD cases here. Names on every one of them.”
“Oh, man,” Reggie said. “Is there one with…you know?”
“Yeah, you got it. Meredith.”
“Damn,” he said. “You better bring it up with you.”
“Will do.”
The shelf below the one with the jewel cases contained three cardboard boxes, one of them larger than the other two. I pulled it out to catch the beam of my flashlight. Inside were more instruments of restraint: fur-lined cuffs, collars, chains. Disgusted, I threw it back into the cabinet and pulled out one of the smaller boxes. This one contained at least a dozen empty pill bottles, all of them some variation of pain killers and opioids. I put it back and grabbed the second box. Inside were numerous small plastic bags, all of them empty. I pried one open and stuck my index finger inside, then rubbed it against my thumb. It felt like a powder. My guess was most likely cocaine. Maybe even heroin. Ammunition to sedate helpless women while these four dirtbags had their disgusting fun.
“Lots of empty nickel and dime bags too,” I said.
There was no response from Reggie.
“You hear what I said?”
Silence.
“Reggie?”
After a moment he said, “Eddie, you better come up here.”
“What’s the matter?”
“You just better come back up.”
I stuck the jewel case with Meredith’s name on it down the small of my back and walked over to the foot of the staircase. “You all right?” I said, as I shined my flashlight up to the top of the stairs. He was seated on the top step. Looming over each of Reggie’s shoulders were Ken Thompson and Vic Benedetti. Both of them had guns in their hands.

ROOM TONE

Darkness had descended when we emerged from the theater. There was a slight nip in the air, and Carla slipped her arm through mine as we walked eastward on the Boulevard. “What did you think?” she said. “I thought it was excellent. Ali is a hell of an actor.” “Viggo is no slouch either,” she said. “He’s sexy.” “How so?” “Well, he’s got that classic cleft in his chin. You know, like Mitchum and Kirk Douglas.” I ran my fingers over my chin and said, “Hmm, guess I’m out of luck.” “Oh, honey, you’re already sexy. Besides, I don’t know how those guys manage to shave with those canyons in the way.” We laughed and stopped for the light at Highland and Hollywood. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks for a nice afternoon, Shamus.” “My pleasure.”
The light changed and we continued walking. Halfway down the block, we stopped to look in the window of one of the many stores that catered to tourists. The shop was still open. Huge plate glass windows were on each side of the front door. The owner, who looked to be of some Middle Eastern ethnicity, beckoned for us to come in. We smiled, shook our heads and waved to him. Everything imaginable having to do with Hollywood was displayed in the most garish manner possible. We moved to the other side of the door as a young Asian couple came up behind us to start their own rubbernecking.
“Look at this stuff, Eddie. Mavis would go nuts in this place.” “Believe me when I tell you she’s probably already combed through this entire store.” I pointed to a pair of action figures in the guise of Superman and Wonder Woman. “For instance, those two have already crossed her path.” Traffic on the street was heavy and from behind me I heard what sounded like a vehicle back firing.
But I was wrong. The window in front of us suddenly exploded and shards of glass rained down upon us. I pushed Carla to the sidewalk and shielded her with my body as another shot flew over my head. As I glanced toward the traffic, two more shots rang out. One of them shattered the glass window in front of the Asian couple. The second struck the woman, who fell to the sidewalk. Her companion screamed and sank to his knees beside her. Further down the street pedestrians dropped to the sidewalk at the sounds of the gunfire. I looked at the flow of traffic and saw there was a red light at the intersection. A dark SUV was behind two vehicles. It suddenly veered to the right, jumped over the curb onto the sidewalk, and destroyed a wire trash can and a newspaper box in its path. The SUV squealed around the corner, scattered pedestrians and headed north on Highland Avenue to the Hollywood Freeway. I fumbled for my cell phone and frantically punched in the 911 digits.