That was a universal distress call among the lower strata of show business, and it brought two Hollywood Security operatives charging out of our back room: Lange, our resident lion tamer, and our current rookie, whose name was Mahoney. Or maybe they were drawn by the sound of my playmates and me rolling into the Christmas tree.
After that, as battlefield reports sometimes put it, the fighting became general. When it was over, our side held the field. It was very nearly a Pyrrhic victory, there being sufficient bloody noses, split lips, and budding black eyes to go around. And our aluminum tree wasn’t even up to cleaning drains now.
Only Paddy seemed to have come through unscathed. He emerged from his office smoking a new cigar and adjusting his coat and hat. I thought he might have talked his way through the late unpleasantness until I went to collect our third guest and found him slumped against Paddy’s desk, asking what round it was.
When he and I rejoined the others, Paddy left off examining Peggy’s bleeding lip. He told her to avoid mistletoe and turned to Lange and me.
“We’re taking these gentlemen back to their employer, Tip Fasano. Dress for the occasion. I’d suggest forty-five caliber.”
“Call the police,” Peggy told him.
“There’s no police can get us out of this one,” Paddy said, and his sober tone quieted her. “There is a call you can make for me, though,” he added. “Try that emergency number Wally Wilfong left. Set up a meeting.”
That reminded me of a little telephone business of my own. While Peggy daubed at a cut above my eyebrow with a handkerchief, I told her all I knew about Professor Carey and asked her to set up a call with him for later that day.
5
Once upon a time, Tip Fasano had operated out of a barbershop on Figueroa, where he’d played at cutting hair himself. Nowadays, he played at being a business executive, using a swanky office in the Valley, near Universal Studios. We caravanned out there, Paddy, Lange, and the three wise men riding in style in our new pals’ black Cadillac Fleetwood, and me tagging along behind in my Packard.
Fasano’s office was the headquarters of his legitimate business, which sold supplies to barbershops and beauty salons, so we didn’t have to shoot our way in. Or even state our business. The girl receptionist took one look at our parade of walking wounded and waved us right through.
The gambler’s office dwarfed Paddy’s to about the same degree that the Fleetwood had shaded my Clipper. The carpet was royal blue, and the walls it ran between were the same color in a lighter shade. All around were pedestals holding bits of broken statuary that looked like they’d just been dug up in Pompeii. The owner of the hardware sat behind a big block of mahogany that had brushed chrome inlays running around it like the straps on a steamer trunk.
Fasano wasn’t what you’d call handsome — his nose had been stepped on at some point in his career — but in the seven or eight years I’d known him, he hadn’t aged a bit. His hair was still dark and wavy, the skin well tanned, the whites of his eyes as clear as a baby’s. Those whites were visible briefly as we trooped in. Then Fasano went back to his trademark slit-eyed stare, which had chilled the blood of many a brave man, mine included.
Paddy seemed unaffected. “Salutations of the season, Tip,” he said. “Your elves got lost this morning and ended up in my office. I thought I’d bring them back before they got rolled by a crippled newsie.”
“Thanks,” Fasano said. “Talk to them any first?”
“As a matter of fact. They had some crazy notion that we’d taken over Wally Wilfong’s debts. I had to disabuse them.”
“They look disabused,” Fasano observed.
I found I was feeling sorry for the three torpedoes, even the one who’d poked me in the eye. The next page of dialogue cured me of that.
“Word on the street is you’re holding something valuable for Wilfong,” Fasano said. “Word also is that Wilfong is among the missing. So I think it would be better if I hold the pearl or painting or whatever the hell you’ve got, as security for Wilfong’s marker.”
Paddy said, “The only thing Wilfong left was a bad taste in my mouth. He had an old gun he claimed he could sell for a pile, but he didn’t trust us with it.”
“A gun worth real money? What, the one that plugged Lincoln?”
“Close,” Paddy said. “Wilfong also has an interested buyer. We’re to provide a bodyguard for the transfer. That’s the limit of our involvement.”
“Guess it’s my turn to do the disabusing, Maguire. You’re involved right up to your top chin. You might have roughed up my boys. You might even have the drop on me now. But the winning hand you don’t have. My organization’s a lot bigger than yours. And we know where to find you, day or night.”
He singled me out for an especially knife-edged stare. “Still married, Hollywood? Any kiddies yet?”
Paddy stepped between me and the desk, and Fasano chuckled.
“That’s right. Don’t dig a deeper hole for yourselves. I’m willing to overlook this morning’s carrying-on because you guys did me a favor once. But I’m not writing off what Wilfong owes me. That’s business. If I let myself be taken by a small-timer like that, the big fish will be spitting hooks all over town.
“So here’s the deal. You hand over this golden gun or you hand over the ten grand I’m owed or you hand over Wilfong. I’ll give you twenty-four hours. Now catch a breeze.”
Instead of leaving, Paddy stepped up to the desk, leaning over it. It didn’t look so big then. “Just so you know, Tip,” he said, “if all our chips are on the table, yours are, too. I’d play this hand real careful if I were you.”
“Good advice any time,” Fasano said. “Here’s a Christmas present in return. Wilfong doesn’t have to be breathing when you hand him over.”
6
Fasano’s receptionist stopped us on our way out. She had Peggy holding on the line for Paddy. During the call, he did more listening than talking and seemed more concerned with straightening the bow on the pot that held the receptionist’s poinsettia than with anything his wife was saying. We were almost to the Clipper before he let the other shoe drop.
“That number Wilfong left belonged to the girlfriend he’s been staying with. Seems they were visited last night by a guy with a German accent. Wilfong left with the caller and hasn’t come back. Drive us over to Sunset and Western, Scotty, and let’s hear the story firsthand.”
The girlfriend’s name was Dolly Palmer, and the front parlor of her third-floor walk-up had just enough room for her, the three of us, and a flocked tree. Palmer had hair bleached like motel sheets and a figure that was one bonbon away from overripe. Her face was kind, though, and might have been pretty if she hadn’t been crying.
“I knew something was wrong with Wally,” she told us. “He hasn’t been himself for a couple of weeks. Can I get you some coffee? An eggnog?”
“Maybe later,” Paddy said.
Palmer looked like she needed a drink right then. We can’t have been a very comforting sight. Lange’s nose was as red and swollen as Rudolph’s. My swelling was over my right eye and threatening to shut it down completely.
“Tell us about this visitor with the accent,” Paddy said. “Did he state his business?”
“When I answered the door, he asked for Wally. I couldn’t say no; Wally was sitting right behind me on the couch. Wally told me to go into the kitchen and shut the door. He didn’t want anything to happen to me.” She sobbed over that last gallantry.
“Hear anything through the door?”
“A little. They were talking about a gun. A pistol, the guy with the accent called it. That scared me. I don’t like guns. I got busy doing the dishes. I didn’t hear anything else until the front door closed.